my terrible timing…

Those who know and love me are well aware that my timing has been off by thees much. For the newest piece of evidence: Barack Obama will be holding a rally in NYC. Yep. My candidate of choice will be in NYC, only one short week after I have said goodbye to native ground.

For my NYC peeps, bail out of the office early and see him.*

NYC Rally with Barack Obama
September 27, 2007
Washington Square Park
Gates open at 5:00 pm

* You can RSVP at his site for a rapid entry pass. Though, I thought I had one when I went to Springfield, and ended up having to sneak in.

it just keeps going on and on…

D’artagnan and I survived the long, harrowing drive back to the Second City on a wing and a prayer.  After having made the trip many times over, I can honestly say that the drive has never been longer.  On average, the journey takes 12 hours.  This time:  15.5 hours.

I would like to take the opportunity to blame the outlier on Pennsylvania.   Yep.  Now hear me out.  Those who know and love me might say, “But you despise the Keystone State.  You’ll find any and all faults possible and exaggerate it to epic proportions.”  To my naysayers, I say “NOT SO!”  It’s true.  I think that PA blows.  But that’s beside the point.  With only a minor stupidity on my part, my tale of woe begins and for the most part ends in the Quaker Province.

You see, being a little wiped from a fun and exhausting week with my East Coast crew [ed:  holla!], I didn’t leave the home of Mr. Math until 1:15 PM.  As Mr. Math has a refrigerator worthy of a bachelor, i.e. half filled bottles of Gatorade and condiments, I thought it necessary to get a little lunch.  Shortly after crossing the NJ/PA border, I pulled off at an exit that advertised a small eatery known as Burger King.

Unlike most highway side fastfooderies, this one was not located at the end of the exit.  I needed to turn left, then go down and around a winding road, past a creepy cemetery, over some train tracks, and then take a short jog past the IGA.  Et voila.

Unfortunately, it was not as easy to find my way back to the highway.  By the time I found the on ramp to 80 East, I was so turned around and discombobulated, I was ready to be done with this state.  So onward and upward.  At some point, and mind you it took me a little while, I noticed that the exit 12 sign read “Hope/Blairstown.”

Ruhroh.

With only 14% genius left in my soul, it took me 14 PA miles, the Delaware Water Gap, and a big honkin’ exit sign for me to realize that, say it with me, I’m in frickin NJ again.

Off and around I go.

The time:  2:30.  Let’s just start anew, shall we?  Nah.  Forget it.  Let’s just skip to the highlights.  Shortly after D’artagnan’s first feeding, I needed to slam on the breaks.  As it turns out, not 20 cars ahead of me, a truck was on its side blocking the right lane.  I’ve never actually seen someone climb out of a car after being in that kind of accident, but there you have it.  In any case, there was serious rubbernecking, myself included.  What?  Like you’ve never been tempted?!  Come on.  Truck on its side.  Long story short, no one was hurt, and 45 minutes was tacked onto the trip.

Fast forward to somewhere around mile marker 173.  I enter into a random pocket of traffic.  We stop.  We don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.  Turn car off.  Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  This goes on for another 20 minutes before we are able to crawl forward another 30 feet.  Rinse.  Repeat.  There is no indication as to the why of it all until about 2 miles into my purgatory.

It seems that somewhere off in the distance, there is construction.  As a complete aside, I hate the signs that say “construction zone:  do not exceed 45 mph.”  Now I fully agree with slowing down when workers are present.  I just hate seeing them when I’m not moving at all.  It’s like a big F-U to everyone stuck in the muck of traffic.

Anywho, one hour later, I am at mile marker 168.  What do I finally see?  Construction cones.  Mind you, there is no actual construction.  Just cones.  No trucks, no workers, no roads being torn up, no sign of anything.  Just cones.  For 4 miles.  Then the construction zone ends.  Sigh.

As for the rest of PA, let just say:  Two lanes, one lane, two lanes, one lane, and on and on.

So my dear friends, this little episode is one in a growing list of why Pennsylvania fills me with rage.   Not that the Dan Ryan is any better, but that’s a rage will be there for the next 3 years, so why bother?

boom boom is 27!

Though devastated that I am not in NYC to celebrate the happy, happy birthdays of Miss Boom Boom, Savory, and Suss, I am sending the best of wishes. With that said, here is a little something from my imaginary boyfriend that will fill two to three birthday gals with glee!

Much love ladies!

P.S.  After a long hiatus of lazy posts and outright nothings, I’m back.  Sort of.  We’ll see.

but when will they?

Just to out geek myself a little, let me take this opportunity to post yet another entry about They Might Be Giants.

No, it’s not the same show.

Really!

No. It’s not.

The band is wearing different clothes.

I’m on the other side of the stage!

Shut up. I don’t need to justify myself to you.

In any case, I think that “Damn Good Time” is my new favorite song.

Shut up. They rock.

yet another jarring change…

As I have been suffering from a Giants withdrawal living in my beloved Chicago, living right coast affords me the opportunity once more to wave my geek flag proudly.

For those who were in the know about a million years ago, you hardly need me to tell y0u that They Might Be Giants puts on an amazing show. Nonetheless, they put on an amazing show.

They have been performing theme Wednesday nights for the past month at the Bowery. I am not exactly sure what the theme was for the night that I attended. It was either “Wear suits in 94 degree weather,” or “Horn Extravaganza.”

I won’t bore you with too many details, though I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that they performed Spider, Purple Toupee, Tambourine Man, Maybe I Know, as well as their one love song (arguably), She’s an Angel.

Did I mention that Young Master J picked up tickets to this Wednesday’s show as well?

I’m just tickled!

a moment to lose my cool…

Those who know and love me have good reason to worry. Girlfriend’s sanity is hanging by a piece of dental floss. At some point, my world view shifted in a way I can’t appreciate. I now have zero tolerance for those who are not entirely self sufficient. I have little to no patience for the judgmental people in my sphere. I am floored when I am required to repeat myself. Honestly, I am starting to believe the world to be populated by complete morons.

Idiots.

All of them.

This is not a good way for me to be. This isn’t me. Sigh. What happened to the sweet, fun-loving, party girl? Maybe I miss Chicago. It is odd to think, as I know and love so many people here. I grew up here. I was raised here. It’s familiar. It’s home. But frankly, this isn’t the same place it was when, you know, crack was king.

Maybe I was too young to notice, but since when did everyone in this city become so !@#$ competitive? It’s about who is working late every night. It’s about how much someone makes. It’s about who has the better apartment, who is wearing what dress, who ate at which restaurant, who is seen with what person, who is going to the better parties, who had the best weekend, blah, blah, blah.

Seriously. Give it a rest. For a girl who has spent a lifetime not giving a crap about the superficial, I can’t seem to escape it. If I want to spend the weekend in my jammies watching TV, eff you for judging me. If I want to see Transformers instead of Mon Meilleur Ami, get over it. If I want to order in from the cheap diner around the corner instead of hitting the new Sino-French fusion place, eat it.

Like I said. Girlfriend is so very close to losing it.

need a little advice…

Someone’s feet stink. 

While I might be prone to hyperbole, I can honestly say that it’s the sixth worst smell I’ve ever encountered.  Literally.

We were watching TV when I first noticed it.  I thought that it might be me.  Mortified, I scrubbed my feet all the way to lemony freshness. Returning to the scene of the crime, I realized.  No.  This pungent aroma emanates from another source. 

Ugh.  The smell.  It’s the kind stench that takes up residence in your nostrils, and adds an extension throughout the rest of your nasal cavity.  No exaggeration.  Worst of all, it got in my mouth.  I gargled for a good ten minutes trying to get clean.  Nauseating.  Simply nauseating. 

I was hoping that it was a one shot deal.  I’ve said it before, and I will say it again.  If hope is a thing with feathers, my thing flew the coop.  My luck, it’s probably a chronic,  summer stink, or maybe a glandular thing.  Either way, his absolute ignorance of the tang is mind boggling.  

Can he not smell that?  I mean, really!  Does he think that I can’t?!  Did I mention that he likes to put the duo of rankness on the coffee table?  Good grief.

So how does one kindly let someone they know and love that their feet either need to be decontaminated, or hacked off and tossed in with the rest of the rotting compost?  Let me know.  Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting over here. 

Gagging.

another jarring change of pace…

On 7.7.07, Young Master J and I hightailed it to Studio B in the too cool for school Greenpoint neighborhood of crooklyn to see Simian Mobile Disco. If you’re like me and seriously out of the loop when it comes to the electronic dance music scene, well there you go.

It seems that SMD was making their “live” NYC debut. Those who know and love me are full aware that I use air quotes as sparingly as possible. What can I say? They annoy me. But in this case, it can’t be helped. I can’t begin to figure out what was happening during the performance, but it went something like this: center stage was a huge patch bay of sorts. One of two guys was jiggling along with the music, all the while plugging and unplugging patch cables. Another guy behind the bay was doing something else. What it was, I can’t be sure.

Seriously.

Okay, so it wasn’t the most inspiring performance. On the other hand, the output of whatever the heck it was they were doing spit some pretty outstanding party music. Take that Moby, you pretentious hack. They played a fun, fun, fun fifty minute set, and left the crowd wanting just a bit more. With that, I leave you with these six words:

Hipsters and dance music. Who knew?

p.s. Item 39: Made it through an entire show, thank you very much.

item 64: check. and OW!

When I returned to my beloved NYC, I imagined life would be fantastic. I’ve got my peeps, I’ve got much love, and I’ve got a great summer job. Well, a summer job. Did I mention that this summer job decided it was going to take its sweet old time actually paying me? Mind you, this job is not for some mom and pop operation, nor for some throwback startup. And no, it wasn’t an internship.No my friends. This is a company that measures revenue in terms of bils. This is a company that brings on people like me without batting an eyelash. This is a company that should have no difficulty signing on one little contractor. And yet, there it was.

For everything I tried to do to expedite the process, there was another fantastically ridiculous road block thrown up in my path. I called all of the right people, got the situation escalated along the right lines, gone and bitched out all of the appropriate parties, and to what end? For all of my ire, threats, and agita, I got nothing. All I could do was wait.

As a gal some might call hyper-sensitive, any stress will immediately manifest itself on mia faccia. Annoying but true. As such, I’ve made a strong resolution to never live by the phrase, “I am so stressed out.” If I have too much work, I delegate. If I didn’t get my work completed, I suck it up and take the repercussions. If I am in a bad place, I do my best to get myself out of it. Otherwise, my face will pay the consequences. I am talking blotchy red, I am talking cystic acne, I am talking dry spots, and I am talking an all around ur-gly nightmare. But I digress.

The stress of spending two months without a paycheck was simply too much for little me to bear. Should I spell it out for you, or be allowed my dignity and just say that I’m too old for this crap? My more insightful friends informed me that “it’s probably stress.” Really. Like I couldn’t figure that one out on my own. Here I am not getting paid, with a rapidly shrinking savings account, property taxes due, a roof to replace, a scalping citation, an air conditioner on the fritz, and a whole mess of serious self pity, but I couldn’t possibly have a single effin’ clue as to why I’m ready to star in the next frickin’ Clearasil commercial. Stress? Me? Never heard of it.

My solution? Buy product. That’s what a little voice in the back of my head kept saying. Product will make everything better. Unfortunately for that little voice, it was being drown out by an ever so slightly louder voice. It was that of the Blonde Bombshell. You see, my dear BB got me ship shape for my move by helping me clean, sort, repair, and trash my many piles of things. By the time she reached my train case, she had had enough. In her way of saving me from myself, BB grounded me from buying products for the rest of the summer. Honestly, it made so much sense at the time. I had products that were piling up, unused, and causing my life to clutter, clutter, clutter. But you know what? Her voice in my head that said “Do not get that toner,” was overwhelmingly drowned out by that of Triple G. That’s right. All of her hard work was completely undone by my oh so sensitive boss asking me, “Have you always had such serious acne?” Okay, WHAT?![1] And no.

Apologies to the Bombshell, but the camel’s back broke. The product was impossible to resist. Did I mention that I work directly across from Sephora. Long story longer, with products in hand, I waged battle against my trouble skin. But as we all know, we cannot win a war without identifying and addressing the underlying factors: money and oil. So first, get baby paid. Second, use baby’s paycheck to get her a facial. Fortunately, my war is winnable. Anyway. Done and done.

Baby went with Lil’ Yum and got herself steamed, soaked, and squeezed at the Mario Badescu spa. The results: no miracles but a definite step in a very good direction. And ow. Nobody mentioned how painful this was going to be. As the very sweet aesthetician Julia remarked, “yes, it hurts. A small price for beauty, no?” Small price, indeed. I had tears coming out of my cucumber covered eyes.

And you want to know the worst part of it all?

One down, 100 to go…

_____________________________________________________

[1] There are stupid questions, and there are stupid questions. Seriously. Perhaps someone fancies himself able to have a clinical discussion without any attachment to the respondent, or perhaps someone fancies himself to be a close friend, or perhaps even a concerned boss. There is a time and a place for such fanciful thought, but you know what? When someone says that they are stressed and breaking out because they are not getting paid, don’t ask them if they have always had serious acne. You say “It’s not as bad as you think.” Or maybe “I had the same problem. It will go away soon.” Or better yet, GET THEM THEIR G*D DAMN PAYCHECK! </scene>

pretty go boom!

A year ago yesterday, my Righteous Ms. Al and I went to see the fireworks over the Hudson River. Stuff that dreams are made of, except for the fact that the Macy’s big show is shot over the East River. That’s right. My Righteous Ms. Al and I were stuck watching the Jersey fireworks.

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

In any case, this year was to be different. You see, though I am a right coast gal, I have never seen the big shoe. Yup. Just like New Year’s Eve in Times Square, it was just one of those things that the New Yorker in me avoided. Save that crap for the tourists. After all, it would be hot and crowded and I could just watch it on WPIX.

But then, it all changed after witnessing the massive pyrotechnics of the Venetian Night Festival in Chicago. For the first time, I had the full surround experience that only exists when viewing the works up close. So that’s the big deal.

Suffice it to say, the evening was a BLAST (couldn’t resist)! Reports from Manhattan claim that the smoke, fog, and storm clouds obstructed the views of the fireworks.  Sucks to be them, oui?  This is because girlfriend was watching from the other shore and can happily say that reports of obstruction are greatly exaggerated.  But I digress.  Lil’ Yum and I did a little BBQ shuffle to meet up with the Randolph contingency for a little right shore roof deck action from Crooklyn.   We ended our F-train travels situated happily atop the sickest apartment in Carroll Gardens. I would be remiss if I didn’t offer a special thanks to Ms. Chitown X. Pat for hosting a loverly evening on a school night!

Anywho, big bangs, with a lot of sparkle and shine.

So to my Righteous Ms. Al: Wish you were here!

story for AKA stephanie

At my work a day, I am in the process of pulling together an off-site meeting for twenty or so people.  Part of the tedium that goes along with the success of said event is visiting the location.  I hightailed it onto the Metro North, and got myself to a beautiful campus in Chappaqua.  I toured the site, met with the sales manager, and began to go over the contract detail.

We stepped into a conference room to discuss the particulars.  At this point, the facility director came over and offered me a cold beverage.  This was much appreciated as we walked most of the campus.  As we are sitting down to work, he said, “Oh dear.  I’m so sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.  It’s lunch time and I haven’t offered you anything to eat.  Can I get something for you?  Perhaps a nice Philly cheese steak?”

That was just about the best question anyone has ever asked me.

mr. math can’t catch – part 3

[Continued from part 1]

[Continued from part 2]

Part three is a doozy of a long post, but it’s the last one. That, and I couldn’t find a good place to edit the sucker.

tales from the dark city…

[EDIT: When I wrote this, I was imagining Humphrey Bogart ala Maltese Falcon. Maybe it got lost in the translation...]

Details in the story may be smaller then they appear. Please use caution.

the Subway Series series: Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistencies of pocket pals

Part 1 – The Rant ::::: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

[EDIT: Fixed the footnotes. Sorry about that! st.oki]

After a short morning in the Jerse pretending to help my Righteous Ms. Al get ready for the move to Bonus Eye Rays, we rushed to get me back to the city. You see, my dear friends. Girlfriend had another game to attend. The “Second Chance” offered by the Mets site was definitely kind to your girl. I was able to pick up four tickets to the Saturday game, and was over the moon excited.

When purchasing the tickets, the plan was to bring Mr. Math, Miss Boom Boom, and her roommate, Ms. Same Name As My Sister (aka MS. NAMS). It was my feeble attempt at a thank you so much for letting me invade your futon while I get my crap together. Unfortunately, MS. NAMS makes doing nice things very difficult. Though she would have loved, loved, LOVED the tickets, she and boy were hightailing it to Boston for the weekend. [1] Probably for the best, as she is a Yankees fan.

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Mr. Math was heading up to Boston as well. Could it be that Mr. Math would leave me without my baseball bookend?! Well dang. He sure did. It seems that I was running low on people who might truly appreciate the fun of this game.

I turned to Miss Boom Boom and asked her if there was anyone she wanted to invite. This question was a no brainer. She was going to invite my little Pocket Pal, Flaky. Needless to say, I was super excited. My pocket has long been lacking a cute little something, and Flaky always fits the bill.

Using my revisionist powers, guest number three was the phenomenal Ms. Dig that Crazy J. When approached with the notion of going to the game, her response: “Where should me and my giant foam finger meet you?!” Seriously, could you ask for a better plus one? You could try, but you would probably fail. Where was I? Ah, yes. Game time. I returned to Astoria for a quick freshen, and sanity check. The troops have been assigned, I’m in my home team black, and I have but one question. WHO’S READY TO ROCK?!?!

Apparently, just me.

You see, Miss Boom Boom was coming off of a boon of business travel, and just about ran herself into the ground. By game time, she was down for the count. My poor dear was exhausted, curled up in the fetal position, and groaning up a storm. As much as I wanted to pull out my powers of guilty persuasion, I just couldn’t. Seeing Miss Boom Boom in all of her pathetic glory was reason enough to leave my superpower in check.

Well, all is not lost. I had been texting Flaky the Pocket Pal for most of the afternoon. I would just have him bring another adorable Pocket Pal, and we would be right as rain. Simple. Or umm… maybe not.

You see my dears; the name Flaky is more than apropos. Apparently, my sweet little thing decided that he was far too hung over for a journey out to Shea. It was nice for him to give me a little warning though. And by little, I mean fifteen minutes before we were to leave for Flushing. And by warning, I mean texting Miss Boom Boom a wishy-washy excuse and hiding from my calls. [2]

Okay. Now I have two tickets that might go unused to the Subway Series.THE G-D SUBWAY SERIES! What does a girl do? Well, she texts her entire tri-state contingency and said that the tickets are up for grabs to anyone who can get to Flushing. By the way, did I mention that the first pitch was in a mere 35 minutes? For cryin’ out loud! I have two tickets to a game that a majority of the baseball fans within a 100 mile radius were pining for, and I can’t give them away. Or so I would like to believe.

Miss Boom Boom kindly informed me that I might be able to sell them, either at Shea, or on the 7 train on the way to the game. “But isn’t that illegal?” Famous last words. I love her, but her notion was dubious at best. Not only was the weather overcast, bordering on rain, but the game is in frickin’ Flushing. Why would anyone head out there if they didn’t already have a ticket, now 20 minutes before the first pitch? Your guess is as good as mine. So there I am, wandering up and down the train, trying to sell these tickets. People are looking at me like I am the scourge of the earth. By the time I reach Shea, I am disheartened.

At this point, I am already late, and I am late meeting up with Ms. Dig that Crazy J. What to do, what to do? Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. These two cuties walk up to me. I swear, one of them looked like the Commish, except tall. The asked “Are you selling any?” I said, “Yeah. I have two.” Then they said, “How much?” I said, “the game already started. I will give you two for one.”

In a moment that I can only call part eighty-five in my comedy of errors, the cute, non-Commish boy frowns, shakes his head, and said, “Damn. You are such a sweet girl. I hate to do this, but I am going to have to give you a ticket.” I said, “I don’t want any tickets. I am just trying to get rid of mine.” He said, “No. I am going to have to WRITE you a ticket. Reselling tickets is a crime.”

Um… But I am from Chicago?

Try as I might, the boys in not-so-Blue wouldn’t budge. I tried cute, charming, proletarian, watering the eyes, anything. “Come on! This is a victimless crime if ever there was one,” I plead. Nothing. Then, I took a long hard look. They were wearing Yankee jerseys. Ugh. I should have known. In a strange turn of events, they said, “we are supposed to confiscate these, but just take them.”

Huh?

In moment eighty-six, a frat-boy from Cleveland came up to me and asked if I was selling. Where were you ten minutes ago?! I gave the dude the tickets, no strings, and wished him well. The cop said, direct quote, “This is a very sweet girl. She is doing a very nice thing. You better buy her drinks and dogs for the rest of the game. I know where you are sitting.” Love the commish, even if the bastage did give me 5 demerits!

Saying farewell to the hall monitors, I raced around Shea to see Ms. Dig that Crazy J standing there panicked, foam finger and all. We finally went in, saw a great game, and watched all of the people with the expensive seats get rained on, while we working class had it made in the shade.

THE END

[1] There is sweet, and then there is insulin coma inducing sweet. MS. NAMS is just about the most accommodating person I have known. She barely knows me, and on Miss Boom Boom’s recommendation, she has allowed me to invade hearth and home. I have been trying to find the right gift, but she neither wants nor needs anything. ARGH! I am having kittens trying to find a way to thank her properly. Perhaps it is my need to convey my appreciation. Perhaps I’m trying to compensate for my intrusion into her world. Perhaps it’s that I don’t want this wedding day favor hanging over my head. In any case, I am obsessed with finding a way to buy her off. It’s not like she’s going to leave a banjo head on my pillow if I don’t comply. I am just saying.

[2] To all of my loved ones who approach potential disappointment infliction by hiding, please cease and desist. It is annoying and really frustrating. It drives everyone crazy, and makes us not want to include you in plans. Then, you wonder why you weren’t invited.

the Subway Series series: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

Back to Part 1 – The Rant

A couple of weeks ago, I happened upon a few tickets to the Friday and Saturday games of the Subway series. Nothing elicit, I assure you. I was selected as part of the”Second Chance” drawing c/o the Mets site. Lucky me, right? I am allowed up to 6 tickets total, so I am thinking, two for Friday, 4 for Saturday.

It was decided that Friday night would go to my Righteous Ms. Al. As she would be leaving for Bonus Eye Rays the following Monday, we needed serious quality time before her foreign sojourn. With a little revisionist recollection, we were able to rationalize the whole evening as a last brush with Americana.

Americana did not let us down. Hot dogs, beers, and a blast, BABY! We CHAAARGE-ed at the top of our lungs without a hint of irony, begged Mr. Met to shoot swag in our direction, and sang along happily to “Enter Sandman” when Billy Wagner took the field (heck of an entry,BTW).

My Righteous Ms. Al described the game, and I am paraphrasing here, as “really boring, and then really interesting.” She wasn’t wrong. I think that the Mets are kind of goofy like that. When it looks like a game is an easy win, maybe they start getting lazy. Maybe they think it’s fun to give themselves a challenge. Maybe it’s to get the crowd back into the game. Maybe because they like sliding around in the rain. I can’t tell. In any case, when time begins to run short, it’s back to business they go. The bidness, that is, of kicking some serious bot-tom.

After cheering my Mets to a very soggy victory, we hopped on the 7 train, and it was back into the city for us. As many of you know, riding the subway is always an adventure. Early in our ride, we were gently accosted by a few drunken frat boys who were asking our opinion on the politics of a booty call. Then, on the tails of that conversation, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

The tapping person asked, “Is that girl’s name Amy?” I said yes, though he might swear that I said no. Any who, turns out that this guy knew my Righteous Ms. Al from her days as a co-ed. Did I mention that this was on the subway. In New York. CITY. Serendipity aside, the dude was a tool. Long story short, we all went out for a few drinks, he bored and annoyed me to tears, and we sent him a-packin.

In fact, we sent ourselves a-packin, as we needed to high-tail it to the Jerse for a diner run. We rushed to Penn Station, where I took this picture. Other than the person my Righteous Ms. Al is speaking with, a sloppy kiss to the first person who can tell me what else is wrong with this picture!

Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistency of pocket pals…

i might be pooped!

There is a sign that a gal might be exhausted, and it is this. A very few minutes ago, I found myself sobbing hysterically in an apartment in Astoria while watching Disney’s “Ice Princess.” Seriously.

It was the part of the movie where the skater grrl experiences a disastrous moment (she face plants her triple lutz) in her long program of the regionals, and she is filled with despair. Just when all hope begins to seep from her downtrodden spirit, she spots her mother in the crowd. Did I mention that she spots her mom while spinning?

Spot a face. Turn. Familiar face. Turn. Is that mom? Turn. I think it is. Turn. I need her support. Turn. It’s her! Turn. Is she mad? Slow the turn. She is smiling. Turn. Losing momentum. Come to a stop. Stare. Smile. There is a pregnant pause as she is filled with the joy of mom support. Juiced up by the happy grimace of Joan Cusack, our heroine triple loops her way to a second place finish. Well heck. I ain’t made of stone! Tears, ugly face, everything. Then, I realized what I was doing. “What the hell is wrong with me?!” Clarity followed by hysterical laughter.

So very pooped.

This has been a spectacular weekend. To start, I can finally say that I have been to Long Island. Boy did I! After a harrowing experience at the airport, a near miss at Islip, and a long, long drive out to East Hampton, the ensuing weekend with the newly married Rohs was a blast and a half. The wedding was picture perfect, not to mention fun, fun, FUN! Major credit where credit is due: best plus one ever! Major shout out to Mr. Math for making a good weekend great. Nothing to do with anything, but the mushroom to the left was part of the meal. And by the way, that isn’t a mushroom. It is actually a potato. The funny thing was that while everyone at the table was eating it, they were seriously bummed that it wasn’t a mushroom.

Anywho, after a fantastic weekend in the Hamptons (gosh I love saying that), I have settled in for the short haul at the home of Miss Boom Boom Bruschi. She is one of those longtime friends. You know the deal. You lose touch, you find it again. It feels like nothing has changed, although everything is completely different. I think that might be an ongoing theme in my world. YEESH! How’s that for a Doogie moment? Someone needs to go to bed.