Twelve Days

I am ready to bundle my old clothes and donate them. Then, to paint the walls in the house. I want bright colors. I want to buy a big, glorious couch and sink into it. I want to read Junot Diaz on that couch. I want to host a dinner party and use my new cookware to prepare the meal. Then I want to serve it on my new plates and drink wine from my new glasses. I want Joseph K to be there. Throwing away old t-shirts, dipping his roller into the paint tray, and hovering over me while I saute the chicken. Always.

The Cat Is Stealing Money From Us

Literally. We left some cash on the coffee table in the basement to pay the air conditioning technician. When I came downstairs this morning, I saw that ten dollars was missing. When I went looking for it, I found it underneath a newspaper in the cat's hiding place. I wish I was making this up. And, yes, the cat may very well be able to read, but that is too much to contemplate right now.

Tonight's Drinking Game

I will drink a quart of vodka every time Hillary utters her bastardized Obama line "Yes she can" during her Indiana victory speech (yes, of course she's going to win Indiana; the only people making it seem dramatic are news channels who have an interest in driving up ratings).

A Little Woozy, A Little Bluesy

I am sitting at Busboys and Poets, enjoying a mint tea and the sounds of people. A high school student scribbles x's and y's, murmuring equations. A young woman studies anatomy and reads longsounding names from index cards. I sit between them, perpetrating, checking my email and editing an article. I miss being a student. Scratch that. I miss feeling like a student. Feeling like your future is open and unknown, every day an answer to the ever-present question, "What will I do when I grow up?" Damn. I am grown up. So what am I doing?

April Is The Cruelest Month

Every year around February, I start asking people when they remembered spring coming the year before. "Didn't it come early last year? March?" I ask hopefully. Those who know me know that I hate winter. I hate coats, long sleeves, and closed-toe shoes (although I do love a scarf).

Every year, around April, I get fooled. You know that saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me?" Well, shame on me every year since I moved to this weather deficient area of the universe. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I think that the 70 degree weather that surprises us mid-April is going to stay, when every year it's followed by weeks of rain/cloudiness/45 degrees and windy? Why do I cast aside my boots in favor of flip-flops with such joy and abandon when I know I will be fishing them out of the back of my closet in a few days? Because I want summer to come. I love summer. I just love it. I love melting ice cream and bbqs -- watermelon dribbling down your chin and running through the sprinkler -- sitting on the grass and feeling the sun on my face. And man, do I love the beach.

T.S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the cruelest month. I think it's because he lived in the D.C. metro area.

The Breast Whisperer

I was reading the Sunday Post when I came across this troubling article about a "lactation consultant" who calls herself "The Breast Whisperer." The subheader was "Part Detective, Part Cheerleader, A Popular Lactation Consultant Aids Stressed-Out Moms." Detective? Like Cesar Millan, will the breast whisperer teach a breast not to jump on guests when they come over? Moreover, where was this major when I was in college? The whole "take women's studies to get dates" bit yielded mixed results. This seems like it would have been a sure thing.

This just strikes me as another example of the commodification of women's insecurities. There are way too many industries built on convincing women that something is wrong with them and that they have to pay exhorbitant amounts not necessarily to fix them, but to convince them they at least tried. So, baby will take to the breast if baby is hungry. If not, baby can drink out of a bottle. What? They say babies who breastfeed do better in school and are healthier? Well, it is never too early for kids to learn that their dopey choices can have lifelong implications.

On Becoming

A few years ago, Friday night would mean happy hour, followed by more boozing, topped off with some carousing. This Friday night, the most exciting thing I did was to try and give the cat her asthma medication. I feel a mid-30s crisis brewing. What exactly does that mean? Wearing more Abecrombie & Fitch and saying "bitches" alot (regardless of the sex of the people referenced)?