Or, just, like, lazy. I just told Katie (roommate from college! ring out ahoya!) about my blog, though, and suddenly realized it was time to update. I think I've been waiting for something to happen that was so dramatic, so noteworthy as to stand out in the context of my entire life, that I would have to update. But, if a trip to the Middle East, the beginning and end of a short-but-sweet relationship, a crosstown move and deciding to go back to grad school don't cut it, I fear I will remain unimpressed with my life forever.
Unless I get Spirograph. This edition of thingslaurendid is actually sillythingslaurenwantsreallybad. Do you remember playing with spirographs when you were little? Maybe this will jog your memory: Look how much fun they're having!.
Ebay has them, but I don't own one yet because a) apparently they are in very high demand, at least among ebay-ers, and b) I just recently jumped on the ten-to-fifteen-year-old ebay bandwagon and have trouble keeping up with it. But, mark my workds: a 1969 vintage Hasbro Spirograph (the 1967 ones have, like, half the wheels and no Y piece. gross) will be mine. Even if I have to Buy Now (you can do that on ebay, you know) or increase my maximum bid to god knows how high. I will own one.
And then I'll post pictures of the cool drawings I make. If somebody can show me how to put pictures on my blog.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
blue-outgate 2009
What follows is a sad but ultimately inspiring tale of doubt, persecution, and eventual triumph. There are moments in every life when pure, soul-driven truth must take precedence over all: over the deafening roar of the unbelieving many, over the agony of friendships teetering on the edge of survival, over the small yet persistent voice inside oneself that begs to know:
Did I for real just totally make up blue-out?
Our story begins late last week. I was filling out a form for Dalton, which is an almost daily demand of my current job. As fate would have it, this form was printed on paper of the prettiest cornflower blue. How delightful!, I thought, How different! I was perhaps too distracted by the novelty of the stationary, and the next thing I knew I had committed a foul error, marring the very face of the parchment I had so innocently admired!
This simply would not do. I had to rectify this mistake. I dialed a co-worker.
"Hey, Paula." I greeted one of our front-desk workers. "Do we have any blue-out?"
Thus began what would come to be the most trying and harrowing experience of my young life.
Paula said in a weird voice that she didn't think we had any. I wandered up front, thinking maybe I would rummage around in the supply cabinet to see if we had any blue-out.
"What's up, Dom?" I gave another co-worker a friendly greeting. "Say, do we have any blue-out?"
"Do we have any what?"
"Blue-out. You know, like if you make a mistake on a sheet of blue paper."
"No such thing."
I always just assumed that blue-out was, you know, a thing. I could have sworn I'd come across it before, and assumed one of my remaining colleagues would back me up on that.
"Yeah, I don't think so," said Jamie. "No way, that does not exist," insisted Kim. The lunch delivery guy, a tenured professor, a random grad student. NONE had ever heard of blue-out.
These moments are the stuff self-identity is made of. I am not right very often, but I knew I was right about this. I instructed Lisa, my student worker to google blue-out and send me the results of her research.
There is such a thing as blue-out.
And green-out, and pink-out. And yellow-out.
I'm not angry at my doubtful friends. I'm not bitter or spiteful. I take solace in knowing the notions of my heart rang true.
And that if I need to correct an inked error on ANY kind of paper, modern technology allows me to do so.
Did I for real just totally make up blue-out?
Our story begins late last week. I was filling out a form for Dalton, which is an almost daily demand of my current job. As fate would have it, this form was printed on paper of the prettiest cornflower blue. How delightful!, I thought, How different! I was perhaps too distracted by the novelty of the stationary, and the next thing I knew I had committed a foul error, marring the very face of the parchment I had so innocently admired!
This simply would not do. I had to rectify this mistake. I dialed a co-worker.
"Hey, Paula." I greeted one of our front-desk workers. "Do we have any blue-out?"
Thus began what would come to be the most trying and harrowing experience of my young life.
Paula said in a weird voice that she didn't think we had any. I wandered up front, thinking maybe I would rummage around in the supply cabinet to see if we had any blue-out.
"What's up, Dom?" I gave another co-worker a friendly greeting. "Say, do we have any blue-out?"
"Do we have any what?"
"Blue-out. You know, like if you make a mistake on a sheet of blue paper."
"No such thing."
I always just assumed that blue-out was, you know, a thing. I could have sworn I'd come across it before, and assumed one of my remaining colleagues would back me up on that.
"Yeah, I don't think so," said Jamie. "No way, that does not exist," insisted Kim. The lunch delivery guy, a tenured professor, a random grad student. NONE had ever heard of blue-out.
These moments are the stuff self-identity is made of. I am not right very often, but I knew I was right about this. I instructed Lisa, my student worker to google blue-out and send me the results of her research.
There is such a thing as blue-out.
And green-out, and pink-out. And yellow-out.
I'm not angry at my doubtful friends. I'm not bitter or spiteful. I take solace in knowing the notions of my heart rang true.
And that if I need to correct an inked error on ANY kind of paper, modern technology allows me to do so.
Monday, March 2, 2009
weight watchers is taking over my life
As most of you know, I signed up for Weight Watchers about a week and a half ago. I'm kind of embarrassed. I feel like The Watch (that's what Kelly and I have oh-so-cleverly been referring to it as) falls into the same stage-of-your-life category as hosting Mary Kay parties and going to bed at 9:30. However, several of my peers that I deeply respect have vouched for it, and they are certainly fine-looking, so I decided to give it a try.
Weight Watchers has taken over my life. The constant sensation of hunger is like a distant humming embedded in the landscape of my day's every thought. Food is not food; it is points. Running is not exercise; it is one more slice of bread (or, more realistically, one more glass of wine) I can consume before entering into the most dreaded of territories: over-budgeted points!!!!! The horror. Every food I lay eyes on I imagine divided into measuring cups
But hey--I'm getting skinnier. And eating healthier. And at least now I talk about my blog less because all I talk about is The Watch. Bear with me, friends; soon I'll be even more fun to look at! And this I mean sweetly, not sarcastically: Thanks for your support.
Weight Watchers has taken over my life. The constant sensation of hunger is like a distant humming embedded in the landscape of my day's every thought. Food is not food; it is points. Running is not exercise; it is one more slice of bread (or, more realistically, one more glass of wine) I can consume before entering into the most dreaded of territories: over-budgeted points!!!!! The horror. Every food I lay eyes on I imagine divided into measuring cups
But hey--I'm getting skinnier. And eating healthier. And at least now I talk about my blog less because all I talk about is The Watch. Bear with me, friends; soon I'll be even more fun to look at! And this I mean sweetly, not sarcastically: Thanks for your support.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
in the heights
Holy cow!
In the Heights was so good, you guys.
The fair Alana Barraj mustered the gumption to get us tickets for last night, as this is Lin-Manuel Miranda's last week performing in the show. He autographed my Footlights after the show; don't hate.
Even though we were in literally the back row of the theatER (there will be no British spellings of words on MY blog), the show swallowed me up delightfully and completely. It was like...West Side Story meets Sesame Street meets TWO THOUSAND NINE. The show had its surmountable weaknesses, and there were a few songs I could have done without, but generally I spent the two-or-so hours completely totally enraptured, eyes asparkle, hands clasped in delight.
If you like musicals, or hot Latinas, go see it.
In the Heights was so good, you guys.
The fair Alana Barraj mustered the gumption to get us tickets for last night, as this is Lin-Manuel Miranda's last week performing in the show. He autographed my Footlights after the show; don't hate.
Even though we were in literally the back row of the theatER (there will be no British spellings of words on MY blog), the show swallowed me up delightfully and completely. It was like...West Side Story meets Sesame Street meets TWO THOUSAND NINE. The show had its surmountable weaknesses, and there were a few songs I could have done without, but generally I spent the two-or-so hours completely totally enraptured, eyes asparkle, hands clasped in delight.
If you like musicals, or hot Latinas, go see it.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Inauguration
After a few different attempts at attending the inauguration, all of which fell through, I had resigned myself to a distant—and convenient—viewing of the ceremony from New York. Matt was going with a group of kids and parents form the school he teaches at, P.S. 190, and was trying at the last minute to get me on one of the buses. Late Monday night, I had given up all hope and was lounging around in my pajamas when I got a call from Matt. “Be here in ten minutes, girl” he said. We were going to the inauguration!
We left PS 190 around midnight. Luckily, I was on the teacher’s bus and was therefore spared the shouting, complaining, and general juvenility I’d expected from my busmates. Being, like many folks, a person who finds it very difficult to sleep while upright, I considered the two or three hours I got on the way down a success. We arrived in DC around 6:30am, parked in the lot behind RFK stadium, and began our trek towards the capitol. Everyone was in good spirits as we made our way west on
East Capitol street; we were gaining ground on history.
I knew there would be a lot of people at the inauguration. Like, duh. I thought I knew what a lot of people looked like. I’ve been to baseball games and sold-out concerts. I live in New York City, for goodness sake. But friends, the truth is this: I do not know how to explain to you how many people were there. Wide open city streets were clogged with people and more people. Behind me were people. In front of me were people. Stepping on my feet and breathing in my face were people. “Inching along” seems to imply too rapid a pace to describe how fast we were moving. You get the idea.
Several hours after leaving the bus, we were in relatively direct sight of a jumbotron (Matt calls them megatrons; isn’t that cute?) near the Washington monument. I would like to mention again that there were many, many people in attendance. There was nothing to do but stand unnaturally erect, avoid bending any limbs, and wait for the big event.
Once the ceremony started, the inauguration was pretty fun. We could see and hear the going-on pretty well from where we stood, which is really all you can ask for when you’re a mile away from the actual event. The crowd was disproportionately cheerful considering the extreme hassle each one of us was experiencing. My fellow attendees and I kept ourselves entertained by identifying celebrities we recognized (Dustin Hoffman was there, and John Cusack, and, of course, Beyonce) and groaning in envy anytime the audience was instructed to “please be seated.”
When it came time for the main event, I was cold and sleepy and tired, but even gladder to be there than I had expected to be. My heart soared as Diane Feinstein introduced the President-elect and spoke to the magnitude of the event. Then, Joe Biden was our new Vice President, and then Barack Obama was our new president. President Barack Obama. George W. Bush was not the president anymore. At the risk of overstating the effect this transition will have on my privileged white-girl life; I felt a very palpable sense of relief after the ceremony. We were all simply in better hands now, and I and everyone around me could feel that viscerally. I thought the new President’s inaugural address was fantastic. It had been eight years since I’d felt good about anything that came out of my President’s mouth. I reveled in a sense of communal triumph and happiness with the two million other people who had weathered the traffic, cold and crowds to celebrate this event that was nothing less than a victory for all of us.
So then it was over, and we began the long journey back to the bus that would take us back to New York. The ride home was long and uncomfortable. I was somehow too tired to sleep, the temperature was approximately six hundred degrees, and somebody was playing The Fast and the Furious 3 on the bus’ DVD player. It took seven hours to get home and everyone had to work the next day. I was a little crabby.
Since my return, several people have asked me if going to the inauguration was worth it. And, you know, given that I experienced about 24 hours of profound discomfort for the sake of an hour or so of uncomfortable excitement, part of me is inclined to say that it wasn’t worth it. But I don’t think you can really evaluate an experience like that as a sum of its parts. I will forever be able to say that I was there, and for me, being able to say that is valuable currency that decidedly outweighs one inconvenient day in my life of many days.
We left PS 190 around midnight. Luckily, I was on the teacher’s bus and was therefore spared the shouting, complaining, and general juvenility I’d expected from my busmates. Being, like many folks, a person who finds it very difficult to sleep while upright, I considered the two or three hours I got on the way down a success. We arrived in DC around 6:30am, parked in the lot behind RFK stadium, and began our trek towards the capitol. Everyone was in good spirits as we made our way west on
East Capitol street; we were gaining ground on history.
I knew there would be a lot of people at the inauguration. Like, duh. I thought I knew what a lot of people looked like. I’ve been to baseball games and sold-out concerts. I live in New York City, for goodness sake. But friends, the truth is this: I do not know how to explain to you how many people were there. Wide open city streets were clogged with people and more people. Behind me were people. In front of me were people. Stepping on my feet and breathing in my face were people. “Inching along” seems to imply too rapid a pace to describe how fast we were moving. You get the idea.
Several hours after leaving the bus, we were in relatively direct sight of a jumbotron (Matt calls them megatrons; isn’t that cute?) near the Washington monument. I would like to mention again that there were many, many people in attendance. There was nothing to do but stand unnaturally erect, avoid bending any limbs, and wait for the big event.
Once the ceremony started, the inauguration was pretty fun. We could see and hear the going-on pretty well from where we stood, which is really all you can ask for when you’re a mile away from the actual event. The crowd was disproportionately cheerful considering the extreme hassle each one of us was experiencing. My fellow attendees and I kept ourselves entertained by identifying celebrities we recognized (Dustin Hoffman was there, and John Cusack, and, of course, Beyonce) and groaning in envy anytime the audience was instructed to “please be seated.”
When it came time for the main event, I was cold and sleepy and tired, but even gladder to be there than I had expected to be. My heart soared as Diane Feinstein introduced the President-elect and spoke to the magnitude of the event. Then, Joe Biden was our new Vice President, and then Barack Obama was our new president. President Barack Obama. George W. Bush was not the president anymore. At the risk of overstating the effect this transition will have on my privileged white-girl life; I felt a very palpable sense of relief after the ceremony. We were all simply in better hands now, and I and everyone around me could feel that viscerally. I thought the new President’s inaugural address was fantastic. It had been eight years since I’d felt good about anything that came out of my President’s mouth. I reveled in a sense of communal triumph and happiness with the two million other people who had weathered the traffic, cold and crowds to celebrate this event that was nothing less than a victory for all of us.
So then it was over, and we began the long journey back to the bus that would take us back to New York. The ride home was long and uncomfortable. I was somehow too tired to sleep, the temperature was approximately six hundred degrees, and somebody was playing The Fast and the Furious 3 on the bus’ DVD player. It took seven hours to get home and everyone had to work the next day. I was a little crabby.
Since my return, several people have asked me if going to the inauguration was worth it. And, you know, given that I experienced about 24 hours of profound discomfort for the sake of an hour or so of uncomfortable excitement, part of me is inclined to say that it wasn’t worth it. But I don’t think you can really evaluate an experience like that as a sum of its parts. I will forever be able to say that I was there, and for me, being able to say that is valuable currency that decidedly outweighs one inconvenient day in my life of many days.
As I’ve been saying to friends and family: I’m so glad I went, and I’m so glad I’m back.
Monday, January 12, 2009
slumdog millionaire
So, I am already breaking my no-blogging-about-mundane-things rule, but I'm afraid I'm going to blog about the movie I saw last night. Slumdog Millionaire was fantastic and brilliant. It wrenched my heart and then unwrenched it and it was poignant and joyful and funny. And the soundtrack kicks some ass.
You should go see it.
You should go see it.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
oh my blog!
2009 is the year of the blog, according to me. This is a blog about things I did. Not things like going for a walk or sleeping. Things like sex cult meetings.
I'll keep this intro short so you don't get blogged down. Enjoy my blog!
I'll keep this intro short so you don't get blogged down. Enjoy my blog!
one taste of onetaste
After a long separation over the holidays, Molly and I had a lot of catching up to do; how much Wii we played, how much food we ate, how desperately we missed each other.
“I have so much to tell you!” I exclaimed. “I got this can opener shaped like a tucan!”
“Cool!” She exclaimed. “I had lunch with my cousin, and she was telling me about this kooky sex cult she’s in!”
I had to hear more about this so-called sex cult, this OneTaste. Long story short, Molly and I decided, I think partly on a “new year, new experiences!” kind of whim, to accept her cousin’s invitation to attend one of OneTaste’s “ingroup” meetings, which the official website describes as “weekly introductory evening[s] of games and connection.” And no sex stuff, I was assured. I decided to give it a try; after all, I needed something to write about in my new blog.
Molly and I arrived at the Little-Italy-based OneTaste headquarters early and met up with her cousin. We ordered Chinese and sat in the OneTaste common area while said cousin told us a little more about the group.
Essentially, OneTaste is kind of like any other new-agey, community-based organization. Out-there, maybe; harmless, certainly; THE answer? not for me. According to the web site, "OneTaste is an experiential inquiry in to the nature of unconditional freedom." More specifically, members are on a kind of unified search for truth in emotional relationships as well as physical ones, including their relationship with their own identities and bodies. Orgasmic Meditation, or "oming," sessions are a big part of the full OneTaste experience. They revolve around the female orgasm, reached tantric-style through a parter's stroking of the upper-left quadrant of the clitoris. Yeah, I don't know. There are also weekend "body courses" and "intimate intensives." But in the interest of space and accurate presentation, I'll stick to the side of OneTaste I've experienced.
When it was time for the meeting to start, we gathered in a room that, quite frankly, seemed more suited for a Mary Kay party than a cult meeting. I don't know what I expected—mysterious sex apparatuses? A Kool-Aid dispenser?--but the room was modestly furnished with a semicircle of folding chairs, some floor pillows, and a couple of lamps. The aesthetic: Crate-and-Barrel-sparse. Also, they were playing Shania Twain.
As the participants gathered, it hit me that I had little idea what exactly I had gotten myself into. I looked around at the twenty-five or so faces surrounding me. The majority of them were young, probably in their mid-twenties, but there were some middle-aged and older adults there too. There was a french guy, and an older Jewish woman who very Jewishly complained about the temperature of the room throughout the session. We were a motley crew.
The meeting was lead by an attractive redheaded woman, who welcomed new and returning members and gave a brief description of how the evening would unfold. Pretty much the entire session revolves around the playing of three, well, games.
During “one mind,” the facilitator began a sentence that each group member had to finish in succession around the circle. “Hot seat” lived up to its name; one person at a time answered a string of related questions asked by their fellow onetasters, who had to say “thank you” after their question was answered. “Blow your cover” was structured similarly; each attendee had his turn in the spotlight, during which their true self was supposedly revealed by other people around the room sharing their sometimes curious perceptions of that person ("you put on a smile so no one sees you cry.") And, of course, after each observation is made, the blowee says, “thank you.”
Are you rolling your eyes? I probably would be too. At ingroup, though, a funny thing happened to my jaded, judgmental, just-here-for-the-spectacle attitude. These were strangers who cared about what each other had to say, who were working towards a common goal that they hope will make them happy. And I think there’s something in that to be revered, or at least respected, albeit from the comfort of my own familiar way of existing. Needless to say, I will not be joining the Onetaste community any time in the foreseeable future.
So what is it about Onetaste that is a novelty to me and the answer for others? For me, the anonymity between my fellow participants and me was a dealbreaker. I didn’t know them, and somehow felt they hadn’t earned the right to know how I like to be touched (and, likewise, I hadn’t earned the right to burden them with that information). Of course, many of those that are members get to know each other quite well (am I right?!), but something about the sharing of intimate details just for the sake of sharing them, and NOT as a function of shared experiences or the natural unfolding of a friendship, didn’t sit well with me. I think it’s possible that some join because they are lonely, or feel they need such structured, predictable fulfillment of their emotional needs. Others are probably more open to finding truth in the fringes of what the general public considers to be reasonable.
And you know there’s gotta be chicks that are only in it for the strokes.
Thank you.
“I have so much to tell you!” I exclaimed. “I got this can opener shaped like a tucan!”
“Cool!” She exclaimed. “I had lunch with my cousin, and she was telling me about this kooky sex cult she’s in!”
I had to hear more about this so-called sex cult, this OneTaste. Long story short, Molly and I decided, I think partly on a “new year, new experiences!” kind of whim, to accept her cousin’s invitation to attend one of OneTaste’s “ingroup” meetings, which the official website describes as “weekly introductory evening[s] of games and connection.” And no sex stuff, I was assured. I decided to give it a try; after all, I needed something to write about in my new blog.
Molly and I arrived at the Little-Italy-based OneTaste headquarters early and met up with her cousin. We ordered Chinese and sat in the OneTaste common area while said cousin told us a little more about the group.
Essentially, OneTaste is kind of like any other new-agey, community-based organization. Out-there, maybe; harmless, certainly; THE answer? not for me. According to the web site, "OneTaste is an experiential inquiry in to the nature of unconditional freedom." More specifically, members are on a kind of unified search for truth in emotional relationships as well as physical ones, including their relationship with their own identities and bodies. Orgasmic Meditation, or "oming," sessions are a big part of the full OneTaste experience. They revolve around the female orgasm, reached tantric-style through a parter's stroking of the upper-left quadrant of the clitoris. Yeah, I don't know. There are also weekend "body courses" and "intimate intensives." But in the interest of space and accurate presentation, I'll stick to the side of OneTaste I've experienced.
When it was time for the meeting to start, we gathered in a room that, quite frankly, seemed more suited for a Mary Kay party than a cult meeting. I don't know what I expected—mysterious sex apparatuses? A Kool-Aid dispenser?--but the room was modestly furnished with a semicircle of folding chairs, some floor pillows, and a couple of lamps. The aesthetic: Crate-and-Barrel-sparse. Also, they were playing Shania Twain.
As the participants gathered, it hit me that I had little idea what exactly I had gotten myself into. I looked around at the twenty-five or so faces surrounding me. The majority of them were young, probably in their mid-twenties, but there were some middle-aged and older adults there too. There was a french guy, and an older Jewish woman who very Jewishly complained about the temperature of the room throughout the session. We were a motley crew.
The meeting was lead by an attractive redheaded woman, who welcomed new and returning members and gave a brief description of how the evening would unfold. Pretty much the entire session revolves around the playing of three, well, games.
During “one mind,” the facilitator began a sentence that each group member had to finish in succession around the circle. “Hot seat” lived up to its name; one person at a time answered a string of related questions asked by their fellow onetasters, who had to say “thank you” after their question was answered. “Blow your cover” was structured similarly; each attendee had his turn in the spotlight, during which their true self was supposedly revealed by other people around the room sharing their sometimes curious perceptions of that person ("you put on a smile so no one sees you cry.") And, of course, after each observation is made, the blowee says, “thank you.”
Are you rolling your eyes? I probably would be too. At ingroup, though, a funny thing happened to my jaded, judgmental, just-here-for-the-spectacle attitude. These were strangers who cared about what each other had to say, who were working towards a common goal that they hope will make them happy. And I think there’s something in that to be revered, or at least respected, albeit from the comfort of my own familiar way of existing. Needless to say, I will not be joining the Onetaste community any time in the foreseeable future.
So what is it about Onetaste that is a novelty to me and the answer for others? For me, the anonymity between my fellow participants and me was a dealbreaker. I didn’t know them, and somehow felt they hadn’t earned the right to know how I like to be touched (and, likewise, I hadn’t earned the right to burden them with that information). Of course, many of those that are members get to know each other quite well (am I right?!), but something about the sharing of intimate details just for the sake of sharing them, and NOT as a function of shared experiences or the natural unfolding of a friendship, didn’t sit well with me. I think it’s possible that some join because they are lonely, or feel they need such structured, predictable fulfillment of their emotional needs. Others are probably more open to finding truth in the fringes of what the general public considers to be reasonable.
And you know there’s gotta be chicks that are only in it for the strokes.
Thank you.
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