I'm a blogger. I blog.

yogurt

2008-01-17T22:22:00.000-05:00

I have some thoughts about yogurt that I’d like to share with you.

I never ate yogurt as child. I probably would have if my parents hadn’t become Republicans. Yogurt seems like the kind of thing people eat when they shop at co-ops and don’t use paper towels and drive 20 miles every Sunday to buy the New York Times, doesn’t it? But my parents became Republicans before I was old enough for yogurt, so I ate pudding, and didn’t recycle the plastic cup it came in.

I tried yogurt for the first time in eighth grade, at a friend’s house. It was exciting -- something exotic, forbidden, unfamiliar. But as a snack product, it did nothing for me.

In the years that followed, I occasionally checked in on yogurt, just to see if anything had changed. But it was always so horrifyingly not-pudding that I couldn’t finish a single cup.

And then I went to college. As I learned during first-year orientation, college provides a safe space where you can really challenge yourself to step outside your comfort zone. You get to know people from different backgrounds, people who have had life experiences completely different from your own: Mormons and prog rock aficionados and LARPers. So I did it, friends -- I sought yogurt out. I embraced it. And we found common ground.

I’m proud to tell you that yogurt is a part of my life now. I only like the kind that has some sort of granola mix-in (the YoCrunch product line is my favorite) or particularly chunky fruit, but considering my upbringing this feels major.

You’ll notice, if you’re using a compatible Web browser, that I have typed this blog entry in the font “Comic Sans MS.” The same font children use to advertise lemonade stands. The font RAs use to make “Hall Standards” look less bossy. It’s a font that trivializes. A font that winks. I bet you had a hard time taking the important history of my relationship with yogurt seriously, didn’t you? All because I used this font.

It’s also the font Great Lakes Educational Loan Services, Inc. uses on the part of its Web site where they tell you what your current balance is and how much interest you’ll pay and how much longer they are going to hover on your doorstep, knife in hand, ready and willing to carve out their pound of flesh. The rest of the Web site is a dignified Arial. So why, Great Lakes, do you feel the need to demean me, the borrower in repayment? You court the clueless 18-year-old with a grown up font, the font of lawyers and businessmen and heads of state, but once you own us, you saddle us with the font of clowns. Your Webmaster will burn in hell. I promise you that. And if there is any justice in life, he will never discover the sweet tangy goodness of the world’s favorite fermented dairy product.

I abandon my blog theme

2007-12-27T23:34:00.001-05:00

Hey Jesus,

God, this is hard. Ha, God. Literally, right? No, wait don't laugh -- that only makes this more awkward.

So, I'm totally over this blog theme. I remember why I didn't have a blog theme to begin with. I have a random, unfocused mind, not a themed mind. And now I'm bored.

It's not that I don't want to be your pen pal, it's just that ... well, I don't want to exchange fake letters with you on the Internet anymore. I'm so sorry, Jesus. It's not you, it's me.

I really want to make our friendship work. Can you promise me this won't ruin things between us?

Love,
Liz

Hey Jesus,

I got your voice mail. If you want to be that way, fine, whatever, be my guest. And really, at the end of the day, it's your loss. I'm really something, Jesus, and a lot of people would be glad to have me as a friend.

Liz

Jesus,

Real mature. I have fucking caller ID, you moron. Yes, my refrigerator is running. Haha. Very funny, Jesus. Are you a fucking teenager in fucking 1952? Jesus. I meant that as an exclamation, not direct address.

Liz

What the hell, Jesus? Now you resort to vandalism? I know it was you, Jesus, who else thinks diagrams of the trinity make cool graffiti? By the way, that's not how you spell "cunt." I'm getting a fucking restraining order, if you call me again you can talk to my lawyer.

Hey J-dawg,

Thank you for the coffee and conversation last night. I'm so glad we're back on track -- you are one of my best friends, and I care about you so much. This whole thing was just like a runaway train. I had no idea you were going through all that shit with your dad -- that totally sucks, and if I'd known, I would never have dropped this on you. And I can't believe I forgot your birthday. I saw the reminder on Facebook, I meant to write something on your SuperWall, but I got busy, and well, you know how it goes. Let's get together again sometime, soon okay?

LYLAS,
Liz

PS I still can't keep you for my blog theme. I'm sure you understand. Peace.

I discover a theme for my blog

2007-12-21T17:18:00.000-05:00

Dear Liz,

Thanks for your note. Keep me posted.

Love,
Jesus

Dear Jesus,

Wow, it was so nice to hear back from you. I mean, I know you're really busy and everything and I just appreciate your taking the time.

You know, I really enjoy our correspondence. This might sound totally lame, but do you maybe want to be penpals? I know, that's so seventh grade. Totally feel free to say no.

Love,
Liz

Hey, srry 4 the text in a hurry filming a disaronno commercial (will be aired in japan) but yes, lets b ppenpals. Totally. cyl8r.

Hey, Jesus.

Thanks for the text. Okay, I'm totally psyched for this penpal thing. I had an Australian penpal named Krystal Howarth when I was a child. I just looked for her on facebook, but she isn't there. This worries me. Don't disappear on me, okay Jesus? Ok, looks like Jessica and Ashley Simpson on on THS. We'll talk soon.

TTFN,
Liz

an open letter to the son of god

2007-12-09T23:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Jesus,

I would like to apologize for some things I did this weekend. I guess if you’re real you already know about all the bad things I’ve done, but some people think it’s important to confess them anyway. I think those people are Catholics, but I’m not sure.

Anyway, for starters, I’d like to apologize for thinking about buying a $98 sweater for an infant. I guess New York City is the only place in the world where you can waste more than three seconds contemplating spending $98 on a single garment for a person who will likely spit up on it. The rest of the world has too much common sense. But I was hungry, I’d been walking for hours, and you’ve got to admit, Jesus, that sweater was too too. You’ll be happy to know I pulled myself together and left that store without so much as a mitten.

I’d also like to apologize for that fight I picked with that child in the coffee shop last night. I mean, she totally had it coming. Why do you make children like that, Jesus? But I guess I should have “been the bigger person,” or whatever. And next time, I will. Although she’s probably over it by now, and let’s be honest, she totally New York City-ed my scrawny Midwestern self. She’s probably already bragged to all her friends on Myspace about how she told off a bitchy old lady in trying-too-hard boots. But I feel like I ought to feel bad, so I’m sorry.

Thirdly, I would like to apologize for laughing at that video of the dog humping the man on America’s Funniest Home Videos. Did you even know that show was still on, Jesus? This might not make sense to you, but I live alone, and sometimes when you live alone you laugh out loud at moments that would make people with other people in their lives change the channel. I would also like to apologize for crying at the marriage proposal montage on the same program.

Finally, and most of all, Jesus, I’d like to apologize for lying to that poor Chabad Lubovitch Jew on St. Marks. I really wanted a free menorah. I really really wanted one. So when he asked if I was Jewish, I said yes. That wasn’t really a lie – not much of one, anyway. I’m pretty sure I started out Jewish. I love gefilte fish, so there’s something of my father’s people still in me. I guess the lying part began when he asked what my Hebrew name was. I panicked, and sputtered out something like, “Well, I’m not that Jewish,” and then, feeling the menorah slipping from my greedy fingers, tacked on a desperate, “We weren’t terribly observant.” And then he asked, “Is your mother Jewish?” And Jesus, without missing a beat, thinking only of my sweet prize, I said, firmly, boldly, unblinkingly, “Yes.” And he looked like he could embrace me, and he picked up a menorah from his pile, and he showed me where I could find the transliterations of the prayers, and then he said something in Hebrew that I think means Happy Hanukkah. And I grabbed my menorah and my gelt and I hightailed it out of there, home to my dear apartment, made particularly festive at the moment by my super cute Christmas tree.

Of course, I’m scared of fire, so I didn’t light the menorah tonight. I will light it tomorrow, though. And in the meantime, Jesus, I turn to you to confess the wrong I’ve done the Jewish people this evening. Kind of ironic, huh?

Anyway, I hope all is well. Let me know if you’re ever in the city – you can crash on my couch again if you need to. Until then, text me, or whatever.

LYLAS,
Liz

a home for fleas a hive for bees a nest for birds there ain't no words for the beauty the splendor the wonder

2007-11-28T23:13:00.000-05:00

I’m finally ready to talk about the haircut I got six weeks ago, which was one of the most emotionally damaging experiences of my young life.

It began, as most of my haircuts do, with a whim followed by a Google search of salons in my neighborhood. And then, just like that, I was sitting in a chair, a pert young woman named Lisa hovering over me.

We agreed on a trim, just a trim, and then she set to work. Our conversation was pleasant enough at first, but as she combed and snipped, Lisa slowly became … critical.

“You have a lot of hair,” she said, disapprovingly. Like an exasperated mother scolding her child for forgetting to put away his Micro Machines.

I smiled and laughed apologetically and took a sip of the wine Lisa had offered me minutes earlier, when we were still friends.

She continued to snip, and then, shaking her head and sighing loudly, she pulled out a razor and began to hack.

“We’re going to thin you out,” she said, wielding her razor like a machete. And my hair got thinner. And thinner. And Lisa smiled coldly. And then she said again, “We’re going to thin you out,” and she narrowed her eyes into vicious slits and pulled on my hair so hard it hurt.

She stopped at one point and asked me what I thought. “It’s much lighter feeling,” I said, my head spinning.

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” she said, cackling. “We’ve barely even gotten started.”

There was something disturbing about Lisa’s fervor. Disturbing and vaguely anti-Semitic. As if she believed by taking away my uncooperative curls and frizz, by giving me hair that lay limply an obediently on my neck, goyishe hair, she was taking a stand against a vast Zionist conspiracy. Punishing world Jewry, usurers and conmen all. I felt a tiny bit hate-crimed with every swipe of that cruel blade.

“Do you ever blow dry?” she asked accusingly.

“Sometimes,” I lied.

“Do you own a diffuser?” she asked, scorn dripping from her lips.

“Mmm-hmm,” I lied.

“What products do you use?” she asked.

“Oh, all sorts,” I lied.

She huffed and sneered and glared at me in the mirror, not buying it for a minute. And then she thinned out my hair a bit more.

When she finished removing the vim and volume from my hair, Lisa cut me some big, unwanted, square dangly pieces in front. To frame my face. And then she blow dried me. And I looked like Carol Brady. Only uglier. And that was that.

I hate getting haircuts.

dear john letter, for boots

2007-11-26T22:20:00.001-05:00

Dear Frye Dorado Riding Boots in Dark Brown,

Hey, it’s me again. Look, I’m sorry that I’m not doing this in person. I just know if I saw you, I wouldn’t have the strength to let you go. And I have to let you go.

You are beautiful, and you know I mean that. I’ve spent the entire day gazing at your picture, thinking about the future I’d planned for us. Everything we might have been to each other.

And then I thought about all the Namibian AIDS orphans I could send to private school for the cost of your smooth, supple leatheriness cradling my grateful calves. And then I googled Namibia, to make sure I’d spelled it correctly (I hadn’t) and to make sure it was AIDS-ridden (it is). And I realized, Dear Boots, that I am shallow, and my life is empty and selfish. So for now, I leave you to the wealthier women who will surely snap you up and look hot in you, while I wear canvas sneakers and weep for days and dreams gone by.

Does this mean we’re done, forever? I don’t know, Boots. Who can say for sure? I could wake up next Tuesday, credit card in hand, materialistic gleam in my eye, and you could arrive at my doorstep 3 to 5 business days later, and neither of us would really know why or how it had happened. But we can’t plan for that. We can’t plan for anything, really. If fate has more in store for us, so be it, but for now, I take my leave.

Yours, forever in heart if never in foot,
Elizabeth J. Weiss

doobah doo doobah doo doobah doo doobah doo

2007-10-25T23:13:00.001-04:00

There are a few problems with adulthood. They are, in no particular order:

1. Meat recalls.
2. The depressing realization that my boobs are as perky as they're ever going to get.
3. The shortage of men's a cappella groups in my apartment building.

Yes, I understand that there are probably boys singing a cappella in this city. But I miss college a cappella culture. The funny group name, the intense audition, the cocky grin on the face of the tenor who knows he's going to get a blowjob tonight because he sings that part in "Insomniac." You know the part I mean. Don't pretend otherwise.

One of the loveliest experiences of my life was rounding a bend in Oxford and suddenly seeing twelve boys in blue shirts swaying to the stylings of a cute British vocal percussionist, right there on the street. They were called Out of the Blue, and they were perfect.

College boys are designed to sing a cappella. Funny syllables like "chimba di chimba di chimmi chinga chimba di" sound like magic on their lips. Otherwise lame pop songs come to life when the drum machine is replaced by a 20 something dreamboat with twinkly eyes going "ch ch ch ch ph ph ch ch."

I watch The Office. I know that this thing I love so much exists in popular culture only as the object of ridicule. But I refuse to be ashamed. I'm going to go watch Penn Masala videos on YouTube.

brains

2007-10-14T13:23:00.000-04:00

I get really mad when Internet quizzes tell me I’m left-brain dominant. I know this is absurd. I probably am left-brain dominant. I am right-handed. I enjoyed algebra. But I feel like right-brain dominants, for all their self-deprecation and sob stories about kindergarten teachers trying to make them write with their right hands, are secretly smug: Oh, you can alphabetize? Well, I can paint and intuit and love. Gosh, aren't I too cute, with my slanty handwriting and daring personality? Oh, you don't want to go sky-diving? Sorry, I forgot -- you're not like us. We're going to go hold left hands and compose microfiction. Oh, you want to come with? Gee, I'm sorry ... you probably wouldn't be able to keep up with our day dreaming and musical talent and preference for philosophy and art. Don't you have some left brains you can analyze financial data with?

Well, fuck you Lefty. Oh, wait, that's not what I meant. I'm sorry. You know, because of your profound emotional intelligence, that I lash out at you because I want to be like you. And the thing is, I have bad handwriting too. And I'm completely disorganized. I have 3 pairs of matching socks and dozens of single socks without mates. I never open mail. I forget birthdays. I don’t return phone calls. Sometimes I throw away dishes instead of cleaning them. But I don't get to blame this on my "fun, quirky" brain. My brain is supposed to favor logic and order. Your disorganization is playful and imaginative. Mine is a personal flaw.

So where does that leave me? Alone, completely alone. Lost. I am a failure of my own brain type, but I do not share yours. I will spend my life drifting sadly between hemispheres, never feeling quite at home.

I’m hungry too, so I’m going to go get a cheeseburger.

My New Best Friend

2007-09-16T21:05:00.001-04:00

I have a new best friend. His name is Caleb, and he’s my iPod Nano.

Caleb is wafer thin,

and he fits neatly in my palm, light as a baby bird.

We share secrets

and sodas

and we have a special handshake.

Sometimes we fight, as best friends will do,

but I can't stay mad at Caleb.

Caleb, I love you.

three notes

2007-09-08T11:10:00.000-04:00

Dear Luciano Pavarotti,

I’m sorry I never bothered to listen to you while you were alive. You are as amazing as they say. I’m sorry you died.

Love,
Liz

Dear Madeline L’Engle,

You were so old, I didn’t think you could still be kicking. Good for you. I'm sorry you died too, but mostly I'm impressed you were still alive up to that point. Your books are lovely. I feel like reading them all again. If I could buy them on iTunes I’d read them again right now. But Luciano wins that round. Sorry.

Love,
Liz

Dear Ohio State University,

I realize my recent acquaintance with your “Diversity Statement”/speech code probably has something to do with the conservative blogosphere, which makes me feel a little icky. But you make me feel ickier. Let me be clear: mean, offensive people suck. And you've got the right idea -- college is a time to learn and grow, and a college residence hall should be a safe, nurturing place. But words, jokes, and gestures are not dangerous. Words are instructive, even when they’re ugly. And the basic right they represent – the right to think and speak freely – is more important than any individual’s feelings. Look:

nigger spic kike dago wetback wop coon redskin towel head honky cracker mackerel-snapper*

That’s pretty gross. It made me uncomfortable to type those words. I don’t use them, and I usually make negative judgments about people who do. But you didn't keel over dead when you read them, right? The words themselves aren’t the problem. Consider this dialogue:

Louise: Hi, Bert!
Bert: Hi, Louise. You are such an unattractive woman. I hate you, and I think other people should hate you too. Your eyes are really close together, and your nasal voice makes me want to rip my face off. I have hated you since the moment I laid eyes on you. I just wanted you to know that.

The words are a red herring. If the problem is hate, talk about hate. Don’t silence the haters and think you’ve made the world a better place. A residence hall where a student cannot watch a Sarah Silverman DVD without fear is not a good place. Neither is a residence hall where students are harassed for their race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or disability. But you develop a strong, supportive, tolerant community with open dialogue and responsible leadership, not overbroad decrees.

I’m not quite done here. I could live with the no jokes-about-race thing. I mean, it’s lame, but pretty typical. But you took the express train to Crazy Town when you decided to instruct students not to use “obscene words and gestures.” You’ve banned obscenity? Who are you, the PTA? The Women’s Christian Temperance Union? Have you ever heard a college student speak? Have you ever heard a college professor speak, for that matter? Here’s another list for you:

Fuck damn hell shit cunt piss bitch bastard twat tits prick jerk off asshole jackass bollocks your mom

And I’m not apologizing for that one. Get over yourselves. Or maybe go on a date with the New York City Council and accidentally drive off a bridge.

Sorry, that was hateful.

Love,
Liz

(*thanks, Julia, for the list of racial and ethnic slurs. Where do you kids come up with these things?)

oh well

2007-09-03T09:01:00.000-04:00

Last night I stayed up late furiously scribbling notes for this novel I was going to write. I woke up this morning and realized it was "Uncommon Women and Others" with a dash of "The First Wives Club." Damn you Wendy Wasserstein.

typed on a plane, Friday, August 31, 11 a.m.

2007-08-31T21:37:00.000-04:00

Dear Door,

You and I sure had a big adventure last night, didn’t we? You tricky boots, you! Haha! That was a funny joke, when you decided not to open. Especially because it was 12:30 a.m. You always had great comedic timing. Haha!

I hope the half hour I spent trying to unlock you was more fun for you than it was for me. That lock was sure stuck fast, wasn’t it? But shame on you for not cooperating with poor Officer Evans! You should have more respect for authority, Door. It was so nice of him to come down from the precinct at 1 o’clock in the morning, and he sure worked swiftly – snapping the key in two within seconds of his arrival. What made him think pliers were a good idea? Silly Officer Evans!

I hope having three fourths of a key stuck in you wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, Door. Gosh, it seems uncomfortable. You know what else is uncomfortable? Standing in your apartment lobby for half an hour waiting for the locksmith, all the while urgently needing to pee and feeling so exhausted the floor, which you know for a fact is routinely slept on by homeless people, starts to look appealing. Haha!

Those Russian locksmiths sure were a hoot, weren’t they? The younger one won my trust at once, with his earnest brown eyes, in-charge attitude, and well-stocked toolbox. The other fellow was clearly his retarded second cousin, booted out of his native village amid accusations of Peeping Tommery and sex with barnyard animals. How kind of this successful locksmith to take a problem relative under his wing here in the States!

All that drilling and pounding and jiggling must have hurt, dearest Door – sorry! But they assured me it was absolutely necessary, and who am I to challenge the authority of a locksmith?

“Trust me,” said the Alpha Locksmith, in a voice usually reserved for television characters determined to blow up national monuments.

“Of course,” I said, thinking with the most Midwestern part of my brain.

After a bit more tinkering, he dropped a real bombshell:

“You have serious problem.”

A serious problem! That’s what he told me, Door, with a flourish of his screwdriver that I might, at an earlier hour with an emptier bladder, have recognized as a sleight of hand.

“Your mechanism doesn’t function.”

The retarded second cousin nodded eagerly, and wiggled my doorknob.

“See, not work,” he said.

I didn’t think to ask for further explanation. “Mechanism” sounds plenty impressive at 2 in the morning. I told him to do whatever it took.

Oh, poor Door. How ill-used you were! Metal bits ripped from your interior, naked, dusty, but otherwise, it occurs to me now, probably good enough at doing what they were designed to do not to require emergency replacement.

When he finished with you, Alpha Locksmith took the time to show me how your brand new mechanism worked.

“Come here,” he said sternly. “I want you to understand the mechanism. Physically.”

My eyes shone with gratitude – a lesson in locksmithing at two in the morning. What a kindly locksmith!

Moments later, he demanded $330. I asked meekly if I could pay with a credit card.

“At this time of night?” he said, voice dripping with scorn.

So, dear Door, I left you and made the trek to the nearest ATM. Have you ever withdrawn $400 from an ATM after 2 in the morning, 2 Russian locksmiths glowering at you from a large, unmarked van half a block away? Well, let me tell you – when I handed Alpha Locksmith the wad of cash, bathed in pale, flickering, streetlamp light, a dog barking a few blocks away, the retarded cousin humming a Slavic tune in a minor key, I felt like I’d just settled up with my dealer, or turned over an evening’s earnings to my pimp. It was more than a little uncomfortable.

This morning came much too quickly, Door dear, and I left you again. But your knack for adventure stretches far beyond your creaky hinges! Who would have thunk that there’d be a clause in my lease specifically prohibiting me from contacting a locksmith or making door-related repairs in an emergency? Jim down at Matel Realty, that’s who! Turns out, I should have called the “emergency number” provided in my lease. Now, what I asked Jim – and tell me if I’m crazy, Door – is this: how could I have dialed an emergency number printed on a document locked in my apartment if the emergency was that I couldn’t get into my apartment? That’s a fine fiddle-dee-dee!

Jim, who didn’t find this line of reasoning compelling, told me I would absolutely not be reimbursed, and proceeded to explain the manifold ways in which the Russian locksmiths had swindled me. And that’s when I started sobbing.

I didn’t mean to, Door, I promise! But I couldn’t help it. I sobbed in the Matel Realty office, and Jim offered to plead my case to the landlord, and I sobbed on the corner of 6th Street and 2nd Avenue, and I caught a cab immediately, and I sobbed when I told the driver that I wanted to go to LaGuardia, and even though he clearly didn’t want to make an airport run, I sobbed for a few more seconds and he told me to get in. I sobbed all the way to the airport, and then, when we arrived, my dear, lovely, heroic cabbie asked if I was all right, and offered some sage advice about life and hardship. I loved him just then.

Now I’m sitting on a plane that has pulled away from the gate but shows no signs of taking off any time soon. And I’m missing you, Door.

Take care this weekend. No late nights, no boozing, no loose women. I need you in peak condition when I get home on Sunday because, frankly, another night like last night might just kill me.

I remain,

Your obedient,

E.

oh my god

2007-08-25T23:22:00.000-04:00

It continues. I am the angel of death for enchanting specimens of nature. Last night, the grasshopper. This afternoon, something infinitely more horrible.

My aunt was driving me through her charming Westchester County village, pointing out houses with interesting histories. She turned down a windy road bordered by dense woods.

Suddenly, a deer appeared just ahead of us. She paraded across the road, and settled at the edge of the woods, strong and still and beautiful. We sat and watched her for a moment, transfixed. She was elegant.

“They cause a lot of accidents,” my aunt said absently, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when a sporty red Lexus came speeding toward us. The deer bolted out into the road, slid across the hood of the car, and landed a few feet away, one leg cocked back at a sickening angle, her body twisted.

The driver of the Lexus pulled forward hesitantly, and stopped. We all watched, horrified, as the deer writhed in pain. Her tongue was hanging out of her mouth and her black eyes seemed impossibly wide. It was like a perverse cartoon.

With great effort, she pulled herself into a semi-standing position and thrust herself back toward the woods. Her head jerked wildly with each contraction of her body. Finally, she reached the edge of the road and collapsed, rolling into a ditch and out of sight.

I’ve never seen a creature suffer such terrible physical pain. This will give me nightmares.

saddest story ever

2007-08-25T00:31:00.001-04:00

When I came into my apartment building just now there was the most beautiful iridescent green grasshopper flitting about the vestibule. He was one of the loveliest things I've ever seen. I decided to hold the door open so he could get outside. He fluttered around for a moment, and finally settled on the outside of the door. Good, I thought, and I let it swing shut. Unfortunately, he wasn't far enough away from the edge, and he was smashed when the door hit the frame. It's a glass door, so I had to watch this happen in graphic, oozing, detail. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. The poor little thing was nothing but exoskeleton and goo.

“summer in the city means cleavage cleavage cleavage”

2007-08-20T22:58:00.000-04:00

Grownup summer is a subtler season than child summer, but I think it’s just as lovely. I do miss the magic of lemonade stands and bike rides and playing with parachutes in parks. But I love the new magic of mojitos and rooftops and sloppy, sprawling gatherings of 20 somethings who know each other’s friends and read the same magazines and like to spend Saturday afternoons eating turkey burgers and peaches and feeling quietly satisfied with life.

But now my second New York City summer is coming to a close. The air smells like new shoes and school supplies, and I feel restless. Autumn is a time for action. For making decisions and writing stories and confessing crushes and buying sweaters. For taking notes with freshly sharpened Dixon Ticonderoga number two pencils. Officially, autumn is still a month away, but the rhythm of my world is already changing. Everyone is walking faster and working later. The little boy who lives in my building has reappeared, back from camp or his dad’s house or wherever he spent the last two months. In a couple of weeks, school will start up again, and we’ll ride the elevator together most mornings. His mother and I will chat about nothing, he’ll look at me suspiciously, and I’ll try to avoid making eye contact with his mean dog. And then it will be official.

I’ve always loved fall. The start of a new school year was the best kind of bittersweet, and August was a magical, aching, good month. But I don’t want to let go of summer this year. It hasn’t been perfect, but it’s been full of small, sweet, perfect moments. Being 23 seems like the best invention ever. And summer in New York seems like the second best invention ever. And I’m reluctant to move away from the intersection of those two brilliant things.

I suppose I must. And fall will be lovely – full of hot apple cider, and gourds, and knitting, and going to plays, and wearing scarves. And winter will come, and then spring, and then I’ll be 24 and it will be summer again. And that will be lovely, too, I’m sure. But I wish I could stick this summer in a shoe box and tie it up with a pink gingham ribbon and keep it under my bed and peek at it whenever I needed to feel a little bit of magic on a gray winter day.

I should have gone to sleep hours ago

2007-08-20T00:10:00.000-04:00

Dear Michael Cera,

I know it would be hard for us to be together right now. After all, you are an up and coming teen actor living in California, and I am a young professional living in Manhattan. We’re just in different places and I totally respect that. But when you are ready to make a real commitment, please know that I am here, and I am prepared to give myself to you fully -- physically, spiritually, and emotionally -- to bind my life with yours in holy matrimony, to bear your children, to provide you unconditional love and support. I know the world will not necessarily accept a love like ours, that it will throw obstacles in our path. But our hearts are strong and beat as one, and as one they shall prevail.

Keep in touch.

Liz xxoo

2 posts in one day. Oh my!

2007-08-19T12:36:00.000-04:00

I'm so glad I live now instead of at any other point in history, because now is a time when the following phrase can appear in a New York Times wedding announcement:

". . . West Baltimore, where Ms. Boyd, a former junkie, said she got high on heroin and exchanged sex for other drugs."

the bronx is up but the battery's down

2007-08-19T11:25:00.000-04:00

My relationship with New York City is volatile. One moment, it’s all charming, precocious toddlers and nimble squirrels pirouetting across park benches and street vendors with laughing eyes and Sunday brunch and plucky young hoofers on the brink of a big break. Then suddenly, and without warning, it’s all muggy subway platforms and pretentious asshole artists talking loudly about their work and homeless men following you down the street and bed bugs and hypodermic needles and paying rent and stepping in something sticky and carrying bags of groceries ten blocks on a wretchedly hot summer day.

I realize New York is most of these things every day, and that my experience of the city is shaped by my mood. On the morning after that big storm that shut down the subways, I was bizarrely cheery. I had so much fun waiting forever for trains that never came and not getting information from MTA employees and ultimately giving up and walking to work. Seriously! All of the running around, the urgent BlackBerrying, the bitching with the other young professionals as we made the trek uptown – what an adventure! Three days later, I woke up cranky and disappointed with life. Within minutes of leaving my apartment, I was treated rudely by a UPS employee and told to “fuck off” by a random man on the sidewalk. A few hours later I sunburned my knees, and only my knees, while taking notes about people in Washington Square Park whose lives seemed infinitely more interesting and rewarding than my own. I think I ate canned soup for dinner that night.

So New York City is a pal, a friendly co-conspirator in the thrilling adventures of young adulthood, and a big douche hell bent on amplifying my every tiny misery. This makes daily living a stressful and emotionally draining experience. But I guess it’s better than living in Toledo.

everybody knows/it hurts to grow up

2007-08-08T22:19:00.000-04:00

Generally, I’m a failure at adulthood. Consider, for example, the time I took a job candidate out for lunch and managed to fling a bobby pin out of my purse into my risotto. The risotto happened to be a shocking shade of yellow due to an unfortunate dose of saffron, which made the black bobby pin really pop.

This isn’t what successful grownups do during business lunches.

But I think I’m making real progress. Today, for example, I arrived home from work and went to check my mail. I pulled two letters out of my mailbox, one of them my ConEd bill. As I picked it up, I said to myself, “What’s the damage?”

What’s the damage!! Who SAYS things like that? I’ll tell you -- 50-year-old men. I may not be able to apply eyeliner or walk in heels, but there is hope for my becoming some reasonable form of grownup person after all. I’m going to stop worrying about wearing a business suit without irony or saying negative things about carbs. Instead, I’ll focus on the requirements of male adulthood: “What’s the damage” and maybe learning how to make spaghetti. I can handle that.

I case you’re curious, the damage was $30 more than last month. Fucking air conditioning. And fucking serial rapists who enter the apartments of innocent young women through the windows above their fire escapes, making me afraid to leave my window open at night, making me reliant on the fucking air conditioning.

Also, for your reference:

Ironic.

teenage girls

2007-08-05T12:07:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about teenage girls lately. Not in a lonely man in the back row at the beauty pageant way, but in a contemplative, passage of time, where have I been and where am I going way. It's been a while since I've been a teenage girl. Almost half a decade. And these days, they terrify me.

Maybe that’s because I’m living in New York City. New York City teenage girls terrify me because they’re way cooler and more experienced and worldly than I’ll ever be. They’ve all been doling out blowjobs since they were 11, smoking pot since they were six, talking about world affairs since they were in diapers. They wear designer clothes and get Brazilian waxes, and they make after school plans on their Blackberries. They’ve never played Pictionary, except perhaps as an ironic drinking game, and they speak French. They know how to boss around household help and waiters. Riding the subway on the Upper East Side is a nightmare. They sit in tight packs, hand-in-hand, hair gleaming, voices loud and slightly nasal, as they talk about whom they hooked up with last night and whether they can find his profile on facebook. You know they’re all wearing thongs.

And if they’re not that kind of New York City teenage girl they’re the kind with mothers who are poets and fathers who are out-of-the-picture conceptual artists. These teenage girls have been smoking pot since they were three, and having sexual encounters with their mothers’ bohemian boyfriends since they were 9. They wear vintage sundresses with vests and sneakers, and they talk about Kierkegaard and Jayne Mansfield, and they listen to John Coltrane on vinyl.

Both sets of New York City teenage girls have had lesbian experiences and tried E, and they regularly stay out past midnight on Tuesdays.

When I was in high school, we played board games and drank Pepsi and ate ice cream straight from the carton, and that made us really happy. We were proud of our clunky cell phones, even though we were only allowed to use them in emergencies. We spent a lot of time at Walmart and never had to stage an intervention.

I’m not making value judgments here. I mean, Midwestern teenage girls have lots of wholesome fun, but New York City teenage girls grow up to look fierce and rule the world. Midwestern teenage girls grow up to move to New York City and feel unimpressive in the presence of teenage girls on the subway. That’s how things work, I suppose.

I guess I’m going to go eat a crueller.

bad news

2007-08-04T00:18:00.001-04:00

Jazz hands aren't funny anymore.

I just learned this while watching Friends. I'm really sorry, guys. I mean, they used to be funny. So funny. But not anymore. I guess it's just an overexposure thing. In the late 90s jazz hands were really funny, but that was almost a decade ago.

It really makes you think.

various

2007-07-23T23:27:00.000-04:00

I have been thinking about a few things:

1. I think Newman O's are better than Oreos. I actually don't think I'll ever be able to eat Oreos again. I know this might be hard for some people to hear, but I must speak my heart.

2. Hairspray was a really good movie. I kind of feel like there's not a problem in the world that can't be solved with a little choreography and a big plate of ham. That's a really good feeling.

3. Harry Potter was perfect. Harry Potter made the last decade magical. And it was a really important decade in my life, full of things like high school and college and growing up. I don't begrudge J. K. a penny of her billion dollar booty (in the pirate sense, not the Beyonce sense). And that's saying a lot, considering my shrivelled, jealous spirit.

4. I've watched several episodes of "Age of Love," and the thing is, the older women are meaner and more conniving than the younger ones. You assume it's going to be the other way around at first, but it's not. On a related note, is it just me or are reality dating shows becoming racier? Mark is making out with ALL of the women, fondling them right and left. Didn't they just used to snuggle? Is that what real world men do? Kiss a different girl every hour? Because it's really creepy. And really degrading for all those poor, pathetic, bitchy women. Throwing themselves at him like tweens at Zac Efron. If I were on the show, I'd point out to my co-contestants that Mark may be cute but he's dumb as a bag of bricks, and we'd probably be better off if we women forgot about Mark and just became friends and hung out and got brunch sometimes and maybe founded a small business together, and then met real men, men who could string words together to form coherent phrases.

5. The Sex and the City movie: I'm not into it.

6. The Simpson's movie: I'm not into it. But I could be convinced.

7. Who the hell was the first guy to pick up a sea urchin, rip it open, and think, "Look, the gonads. Let's stick those on some rice and feed them to innocent American girls." Because seriously, I almost throw up every time I think about it, and that was nearly a week ago.

8. I'm going for an even ten, hang in there.

9. I love casual encounters with older gay men in public places. They always make me feel pretty and smart and charming.

10. You know what the nicest feeling in the world is? Finding a pair of clean underwear in your underwear drawer when you thought you were out.

11. Oh, I meant to have 10 points but I just remembered: yesterday we saw an ORTHODOX JEWISH BASEBALL TEAM playing in the park. I swear to god, it's true. They were totally serious about it, running drills, sliding into home, payot swinging from beneath Mets caps. It was kind of the best experience of my life.

Goodnight.

a list of the horrifying things I ate in Japan to be polite

2007-07-20T20:29:00.001-04:00

1. Several fish with heads (eyes intact).
2. A whole crab, eyes, tentacles, crawly little legs, exoskeleton attached.
3. Something the color of humus that oozed like raw egg.
4. Raw egg.
5. The gonad of a sea urchin.
6. A McDonalds cheeseburger (my first in several years; it was really really delicious).

There's so much more to say about Japan, which has the cutest business culture in the world, but I thought it was important to share this right away.

where at least I know I'm free ...

2007-07-04T22:59:00.000-04:00

I love Fourth of July fireworks. People are so good at the fireworks -- kind and happy and simple and eager. Grownups cheer at the sight of something big and bright and boomy, and for a few minutes they are unselfconscious and full of wonder. I love fireworks for the same reasons now as when I was seven, which makes them kind of transporting and miraculous.

And the thing is, I love America, the idea. It’s brilliant and amazing and brave.

I come from a generation that finds patriotism pretty fucking creepy. And I’m fully with my generation on this. It’s not that I refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance -- I don’t like making old people upset at public events. But I refuse to mean it. I mean, fuck pledging allegiance to anything. I can do whatever I want. “Pledging allegiance” to something sounds like fascism or seventh grade, and I’m not into either.

And displays like Lee Greenwood’s patriotic anthem “God Bless the U.S.A.” Can we pause a moment to talk about how the line “Where at least I know I’m free” doesn’t mean anything following “I’m proud to be an American.” What is “where” referring to? Now, if Lee had said, “I’m proud to be IN America,” then that second line would make sense. Of course, that’s not what Lee is proud of, but if he really loved his country so much he could have spent a few more minutes hammering out a lyric that was meaningful both personally and syntactically.

But I’m not trying to be a downer. The point is, tonight, every time the sky was illuminated, I saw the silhouettes of dozens of people dotting the rooftops of buildings around mine. And those cynical East Villagers cheered and held each other, and we were all part of the same good thing, and at the heart of it was this really neat country that some guys thought of and then fought for. How amazing.

I love those truths we hold to be self-evident. I love them. They’re the best truths we have. And I don’t care that the founding fathers had slaves, and affairs, and the clap. They also had a really ballsy idea, and they did an incredibly brave thing. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t study the dark side of American history -- it’s important, and it’s interesting. But it doesn’t undo the bright side.

I’m sad that America still has wars and the death penalty, and that you can’t say fuck on television without getting fined hundreds of thousands of dollars. But 230 years ago these guys sat in a stuffy room wearing tights and talking and at the end of the day they'd come up with this amazing philosophical framework for a nation that no one has managed to completely screw up yet. I can’t help but be moved and grateful.

proof that the world is good

2007-07-04T17:42:00.001-04:00

The scene: Times Square. Two small children exit a cab, accompanied by their parents.

Child 1: Goodbye, taxi!

Child 2: And helloooooooooooooooo New York City!

It's kind of the best thing I've ever witnessed.

"how I got home last night" By: Liz

2007-07-01T20:49:00.000-04:00

This morning at the crack of dawn, being a hip 20-something with an AMAZING social life and great teeth, I climbed into a cab with four strange boys, having spent the night taking fashionable drugs, hooking up with models, and evading local law enforcement.

Okay, only two of the claims made in that paragraph are true. You pick.

This, however, is 100% accurate:

What followed was the scariest cab ride of my life. Something happens to New York City cabbies after midnight. Maybe it’s the meth, maybe it’s the hypnotic city lights, maybe it’s just malice – whatever the reason, they go crazy, and we, their innocent patrons, pay the price. But last night was even more terrifying that usual.

This is what went down:

(As we careen down the FDR, centrifugal force pressing my body against a rickety door, I begin silent negotiations with God.)

The Cabbie: Guess how long I’ve been driving a cab! Guess, guess!!

(We come within three eighths of an inch of a large van, before the Cabbie decides to move into the right lane, laying into the horn. I promise God I’ll stop biting my cuticles if he lets me live to see another day.)

Anshuman: (In the front seat, his tone nervous but diplomatic) Six years?

Cabbie: (Laughs manically)

Sean: 10 years? (He maintains eye contact with the Cabbie in the rear view mirror while he reaches out to press down the lock on his door.)

Tom: (Who is drunk, and had to roused from a sound sleep in order for us to get him into the cab in the first place, is sitting upright, eyes wide.) I’ll go with 20.

Cabbie: Now you guess, now you!

(It is my turn. My stomach falls to the floor as we plow suddenly and decisively onto 34th Street. I promise God my first-born child.)

Me: 15?

(The Cabbie spins the wheel like a six-year-old in a bumper car. We are on Second Avenue.)

Cabbie: SIX MONTHS. I come to America from Bangladesh SIX MONTHS ago and I drive a cab. HAHA!

We continue down Second Avenue, our Cabbie avoiding vehicles, pedestrians, and the legally mandated response to traffic signals with all the skill and enthusiasm you’d expect from a man in his sixth month of New York City driving. I promise God I will stop making fun of Jesus if he leaves me the use of most of my limbs.

The Cabbie continues to brag about how he learned to drive in Bangladesh, where they do not have lanes or traffic laws. He has a look of wild glee in his eyes, which I see a great deal of, as he spends most of the drive looking at us, his audience, rather than the road.

We arrive at my apartment more quickly than I thought humanly possible. Sean and Tom grab hands, fear in their eyes, as I leave them alone with the Cabbie for a dangerous ride into a whole nother borough.

But I’m safe. So all is well. And God, the thing is, you can’t have my first-born child. My baptism was one of the most traumatic experiences of my young life and I just can’t promise to do that to an innocent baby. Also, Jesus is hilarious, so I’m going to have to renege on that one too. But I’ll work on the cuticles thing. Thanks for the safe trip.

thanks, 365, for the chicken fajitas

2007-06-30T03:08:00.000-04:00

My favorite things are, in roughly this order:

1. Food
2. Babies
3. Dogs

(I might like cats a little better than dogs, but they’re too dignified an animal to appear on a “favorite things” list.)

So, as you can imagine, I’m really enjoying the new, massive, neighborhood killing Whole Foods on Houston.

As much as I like gay people and the polar ice caps, I have a conservative streak that's shaped my life in profound ways. Most importantly: I like John Wayne, and I forgive him for dragging Maureen O’Hara across five miles of rough countryside in The Quiet Man. She was asking for it. And I like big grocery stores better than “mom-and-pop” stores. They sell better stuff, and it’s cheaper. Sorry.

When I started shopping at Whole Foods, I didn’t actually assume I’d be saving money. I just thought I’d be getting fresher produce, greater variety, wider aisles, and better-groomed checkout boys. All that was true, but yesterday I spent $30 on a stack of groceries that would have cost at least $45 at the little grocery store I used to patronize (had it actually carried the items I wanted to purchase).

What’s the trick?

Generics.

When my family was young and poor, my parents did all sorts of things to save money. Like not buying me a denim jacket even though all the other girls in the first grade had one (which is fine, I’m over it, really) and making my sister and me wear my brother’s hand-me-down pants. Then, of course, there was buying generics. Like the cereal that came in plastic bags instead of study cardboard boxes emblazoned with cartoon jungle animals.

Generic cereal was a short-lived experiment in the Weiss household. The sibs and I were a powerful force. It was three to two, and we were louder, faster, and had better self-esteem than our parents. Whether we were jockeying for permission to keep a stray beagle or campaigning for a later bedtime, we didn’t back down easy. The padres didn’t always cave, but our record wasn’t too shabby.

We prevailed in the bagged cereal conflict, in no small part due to my mother’s latent personal aversion to generics – she’d never really thrown her whole heart into the project. She was a weak link, which we identified and exploited, leaving my father defenseless. Suddenly, it was four against one: generics were somehow icky. We wanted Ziploc and Wonder Bread and Minute Maid. I spent a good decade cringing at the thought of identical alternatives in less attractive packaging.

But with their “365” products, Whole Foods has achieved something truly extraordinary – a store brand with cachet. Buying 365 doesn’t say, “I’m scrimping and pinching to make ends meet.” It says, “I’m a responsible consumer, with taste, style, and ethical boundaries I don’t cross for Land O’Lakes.”

So at Whole Foods, I buy generic. I save some dollars, and I feel pretty damn good. And it doesn’t violate my snobbishness – it satisfies it. So I end up with a well-stocked pantry, a reasonable balance in my checking account, and a pleasantly inflated sense of self.

Times have changed. I’ve changed. The neighborhood will change, and that’s fine. At least we’ll all be eating well. And with some extra pennies in our pockets.

mayonnaise

2007-06-28T20:14:00.001-04:00

There are 2 kinds of people in the world: those who hate mayonnaise, and those who like it. There are probably people out there somewhere who love mayonnaise, but it's weird to love a condiment, so they don't count.

Most of my friends belong in the "make-repulsed-faces-at-the-thought-of-mayo" camp, but I like it. I like it a lot. It just tastes like fattiness and sandwich, which makes me happy. Here's the thing though: I have a squeezable container of mayo that's been in my fridge for at least 9 months (expiration date Oct 2, 2007, in case you're worried). I just happened to come face to face with it a few minutes ago and I realized that it's LIGHT mayonnaise. Hellman's LIGHT! What the fuck? How did I accidentally buy light mayonnaise? That's like light butter or low fat ice cream -- a concept so absurd it's almost offensive.

And here's the worst part: I didn't notice. I've been eating "light" mayonnaise for almost an entire year and I had no idea.

I feel violated and hurt and deprived. It's kind of like finding out you've accidentally been keeping Kosher.

I don't know how to trust myself anymore.

I love this ad where the dad keeps telling his kids to text because Verizon Family Share offers unlimited messaging. Oh, Verizon. Oh, Dads. Oh, technology.

I blog now.

2007-06-20T22:36:00.000-04:00

Friends and family --

So, it's finally happened. I've started a "blog" that I intend to "maintain" "indefinitely." I've populated it with the columns I wrote for the Voice (Wooster's student newspaper) and I intend to continue to write regularly about similarly trivial topics.

You might be thinking, "Wow, Liz isn't on Myspace or LinkedIn. She hardly ever even updates her Facebook photo. What the hell is she doing in the 'blogosphere?'"

This wasn't an easy decision. A few of the reasons I've decided to move in this unexpected direction:

1. The part of my brain that reminds my fingers to act sensibly when writing emails to colleagues has gotten big and responsible over the last year. I miss the part of my brain that knows about whimsy and values the color of an investor's socks more than the size of his trust. So this blog is for that part of my brain.

2. I was way smarter in college than I am now. I used to be able to use big words and make smart literary references. I want to be able to do that again. So I guess I need practice.

3. Sometimes bloggers get book deals. A girl can dream.

So, yeah. You should "read" my "blog." I'll update it periodically. I guess that about covers it.

Kisses,
Liz

Voice Column -- February 1, 2006

2007-06-20T22:26:00.000-04:00

Those who know me well know that three things make me inexplicably furious: the British monarchy, the Amish and the family farm.

Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why. This is a cruel and irrational prejudice. If we replaced the words “British monarchy,” “Amish” and “family farm” with the words “blacks,” “gays” and “women,” I’d stage an intervention on my own behalf and force myself to watch “Remember the Titans,” “Philadelphia” and “9 to 5” over and over again until I stopped being evil.

All I know is if Prince William happened to be an Amish dairy farmer, I wouldn’t invite him to my birthday party.

If Prince William were a dentist, however, I would totally be his best friend. I would put up with his weird family, doughy features and drafty haunted residences if it meant we got to hang out every day. I would even spell “drafty” with all sorts of inappropriate letters, like g’s and h’s, if he would slip me under the counter fluoride treatments. Because dentistry is an institution I can get behind.

So here’s the deal: I’m about halfway through a huge Tupperware container of cookies my grandma sent me for my birthday and about an eighth of the way through my I.S. People keep throwing around numbers like “30” to describe the number of days left until I have to turn in a full draft of the damn thing. The combination of sugar and desperation has led to a rare mood — one in which I am interested in expressing real, meaningful opinions. Having gotten all of my angry, negative opinions out of the way up front, I’m moving onto an issue I feel passionate about in a positive way: dental floss.

According to the Web site of Dr. Dan Peterson, only 28 percent of American adults floss daily.

While I have no way of evaluating Dr. Dan’s evidence, his family dentistry practice in Gering, Nebraska does bear the seal of the Heartland Better Business Bureau. And in my experience, dentists don’t lie, unless it’s for a very good reason. Besides, an informal survey of friends and acquaintances bears out Dr. Dan’s assertion. American adults are not flossing.

This is troubling when you consider the fact that (also according to Dr. Dan) 75 percent of Americans suffer from periodontal gum disease. And the links between heart disease and oral health make that statistic even scarier.

You might be thinking, “Woah, Liz, that’s a downer. Where’s the gay frolic through vaguely amusing triviality I’ve come to expect from your column?”

Well, kids, if you think preventative dentistry is a downer, try spending the last 20, 30, 40 years of your life with a mouth like my Aunt Mildred. Of course, I don’t actually have an Aunt Mildred. She is a composite of any number of horrifying old relatives whose teeth were, in my childhood, as scary as the furnace, or my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Vugtaveen. But Aunt Mildred, like McGruff the crime dog, is an educational tool so powerful she doesn’t have to be real.

The simple fact is, brushing only cleans about 60% of the surfaces of your teeth — according to Dr. Dan’s analysis, that’s like leaving 7 of your teeth completely unbrushed! And the spaces in between the teeth provide an ideal breeding ground for bad things like bacteria, plaque and cavities.

With the advent of pre-threaded flossers, no one has any excuse for ignoring this critical step in any good dentil hygiene regimen. It’s just a couple of minutes a night. Aren’t a couple of minutes a night a price worth—

Holy Moly! Upon closer investigation of Dr. Dan’s Web site, I see he grew up on small family farm in Riverdale, Nebraska! I am suddenly confronted by the narrowness, the wickedness of my own prejudice.

I think we can all take a lesson from this. My lesson is don’t hate on family farms. Your lesson is just floss, for the love of God.

You can visit Dr. Dan’s website at: http://www.dentalgentlecare.com.

Voice Column -- November 29, 2005

2007-06-20T22:23:00.000-04:00

I’m watching CNN again.

For most people, this wouldn’t be a particularly significant announcement. But you should read it as something akin to “If I could just get down to a size 0 I might be able to like myself” or “I’m back on the sauce.” Yes. It’s that serious.

You might be thinking, “College students are supposed to be curious about the news. That’s normal, Liz.” But my interest in CNN marks a regression into a dark period of my life I call “Before Apathy.”

My parents were political junkies, and I grew up abnormally aware of politics. I wasn’t some pasty freak—I rode my bike and made leaf rubbings and fought bullies and wove potholders and swam at the Y and sold lemonade. But I also had a basic command of the debate surrounding the balanced budget amendment by the age of 9.

I don’t blame my parents for much. They DO understand me, and they haven’t ruined my life. But my exposure to politics at a sensitive age was all their fault.

You have to understand—one of my earliest memories is of a Michael Dukakis rally. When I was little, my parents would tape the news—the news! There are hours and hours of video cassette tapes in my house containing nothing but C-SPAN circa 1994.

Our Sunday morning ritual involved watching all of the roundtable discussion shows we could, and then watching the ones we had taped while we were watching the first set.

I first became aware of my own political identity when I was eight. My mother and I argued about an article from the “Weekly Reader,” a publication for elementary school students with kid-friendly explanations of major news items. Suddenly, I had opinions.

When I was 9 I got Brian Lamb’s autograph at a Lincoln-Douglas debate reenactment. If you don’t know who Brian Lamb is, you’re normal.

When I was 14 I sent an email to John Gibson’s show on MSNBC. He read it on the air, and Julianne Malveaux chuckled condescendingly. I’ve never forgiven her.

When I was 16 I dated Jim Harper for 9 whole months, our relationship driven primarily by our opposing politics. Our visit to the exhibition tent at the county fair turned into a fierce competition over whose party gave away the best crap. (Mine won, with balloons and erasers. His had paper fans. Lame.)

Then I got to college, and everything changed. Instead of the op-ed page of “The New York Times” I was reading the gossip columns in “The New York Post,” and instead of “Hardball with Chris Matthews,” I was watching “Talk Sex with Sue Johanson.” I didn’t wake up early on Sunday mornings, so there was no temptation to watch “Meet the Press.”

I basked in my escape from politics. The chirping of birds rang out over the babble of pundits, and all was right with the world. For a while, I dated a boy who almost forgot to vote in 2004.

But that other world, the world of people in suits making decisions and other people in suits talking about them, is creeping back into my life. I scan the news headlines on “The New York Times” Web site before reading the theater reviews. I watched Patrick Fitzgerald’s post-indictment press conference live on TV and talked back to the screen. I recently used my Dear Diary, a volume full of Feelings and observations about squirrels, to work through the logic of my opinion on abortion.

And CNN. I’m watching CNN in the mornings as I get dressed, in the afternoons when I’m avoiding homework, in the evenings as I drift slowly into slumber. I’m off the wagon, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m sitting alone in my room, teeth chattering, beads of sweat rolling down my forehead as I rock back and forth, muttering, “Karl Sheehan trial monkey shhh shhh Dubyaeleanor clift avian flufourth circuit saddamsusanestrich happy penguin NovakNoonan climate climate bo bimate banana fanaMort Mort Mort bowtie hahahaha I’m so excited I’m so excited I’m so scared.”

It’s gonna get ugly.

I’m going to go read “Page Six” and try to fend off the inevitable.

Voice Column -- November 1, 2005

2007-06-20T22:19:00.000-04:00

Voice Column -- September 29, 2004

2007-06-20T22:17:00.000-04:00

I love action movies. There is something viscerally satisfying about watching a shirtless man with bulging biceps defeat a bad guy by setting something on fire or blowing something up. And I’m a sucker for a good thriller. I like madcap 30s comedies, with animals, servants and witty repartee, and I adore big budget 50s movie musicals. I love Westerns, I drool over well-crafted teen comedies, and I get a kick out of art house films with subtitles and German techno soundtracks.

But there is one cinematic genre that appeals to me on a more essential level, that makes my toes wiggle with delight and sets my atman all a-flutter. I am speaking, of course, of the chick flick.

The term “chick flick” is difficult to pin down. Most chick flicks share certain characteristics: they are marketed for a female audience, and they typically make women cry. But Madison Avenue doesn’t create the movies, and I cry at everything, including “Die Hard” and “The Great Escape.” The essence of the chick flick must transcend trailers and tears.

The term can describe great romantic comedies like “When Harry Met Sally” and “Sleepless in Seattle,” important movies that helped define the way men and women dealt with each other at the end of the twentieth century, or second tier romantic comedies like “Never Been Kissed” and “Serendipity,” which follow simpler formulas but arrive at the same conclusions. Unabashed melodramas, like “Terms of Endearment” (cancer and an unfaithful husband! Oh my!), and their inferior second cousins (anything based on a Nicholas Sparks book) are chick flicks, as are gooey, effusive romances, like “Titanic” and “An Affair to Remember.” The category also includes movies in which plucky heroines do neat things, like learn how to dance (“Center Stage,” “Dirty Dancing”) or stand up to mean people (“Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion,” “Thelma and Louise”).

But what do these movies have in common? One thing is certain—they aren’t all great films. Some are, in fact, patently awful. So something else must be at work.

Perhaps it is that these movies are all willing to let their audiences feel instead of think. Feeling is fun. And these movies exploit time-tested formulas, guaranteed to induce fits of sobbing, laughter or rage in the average viewer. And they do that without asserting some corollary obligation to think—we have unqualified permission to feel without intellectual interference.

But for me, chick flicks are more than just feeling fests. They make me aware of my most essentially feminine self. The chick flick is right up there with my fondness for shoes and my tendency to giggle and my impulse to rescue stray dogs as a marker of my femaleness. I know I am a woman because when I watch “The Notebook,” I feel cosmic truths have been affirmed.

Which isn’t to say all women respond to chick flicks the same way, or that womanly-ness in general is defined by the way a person responds to certain movies. But my individual womanly-ness is engaged by these movies, which is part of what makes them important to me.

In addition to affirming very personal truths, chick flicks reflect a world view that makes sense to me. Perhaps it’s foolish to cling to a movie ideal of love when real life slams you with heartbreak. And maybe it’s naïve to expect happy endings. But I do. And a cinematic universe that embraces these romantic ideals is a lovely space to occupy for a couple of hours now and then.

It would be easy to dismiss chick flicks as predictable tripe, condescending garbage that relies on cheap emotional tricks to make up for third-rate story telling. That is sometimes an accurate assessment. But they are more than that: they are moving and emotionally vibrant; they are empowering; they are silly, and easy, and deliciously self-indulgent. I love them. I may watch the occasional kung-fu movie, or buddy comedy, or costume drama, but (swell in music: we meet, the chick flick and I, at the center of a bridge) the chick flick will always be my true cinematic love.

Voice Column -- August 29, 2005

2007-06-20T22:12:00.000-04:00

Voice Column -- December 12, 2004

2007-06-20T22:08:00.000-04:00

I’ve outgrown MTV.

It didn’t happen all at once. I came to college and stopped watching television 87 hours a day. And when I got home for a break and tried to watch “The Real World” and “TRL,” it felt strange.

The last “Real World” I struggled through was Paris. The summer after our freshman year of college, my high school friends and I gathered weekly, as was our tradition, and dutifully turned on Channel 53. But while I had cared passionately about Irene and Janet, Ruthie, Julie, even Cara and Tonya, Ace, C.T., Leah and friends did nothing for me.

I didn’t even try with San Diego.

The sad fact is I, at age 20, have become a middle aged woman. I watch daytime television on TLC and I watch the Food Network at night. But never Emeril — he’s too noisy.

I’ve started inserting the word “that” before the names of pop culture figures — “Did you see that Hillary Duff on TV last night?” “That Cameron Diaz seems like a nice girl.”

I’m completely lost when the kids start talking slang (what is a baller? And when did beeotch become bootch? Who makes these decisions?) and I sigh and purse my lips because they all dress so slutty. (“What was that Lindsay Lohan wearing in that Page Six photo, band-aids on her nipples and a belt?”)

I was never cool, but I kept up with the times. But now, I have the television viewing habits of a soccer mom.

I caught the end of “A Baby Story” on TLC the other day. Six seconds of difficult labor and I was weeping. Since when did I become the woman who weeps when women give birth on television? Since when did I become the woman who watches when women gave birth on television?

But I do watch and weep whenever someone is born, dies or gets married. I cry at the ad for the TLC special where they surprise the couple with the $100,000 dream wedding.

MTV has been replaced as my go-to channel by Lifetime. “Pimp My Ride?” I think not. “The Nanny: Reunion?” That’s good stuff.

Forget Carson — I’ll take Oprah. And “Oprah After the Show?” Sublime.

I stayed up until 2 in the morning last Friday night, not because I was running around in a ruffle skirt and Uggs drinking appletinis, but because I was watching “Young, Sexy, and Royal” on WE. And did I lust after Prince William as I watched? No. I thought “That Prince William seems like a nice young man.”

Should I try to remedy this? I don’t know. I caught a couple seconds of “Date my Mom” on MTV the other day, and I didn’t really care who won. I flipped to a rerun of “Judging Amy” and let feel good TV for women wash over me like a soothing balm. Why go back to before?

But this is a troubling trend. If I my television habits have leapt forward 20 years in just 24 months, I’ll be sitting catatonic in front of the Game Show Network for days at a time before I graduate.

Don’t you see, I’m minutes away from crocheting doilies and baking lemon bars and getting my hair blued by that nice Sheila with the baby and the nose piercing down at the Trimz-for-Less!

Maybe there’s hope. That Sue Johanson is still spry and hip and she must be at least 6000 years old. But who am I kidding? She’s Canadian and sassy. When she was my age, she was probably sleeping with rock stars. I don’t even know the names of any.

Well, writing this column has been thoroughly depressing. I’m going to go get my bag of Milanos out of the loose ceiling tile and eat them all while watching “Maury” and making a stew and starching Earl’s shirt, so I can have the house cleaned up in time to pick Sally up from her flute lesson.

Voice Column -- November 10, 2004

2007-06-20T22:06:00.000-04:00

When I was 16, I went on two dates with Alex Waters, the son of my debate coach and the school’s biggest hippie. On our first date, we went to see “Angela’s Ashes.” Afterward, we got Mexican food and didn’t speak. This was obviously distressing to Alex.

“So, is it just the movie, or . . .” he finally said.

“Um, yeah . . .” I said, smiling desperately. We spent the rest of the afternoon in ellipses.

For our second date, I went to Alex’s house and we played Go Fish. The only words we spoke were variations of “Do you have a 10?” and “Go fish!”

So apparently it wasn’t just the movie. But the point remains—some movies are date movies. Some movies are not.

“Sleepless in Seattle” is, obviously, the perfect romantic comedy. But is it a good date movie?

I don’t think so. “Sleepless in Seattle” can put a lot of pressure on a fellow. He either thinks, “I love her, I want to be with her, but I’m no Tom Hanks on top of the Empire State Building!” or he thinks, “She wants to meet me on top of the Empire State Building? Can’t we just get Thai food and make out?” Either way he panics and flees.

Of course, a well established couple can make it through “Sleepless and Seattle” without such a crisis. But it’s risky.

So is there such a thing as a perfect date movie? Or is the movie only the backdrop to a date that is successful or unsuccessful for other reasons?

My first satisfying date movie experience wasn’t a real date at all. It was at the drive-in with a bunch of kids, and the movie was “Rocky and Bullwinkle.” The boy was Patrick O’Hara. He let me sit on his sleeping bag.

He would later buy my ticket to “Space Cowboys,” also not a real date, as there were eight other people with us and we didn’t even sit next to each other. But I was smitten with him, and I decided that if he bought your ticket, it counted.

So far, then, it seems that the movie itself has little to do with the quality of the movie date experience. It’s all about moonlight and dewy grass and $5.25 for a matinee.

But the movie can make a difference. “Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo” was so embarrassing, it made me never want to speak to a boy ever again. “The Big Lebowski” was revelatory—it ultimately led to a breakup. “Signs,” on the other hand, spurred a sexy debate that I took as an early sign of true love. Movies have certainly marked significant moments in my romantic development.

Of course, it’s possible, that I think a wee bit too much about what movies mean in relationships. I can’t help it. I was raised in a family that deals in movies like other families deal in sports or Jesus. Movies are a way of ordering life, of communicating information between generations and of developing an identity. My whole notion of romance was shaped by forced viewings of “Sleepless in Seattle,” “Roman Holiday,” “Bringing Up Baby” and “The Princess Bride” during my formative years. Romance should be clever and magical and black and white, if possible. It stars Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn.

But there are basic factors worth considering when selecting a date movie, even if you aren’t crazy. If it’s early in the relationship, and you don’t want him to see you all mascara-smeared and weepy, don’t rent “Terms of Endearment” or “Parenthood.” If she’s a moron, and you’re just in it for the goodnight kiss, don’t take her to “I Heart Huckabees.”

And if you’re 16 and incredibly awkward, just say no to “Angela’s Ashes.” It won’t help matters.

Voice Column -- September 29, 2004

2007-06-20T22:02:00.000-04:00

When I was in elementary school, staying home sick was delightful. I have many fond memories of curling up with my cats in bed and playing with my dolls and writing poems and eating applesauce. And I would get to see my mom in the surreal light of mid-morning, which was a school time or a playing outside time, never a being home time. And I’d hear her moving about the house, and I’d realize that she did that every day, whether I was home or not, which was always strange and lovely. And my brother and sister would come home from school with my missed assignments and the day’s gossip, and then my dad would get home from work with Jell-O or ginger ale, and it was perfect.

But the best thing about staying home sick was always television. At some point during the day, I would trudge downstairs with a blanket and pillows and Paddington, my bear (NOT, mind you, a “teddy” bear—he is a much more dignified animal), and I’d settle down in front of the TV. Or if I was very sick, my dad would carry the kitchen TV upstairs and fiddle around with cables and cords until, miraculously, I could watch real live television in my very own bedroom.

Daytime television seemed to have been designed for me, the sick child, at home and bored. It was magical and strange and like nothing on at normal TV watching times. There was that weird fairytales show on Nickelodeon, where classic stories like “The Frog Prince” and “Puss in Boots” were animated on a small, Canadian budget. I remember the theme song. I could hum it for you if you asked.

And there was “David the Gnome.” I’m sure “David the Gnome” was on after school as well, because I watched it often, but I especially remember watching it from the folds of my sickbed blankets.

Then there were re-runs of “Fantasy Island” and “Wonder Woman,” and of course the talk shows that I knew I wasn’t really supposed to watch but watched anyway.

And then when I got to junior high there was “Interior Motives with Christopher Lowell.” Do you remember Christopher Lowell? Before design shows became ubiquitous and before gay reality TV was cool Christopher Lowell did a big gay design show that I loved to watch and that was always on when I was sick. He had such bad taste, but wrote in marker on screens with gusto.

In high school, the stakes got higher, and staying home sick was a rarer treat. Being in class mattered more—it was easy to fall behind. So I chose my days off more carefully, struggling through most of my coughs and sneezes and runny noses at school.

When I did stay home, I savored it. I turned off my alarm clock and lolled about in bed most of the morning. Then I would get up around 10 or 11:00 and go to my parents’ room to watch TV with all my pets, usually 2 dogs and 2 cats.

By the time I was in high school, my mom had gone back to work. So being home sick meant seeing her at lunch time. She would hurry home from work and bring me soup and juice in bed, and she’d feel my forehead and take my temperature. It was so lovely to be taken care of and petted and worried about. And the rest of the day, when she wasn’t home, I had familiar old friends—the Cosbys, Maury Povich and the cast of “E! Fashion Emergency”—to keep me safe and warm.

College is a different game. My mom is six hours away and my TV doesn’t work. And you always go to class in college, no matter how sick you are, because freshman year someone calculated the amount of money you’ve already spent on each class and it’s too much to waste. We are all troopers here.

I am sick. My throat hurts, and it is speckled with strep-y looking splotches. I have a bit of a headache, and I feel groggy. I just want to sleep for 8 days. But I can’t.

So I fantasize about childhood illness, the simple, matter-of-fact pleasure of lying in my parents’ bed, watching television I was almost too sick to understand, eating soft food and petting a warm cat.

Voice Column -- August 30, 2004

2007-06-20T21:57:00.000-04:00

He was an unlikely hero: short, awkward, Mormon. But with his chubby cheeks, stick-out ears, and red hot buzzer finger, he won our love and respect. His sidekick was just as impossible -- a Canadian, with an on-again/off-again Hitler moustache. But together, they were magic.

This summer, Ken Jennings infused Jeopardy with a lively new spirit, dragging Alex Trebek along for the ride. Ken’s unprecedented run lasted all the way through the final episode of the season, which aired late in July.

But as we all eagerly anticipate his return on Monday’s season opener, I find myself worrying about Ken. Won’t it hurt when he loses? How will he look his kid in the eye? Will his wife be bitter? And then I think, the man has over a million dollars in his coffer, what the hell are you worrying about? And then I think, holy Lord, is your emotional investment in this game show not a wee bit excessive? And that might be a question worth thinking about some more.

I care about Ken. I truly honestly care about Ken. Why? He’s just a guy. A pretty brilliant guy, but not one I know personally or have any reason to worry about. But I’m not alone in my interest in Ken. There are entire online communities devoted to tracking his performance on Jeopardy. He has made appearances on Letterman and a slew of morning shows. The American public is fascinated with him.

He’s not quite dashing. I mean, the ill-fitting suits, the preppy side part, the beady eyes—not exactly what America usually goes for in a pop culture icon. But Ken has won us over with a potent blend of awesome skill and good old-fashioned American underdogism.

Ken is one of the little guys. Let’s face facts—1990 was probably not a good year for Ken. Whom did Ken take to the senior prom? Probably not the prom queen, I’ll tell you that much. I mean, this is a man whose knowledge of arcane trivia borders on freakish. Stick those facts behind a pimpled face, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for near-Carrie caliber social crisis. Of course, he’s the sort of boy I would have had a crush on in high school, but that’s beside the point. Ken must have been an outcast.

The funny thing about outcasts, though, is that we all secretly love them. We cheer for them. We long for them to triumph over the taller, tanner social dynamos. And Ken is doing just that.

Ken’s winning streak on Jeopardy is a little victory for everyone who was ever shoved into a locker, or whispered about in the girls’ locker room. Whenever Ken sweeps a category, and the studio audience cheers, a little geek angel gets its wings.

But it’s not just a sense of pride and validation among America’s nerds that makes Ken so popular. What he does on Jeopardy is just plain impressive. There’s something ballet-like about the balance he strikes between aggressive buzzing and careful strategizing -- raw athleticism delivered with precision and grace. I sometimes get chills watching him.

I’m not trying to be ridiculous here -— while Jeopardy is not typically the world’s number one source for stirring displays of human talent, Ken provides something truly beautiful that we can admire and respect. Watching him perform is moving.

Now, I know there are some naysayers, a handful of coldhearted viewers who think Ken is a laugh -- an annoying, smarmy pixie. And I have to admit, I think I’ll experience a sick, unpleasant thrill when he finally loses, something like the guilty satisfaction of poking a big bruise. But in the meantime, let’s all root for him, admire him, and appreciate the glory and excitement of what he’s achieving. And Ken—we’re all thinking of you. Good luck, my friend, and Godspeed. Godspeed.