Always take the weather with you

I could see my breath in the air when I left for work this morning. Everything was crisp and the dry leaves on the ground smelled so good. In honor of the cool weather, I broke out real shoes. Something tells me flip flop season is over, though by god I will keep wearing them until the snow arrives.

On a different topic, yerba mate tea tastes and smells like hay.

It was a weird morning. There were lots of men being obnoxious in different ways. The garbage truck kept blocking my car and I would have racked it up to garbage day and parking in the wrong direction, but the garbage guy who jumped off the truck sneered at me like I’d done something wrong. On the way to work, a guy in a minivan cut me off and then tried to pick me up by blowing kisses in the side mirror, waving out the window, wiggling his eyebrows and then honking when I finally passed him. Then I got glared at by some guy in the hallway when I bought breakfast in my building, as if my buying yogurt had somehow inconvenienced him in some way. Maybe I didn’t look uptight enough carrying the yogurt back to my desk. Who knows.

I tried the Manduka mat in class last night. It intimidated me—I just haven’t been practicing long enough to do the black mat yet. Somehow it feels like the domain of the hardcore Mysore ashtangis, and my three practices a week are not hardcore.

The vile commercialization of weddings continues apace

First there were Bridezillas. Now there are Groomzillas.

Who spends $30,000 on a bachelor party??? And why is Time glorifying them with editorial coverage??

Elope, people. Just elope.

Cranky

8am meetings are no fun. But 8am meetings are even less fun when the coordinator, who is absolutely necessary for the meeting to take place, forgets about the meeting entirely. Now today’s 8am meeting has been rescheduled for bright and early on Monday morning.

Grrr.

I am so not a morning person.

Done gone to mat heaven

My yoga mat has jumped the shark. Bit the dust. Stick a fork in it, ‘cause it’s done. That thing has had it. Every time I leave class, the mat sheds little bits of purple stickiness all over the place. The spot where my feet hit in down dog looks like it’s about to rip, and there’s a big chunk missing at the bottom. Despite lots of cleaning, the thing is now so sticky and gross that I get stuck every time I try to jump through. And then I fall over and look ridiculous. It’s not a good situation. So now the hunt for a new mat is ON.

Mats and journals—I am the pickiest shopper ever. I wish I were one of those people who can just use a basic 1/8th inch thick mat because that would make shopping so much easier. But no. I have wimpy wrists, so it's got to be ¼ thick. It's got to have a certain texture and not be too sticky or too slick. It can’t be an awful color, or have cheesy designs on it. It can’t have mommy issues or be into drugs or alcohol.

If only there were more places in Boston that sold yoga mats. There are nine million web sites but buying a mat over the Internet feels….weird. Like buying shoes—I’ve got to try them on first.

It's not what it sounds like

During spring break my senior year in college, I ducked into a piercing shop in Philadelphia and got my belly button pierced. Since then, my belly button has sported a variety of smallish silver rings, some cuter than others. But lately I’ve been obsessed with the belly barbell, that curved silver prong with a small ball on each end, one of which hangs down in the middle of the belly button. It’s tres Britney but oh so flirty and fun. I had to have one. Besides, I reasoned, my belly rings have been catching on my yoga clothes and creating unsightly bumps. A barbell is ever so much more aesthetically pleasing.

After combing through racks of tacky, rhinestone-studded crap at every jewelry place in the mall, I finally found it: a simple silver belly barbell. No bells or charms, no sparklies or tiny Red Sox insignia--just plain. I bought it home, cleaned it with alcohol, removed my belly ring and tried to slide the barbell into, well, my hole.

And tried. And tried. And tried. Until finally I grasped the truth of the situation: my hole was too small.

I felt like a belly button virgin. My hole was too small and no amount of poking or prodding with the barbell would make the new stud go through. The shaft of my belly button ring is about 5 times thinner than the shaft of the barbell and, unlike what’s possible in a real virginal situation, stretching the hole was not only impractical but pretty much impossible without getting the spot re-pierced.

In the words of Animal from the Muppet Show, “FRUSTRATED!”

With belly red and throbbing, I declared defeat and put the belly ring back in. The barbell’s in a cup in the kitchen, and every time I go in the room I glare at it, daring it to shrink so it'll fit.

That time of year

Somehow I missed that the fall equinox was last week. Where was my head?

Autumn is pretty. It smells nice, what with the leaves falling down and getting crunched underfoot, and people starting to get their woodstoves going. Fall also means *yummy food* I might have missed the equinox but I won’t miss what the turn of the seasons means in Moxie World: harvest pumpkin soup at Au Bon Pain.

Also, candy corn pumpkins. For some reason, regular candy corn is yucky to me, but the pumpkins are just so delicious. I allow myself two bags a year, and they must be eaten before Halloween.

But really, it’s all about the pumpkin soup. It’s an addiction. As in a daily indulgence. Just. Can't. Get. Enough.

The other day I walked down to Porter from my apartment and made a startling discovery. Rosie's Bakery is opening a satellite store on Mass Ave between Porter and Harvard. Resistance is futile. Cupcakes, come to me.

The hand of God smites down the sinners

Pithy

Seen on a T-shirt today worn by a girl having brunch at the S&S Deli:

"Attractive yet Functional"

Off the hook

Lately I've been getting random phone calls from someone in the 402 area code. They call and call but never leave a message and I've been loathe to answer the phone since I don't know who's calling. At first I thought 402 was Rhode Island but then I found out it's Omaha, Nebraska. I know people in Providence but not Omaha. Now that I think about it, I don't even think I've met someone from Nebraska before. Next time they call I'll pick it up and see who they're looking for.

Earth to Tara

Yes.

Change of venue

Last night Lunchboy and I took advantage of the fact that he's on a local project. Oh, the illicitness of it all. After work I hopped in the car and buzzed out to Western Mass, where he's ensconced at a Sheraton that's full of people attending an enormous fair nearby.

This week's moment of total and unnecessary humiliation: buying condoms at a truck stop convenience store. Oh, yeah.

I'm not a hooker, really I'm not.

Visting him was like being a guest in a world I couldn't really envision until now. It's one thing to hear about what it's like to be a consultant and it's another thing entirely to see it in person. On the outside it seems glamorous, but when I walked into his room I could see how lonely that life could be. He knows every hotel chain inside and out--which ones have decent room service, who has the good gyms, who has cookies in the lobby after 8pm, who will triple his hotel points.

We lay on the enormous king-sized bed and shopped online for all the things he could buy using his AmEx reward points, imagined all the places we could go on his frequent flyer miles.

"You just love me for the side benefits, don't you?"
"You know it :)"

When we first started dating, I looked at his travel time as enforced alone time that let me lead my own life during the week. Now, I still make the most of the time to myself while he's away, but it made me feel good to be introduced to the life he leads on the road. Like I'm a part of more than his weekends. And it feels good that things are happening gradually, in their own time.

Pret a porter

Today a friend asked me what she should wear to a sort-of interview at a hip internet news site, where the dress is casual but hip casual in that funky San Francisco bowling shoe kind of way.

"Umm. Cute pants with a twin set, funky jewelry and a denim jacket," I said, knowing that I was pulling the whole thing out of my preppy New England ass.

She smiled.

I have no idea how to dress. The editors at In Style would sneer at me if they could. Those women know how to dress for everything and I mean EVERYTHING. Every time I pick up that magazine, I want to tear out the pages that give ideas for outfits to wear to every conceivable event. A bris? No problem. A third wedding? A lawn party at your gay boss' house? There you go. It's an ability that I will never have.

My friend E is a flagrant clotheshorse, with an income to match her spending habits. Once, when I met her years ago, I complimented her on a dress she was wearing from some swanky store. "Thanks," she said. "But you couldn't afford it." She was right--I couldn't. But at least I had taste, right?

If I had my way, I'd wear tank tops and yoga pants to work every day. I appreciate style when I see other people who have it, but I'm way too conservative for my own good. One of the good things that living in LA did for me was it forced me to acknowledge the existence of colors other than black, navy blue, green and khaki. Pink?!?! What a concept. Now I own more pink than I know what to do with. But I still can't put together an outfit in Jasmine/Sola to save my life.

A few happy faces

One of the Noah's Wish volunteers took some pictures at the Slidell, LA animal shelter, showing what it's like there for both humans and their furry friends. It's nice to see some smiles after reading so many sad stories of animals in need of help.

Bush's War on Porn

The joke possibilities are ENDLESS.

The death of romance

"Partly, a model of shopping has overtaken our experience of romance. Love, historically, has been associated with a sensation of destiny. It's very difficult for us to attain a sensation of destiny where love is concerned anymore, because we think we can always look for something better, which is essentially a shopper's mentality. There's no destiny when it comes to buying pants or shirts or a dress. There'll be the nicest thing you can afford this season. But then a new season will [bring] more attractive styles and you'll actually be able to afford something better. I think that tremendous passion that we feel other generations had and that we missed was attached to a sense of destiny, and of permanent love that would survive changes in station and opportunity and fortune." --Benjamin Kunkel

Why you should avoid the 5 after a Raiders game

Is it a football game or a bunch of Skeletor fans at a He-Man convention?

Weiner dogs!

Just because.

And now, a few words from my womb

This article caught my eye today. At the family reunion on Sunday, there was a lot of talk about balancing family and career. The parents in attendance had very strong opinions on the subject, and the non-parents tended to get judgmental, as if they knew better. Frankly, I think it’s a deeply personal choice, just like whether to have kids in the first place. It’s kind of amusing, however, to watch my mother’s generation freak out when women my age and younger announce that they don’t even want to try and balance the family/career thing:

“For many feminists, it may come as a shock to hear how unbothered many young women at the nation's top schools are by the strictures of traditional roles.”

As the daughter of a career woman who continued to work full time after having me and my brother, I can say that I’ll approach things differently if and when I have a family (yes, I’m 30 but my clock is not ringing off the hook).

“For most of the young women who responded to e-mail questions, a major factor shaping their attitudes seemed to be their experience with their own mothers, about three out of five of whom did not work at all, took several years off or worked only part time….Similarly, students who are committed to full-time careers, without breaks, also cited their mothers as influences.”

It's totally true. Kindercare, you forever scarred me and I will commit hari kari before carting my progeny off to your torture cave. I hated the fact that my mom was never there when I got home from school. She couldn’t chaperone field trips and she didn’t have the energy to help plan costumes, cupcakes, or big projects. Part of it was that we couldn’t afford for her not to work, but she also wanted to stick with her career. Once I was old enough, I appreciated her example, her dedication. I saw the value in her choice. But I’ll still do it differently. I’ve watched my friends slowly go insane staying home with their kids full time, and watched other friends resent their job because it kept them from being present for their child’s formative months. If at all financially possible, I plan on working part time when I’m a mother. I’ll never forget how uncomfortable my mom was on the one field trip she came on (she had to take a vacation day to do it), and what it was like to go home with my friends after school and have their moms there to open the door.

Captain excitement

My weekend:

--cooking a pot of Galician chickpea and sausage soup
--anxiety
--meeting cousins from Arizona who I didn't know existed until this weekend. I wish I'd known about them when I lived on the west coast
--suffering through three hours of bad football playing by the Patriots
--more anxiety
--eating crow
--20 strong sets of stairs
--Family Guy

And the topper: listening to a break on FNX saying, "We play new music so the other guy doesn't have to," and then hearing a Live song that's 7 years old.

Statements of truth

"Santa Monica is the chaturanga capital of the world."