Sex. Pregnancy. Chicken.

I once heard that these are the three most common searches at iVillage. If I were the kind of person who cared about the fact that only about 5 people a day read my blog, I would use tactics like strategically working these words into a post to try to get unsuspecting chicken-fetishists to stumble across my blog.

But that would be, like, totally pathetic. So I would never do that.

- posted by Marguerite @ 2:32 PM

 
I've decided to take part in Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) this year. You're supposed to write a novel (55,000 words) from scratch in exactly 30 days. It's all about quantity over quality (isn't that our national motto?). Of course, I don't think you could write a passable novel in a month, but you could probably hammer out a first draft? Or maybe, if you set your sights low enough (our other national motto), it could even be worth publishing.

From what I hear, it's best if you approach these things with as many limitations as possible. Ah, the harsh luxury of limitations. So the novel should be, specifically, a science fiction novel, or "historical romance", or maybe both. Or a book about a cat that solves mysteries. If Sneaky Pie Brown - who is, in fact, a cat - can co-author novels, I figure I can do it, too.

Maybe a novel about a sneaky Yorkshire terrier who solves mysteries about aliens that go back in time to the 18th century and rip the bodices of Scottish wenches? I'm very open to suggestions.

Anyone?

- posted by Marguerite @ 9:59 AM

 
Okay, if anyone's still reading this, here's a promise: no more whining. No more feeling sorry for myself. Not in this blog, or anywhere else.

I had a revelation this weekend -whining is just not a good look for me any more. For that matter, it doesn't look good on anyone. Kind of like parachute pants, or a Bush/Cheney t-shirt.

I think this blog is reaching completion. After all, I'm not underemployed any more. In fact, the arguement could be made that I'm overly employed. I'm ready to stop bitching about my life and start doing stuff.

Last night, I went to Barnes & Noble and got another self-help book, but at least it didn't cost anything because I traded in the "Anxiety for Dummies" that Paul gave me for my birthday as a "gag gift." I'm not sure there's any such thing as a "gag gift." It's what everyone claims to be looking for when they go to an "adult novelty store." No, no, no, it's not for me. See, it's a gag gift.

Wouldn't it be funny if someone bought an actual gag, and gave it as a gift? But, as a joke?joking? A meta-gag gift, as it were.



- posted by Marguerite @ 8:09 AM

 
I think there should be a warning label on blogs, saying not to operate them while under the influence of PMS.

I'm back to thinking I'm a complete failure in life again (except for the fact that I have a wonderful fiance who inexplicably takes such statements personally). I actually like what I do for a living (at least, I don't mind it) and I'm reasonably good at it (writing grants= not that hard) and I'm proud of the organization I work for (an educational program in East Harlem). But at the end of the day, or even at the beginning, for that matter, I'm not an educator, and I'm not even a save-the-world nonprofity type. Hell, I don't even own a pair of clogs. Owning clogs seems to be a prerequisite for wanting to save the world.

I generally feel like a complete imposter. I wish my brain worked properly. I'm surrounded by people who are so much more successful than I am in their chosen professions. And now I'm sniveling. And I hate sniveling. At some point you have to face up to the fact that -

I'm just going to shut up.

Of course, these feelings of massive self-disgust tend to come every 28 days. Hmmmm. Deep down, I think we all suspect that conciousness is largely chemical, which is simeltaneously comforting and horrifying beyond all words.

On an unrelated note -

Mrs. Farnsworth. Last weekend, Paul and I went to see this play at the Flea Theater, starring Sigourney Weaver. Absolutely brilliant. I laughed, I cried. It was much better than "Cats". I will see it again and again.

Also, I went to see the movie "Eulogy" last weekend. I laughed, I cried. It was much better than "Cats". I will see it again and again.

This concludes the "Manic Depressive Theater & Movie Review Corner." Tune in next time, when I whine about my absurdly minor problems, followed by a review of "Seed of Chucky."

I, for one, can't wait!


- posted by Marguerite @ 2:09 PM

 
This is the kind of day when I should probably NOT write a post. Am in an unbelievably foul mood. Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with our recently-started Apartment Search. That's another story, altogether.

No, my bad mood is mostly "cyclical". Fortunately for you, it goes against my WASP upbringing to go into any more detail than that. Perhaps it's not hormonal? Maybe it's just a remarkable coincidence that I'm pretty sure my life has no meaning and everybody hates me and eating an entire block of raw Valrhona chocolate sounds like a smashing idea?

My restaurant fast is still going pretty well. I finally bought plastic baggies to put sandwiches in. I haven't bought plastic baggies since ... ever. It's one of those things I'm chronically too cheap to purchase. It's not even that expensive. I really can't explain why it seems better to wrap sandwiches in an old Duane Reade bag than spend 2 bucks on plastic baggies. The irony is that this expenditure bothers me, but spending $100 on a plastic see-through skirt I'll probably never wear - now, that's pure fiscal responsibility, in my book.


- posted by Marguerite @ 3:32 PM

 
There seem to be some technical difficulties occuring with the "comments" section. Comments on one posting are showing up on all of them. Anyone know how to fix this?

In other news, I copped out of the daily blog yesterday. If I do two today, would that count? Again, I'm not even sure why I decided to try to make a blog entry every day. It's not like the world is waiting on tinterhooks, the way I wait for Dan Savage's column every week.

Although I did not write in my blog, I DID manage to break my "taxi fast." No, I don't mean Tarzan's observation about the velocity of cabs, but my vow to not take a taxi for a week. Today alone, I took three. Sigh. All of the drivers were francophone, from Guinea, Morocco and Senegal. I learned about the unfortunate dicator in Guinea, and the archaeological origins of Fez, and how they're crazy about le foot (a.k.a. soccer) in Dakar.

And I saw an expensive apartment for rent on the Upper West Side, near Central Park.

At least I'm doing pretty well with my "restaurant fast." And I don't mean that I'm only eating at McDonald's. (If you haven't seen "Supersize Me," by the way, check it out. About the guy who only at McDonald's for a month. Believe it or not, he gained wait and developped alarming disease-like conditions. And here I thought eating fast food 3 meals a day was a great idea?) But I've decided not to eat at restaurants, except on social occasions, for a month.

If you live in New York, some ridiculous amount of your money goes to eating out. Of course, we do have the best quality for the price in the U.S. as far as restaurants are concerned. And mostly you can get extremely healthy foods, and a ridiculously wide variety of them. But still, it adds up. So I'm trying to see how much I can save by cooking at home.

Of course, the cooking at home thing is slightly hindered by the fact that my kitchen and bathroom are more or less the same thing (and I don't live in a low-rent district, kids). And don't even get me started on the mice and the ... nevermind. When I finally leave this apartment, I'll be much more inclined to seeing the humor in roaches and poor plumbing. I'll look back on the New York apartment and tell stories at comfortable dinner parties in suburbs, saying, Yes, I would like more wine. What a lovely vintage! And did I tell you, Appleton (believe it or not, I am related to people with names like "Appleton" who live in Southern suburbs, in houses with wide porches and large dogs with pink collars with little green whales on them), about how the mice once pushed a loaf of bread off the top of the refridgerator in the middle of the night, and when I woke up, all that was left was the empty bread bag on the floor ...

I do declare!

But I'm not at that point, just yet.




- posted by Marguerite @ 2:02 PM

 
I'm having one of those days when I can't quite remember the point of blogging, but nonetheless I'll keep my determination to do it every day (every weekday, that is). There are very few things I manage to do every day, except:

a) worry needlessly about things like flaming meteors crashing into the earth the day after I finally find a rent stabilized apartment in NYC, hence skewing property values to hell & back
b) stare into space for about 5 straight hours, sometimes while operating heavy machinery
c) make an elaborate list of all the people I need to call or email
d) fail to call or email any people on above list
e) worry about ending up alone and friendless as a result of c) and d),
f) wonder, where did I go wrong in this life?
g) realize that f) is pointless and not mentally healthy. Better to focus on blaming others for my actions.

Harumph.

In other news, I decided to re-join Equinox, as I live near the "flagship" at Columbus Circle. Equinox is a ridiculously expensive, delightfully luxurious gym that is not really in my nonprofit-salary budget, but oh well. I'll just have to eat cat food when I retire. They have steam rooms and saunas, and - here's the clincher - they give you disposable razors. And fluffy warm towels. They do everything except work out for you. When I was a member at the one on 76th Street, I went all the time and was very healthy, because I felt the need to go very regularly to get my money's worth.

Lately, I'm finding that my parents'/grandparents' need to "get your money's worth" is finally creeping out. Maybe it's from all those Scots in the family tree?

My dad has made a whole religion out of getting his money's worth. I remember one of the summers when I was travelling through Europe with my parents with the "unlimited" Eurail pass. At one point, we'd gone several days without using the trains, because we were staying in Paris for a while. But Dad could think of nothing but the Eurail pass, which, in his elaborate mental calculations, got something like 47 cents cheaper for every mile we rode the train. It bothered my dad to the point that, one day, he went by himself and took a random train to some industrial wasteland in the middle of France (or possibly Germany) - one of those towns where they make pickles (or possibly stoves, or turbine engines), and where everyone is very decidedly un-quaint, and xenophobic, especially to tall, legally-deaf Americans with large cameras, who do not speak their language.

At the end of a fairly miserable day, Dad got back on the train and came back to Paris. "At least I got my money's worth!" he said, brandishing Eurail pass with its brand new stamp.

- posted by Marguerite @ 3:23 PM

 
Darn! I changed the template on my blog, and lost my "comments" function, as well as all my links to other people's blogs. AND I lost my counter. I love looking at the blog counter, not because hundreds of people (or even tens of people) read this, but for some bizarre reason it's one of my workday diversions. And I'm okay with admitting that. As I've said before, I've devoted this past year to embracing my inner dork. I've been attempting to keep my dorkitude in the closet, although I've been about as successful as David Gest on the whole closet matter.

That's the question they should have asked at the debates the other night. "Do you think people are born dorks, or do they turn that way because they attend Stanton College Preparatory School, or because they have access to the SciFi channel, and hence watch too many reruns of Star Trek - The Next Enterprizing Voyager to Deep Space 9? (God, I'm a dork. But I'm not ashamed.) But should dorks marry?

The Dork issue would have been a less ridiculous debate question than the whole "do you think people are born gay, or do they just "turn into" lesbians because they attend one of the Seven Sisters? Or do they "turn gay" because they watch TeleTubbies? Especially that purple one, which is clearly a gay icon, even if gay people do not realize it?

Oy gay.

Anyway, belated birthday wishes to Sheri, whose birthday was yesterday. People with October birthdays are very cool. Sheri and her husband, Morgan, both conveniently have birthdays in the first half of October, and celebrated last weekend with a big blow-out in their backyard. Yep - I said back yard. All of you reading this from New York will gasp, amazed that anyone in NYC (even in Brooklyn) could possibly have such a rare commodity. If you're anywhere else in the U.S. (or anywhere else) you'll probably be confused as to why this is so darn impressive. So you'll just have to trust me. It is.



- posted by Marguerite @ 7:45 AM

 
I woke up late this morning and callled the office to say I'd be in late. I didn't tell them the reason I was late. This is because "Tony Danza" is generally not a good excuse. See, I somehow got sucked into morning talk shows this morning. Because I couldn't seem to wake up, I got idea to try and annoy myself out of bed. I turned on Regis and What's-her-name, hoping that would do the trick. It only partially worked - I didn't wake up, but I did have very annoying dreams.

Then, the new Tony Danza show came on. I had no idea. What's the deal with Tony Danza? Why won't he ever go away? He's like those birthday candles that you blow out and blow out and blow out, but they just keep lighting up. Someone should get a glass of water and put Tony Danza in it. And has anyone noticed that the guy doesn't seem to age? I'm thinking, somewhere, there's an oil painting of Tony that shows a man who's old and bald and has extremely bad dental work, possibly wearing a "Members Only" jacket. The moral of the story: God loves Tony Danza. Or is it Satan? Other-worldly intervention is the only explanation I can think of. For the past 30 years, he's pretty much played exactly the same character, on sitcoms, B-movies, as a talk show host. It's kind of remarkable.

I somehow got sucked into watching the debates last night. It's like watching a WWF match. The whole thing strikes me as massively contrived. However, at the same time I was filling out my Florida Absentee Voter ballot, which was extremely exciting. (I do maintain a legitimate second residence in my home state of Florida, Katherine Harris, in case you're listening in.) I'm very excited, because as of today, I can finally put an end to four years of feeling guilty for not having voted in the last election (don't let this happen to you!). Of course, if I had voted, I would have probably voted for Nader, as did most of my hippie-intellectual friends in Florida. So we can all thank people like my very dear friend April, who is otherwise the world's hippest C.P.A. I still think a third party is a good idea, but I've learned that it's sometimes important to settle.

You know what I think would be great? If the candidates had to do the debates while wearing costumes. Like, dressed as a pirate. With an eye patch and one of those fake parrots on their shoulder. And he has to do the whole thing in character. So when his opponent says something he disagrees with, he has to say, "Yaaarr!" Or maybe Bush could dress up as a stem cell? It would make the debates much more interesting.

Or maybe they should just fight? The winner gets on of those giant belts, and wins the election. That'd be rad.



- posted by Marguerite @ 8:56 AM

 
As the weather cools off, we're quickly entering the part of year when my apartment isn't fit for human habitation. I mean, the other part of the year when my apartment isn't fit for human habitation. During the summer, it's about 900 degrees chez moi, becuase I don't have air conditioning. This is not because I don't want to buy an air conditioner, but because the electricity in my building implodes if I'm using my toaster and someone else in the building happens to be watching T.V. On several occasions, my electricity went out for precisely this reason. My landlord rolled his eyes at my dangerous conduct, as if he'd found me grilling a steer over an open hibachi grill in the middle of the living room.

During the winter, my place gets terribly cold, but my landlord thinks its wasteful to turn the heat on for more than 45 minutes a day. I know, I know - call "311" (for you non-New Yorkers: this is essentially a chat line where you can call to talk to lonley, but no doubt very sexy NY City government employees, who will direct your call to at least 5 different people before you finally get cut off). To their credit, City inspectors have actually come out to my building, and were suitably alarmed by the multiple fire hazards and the general lack of structural integrity, and the unattractive shade of blue paint in the lobby (technically that part's not illegal, but it should be). The Dept. of Buildings even sent me a copy of several elaborate, albeit grammatically challenged, reports they made on the subject. Meanwhile, not much has changed.

Between the heat of the summer and wearing hats indoors during the winter, there's this nice window of time when it's really very temperate and mild. It usually lasts for at least 6 hours. At the moment, my bedroom is horribly cold, because it's lacking one of its windows. It fell out (heck, as windows are want to do!) during a windstorm in the spring. My landlord proceeded to accuse me of causing the window to become suicidal, blaming me for the fact that it became dislodged. I've been avoiding calling my landlord, Frank, to insist that he put in a new window, because dealings with him tend to be most unpleasant.

"This is getting really old," Frank said last year when I complained for the umpteenth time about the lack of heat. He gave me that look someone must give Mariah Carey on a near-daily basis, when she insists on having a flock of chocolate butterflies to follow her around, dangling from invisible strings. Let's face it - I'm total diva. Would you believe I also insist on having hot water at least every other day?

- posted by Marguerite @ 2:10 PM

 
I have about a million things to do right now, so it naturally it struck me as a perfect time to make a blog entry. I've decided to make a blog entry every day for the next week, just to prove that I can do something every day without not-doing it. It was a choice between updating the blog or going to the gym, and because I cannot go to the gym from my desk at work, blogging wins.

It's getting terribly cold. Today was the un-official (or possibly official?) beginning of Coat Season here in New York City, where we spend well over half the year looking like extremely drab marshmellows. Last year, I finally gave in and bought a giant down coat. I loathe to pull it out of the closet. This thing is about as flattering as ... a giant down coat.

The worst thing about winter, though, is all the accoutrements. Hats, scarves, vests, ear muffs, extra sweaters, and - worst of all - gloves. Things like gloves are particularly dangerous for those of us with forgetful tendancies that are sometimes pathologized with clever acronyms like "ADD"(or just "NUTS"). Each and every year, I go through at least 25 pairs of gloves. It's not a random number. I buy about 10 of those cheap-ass stretchy gloves in October, and they're always gone by new year. I usually get them in a variety of colors, and by Thanksgiving I have about 7 gloves left. All different colors. People think I'm making a Punky Brewster-esqe fashion statement, when in fact I just can't keep up with winter accessories. Perhaps its a passive-agressive act against winter? If I could magically retrieve even half of the gloves/scarves/hats, etc. I've left in taxis/restaurants/petting zoos, etc. I could open a friggin glove shop.

It's a beautiful day, though. The leaves are starting to turn in Central Park. On the bus this morning, I started humming the old Frank Sinatra standard, "Do you recall/ Central Park in Fall?" The guy behind me hummed the next few lines. Sometimes you think you're humming to yourself, but really, you're not.

- posted by Marguerite @ 1:47 PM

 
I'm afraid of my cell phone.

Really. Terrified. Whenever I don't check my voice mail for a few days, I develop this weird paranoia that I've missed terribly important message, and someone will be mad at me for not returning their call in a timely fashion. Hence, I wait even longer to check my voice mail, letting the messages mount & become even more frightening.

However, this is rather absurd on a number of levels. First, I rarely receive terribly important messages, by which I mean I rarely recieve messages, possibly because I've alienated so many people by not calling them back. Second, it is rather insane to be afraid of small appliances. Maybe this fear comes from watching interviews with Jack Welsh, former C.E.O. of GE (see below). Thirdly, there is no need for a third reason why this is insane. Fourthly, it's bad form to say "thirdly" and "fourthly," but that is beside the point.

I was going to write about other stuff this morning, but I'm suddenly feeling the need to do some actual work, to make sure I don't get fired. I've decided to make more frequent blog entries now that I'm back to being the only person in NYC who doesn't have a shrink. As my insurance through the new job hasn't kicked in yet, I can't quite afford $120 an hour to discuss my tumultuous relationship with my cell phone.

- posted by Marguerite @ 7:44 AM

 
Sunday morning. Watching Jack Welsh, former C.E.O. of G.E. and all around loveable guy, talk with Maria Bartolomo on NBC, about the virtues of George W. Bush. This has really changed my opinion on the whole election. Jack Welsh definitely wants what's best for you. Let's face it - old, white male billionaires always want what's best for you. If you're one of those crazy "conspiracy theory" people, you might say that Jack Welsh has an agenda to get George Bush re-elected, just because he said he has an agenda to get George Bush re-elected. Or you might point out that G.E. owns NBC, and Welsh still has controlling interests in G.E., and so he indirectly signs the paychecks of the NBC talk show people, so maybe Maria (smart woman that she is) won't object very vigorously to his opinions. But if you think that, you're obviously one of those conspiracy-theory wackos, so f- you.



- posted by Marguerite @ 9:33 AM

 
Do you ever have those days where you just get absolutely nothing done at work? I'm having one now. I say this as if it were an uncommon thing, but unfortunately it's not.

Sing, o muse, of troubling statistics and demonstrable needs!

And yet, the Muses of grant writing are not singing. Perhaps they are attending a Muse conference? People in the nonprofit world attend a lot of conferences. Most of these have no defined purpose, other than free donuts. Which is something.

I'm not even hung over, which is a welcome change from this time last year. My last birthday ended with me sitting on a stoop somewhere in NoHo at 2 a.m., drinking Moet straight out of the bottle with these two guys named Shiva and Kumar. We were like extremely high-end bums.

Last night, I learned that you don't have to drink champagne on a stoop with strangers to have a good time. Thanks to everyone who came out! I was genuinely thrilled to see you all, and very touched that you would schlep all the way to the UWS. It's amazing I have any friends at all, because I'm so bad about calling/emailing, etc. And I don't even know how to send a text message, which is what all the kids these days are into. You know you're old when you just don't see the point of text messaging.

My resolution for the new year is to be a better corresponder. It's not that I don't want to call people. I spend half my life thinking about calling people, and then I fret because I don't and worry that they're mad at me for not calling/writing them back, so I put it off even longer, and alienating people more & more, and it becomes this ridiculous feedback loop.

Fictional pretnetious band name for the day: This Ridiculous Feedback Loop.

If you're reading this and you didn't get an invitation to birthday festivities, don't be offended. I'ts probably because Paul doesn't have your 411, and he was planning the whole quasi-"surpise." It might have been more of a surprise if he hadn't asked for Amy's number, "to plan a surprise party for you." Paul is not subtle, which can be a good thing. I think if he were ever having an affair and trying to hide it, he would say, I'm going out tonight, and I would say where, but, see, I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm having an affair. Subtlety is overrated in a mate. Paul also got me a very pretty ring that I'd seen in a jewelry store a few weeks ago. When I tried it on, he said, I'll get it for you for your birthday. That way, it'll be a surprise.



- posted by Marguerite @ 1:23 PM

 
Today is my birthday. I've spent most of the day at work writing a very heartfelt ode to our new heating and air conditioning system, for the benefit of the foundation that donated the money for it. An actual excerpt:

"Imagine for a moment, if you will, how difficult it might be for a teenager – already tired from a long day at school – to attempt to study in a room that is hot, stuffy, and poorly ventilated..."

It goes on, but I won't. I've been experimenting with maudlin grant writing. That and not using any puctuation. It helps pass the time.

I can't believe I'm 29! Wow. And to think, in only one more year I'll be 28.



- posted by Marguerite @ 2:32 PM

 
We got back from California late Monday night. Whenever I leave the city, I tend to get this strange, unfamiliar feeling. I think it's what they call "sanity." However, the deathcab ride on the way home from JFK cured me of this affliction. We were going about 95 mph down the BQE. I had visions of the car becoming airborne, Dukes of Hazard style. I I love it when taxi drivers turn around to chat with you while driving 95 miles per hour. In recent years, I've gotten over my fear of flying. But the fear of New York airport taxis is much harder to shake.

Northern California = very cool. Both literally and figuratively (it was actually chillier than New York). I met some of Paul's extended family - all very nice folks. And I got to meet several of Paul's friends from college, such as Ann and Dave. They were super nice - I had a lot of fun hanging out. I won't hold it against Ann that her kitchen is significantly larger than my whole apartment, because she introduced me to my new favorite drink - pink lemonade and Sky Melon. Mmmmmm.

Northern California is so darn cinematic. You imagine slow mystery-jazz is always playing in the background. Even when punk rock music is actually playing in the background.

The redwoods are amazing. I "heart" the redwoods. And the picturesque cliffs with the mist and ocean and all that car-commercial scenery. That part of the world is just so different from my flat, wet, swampy, heat-addled homeland. Not really better or worse, just different.

The town of Arcata has some ordinance against corporate-owned businesses. This is SO cool. It's got to be the only college town in America without a Starbucks or Appleby's. Go Arcata.


- posted by Marguerite @ 7:55 AM