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Hunting for Widgets

By on September 14, 2010 in creative writing, humor, true story
When I first heard about widgets, I assumed they were some popular breed of small, potentially yippy dog.

“How adorable,” I said through gritted teeth. “Do you have one…in your purse?”

But no. Apparently widgets are these tiny icons that float around on your computer or the interwebs, offering one-click transport to a variety of programs and functions. For example, widgets allow you to receive internet articles, including blog posts, by email or RSS feed. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn’t. It’s cool. But I’ve got to tell you, adding them was no easy task. I had to go hunting for widgets.

Widget-hunting is complicated. You must track the widget in its natural habitat, the amateur code-sharing blog, or worse, in the muck and steam of group help forums. 

Over the last few days, I have spent countless hours hacking through html, wiping sweat from my brow as pixilated pop-ups struck like hanging vipers from the virtual jungle around me.

Now that I’m back on familiar shores, I proudly thrust forward the ultimate prize: 4 widgets, wrangled into submission, theoretically designed to make this site easier to follow.

I crusade, of course, for the greater good: to design a blog that’s intuitive, or at minimum functional, so that you might care enough to come back/tell your friends/give me a reason to live. (No pressure.) If you have any suggestions for other applications you’d like to see, I will make it happen. Just contact me.

With the contact widget. USE THE WIDGET, OK? That baby took hours to pin down.


Comments { 1 }

Splinters Are No Laughing Matter

By on September 13, 2010 in humor, true story


I got a splinter this weekend. It was a crisis.

I was minding my own business, lugging a kayak toward the river, when I slammed my hand into a wooden telephone pole and WHAMO.
There it was, jammed 3/4ths of the way into my flesh. A little harpoon of misery.

I dropped the kayak and staggered backward, appalled. My first reaction was this:


Followed by this:


I’m sure you remember getting splinters as a child. I certainly do. They stand out like gruesome holocausts of torn skin and sterilized needles; my mom would work like a surgeon in the wounded area, digging to remove the offending scrap of wood, and I would put my head in my arm and whimper with the pain and injustice of it all.

I realize that one problem, of course, is the child-to-splinter size ratio. When you yourself are a little thing, little things seem much bigger. In other words, a splinter the size of a hangnail feels like a tree trunk literally cleaving your arm in half.

Whimper.

Now, perhaps, the pain was no so severe. My actual physical discomfort probably rated about here:



But I was not to be fooled! I was merely riding the high of adrenaline, and the horrible crashing pain was rising like floodwaters in the distance. I stood in the sunshine and stared in horror at my hand, waiting for blood to gush and levees to break.

Instead, the back of my hand stung a little. Nothing more. Birds sang furiously overhead, as though the world was not going to end at any given second. I began to grow suspicious of this so-called splinter.
A breeze blew gaily across the dunes. The sun beat merrily against my head. I let my hand fall limply to my side and, sure enough, it remained in one piece.

The birds continued to sing.

Then I realized: maybe I’ve grown up just enough it isn’t going to hurt this time! Maybe! Just maybe!


Then I was ready to kayak around the island, to kayak as I had never kayaked before. Full of vim, vigor, and a superhuman sense of adulthood the likes of which I may never feel again.

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Trash Bag Purses AKA Derelique Chic

By on September 9, 2010 in design, humor
These babies cost $2K apiece.
I’m having a psychological meltdown just thinking about it.

Comments { 6 }

Hyperbole and a Half

By on August 26, 2010 in creative writing, humor, quarter-life crisis
Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up.
The SUN.
Thanks for that week of SADD-induced monkhood, Sun. I almost didn’t recognize myself, what with the sunken cheeks and grizzled whiskers.
I almost didn’t recognize you either, Sun. When I emerged from my bedroom this morning like a newborn deer, wobbly-legged and sleepy-eyed, I saw that my hallway was full of this strange brightness, and I panicked.
OH NO, WOODLAND CREATURES! OUR FOREST IS ON FIRE!
My apartment was not, in fact, on fire. You decided to shine this morning, that’s all.
Perhaps this gives you an indication of how my week’s been going.
Oh, but dear reader, let’s not get caught up in this celestial body confusion. If, like me, your Thursday feels like a Wednesday, I have a video you need to watch.
I LOVE cats, and I 100% endorse this warning.
Sometimes, when everything is a little too serious, I visit the musings of the funniest girl on the planet, Allie Brosh. Here’s her self-portrait (action shot):

Obviously you want more. Do yourself a favor and visit her blog, Hyperbole and a Half, but be prepared to lose about 1.5 days of your life as you greedily consume every story she’s ever written. Don’t worry, the emotional payoff will be worth the loneliness/poverty/starvation you’ll endure as a result of alienating friends and coworkers. If you need me, I’ll be in my windowless office, hiding from this terrifying ball of fire in the sky.
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Self-Control Is Exhausting (and Exhaustible)

By on August 18, 2010 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story
Well hey there.
Listen, I need you to not judge me for the fact that I’m lying about like an invalid, drinking pomegranate juice and whining at couch cushions. I’ve had a very trying day, and I’ve missed my writing deadline.
That’s right: DEADLINES. IN LIFE.
Ugh. Self-betterment sucks.
During our trip to California, I promised my best friend[1] that I would write for 30 minutes every day for 30 days. 30 for 30. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?
To bolster my odds of success, I convinced Greer to do this 30 for 30 with me, knowing full well that she’s the kind of responsible, dedicated individual who meets her own goals (and teaches first graders how to speak French, MON DIEU). Needless to say, she’s hit every one of our deadlines.
Meanwhile I sit slumped over on the couch, listening to pop music on YouTube and staring at a line in my checkbook that reads:
Cash out for Cheetos (20–)
This is killing me.
Until now, I’ve been good. Really, truly, I have. I DO want to be a writer when I grow up, and I’m willing to work for it, especially when ‘work’ consists of sitting in my empty apartment and talking to myself, manipulating the written word to applaud my own ideas.[2] I set this goal to further my future as a self-employed literary mastermind, and I know I can do it.
Yet here I splay, unable to focus and unwilling to quit, twisted up in my need to achieve things even when my brain is fried and my body protests. I worked like a dog[3] all day today, smoking with nose-to-the-grindstone fervor and the sort of stress-fueled intensity that often results in a salary increase or cancer.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m only working this hard because I have to. I’m not so crazy as to pin my self-worth on work deadlines or attempt self-actualization through scented candles. During the day, I clung to some priorities. I still ate lunch, for example. I left the office in time to do hot yoga. But I left a spent and broken woman, desperate to sweat out the stress-toxins of corporate America. When I emerged two hours later, I entered the humid summer darkness soaked in sweat and buzzing with awareness.[4] On the drive home, I was totally conscious of every nerve in my body, muscles relaxing against the bones, eyes sitting heavy in their sockets, the taut skin of my face and neck hot and still hot and refusing to cool down even after I entered my apartment and took a shower and lay around like an invalid for several hours.
So here we are, and my face is still hot, and I think I might be getting sick.
And I know I must write, but my brain is acting like a kickstand, butting childishly against the ground so I can’t move forward. Rather than do the one thing I must, I default—internet!—and indulge in some mental whining.
Then, right on a site called FastCompany, I see the answer: “Self-control is an exhaustible resource.”
Oh REALLY?
Take a few minutes and see for yourself. It’s really a fascinating study. In the meantime, I’ll be in bed, scheming ways to quantify self-control as a very limited resource which may or may not justify the fact that it took me two days to write this post.

[1] Greer. Weren’t you paying attention to my last post?
[2] Like this! I’m hilarious!
[3] Assuming dogs work.
[4] Or dehydration.
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I Didn’t Move to the Beach for the Bongos

By on July 6, 2010 in humor, mindfulness, quarter-life crisis, true story
I love a good holiday weekend, don’t you?
Especially in the summer. 3 days manage to afford 36 hours spent on the beach, 24 hours spent eating, 12 hours spent drinking, and about 30 minutes spent bettering oneself (typically via sweat). Summer holidays are like wormholes in the time-space continuum that allow us to be present everywhere all at once and STILL get to a barbeque before the hot dogs run out. The 4th of July is a big ball of fun, a completely irresponsible holiday (that is to say, without any reference to tradition or reflection on moral virtue) where everyone agrees that the noblest celebration is tanning.
Yay.
How does Yours Truly decide to spend her final hours of such a glorious, meaningless vacation? Writing, of course!
This evening I woke up from a 3-hour ‘power nap’[1] with a vague sense of uselessness. In my case, writing is both character-building and significantly overdue (along with concepts like ‘going to the gym before work’ and ‘washing my sheets’), so I committed. I went down to the beach with my journal and my book and watched the sunset wash across colorful beach bunnies.[2] I settled on a bench and pulled out my pen, ready to kick ass with the weight of my own genius.
I wasn’t counting on the drum circle.
About 20 minutes into my self-congratulatory ramblings, a bunch of long-haired adults wielding 3-year-olds set up a drum circle 15 feet away. Bongos, talking drums, even a cowbell: these goobers had them all. At first I thought, ‘Hey, cool, I’ll groove on some sweet rhythms and rejoice that American children can indoctrinated into hippie-dom against their will (even in suburban New Jersey!).’
This was hard to do. The music was pretty awful, consisting of (as far as I could tell) one gray-haired baby boomer running the same three patterns over and over and over to presumably forge the backbone of a ‘music space’ wherein a bunch of spastic ankle-biters were given loud instruments with the instruction to make MORE noise, rather than less. But I am nothing if not good-humored, so I tapped my foot to the booming rhythm and attempted to ignore the whole thing, allowing the music filter through my heartbeat but not my brain.
This turned out to be much easier than I suspected, in large part because my brain is used to doing things completely independently of the rest of my body. My brain pleasures in decisions that inevitably confuse and/or infuriate my lesser instincts, including those of my muscles, morality, emotional compass, spirituality, free will, etc. I once gutted my way through a 5K after no training whatsoever, which doesn’t sound like a big deal until I tell you that a) the course was littered with hills, b) the air hit 90 degrees before 9AM, and c) I had an undiagnosed viral infection so severe I was nearly hospitalized two days later.[3] There is NO WAY my body was willing to do this. I was a slave to my brain.
I still am. Only maniacal tyranny of the mind could explain many of my more questionable talents, which include consuming a dozen Oreos at once, holding wall squats for minutes at a time, and ruining romantic relationships.[4] I don’t WANT to be someone who cerebralizes notions like Hunger and Love. Or rather my heart doesn’t want me to be that person. My brain, on the other hand, decides I should be for any of a million inexplicable reasons, and my heart never stands a chance.
Then I find myself waxing poetic about this exact phenomenon—usually in my head or aloud to myself—and I start to wonder how much can be accomplished by the annunciation of such psychological complexities. Does it help me to know that my brain acts as the House in a Vegas lifestyle and that every ‘gamble’ I take really plays to its winning hand? Is the actualization of my fears for good or for evil? If I talk about my brain as a Hitler-esque caricature, hyperbolic and alarming, does self-awareness somehow undermine the regime? And don’t think the point is lost on me that my brain dictates these exact thoughts, directs these exact words so as to suggest a semblance of hope and potential to ‘see beyond’ my brain which is, of course, impossible. These questions may be intriguing (to me) and depressing (to you, probably), but mostly they’re maddening.
This is probably why I ate three hamburgers on Saturday. Even when the whole world seems crazy, beef never lets me down.
Eventually, despite my brain’s best efforts, drumbeats crept in through the fog of these thoughts. As the noise of bongos steadily challenged my consciousness, I became aware that I had been staring without really seeing, slack-jawed and self-obsessed, for over an hour.
This felt like a great accomplishment.
When the gray-haired hippie looped his beat for the 18,000th time, I stood up to collect my things. I glanced at the children in the drum circle. They were a motley crew, rumpled and sunburned, clutching guiros or equally ridiculous noise machines almost as large as their torsos. One small girl in a pink dress was wailing away on the triangle, creating sound with as much pleasure as I’ve ever witnessed (and I’ve seen U2 in concert).
This is all life amount to, really: slamming away on a bit of insignificant metal, making sound to prove we exist, loving every moment in which we can lose ourselves. Maybe we miss the initial rhythm or maybe we sit in the sun too long. But maybe, most likely, we worry too much. Little kids don’t worry about hitting the right notes; hippies who start public drum circles don’t worry about anything.[5] Regardless of whether or not cerebral hegemony spells pending disaster, I don’t need to worry so much. Even with the threat of skin cancer, we still like the look of a tan.
As I pass, the little girl in pink starts ‘singing’, which really amounts to tuneless shrieking. That’s enough of that. I leave the bench and the beach as fast as possible. Even after a holiday weekend, there is only so much one person can take.
[1] If you consider the inability to sleep at night empowering.
[2] I mean girls in bikinis, not feral rabbits, you weirdo.
[3] I concede that you might not find this impressive (especially if you consider that after my 30-minute ‘wind sprint’ I lay down in a field for literally two hours). I also concede that you might be a terrible person.
[4] I said these talents were “questionable”, not admirable. Nor are they particularly unique.
[5] Obviously.
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Remember That Time I Wrote a Blog Post About Meat?

By on June 9, 2010 in humor, true story

Ewwwwwwww.

“I need some meat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Meat. I need some.”
I stare at my bowl of vegetable curry with outright disdain. My coworker, in turn, stares at me with arched-eyebrow surprise.
“That looks pretty good.”
“Yes, but no.” I look up. She is backlit by the mid-day light that floods our glass-walled cafeteria. “First of all, I’ve been eating this for three days.” Seriously. I live alone, and as much as I delight in good food, identical pleasure at every sitting loses luster fairly quickly. “Second of all, I really want some meat.”
“I thought you didn’t like meat.”
“I don’t. But seriously, I would stab someone for a burger right now.”
“Ew.”
“Or a turkey sandwich. Mmmmmm.”
“Well, you don’t have to convince me.” Lauren picks at her rice and beans with the steady hand of a careful eater, someone who appreciates every bite.[1]
I, on the other hand, am a Hoover of meals. At dinner, I warn company to keep their hands away from my mouth.[2] And I’m doing it again, shoveling this accursed curry into my maw even though I don’t really want it, mastication on autopilot, swallowing as though this brown slop could possibly fill the big, meat-shaped hole in my belly.
“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” I ask between bites. “You know I hardly eat it.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Her voice sounds funny.
“Oh, that’s riiiight. That night with the steak.” The two of us went to a Japanese fusion restaurant/bar once, last summer when we were hell-bent on social networking, and schmoozed it up with about 40 other ‘young professionals’ talking about job satisfaction,
lack thereof, and cocktails. Three lychee martinis in, Lauren and I both got hungry. I settled for sushi, but she got a medallion of steak approximately the size of her face, and twenty minutes later it was gone. I remember staring at the trace of blood on her porcelain plate and feeling my face twist up, struggling with all my energy not to comment on how horrified I was.
Here’s the thing: I don’t really like meat. Ever since I was little I’ve had some sort of aversion to consuming a carcass, and it’s not for the obvious reasons. I don’t protest cruelty to animals or care about my arteries or refuse to purchase Grade F product at the grocery store. When I went to dinner recently with a coworker form Singapore, we’d discussed this very phenomenon. Lorraine popped a chicken foot in her mouth and looked at me with curiosity as I tried to explain myself: a history of my qualms with food texture, my academic tryst with anatomy, the fact that I can’t eat fibrous muscle tissue without remaining distinctly aware that those fibers are, in fact, cells that allow animals to run and twitch and pump through its veins the very blood that pools beneath my dinner.
And yet.
Here I am, 5pm on a Tuesday, and I’m slated to leave in just a minute to take my weight-lifting class. But this need for meat is so intense, and I feel as though I’ll just starve if I don’t get. Some. Right. Now. So I compromise with myself, vow to take Kickboxing instead, and zip up the road to Wawa. I can’t punch in my order fast enough. And when the option pops up—Extra Meat $1.50—for the first time in my life, I check ‘yes’.
An hour later, I’m panting heavily, wheezing over my gutful of sub as it sits, undigested, directly on top of whatever organs allow me to exercise like a normal human. Three minutes into the warm-up and I’m heaving like a water buffalo. By the time class is over, I will no doubt have sweat through my shirt, my shorts, and possibly my sneakers in my body’s feeble attempt to process the boatloads of flesh inside me. But I don’t care. Through the millennia of man’s triumph on this planet, from cavemen to colonists, this feeling of satiation is one that lights every nerve in my body, calms the panicked voice in my brain that shrieks “Meat! You must eat it now!” The beast has been conquered, at least for this day. I have asserted by dominance over the wild[3] universe, and I will enjoy every second of it.
Unless it kills me first.
[1] Lauren works in Fragrance Evaluation, so this makes sense to me. She basically gets paid to take careful stock of every element in a fragrance, analyzing different nuances to create the best fragrance possible.
[2] By comparison, I work in Marketing, where my biggest challenge is buying enough candy bars to lull my audience into sugar-induced submission. Perfect fit!!
[3] …then tamed, then bred for the express purpose of slaughter, then killed and processed and wrapped into a neat little package so that a teen wearing latex gloves could fold it into a Shorti roll and wrap it in clean paper for my consumption. Wild indeed.
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Clean Up Your Act

By on June 8, 2010 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story

Time for spring cleaning!
Now, I realize it is basically summer. As far as I am concerned, spring cleaning happens whenever I wake from my six-months-of-freezing-rains-and-apocalyptic-wind-induced hibernation.
In the case of 2010, this happened last Saturday.
Typically, I decide to clean based on one of two factors:
1) Panic. I am having company visit in a matter of hours and can’t bear to let them see the dead flower petals, unwashed dishes, and general squalor with which I live.
2) Fear. This apartment collects dust bunnies that could eat me in my sleep.
Last Saturday I woke up, staggered into my living room, bypassing the dying plants and disemboweled suitcases, and collapsed on the couch only to discover that I had nowhere to put my feet up. The coffee table is covered in useless garbage like utility bills; the couch is covered in clothes (mine, thank God). The floor, I realize with horror, is covered in a fine film of some mysterious sticky substance.
Ew.
For someone with a pinball-marathon hangover, this situation was distressing. I woke up expecting the world to be a happy, carefree place, full of children’s laughter and fun electronic music, and instead it’s a cesspool. Who lives like this? Where is she and what has she done to my stuff?
So I was looking around, exerting all my quad strength to hover my feet a few inches from the floor, when my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. (“What if you have a heart attack and DIE? Do you want the hot ER guy to find you LIKE THIS?”[1]) Spring cleaning has become a matter of survival.
I dove for the kitchen cabinet, yanked out the scrub sponges and paper towels and bucket dilutable floor cleaners and scrubbed like a fiend for approximately six hours, until the apartment sparkled and my weakened limbs thrashed limply at a last, few, creepily indelible floor stains by the fridge (that will never go away, no matter what, and I don’t even know where they COME FROM).
Speaking of which, living alone raises waaaaay more questions than it answers.
Like, what’s with all this dust? Where the hell does it come from? To the best of my knowledge, I don’t personally spew dust like some dirt-sprinkler. My apartment is brand-new. So where in the hell does it come from? My books? The walls?
Also, how did one of my hairs wind up in the freezer? I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I stuck my head in the icebox to talk to the brussel sprouts for a few.
And finally—this bothers me more than anything—why are dirty dishes so aggressive? Even when simply I walk past and look in their general direction, I am slammed with a complex wave of guilt and fear. Their glass and porcelain lips peer over the rim of the sink, taunting me, muttering veiled curses. They’re building a colony, and Lord have mercy if I try to collapse their tiered regime. When the time comes that I do actually reach into their depths (usually wearing rubber gloves and a gas mask), they emit high-pitched screams and slam against each other dramatically, pretending to crack and shatter as though broken glass will stop me. Only after plunging them into boiling hot water, dousing them with green-apple-scented chemicals, and scrubbing the bejeezus out of them will they lay in quiet rows on a tea towel and dry in silence. There is temporary peace, an uneasy settlement between warring parties, and though I try to enjoy the sparkling order while I can, both they know and I know that chaos sits in the dark, unpolished corners of things, watching and content to wait, for the rise of panic and unwashed terror is coming, is only a matter of time.
[1] This is also what motivates me to wear pretty underwear.
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Let’s Talk About Toilets

By on March 18, 2010 in design, humor, true story
Let’s talk about toilets.
Automatic toilets, I mean. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about automatic faucets and soap dispensers and towel dispensers and hand dryers. Actually, let’s discuss about automated bathroom facilities in general.
I have mixed feelings on this subject.
On one hand, the whole concept is so space-age, so Jetsons. Look out, kids, it’s 2010! I can finally teleport to work drive a hovercraft use a poorly-lit, rather filthy public restroom and never touch a SINGLE SURFACE. The future is now!
On the other hand, I can’t shake my suspicion that technology has a bit of a laugh at our expense. I can imagine words gurgling through the pipes: “Oh, these humans think they’ve got us figured out. We’ll show ‘em.” The toilet chuckles throatily. “I’m gonna flush again. Do you think 4 times in too much in 2 minutes?” Pause for a splashy scream. “Muahaha.”
Even when I’ve escaped that prison-like stall, the sense of encroaching doom is unavoidable. The water at the sink is always too hot, the dryers inevitably terrifying. After washing my hands with 150º water, I’m supposed to dry my blistered, bubbling skin in a machine with the gentle touch and subtlety of a hurricane. Take The Blade, for example. Not only is it named after Wesley Snipes, but I’m supposed to dip my hands into a dark pit seething with wind of such force it nearly sucks my skin off. By the time I stagger out of the bathroom, I’m maimed, shell-shocked, and breathless.
Good thing I’m already in a bar. The future may be fancy, but I really need a drink.
Comments { 1 }

5:30AM Is Not an Acceptable Hour for Grocery Shopping, Either

By on March 15, 2010 in humor, true story

My neighborhood.

Today is the sort of day when I want to wear a blanket to work.
It’s raining, of course. It’s been raining for the last 5 days, almost a week of gray-faced misery. The weather’s been a real drag for some people, namely the thousands who lost power and trees and tangential body parts in the 60 mph winds, but my lights didn’t even flicker. Unlike my neighbors down the street (who live 20 feet closer to the river than I do and resorted to kayaks as chief transportation), I remain safe and dry in my second-floor apartment. No flooding here, suckers!
I guess what I’m saying is I actually don’t mind the rain this time around, not on a morning like this one, where the storm is committed, steady, and rather sleepy itself. The whole world agrees when I heave a tired sigh and slump onto the sidewalk, tugging my hood more tightly around my neck and praising the genius of sweatpants.
After my gym class, I head to the 24-hour grocery. (Despite my previous conclusion that 5:30AM is not an acceptable hour to go to the gym, I did it again today. Why not live an entire life before I even get to work?) Plus I have no breakfast in my apartment. I expect the store to be a war zone, completely deserted, maybe some deer wandering around the Produce Department. Instead it’s pretty normal, just a few sweaty gym rats (myself included) and a man who looks vaguely homeless.
I buy some bananas, some turkey sausage. I get irritated with the Self-Checkout computer, a woman’s stern computer voice barking at me to PUT YOUR (unnatural pause) HOT DOGS (pause) ON THE CONVEYOR BELT.
WOMAN! It’s 6:30 in the morning. Don’t yell about my purchases to the whole ******* store.
REMOVE YOUR ITEMS FROM THE SCANNING BED.
I get the impression a robot arm will appear from nowhere and beat me senseless if I don’t comply. I refuse to be bullied.
PUT YOUR ITEMS ON THE CONVEYOR BELT. PUT YOUR ITEMS ON THE—
Thunk. Shut up. I hate you.
My hot dogs whirr along the belt, and I feel a brief stab of relief that she didn’t call them “weiners.”
When I leave, the sky remains dark, gray, steady. The air, warmer than I expected, smells like ozone and fresh soil. It’s going to be hard to change out of these sweatpants, but I’ll manage. At least I can get to work without a life vest.
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