Oh, and the current song I cannot tolerate: Your body is a waaaaahn-dah-lahhhnd. Oh my. Fellow, you are too, too cutesy. It makes me want to give him the treacle.

I love watching cooking shows. Everything is so clean and simple and whatever it is always works.

Recently I was watching Two Fat Ladies. They were preparing something with an ingredient known as treacle. It was never clarified what it was, and even after I researched its meaning (British molasses), it still haunts me. Its a great sounding word, sounds so medieval and European.

With this fractured rib situation, I sleep completely on my back which causes me to wake up in the middle of the night with this excruciating cramping sensation in the surrounding muscles. Its as if a large kid came along and sat on my chest for a few hours and its very hard to fall back asleep. Somehow in the wee hours I've started calling that ailment 'treacle'. I think it fits nicely. It would be used like this: Do go and visit Wee Billy MacLaren, he's down with the treacle again.

Its interesting that the British who usually coin terms quite cutely have such gerrish food nomenclature. Clotted (whatever)? Ew. Mushy peas? Marmite. Treacle.

Lordie. I think I need to go back to work. My brain simply won't stop. I just came back from shopping at Talbots. I love it, all the tweed blazers and big pearl necklaces. I almost bought a skirt with a horse and beagle hunting theme on it. Its brilliantly horrid.

Favorite holiday scene: In the kitchen with more-than-usual chaos; dear new neicey in her [somewhat psychedellic] baby swing, dinner dishes simmering and boiling, too many bodies circling, large doggy trailing behind all. Everyone talking.

Over the cacophany, the phone rings. My white-haired and very orderly dad was the nearest and although he abhors the phone, answered it. Already frustrated with the kitchen maelstrom, Dad covered his other ear while simultaneously trying to keep the cord from strangling all the comers and goers, or falling into a boiling pot of food. From where I was standing it sounded like this:

Hallo?
What?
I am sorry, what number are you trying to call? What?
Yes, that is this number.
Who?
Tiggy?
No, there is no Tiggy here.
[click]

No one even stopped to ask him who had called except my mother, several minutes later.

Mom: Who was that on the phone?
Dad: Someone calling for Tiggy.
No one even flinched, and kept on about their business.

I think I laughed until I nearly cracked another rib. Oh, and yes, by the way, I did hurt my ribs being ridiculously clumsy, but am much better now.

Within 8 hours, here is a list of all the people I met in my new home town. Not only did I meet them, but shared long, laborious moments with:

Josh: The tall, vacant-eyed and mightily virile sales rep for Merrit athletic club. On my way to get coffee early in the morning, I ducked in to get a rate card. I was then introduced to Josh. He was unable to give me a quote for membership, but was very willing to show me maps and laminates and I filled out a chart. I was still wearing my thick pajamas underneath my coat and he noticed.
Mrs. Triplett: With her dark red fingernails, she helped me open a bank account. She drank heavily-icecubed Diet Coke from an opaque red container that resembled a battery case and she smelled like cigarettes. She had to "go over things" with me a lot, even when we were already going over things, she would tell me that she was going over something with me. She liked to write in cursive and stapled her card to everything. I have no idea what percents of interest they offer, but I do know their hours and that I have a free safe deposit box as an added bonus for joining with her.
Antonio: I simply wanted to know how much a car cost and two hours later I had been through the following with Antonio: a long, wierd test drive, a credit check (gack!) and lots and lots of pamphlet reviews. I sat in three different offices. I heard a lot about his training. It was his second day on the job at CARMAX and it was freezing, and all he had on was a white oxford and light tan jacket with his laminated ID tag around his neck. All the other reps wore snappy royal blue CARMAX jackets. A studlier and more senior blue-jacketed rep pulled up into a spot right next to us on the lot in some souped-up red sportcar. Antonio somewhat nerdishly called out a salutation to his sales-brother, and the jacketed jerk ignored him and left him completely hanging, in front of me, his perspective customer. I want to buy a car from him for that reason alone.
Clyde: He is the one who ran my credit check and let me know that for a 300% interest rate, I can own a car.

Aside from coughing, laughing and sneezing, here are a few motions that are crushingly painful to maneuver with a few broken ribs:

- Walking on loose sand. Ouch.
- Lifting things with the arm on the opposite side of body.
- Drying off wet doggy with towel.
- Someone else's head placed on shoulder.
- Mixing cookie dough.

Friday was my last day of work in Manhattan. I packed up my few things, deleted (sadly) the emails I couldn't rationalize saving, and ceremoniously walked home from the N/R subway stop for the last time as a New York city employee.

Now understand, dear readers, that I am continuing to update this blog, just from a new locale. After roughly six incredible years in Manhattan, I'm feeling ready for a new palette. New job, new life, new scenery. As when I left San Francisco, I just knew it was time. I felt stagnant somehow. But this doesn't mean that I don't still love New York. I always will.

The air was chilly, and it was Friday night, oh, I dunno, around 7:00. Holiday decorations twinkled and high heels clicked by briskly. Heavy cloaks with upturned collars, excited lipticky chatter, vendors with stinky incense. The air was crisp and the wind bitter. I walked past the same coffee shop, thrift stores and bookstore I pass every day, the same block of Japanese grocery stores and restaurants with secret upstairs lounges. My mind automatically fired off the rote facts: That place stinks, that one's good. They're cheaper on Avenue A. Go here for good music on Tuesdays. Its endless. I felt slightly queasy, and wanted to shake my head loose of all the stupid trivial statistics at once and watch them splatter against the wall. Who cares? Just then I passed a gaggle of fresh faces, some of them arm in arm, smiling and bubbling. Unstoppable, Interested, Interesting. Its their turn. Its like college, I loved it but would never want to go through it again, making stupid mistakes and learning the "hard way", or even re-living the successes and wonderful times. That was then. And now, for many, many others: its their turn to take it-- I hope they're voracious. Warmed, I rearranged the shoulder strap of my bag, and walked towards home.

I went home, flipped on my tube and ordered in from a place I call often. I burst into tears and I can't remember how long it was before I stopped.

Even though I know this site is still under construction, I can't help it: Yip! Now I can pour over my favorite paintings whenever I want. I look most forward to the 'The Blond Leaves the Buffet', indeed.

Its cold and clear and brisk! I love it! Christmas hustle and bustle. New York is unparalleled this time of year. Hmmm.

I guess I am "cleanin out my klawset". As the year draws to a close, I'm cleanin out my work-closet. Yep. I am moving to a new town to take a new job altogether.

Its amazing, rooting through old work files; concepts, say, from some long-gone wireless technology client (Why were we shooting a monkey in a swingset? Cannot recall). Ahh, the fat years. Just a while ago, we had almost had more clients that we could take on. Pitches for new business were exausting but exciting, we knew the odds were good that we'd be chosen. We overflowed from spaces, we appreciated each other, we played pranks. Good pranks. I miss it! I admit! Where is it? Where are the everyday "Welcome the new intern!" emails that would direct us to a nearby bar. Where are the fun scandals? Where's that good-nervousness-- can we pull it off? Do we even know what we are talking about? Hell no, but we can do it! Respect was present. We worked hard, but I knew that every day I went to work, I was guaranteed at least one hearty belly-laugh, and not at someone else's expense.

Now, of course, I understand that the crummy economy has affected every business. But there is something else lurking here. Something has rotted. Clustery cliques have evolved. Conversations can be overheard, most usually with a mean gossipy skew. There must be nothing better to talk about. Where has the individuality gone? Its so sad to look around what should be a colorful office, and see a sea of sameness and fear. Everyone looks like they just spent three hours in the permanent press cycle of a large Banana Republic washing machine. Pottery Barn and Sams Club. Same and safe. Sigh. Its really too bad.

Shopping. Shopping. I've learned that I turn into a crazy person when waiting to pay. Crazy. Its usually very disorganized: where there ought to be one line, there are somehow suddenly three, and rude people sauntering forward and cutting everyone off in line while pretending to be oblivous to the long, tired line of people behind them. I watch like a hawk, eyes darting to the right and left, I've taken it upon myself to the cashier crimestopper. Crazyperson.

I also have found that while I think I am completely original with my gift ideas-- I am not. Everything I thought I'd come up with on my own and been tirelessly searching for on ebay and flea markets.... its all there. Nice and bundled at Urban Outfitters. Oy.

Untriggered, two random thoughts popped into my head today:

1) Senor Domenic taught us in the 7th grade that the Spanish term for toilet paper is papel higienico. I looked it up and its not. Whatever, I still like papel higienico.

2) The SNL skit with the boyband Seven Degrees Celcius, at the end of their cheezy ballad, they all sort of introduce themselves with their individual "styles". Horatio Sanz steps up to give a shout out to his little baby at home, and all cutesy says "What can I say? Babies makin babies!" and then winks at the camera. Urf.

Embarassing. Americans should not pretend to talk British. A while back, Rachael was telling me how someone was telling her a story about her duvet, but it was repeatedly emphasized as her dooooo-vay, and she was from Michigan. Dooooo-vay? I personally have noticed several recent (failed) American attempts to infuse "..and Bobs your uncle!" into conversation, and many, many references to reaching one another by mo-bile. That is really embarassing. C'mon! We have our own colloquialisms, right? Um, right? Our terms are bedspread and cell phone, and maybe even sayings like "This is gooder’n grits!" Indeed. Take pride, citizens. Its not cute, but its ours. The alternative is humiliating.

I've got this routine worked out where I don't shower when I come to work, that way I'm certain I will hit the gym in the early day and then shower. This causes problems for those impromtu early meetings, like the one I just had with the execu-sorts. Under the blinding conference room lights, I looked up to see people inspecting my hair, of course from a distance. I looked at my relfection and there I sat in my cute red skirt and cardigan with my Cellblock H hair.

Interesting factoid: celebrities "collapse" a lot. David Copperfield was the latest, apparently, at his recent magic gig in Canada's Jubilee Auditorium. OK, in looking at this; its funny for two reasons. A "collapse" with no explanation is just hilarious. I dont know that would work for us non-celebs. And then the image of David magicking himself to a dramatic collapse at the Jubilee. Oh dear.

Olestra. I just tried 2 fat-free Pringles. My lips are oddly slickery, like I just rubbed those NICE losenges on them. Or Velamints. I think that will be all I will sample. Kevin keeps mentioning a little something called brown spotting. Um. Ew.

I cannot stop with the inbox cleanup. I'm thoroughly entertained with all the 2K1 action. A few gems:

- If somebody snuck up, took a photo of me right now, showed it to me 2 days later it would be a photo of a chimp. There would be no surprise.

- They just will not stop nagging me for the new tagline. How about: "These sure are some fancy shoes and they dont smell like corn."

- I went to dinner with my ultra-high-maintenance freind (the one who cried in today's man about buying a suit).

- If I thought we'd get 3 months of severance, I'd come into work naked with flippers on and pee on his desk.

- Whatever, I'm just still bitter that no one picked me to partake in the "mentor program" here at work.

I must make a habit of never cleaning out my inbox. Or at least very infrequently. Just now, unearthed from March 2001, the subject bar of an email exchange between Rachael and I kept changing. I think it started as a simple attempt to get the other's attention in the always full inbox of URGENT memorandi and then just continued on, I am guessing:

Oh my god, my adenoids!
I smoke a corn cob pipe!
When I sleep, sometimes I fart!
Holy Shit! I ate my cat!
My foot is on fire!

I followed a hearty lab/shepard mix and his bundled-up owner down St. Marks this morning. The owner walked briskly as the wooly dog trotted along proudly with his tail upright, springing slightly from left to right. Occaisionally, he would lift its furry face up to check on his master-guy, just to be really sure they were in fact walking together or to confirm that everything was okay. Once reassured, he would speed forward to catch up and bounce along jinglier than before.

Mark was just describing his new Tivo setup to us. Recording any program you want, any time. "The best part?" he said, as we all looked up expectantly, "...you can skip over all the ads!" We all applauded with "Nice!"s and "That's so cool"s. As we applaud ourselves out of our jobs. Ha.

On the eve of my upcoming departure from a city I have loved (and not loved) so preciously, this is just so fitting. Thank you, Sara. I'm smiling.

My dad used to humiliate me with coupons when I was a tot. As if heading out to dinner at 5:00 pm wasn't odd enough, he'd proudly make a large production of whipping out a coupon he'd torn out of a paper with EARLY BIRD SPECIAL! delineated clearly on the front of it. I'd shrink down in my seat and wriggle uncomfortably. I'm fairly sure that is why he did it.

Well, I am my dad's daughter. I'd once signed myself up for some kind of promotion for New York dining thing, and recently they emailed me a $50 coupon to use for my birthday at their selection of joints. I was meeting Scott at Penn Station last Friday, and went ahead and booked us up to have dinner at this haus, and told him to bring an appetite. Something about dining in Madison Square Garden seemed very strange to me, but convenient and intriguing. And free.

Overcompensating for the coupon, I made sure I was dressed to the hilt. I think the hostess was even snowed, and hustled us right over to the best booth in the haus. Touristy heads turned as we snuggled right up in our VIP rig. Who knew? It was divine, it was calm and warm, the lighting was perfectly dim and the service was great. The walls were unintentionally retro, a sort of beige theme with padded fabric on the walls. I felt glamorous, like we should have been sipping champagne cocktails and talking all fast-paced with slight Ameri-Britsy accents, calling each other darling and glossing over everything with charming, witty quips and bon mots. Of course we ended up spending way, way more than $50 but it was still worth it. I am only hanging around midtown west from here on out. No more hipster downtown scenes for me. If you want to find me, come kick around Penn Station.

I am proud to announce that I was delivered the very first beverage in the newly refurbished and best hotel bar in the continental United States. Mind you, it was champagne, and it was on the house. Indeed, I am royalty!

That place and I are symbiotic. It had been closed for a good while for rennovations, and I am not lying when I say I'd been crippled. A large hole was left in my and my friend's lives. That has been the locale of many birthdays, reunions, engagement toasts, girls nights, even an overnight haven after a nasty coupley fight. It was just perfect: tables with dimpled red candles, gray-haired bartenders, piano, all sorts of reds and browns-- it was like time had stopped cerca 1977. A friend was put up there one night for work, and he claims he crawled into his made bed and found a pair of Suntan pantyhose. Leggseggs. Ew. But excellent like that, slightly skeazy. Not to mention its deliciously dark history. Oooo, yessssss.

Coincidence? I think not. Its was like I'd received a telepathic message. I was to meet a friend yesterday and needed to pick a venue. All at once I felt compelled to pick up the phone and ring up the old place, just to check. "We open at 4." I was told. Breathless, and much later, I entered the old, shoddy lobby and was happy to see that nothing had changed there, but the lounge overhaul still remained to be seen. I walked through the now-curtained door to a familiar dim scene-- eyes adjusting to the dark, I saw outlines of misshapen and lumpy people scatted amoung tables near the piano. Ice clinked. Faint, languorous conversations. I walked toward the long, narrow bar and was pleased to notice it was almost exactly the same. Rectangular tables lined up along the great, old lead paned windows along Lexington. The dimpled candles were replaced by lovely wraught iron lamps. Similarly, the old surly bowties were replaced by sultry, georgeous asian women. Otherwise, it was the same, like putting on an old shoe.

I was greeted instantly by an interesting looking man in leather pants and huge teeth who apologized kindly, explaining that they needed 20 more minutes, and whisked me and a woman who I swore was Diane Von Fustenberg into the most beautiful room I'd ever seen. It was warm and dim, lit by tall candelabras, with beautiful murals on the walls. Chandeliers, long red velvet curtains, counches, chairs, all ornate and gilded. In front of me lay a stack of enormous antique books on the floor, serving as a somewhat Alice in Wonderland style table. Talk about Narnia! I had always known there was a room back there; once a long time ago when I was there the door was left slightly open, and I peeked in to see a rather institutional dining room for the live-in residents. Two old people were eating in silence. Now, its become this glorious salon. I plopped myself down on a red and gold chair, and let the warmth sink in. A beautiful blond waitress entered armed with two champagne glasses, one for me, and one for my new friend. We sipped and reclined as she told me about how she was tired of buying people things, and did I ever consider donating money to charities in other's names for Christmas presents? "Why no, but what a great idea."

A bit later, the owner stopped by to check on us, and shared with us his plans to make the whole lobby a bar, like the Royalton. Oh dear. Well, I can't imagine the haunted ghosts would ever let that place become too chic. At least that is what I am telling myself.

Unrelated: the snow! The snow! When do we ever get snow before Christmas!? It official: I am a complete nut. I love snow, I love looking at trees in the snow. So much that I put on my coat, scarf and hat and jumped the train up to central park at lunch. I emerged from the subway stop and the wind seriously was blinding. I raced into the Plaza for shelter, and scooted through to Bergdorfs. I hopped the elevator and raced up to my favorite view in New York-- from the 7th floor windows, looking out over the park. So lovely! The trees all black, tall and craggy, on a solid white backdrop lined with white piping on each limb. A little Manhattan forest in the snow. Unreal. And that was just the place to view it: Nat King Cole played in the background and I was standing in the Diptyque section surrounded by the most heavenly smells. Loads of pine Noel-type candles and potourri. My heart had its first Christmas thaw right there.

Unfortunately that didn't last. After I'd sniffed and viewed enough, I took my yuletide self away from the empty 7th floor to do some shopping. The elevator doors opened to the bottom floor and, holy smokes, I'd thought I was at a nightclub. Thursday? At 2 pm? I walked into a mobbed room with thumping techno music. Loud. Beautiful gay men passed around hors d'oeuvres; sushi and the like. A bar was set up in each corner. Horrible woman with shaved-off noses and perma-frowns shoved their way through the crowds, full glasses of buttery chardonnay or a lime green tartini in hand. Still frowny. Some sort of promotion or something? I still don't know. Is this what people do when they don't work? Haneous! I couldn't even get in to look at lipstick. The girl in the down vest doesn't get to touch.
Or eat, apparently. I did buy a $14 perfume that is actually a room spray. Oops.

I hustled way out of there, back downtown to the office to find that some coworker elves had assembled our little holiday tree and even decorated it. Aw. Happy Holidays!

I was raised to believe TV rotted your brain. Evening at Pops, Masterpeice Theater and 60 Minutes were about it for me. It wasn't that I was prohibited to watch the mainstream shows, I was instead guilted out of them. If my dad walked in to find me drooling in front of the Love Boat, he'd walk over, stare the screen for a few, long, humilating moments and say "Are you really watching this trash?". "Uhm, no!" OFF {click}.

One would think that would make me a better read, more well-rounded person. One would think. Sure, back then, my vivid imagination was fueled by E.B White, C.S. Lewis (Oh, Narnia!), Beverly Cleary and so on. Then later, an infatuation with Dickens and Jane Austen. How could I not, having been raised watching Poldark and The Moonstone for entertainment? Upstairs, Downstairs type plots still grip me.

I should be better read then I am, seeing as how much I love words and fiction, but alas, with an already romanticized brain, is it any surprise that once boys became of real interest, I dropped nearly everything?

Now that I have found a prince, and am no longer "new" to New York, I've realized how vapid my brain has become. I check in on favorite blogs and now grow infuritated. Clever quips, stories of wins and successes, links to important things these people have done. Completely original thoughts springing forth daily. I have started to hate them. All. I read the Morning News and am sickened, I love the writing here. What has happened? When I was 11, I inherited a crummy electric typewriter and wrote stories endlessly. None of them were good, but my brain was a windmill of characters and plots. And most of all, I loved doing it. I'd add little illustrations and show them to my academic parents who would usually critique the hell out of them. I'd usually burst into tears and crumble. Hm. That could have been my demise right there.

I'm now hot. I'm ticked. I need a royal kick in the ass, which perhaps has already been served up to me by someone who recently described me as a goofball. Ridiculous. I need to go back to Masterpiece Theater and Pops. Someone just needs to come and uninstall the WE channel on my television. And Oxygen. Please?

In a usual morning flurry, I pulled some duds from my closet and threw them on. I looked in the mirror, pleased enough with the haphazard, all-black outcome and scurried down my stairs. Its blistering cold, so with hat pulled way over my ears and head faced down, I still couldn't help but sense some real agressive stares from passerbys. At one intersection, a creepy guy actually wiggled up right next to me, and stood there, too close, staring and...oy. Huh? The all-black, I supposed? Unreal. What? So black means catwoman. Prrr! That is just so obvious and predictable. Gack. I wanted to go home and put on those ugly fleece pants and zit cream.

I was picturing various things I could do, instead of gritting my teeth quietly. I sort of pictured, as the going-to-work-at-9 catwoman (?!), standing in the middle of the crowd of unoriginal, randy men and kicking outwards, in a circular fashion. With left leg planted firmly on the ground with my oh-so-sexy-cat-boot, the right leg kicking outward repeatedly as I turn my body around 360 degrees. A kicking cat lazy susan. Very effective, I would think!

Broadway is one big windtunnel today. Whooosh. Coming from all directions. Every time I'm spun out of the rotating door into the street, my hair is blown directly up in the air and my eyes fill up tears, then stream down my cheeks.

The frigid gusts are so bone-chilling that no matter how many layers are put on, or how one tries to scurry through the blasts-- you will be bowled over. No one is exempt. Everyone is hunched over, gripping their collars, eyes squinty. Burned-smelling "nuts 4 nuts" umbrellas luff loudly.

Once inside, everyone stares at each other incredulously with wide, watery eyes and bright rosy cheeks. "Its supposed to get worse!" says the gruff policeman to the tall executive in topcoat. "Seriously?" A cigarettey woman adds "Snow, even!"

Its amazing how you can really love and not love a city at the very same time.

Lock in!

Its freeezing. Saturday night we went out for sushi. Things went slightly awry when I decided to be more adventurous and order some funk-arse rolls. Guh-ross; moooshy. A glass of water got knocked over and spilled all over the counter, Scott's jeans and his seat-- he quickly got up and moved over a chair. The Japanese waitress kept walking by the puddles of water on the table and dripping into the empty seat and smiling, refilling our waters and again smiling, never offering more napkins or a towel and sprinting off. We were left to dine in our own swamp.

The second we opened the door and felt the artic blast outside, especially with the soggy jeans, we zipped right home at 8 pm, closed the door and played hours of scrabble (again: I'm victorious!), watched movies, ate girl scout cookies. I'm still wearing fleece pants, which are probably the least flattering item of clothing a person could wear. I may as well be walking around with a sleeping bag wrapped around each leg. I like winter.

Helpless. Discusted. Victorious. This was my emotional turducken after seeing Bowling for Columbine. Hooray Michael Moore! I hope everyone sees it. But the underlying query is so biliously astounding: why is it that our country, with all the same stimuli as other countries (violent TV & movies, poverty, weapons at hand, on and on), what is it that makes us by far the most violent? A smiley, blond Canadian woman interviewed at a bar stated something to the effect that "..people in the States don't think. They just react". Guns, bombs, force. So true. Its overwhelming to think of trying to fix the massive problems our country has displayed since Plymouth Rock, but when its put as simply as the Canadian woman stated, it seems almost fixable. Almost. Stop and think.