I Am Ashamed That Women Are So Simple

"My mind hath been as big as one of yours, my heart as great, my reason haply more to bandy word for word and frown for frown. But now I see my lances are but straws, my strength as weak, my weakness past compare, that seeming to be most which I indeed least am." -- William Shakespeare

Last week, I hacked my TV remotes to control devices other than their intended targets. I combined traditional drawing and digital ink and paint to create an advertisement that's currently hanging all over two boroughs. I finished writing a scientific research paper. I made and decorated a birthday cake using a recipe I designed myself. I built a theatrical prop out of plaster, polyurethane, and chicken wire that's able to support up to 300 lbs. I knocked back a few pitchers of beer with a few surgeons. I knitted a sock. I re-tiled my kitchen floor. And I did all of this by myself. In fact, this sort of laundry list is a typical week in my world.

As those closet to me know, I'm a whole lot of tough-as-nails wrapped in a deceptively sweet, feminine, cookie-baking package. I work hard and I have a lot of hobbies. I keep busy. I get shit done. I'm independent. I'm worldly. Not much shocks me. I'm a problem-solver. I don't need anyone or need to feel needed by anyone in order to be happy. The female relatives who spent my childhood encouraging me to find a strong husband to take care of me have admitted defeat because I'm stronger than every man they know. My friends call me a badass and I wear the word like a badge of honor. This is who I am.

How, then, do I reconcile who I am with something else I did last week -- namely, how I reacted to the appearance of a mouse in my kitchen? To put it bluntly, the mouse kicked my ass. Yes, I multitasked the crap out of him (i.e. barricaded him in my kitchen, bought and laid traps, scheduled for an exterminator) and caught him within fifteen minutes of first spotting him. But once that walnut-sized ball of fur was covered in peanut butter and stuck to a patch of glue on my kitchen floor, I panicked. And we're talking real panic here. The little bastard was squealing and galloping the glue trap around my kitchen for the better part of an hour while I was standing on my coffee table with my hands over my ears sobbing and hyperventilating.

For the first time in my adult life, I was physically and emotionally incapable of solving a simple problem. And as I stood on the coffee table like an idiot struggling to regain control of my breathing, all I could think about was how much I wished I had a husband or live-in boyfriend who could take the mouse away for me.

Obviously, as a woman normally secure in her ability to handle anything and smash gender stereotypes to pieces along the way, the fact that I longed for a man in my hour of need worried me far more than the mouse did.

The next day, I tracked down One Doc In Particular and told him the story. He laughed his ass off at my plight -- especially the kitchen barricade -- but grew serious when I described my desperate coffee table regrets and how defeated they made me feel.

He leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and eyed me thoughtfully. "It's not a bad thing to need a man, you know."

"For some people, maybe. But a lot of my self-worth comes from my self-sufficiency. I only surround myself with people that I want in my life, not people that I need in order to get by."

"You're certainly not co-dependent, that's for sure."

"Right now, I can pretend like this never happened and/or chalk it up to panic-induced hallucination. But what if it happens again?"

He shrugged. "If it happens again, you'll have been through it already. And you're a smart lady. You're good at getting your learn on. You'll be able to deal."

Perhaps he's right. Yeah, I had a moment of weakness, but it's not a life crisis unless I make it one. Badasses are adaptable, after all, and I can still wear that label with pride if I move on and learn from the experience.

It's also good to know that I have people on speed dial to help me down off the coffee table... and I told him so. "No problem," he said. "If it ever happens again, let me know."

I smirked. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Oh, absolutely nothing. Those things freak me out. But I still want to know."

Guess I wasn't putting gender equality back into the stone age after all.

No Better Feeling

"Brother, you can't go to jail for what you're thinking, or for the woo look in your eye. You're only standing on the corner watching all the girls go by." -- Frank Loesser

You know those blissful days when you put on a fabulous outfit and feel really great about yourself? So great, in fact, that you can’t help but strut down the street like it’s a catwalk? And, when the man of your dreams happens to be walking towards you along said street, you’re able to give him a saucy smirk and a cool “hey” instead of an incoherent mumble?

Only one thing can make that sort of day better… and that’s when the man of your dreams responds by giving a dorky salute and nearly colliding with a trash bin.

Bananas

"So many dreams that are finally coming true... now you finish me off when you finish my thoughts the way you do!" -- Patti Russo

One Doc in Particular has been craving bananas lately, so I've been making lots of trips to the fruit stand across the street where they're sold four for a dollar. As a result, I've developed an interesting rapport with the fruit stand's proprietor... one based entirely on crass innuendos about bananas.

Three weeks ago...

Me: What are your bananas like today?
Fruit Man: They're great! I've got big ones, little ones, fat ones. What kind do you want?
Me: I'll take those big ones. On top.
Fruit Man: Ah, the lady knows what she likes!

Last week...

Me: I'd like four bananas, please.
Fruit Man: I'm going to give you these. They're long and skinny, just like you.
Me: Uh... thanks?

This morning...

Me: I'm just going to grab four bananas today, thanks.
Fruit Man: Grabbing bananas is a wonderful way to start your day.
Me: I know. That's why I need so many!

Luckily, what I do for a living means I have zero shyness about urologic humor. Let's just hope my doc friend doesn't decide that he wants melons for breakfast any time soon.

Storm Stories

"We've got a low-pressure system and a northeast breeze, we've got a falling barometer and rising seas. We've got the cumulonimbus and a possible gale, we've got a Force 9 blowing on the Beaufort scale." -- Billy Joel

Friday, 9:00 AM: I make a beautiful blueberry almond cake for a dinner party I'm hosting later in the day.

11:00 AM: Said dinner party gets cancelled because of the "hurricane" people seem to think we're getting. More cake for me, I guess.

12:00 PM: And here come the emergency email alerts from work. People actually think this hurricane thing is going to happen? Weren't we supposed to have one of these a few weeks ago, too? Lightweights.

12:30 PM: Work just contacted me. Other hospitals are evacuating, patients are getting transferred to us, and we might be short-staffed over the weekend. I agree to put my name on the call list for emergency volunteers. Crap... I guess this hurricane thing is actually happening.

12:35 PM: I just realized that putting my name on the call list means I'm confined to my apartment for the entire weekend.

1:00 PM: So what am I supposed to be doing? I've never had a hurricane before! I should stock up on food and water, I guess. I have candles and a flashlight. Laundry goes in. Phone plugs into the charger. My Dutch oven and big pasta pot get filled with water and stored. Better refill the ice tray, too.

3:00 PM: I head over to the supermarket. Bedlam! Crazy! I wasn't aware that this many people lived in my neighborhood in the first place!

3:15 PM: A woman in the freezer section is screaming on the top of her lungs about ice. "There's no ice! How could there not be any ice! What if the power goes out? I need ice!" I helpfully remind her that the power isn't out yet and that she should put some water in her freezer. "Hey, that's a good idea!" she responds.

3:20 PM: The guy on line behind me, who has a cart full of tuna fish, points at the mushrooms and head of broccoli in my basket and asks me why I'm buying so many perishable items. I say mushrooms and broccoli will last just fine in a cool fridge rather than a cold one. He nods thoughtfully. Nothing like a little rain to bring out the crazy in people.

3:30 PM: Looks like I'll be stuck in my apartment for the foreseeable future. Let's see what's on Netflix.

3:35 PM: My top recommendation is the complete series of Firefly. I've never seen that show... completely missed it when it was on the air for ten minutes ten years ago and only learned about its existence through obsessed friends during college. It has serious geek cred, though... and it stars my second-favorite Canadian. What the hell, let's give it a try!

4:00 PM: This is stupid.

4:25 PM: River Tam is annoying.

4:30 PM: Not even Nathan Fillion can save this shit.

4:35 PM: Hold on... is Jayne played by the same guy who played the Area 51 commander from Independence Day? Google Google Wikipedia Google... aha! He is! I had a huge crush on him when I was ten! Wow, this brings back memories.

4:45 PM: This isn't bad.

5:00 PM: River Tam is still annoying.

5:15 PM: Jayne shooting people is way sexier than it should be.

6:15 PM: This is awesome.

7:30 PM: Half the cake is gone. Whoops.

11:00 PM: Why hello, shirtless Jayne. Damnit, he's hot.

11:30 PM: Work sends a second emergency alert; all the lab buildings are closing for the weekend. I bet my friends -- and one doc in particular -- are freaking out right about now.

11:32 PM: The aforementioned doc in particular texts me in a panic because he's getting thrown out of his lab for the weekend and has experiments running.

11:50 PM: Jayne's pumping iron now. I could watch this all day.

Saturday, 2:30 AM: Crap look at the time! And I'm not even tired!

2:32 AM: Zzzzzz.

9:30 AM: Now that I'm washed and dressed and in my right mind, time to continue the hurricane prep. Windows and blinds are closed. Maybe I'll fill up my bathtub too. If only my stopper sealed tighter...

9:40 AM: I am the MacGyver of storm preparation.

12:00 PM: Am I supposed to like River Tam yet? Twelve episodes in and I still don't.

1:30 PM: Mom, you need to stop calling me. And no, I am not sleeping in my kitchen tonight "just in case." You do know there are knives on top of my fridge that might come raining down on my sleeping form if I kick the door the wrong way, right?

3:30 PM: I'm getting impatient with the amount of time it's taking my oil paints to dry in this weather. The skyline of Manhattan at sunset I'm currently working on has rolling hills instead of buildings, and I can't do a damn thing about it until the paint I used for the clouds is dry.

3:35 PM: I used a lot of cadmium yellow in this painting. Cadmium is a carcinogen and I'm sitting here with all my windows closed. I'll crack one just a little bit.

3:38 PM: I closed the window. Too nervous.

4:30 PM: All fourteen episodes plus Serenity have now been viewed. Jayne needs to have my babies and I still wish someone would have tossed River out of the airlock a few episodes ago. And work hasn't called me to come in. What to do...? Aha! The new season of Doctor Who started today!

4:45 PM: Who needs River Tam when you've got River Song? Sigh, what a badass.

7:30 PM: Dinner time! I made tri-color orecchiette with broccoli in a light mornay sauce, baked until golden brown. Or, more simply, glorified mac and cheese.

7:45 PM: Crap... it just got really dark out there really fast.

8:00 PM: A couple of my friends are online. Let's use Google + Hangouts to wait out the storm together!

8:05 PM: Jon can see me, I can't hear anyone, and no one else showed up. Let's abandon that idea.

10:00 PM: It's blowing something fierce out there. My bed is next to the windows. So is my couch. And the asshats across the street didn't do anything about their patio furniture. I'll drag the couch into my foyer tonight so I'm not sleeping next to panes of glass.

10:01 PM: Couch. Heavy. Ow. Forget it.

10:20 PM: Pillow fort on the floor in the foyer!

10:30 PM: This is way more comfortable than it should be.

Sunday, 2:45 AM: My ass is cold. The rest of me is fine, but my ass is cold.

2:46 AM: Oh. The couch cushions slid apart during the night and my booty fell into the vacant spot. I should rearrange my pillow fort so it's wedged against the wall.

8:45 AM: Plink plink plink... what the hell is that noise?

9:00 AM: Clock radio went off. The classic rock station is playing their usual Sunday morning Beatles lineup, and somehow all of the songs are storm-related. Guess the UK weather had a bigger effect on the Fab Four than I ever realized.

9:10 AM: Still with the plink plink plink. It's coming from the kitchen. Not the refrigerator, not the oven, not the toaster. Ah, great. My ceiling is dripping. Where's that old frying pan?

9:15 AM: Mmmm, coffee. Finding the super to ask about the flood status of the apartment above mine can wait.

10:00 AM: The streets are dry and it looks like the sun is coming out. Guess it's safe to empty my bathtub, huh?

12:00 PM: My kitchen wall is bulging. And it's squishy. Greeeat, there's water in there, too.

12:30 PM: I should have frozen half of that bread loaf I bought last week... just tried to toast a slice and found it moldy. In the chute it goes. And the supermarkets are still closed. Time to bake bread, I guess!

2:30 PM: My butter-almond bread dough rose beautifully! Now I need to flour my table, punch down the dough, roll it up with some cinnamon sugar, and let it rise for another two hours.

2:31 PM: I bobbled the flour container. Half a pound of flour is on my floor. And on my jeans. And in my handbag.

2:35 PM: Made the mistake of using a wet paper towel to mop up the flour. Now I'm Cloroxing sticky paste off my parquet.

3:00 PM: I took a walk during my dough's second rise. My neighborhood is wet but completely undamaged. Thank goodness.

4:40 PM: Bread is in the oven and the alien in my wall is gone. Now the paint just looks deflated and pathetic.

5:00 PM: Work never called for me. Woo!

5:30 PM: My apartment smells like fresh-baked bread. And the bread itself looks delicious.

5:40 PM: My apartment smells like the two burnt slices of fresh-baked bread that didn't agree with my toaster oven.

6:00 PM: I'm wandering around in circles with a steaming pot of boiled vinegar water to try and get the burnt smell out of the air. I feel like I'm participating in some sort of crazy religious ritual here.

6:30 PM: The aforementioned doc just texted me. He wants me to bring the remainder of the blueberry almond cake to clinic tomorrow. Hahahaha... he thinks that cake lasted the night... poor naive man.

7:00 PM: Baking another blueberry almond cake would replace the burnt toast smell with delicious cake smell. Hm. Do I have any milk left? Yes, but I'm low on blueberries. This will have to be a blueberry almond peach cake instead.

7:50 PM: Ironing for work tomorrow. Seth MacFarlane cartoons are on TV. Something delicious is in the oven. Typical end to an atypical weekend.

30 Day Photo Challenge: Days 5-12

"And so, if you want to be with me, you have to follow through on every word you say." --Gavin DeGraw

I'm actually doing a decent job keeping up with Oh So Lovely's 30 Day Photo Challenge...

Day 5: Someone I Love. My family and a hundred other people who may or may not be related to me at a feast celebrating our town's patron saint.

Day 6: Childhood Memory. Fresh homemade pizzelles. My apartment smelled like butter and lemon zest -- exactly the way my grandmother's apartment would smell during Christmas week every year during my childhood.

Day 7: Something New. I left Zumba class with a stitch in my side and a sense of accomplishment.

Day 8: Technology. My second set of Bose in-ear headphones, which are splitting and fraying and falling apart just as badly as the first ones did. I'm switching brands once these finally bite the dust.

Day 9: Faceless Self-Portrait. My shadow and I waited for the bus.

Day 10: Something I Made. My retro rocketship poster bathed in sunrise.

Day 11: Something Fun. A few dozen Scotch glasses and a dozen friends makes for an amazing evening.

Day 12: Close-up. My windowbox tomatoes have been on the vine for two months and still aren't ripe yet...

30 Day Photo Challenge: Days 1-4

"Please baby, can't you see I'm trying to explain? I've been here before and I'm locking the door and I'm not going back again." --Melissa Etheridge

I've decided to use my Smartphone to its fullest potential by taking on Oh So Lovely's 30 Day Photo Challenge. I started on August 9th instead of August 1st, but better late than never, right? I'll be posting the results in batches to save space.

Day 1: Self-Portrait. Talk about a clean start to the challenge!

Day 2: What I Wore. The dress has a fluffy a-line skirt and I paired it with purple platform pumps.

Day 3: Clouds. Late afternoon looking west.

Day 4: My Favorite Color. Red velvet from Two Little Red Hens.

The Lichtenstein Project: Part 2

"I think that most people think painters are kind of ridiculous, you know?" -- Roy Lichtenstein

Last week, I covered my apartment wall in clear contact paper and painted a huge Roy Lichtenstein face on it. A few days later, I picked up my brushes to finish off the mural.

 

 

 

I gave her hair, a skyline, and a giant thought bubble... but I couldn't decide what phrase should go in it. Should I leave the text unaltered from the original? Should I write something of my own? Should I steal a quote from another Lichtenstein painting?

 

I elected to leave it blank. You can draw your own conclusions about what she's thinking.

The Lichtenstein Project: Part 1

"In America, the biggest is the best." -- Roy Lichtenstein

I love pop art. I chose the color scheme of my apartment based on a piece of pop art, my friends buy me pop art for my birthday, and I've even tried to create pop art self-portraits.

I have a lot of blank walls at the moment and not enough artwork to fill them all, so I decided to invest in a print -- the hugest print I could find -- of my favorite pop art painting: M-Maybe by Roy Lichtenstein.

The hugest print I could find, however, was a measly 31" x 31". And the cheapest ones I could find were all upwards of $50. Unframed. Minus shipping.

I'm an artist and I never buy anything I can't make myself, so my path forward was clear.

Trouble is, according to my lease, I can't paint my apartment. And even if I wanted to slap some color on my walls and risk the inability to turn them pure-white again, I certainly can't paint an actual mural on them. Flat color is one thing, but you can't make brush strokes vanish with primer and a prayer.

I brainstormed. I tested. I Googled. And then, while writing a shopping list in chalk on my kitchen wall -- which features a retro rocketship design cut out of chalkboard-surface contact paper -- I thought of a solution. Why not cover my walls in clear contact paper and paint over that? Then, if I get tired of my artwork or need to remove it for any reason, I can just peel it off!

Last night, I stopped off at my local junk store and bought 27 feet of clear contact paper, bottles of acrylic paint in black, white, and the three primary colors, and a bunch of sponge brushes. Grand total: $26.74. I papered my entryway wall in plastic, smoothed out all the bumps, and started sketching.

I laid down the large blocks of color first. Then I laid down the Ben-Day dots by hand using an old Burt's Bees chapstick tube as a stamp. (This alone took two hours... no wonder Roy made his Ben-Day dots with a stencil instead of trying to do them freehand!) Then I "inked" the lineart using a narrow sponge and a lot of black paint.

It's only half-finished, but I'm loving the results so far.

Tonight, I need to borrow a ladder from somewhere. Stay tuned...

Science is Delicious

"Better living through chemistry." -- Nietzsche

 

 

The following is the transcript of an actual email exchange between a few members of my team. We understood each other perfectly without resorting to Google, though I can't tell whether that's a credit to our knowledge of chemistry or our knowledge of each other's snack cravings...

 

Coworker 1: Anyone want to go get some iced ?

 

Coworker 2: I was just about to go get  at Gotham, wanna come with?

 

Me: Will you guys please pick me up some ? I can't leave clinic!

 

Intern: Sigh. I haven't taken Orgo yet.

A Night At The Museum

"Color and light. There's only color and light." -- Stephen Sondheim







Went to the Met on Friday night. Did some drawing, wandered around. Finally caught the Alexander McQueen exhibit and it was, in a word, phenomenal. Irritatingly packed with people who know zilch about museum etiquette and how to behave themselves in a gallery, but still phenomenal.

Once Shy, Twice Bitten

"A friend's not a cheap little phony creep or a jerk trying to make a deal. A friend is a person who, most of all, cares about what you feel. And nothing is harder than learning a friend isn't real." -- Jason Robert Brown

Once upon a time, a prince from a faraway land was riding through the forest when he happened across a beautiful young maiden. She was weeping.

"Why are you crying, o fair maiden?" asked the prince. She showed him her hand, which was mangled and covered in blood. "I was feeding a beast and he bit me."

The prince unsheathed his sword. "Where did he run? I'll slay him!" he roared.

The maiden scrambled to her feet and clutched the prince's robes. "No, don't!" she pleaded, tears forming anew. "He's my friend, and he's been hunted and persecuted for so very long."

The prince gazed into her eyes, moved by the maiden's concern for the savage animal. He pried her uninjured hand from his chest and turned it in his own, examining it carefully. "Your skin is covered with scars. Are they all from him?"

"Yes. I keep feeding him and he keeps biting me."

"Why not just stop feeding him, then?"

"He's a beast, and biting is simply what beasts do. He still deserves kindness. I can't expect him to change his nature for me!"

The prince peered off through the trees. "Beasts can be tamed," he said. "He does have the ability to not bite the hand that feeds him, but he just won't show that courtesy to you." The maiden was silent. "Have you told him how much it hurts when he bites you?" asked the prince.

"All the time."

"Does he promise to stop biting you?"

"Always."

"Does he actually stop?"

"For a while. Then he bites me again. It seems like he forgets that I don't like being bitten. Either that or he doesn't realize how badly he keeps hurting me."

The prince ripped a strip of linen from his hem and began to bandage the maiden's hand with it. "In the faraway land where I was born, friends don't bite their friends," he told her. "Friends detest causing each other pain. You call your beast a friend, but remember: beasts aren't capable of compassion. In fact, it sounds to me like he thinks of you more as a meal ticket than a friend."

He bound off the linen in a perfect square knot, kissed it, and returned her hand with a rueful smile. "I'd tell you that your beast should be the one patching you up right now, but he clearly lacks the thumbs necessary for the task."

The maiden blushed. The prince gazed at her for a moment longer, then turned to mount his horse. "You deserve better than this, my dear," he told her as he gathered up his reins. He gave his steed a gentle nudge and it began to canter away.

With the prince's words fresh in her mind, the maiden sat to contemplate their conversation. She rose again, however, when the hoof beats of the prince's horse ceased. "Oh maiden?" the prince called over his shoulder. "A word of advice... forget beasts. Try for a prince next time." He winked and galloped off.

The maiden never bothered with animals again. And she met many wonderful princes who always treated her with the love and respect that a human deserves. And when the beast inevitably returned to her looking for another meal -- because, after all, he only ever sought her company when he was hungry -- she braised him in wine and baked him into a pot roast.

The End.

I've Been Waiting My Whole Life To Hear This.

"Don't you ever bring home a wimpy man! You need someone capable! You need someone stronger than you to take care of you!"

-- My mother for the last 25 years

"Don't you ever bring home a wimpy man! You need someone capable! You need someone stronger than... never mind. I don't think you'll ever find a man who's stronger than you. You're stronger than every man I know."

-- My mother yesterday

The Cumberbatch Effect

“[Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes is] lavishly, wonkily beautiful, 900 feet tall, has a voice like a jaguar hiding in a cello, and would clearly be able to work out in a second what a 15 per cent tip should be..." -- Caitlin Moran, from The Times

"The Cumberbatch Effect" is a phrase my friends and colleagues have heard me use for the better part of a year. I've been promising to blog a definition for most of that time, but life kept getting in the way.

Until today.

The man who inspired the phrase, the incredible British actor Benedict Cumberbatch, is about to get a hell of a lot more famous than he already is. He just snagged a film role portraying one of my all-time favorite literary characters in what's sure to be one of the biggest blockbusters of all time. Thus, I need to put this definition in print so people all over the world have a phrase to describe their emotions when The Hobbit is released and they find themselves oddly attracted to the CGI dragon.

the cum·ber·batch ef·fect

noun: the phenomenon by which an ordinary-looking male is perceived as being significantly more attractive than he actually is due to the deep, sexy timbre of his voice. See also: rickmanssage.

In lieu of an example sentence, I present the following:

I Know This Looks Bad, But...

"It's the same old song, but with a different meaning since you've been gone." -- The Four Tops

It's been raining on and off all day -- and by "raining" I mean "walking outside feels like having buckets of water thrown on you." I was fortunate enough to get stuck outside during one of these deluges, and while I have no problems walking in the rain, my feet were sliding around in my shoes too much to make any semblance of walking possible. Thus, I conceded defeat and ducked into a drugstore to wait it out.

I checked my appearance in one of the cosmetics aisle mirrors; aside from my dripping hair and a black ring of mascara around each eye, I didn't think I looked too terrible. I wandered around, picked up a couple of items, made small talk with a couple about the deliciousness of Pop Chips. When I saw that the skies had cleared, I made my way to the register.

I greeted the cashier. He looked at my runny makeup, then he looked at the two items I was purchasing. He picked up the package of feminine products, scanned it, and placed it into a bag. He picked up the bottle of Drano, scanned it, started to place it in the bag, then hesitated. He held it up and raised an eyebrow. "You're not planning on drinking this, are you?" he asked.

I didn't look that awful. I swear.

Three Genius Moves

"You had the ability to choose what you were going to make me feel, so take responsibility for who you lose when the pain you inflict becomes real. So before I go, you should know that other human beings don't f*ck with each other unless they want to lose each other. And you just lost me." -- from Glory Days

You know those days when your most brilliant ideas tend to fail in a myriad of spectacularly embarrassing ways? Multiply it by one and you've got an unfortunate situation. Multiply it by two and you've got a bad day. Multiply it by three and you've got a pretty awesome story.

Last Thursday, near the end of my workday, I stood on a swivel chair to reach a high shelf. Genius Move #1. Yes, I know that steadying oneself on a platform that can slide AND rotate is an inherently dangerous thing to do, but my colleagues and I navigate our cabinets this way at least once every few hours without a problem.

This time, however, the chair slipped as I hopped down from it. And sent my high heel-clad right foot straight through the sleeve seam of my coworker's coat.

I apologized for my (literal) misstep, assured her that I know how to sew, and promised to come into work the following day (i.e. my day off) to repair it.

Last Friday, i.e. my day off, I decided to go for a run prior to playing tailor at work. I then realized that it would be a better use of my time to kill two birds with one stone, take a jogging route that passes my office, and pop into work to sew my coworker's coat. Genius Move #2.

I dressed in my normal running gear -- sneakers, sweatpants, a cropped sportsbra top, and a ponytail -- skipped the makeup and contact lenses, tucked a needle and thread into my pocket, and set off.

It was a warm, sunny day, so I was red-skinned and drenched by the time I arrived at work. And Lord knows what my hair looked like; my curls don't stay put in an elastic band even on a good day. I couldn't exactly walk through a waiting room full of patients looking the way I did, so I decided to take the elevator up to an office floor and take the back stairs down to where my colleague's coat was stored. Genius Move #3.

The elevator doors opened on my intended floor... and instead of its usual emptiness, the hallway was completely filled with anonymous men in suits. And a spectacular lunch buffet. And a bunch of doctors I barely know. And a PowerPoint presentation.

And, as is always the case when I arrive somewhere in a sportsbra and sneakers looking sweaty and disgusting and intending to remain unseen, the doctor standing closest to me was my clinic's Jake Ryan. Or Zach Siler. Or Finn Hudson. Or [insert the name of your favorite gorgeous popular jock with a heart of gold here]. Perfection in Scrubs was working the room, chatting animatedly with a few of the suits, until he saw me. Then he stopped in mid-sentence. And stared. And not in a good way.

I shot him a look that was part "hey" and part "holy crap." Then I hightailed it the hell out of there and down the back stairs as fast as I possibly could.

At least my coworker's sleeve seam looks fantastic.

How To Run A Business

"I don't need you to think of me as a person! I have women for that!" -- from Coupling

I went for a run earlier today, and on the way back to my apartment, I stopped into my new favorite coffee shop. This place hasn't been open long, but it's a double win in my book -- not only does it make the best espresso on the upper east side, but it employs a baristo who always greets me with "Hello, gorgeous," "Good morning, my love," or something similarly soul-warming.

Resplendent in sweat-drenched Under Armour, I stepped up to the counter to place my order. A barista I've never seen before was manning the register while my usual guy stood near her.

New Barista: Hello. What can I get for you today?
Me: Hi. A double americano with room, please.
New Barista: No problem. That'll be $2.71.
Me: Here you go.
New Barista: Thanks. Your americano is coming up on the right. Have a great day, beautiful.
Usual Baristo: Isn't she beautiful?! I always say that!

This, folks, is how to inspire customer loyalty.

(And please don't judge me for drinking double shots of espresso after working out.)

Memory

"Oh dear, that was a great mistake! My mind wandered from repenting to thinking it wouldn't have been a sin if [the roles were reversed]. And changing them over has made me realize more and more how I have spoilt the memory... how will I face my wretched future?" -- Dodie Smith

I didn't sleep last night and spent most of my day wandering aimlessly around the upper east side. I was lost in thought, or rather, lost in memory.

One memory in particular was at the epicenter of my thoughts. For one amazing evening, I was bold, I was uncharacteristically reckless but in complete command of every nerve ending in my body, and I enjoyed an enormous payoff for my risk. Between then and now, this memory has mentally fused with other memories -- some more melancholy than others, but all of the intense, hopeful, satisfied variety -- and the resulting web has generated a full range of associated emotions. Now, calling on any of those emotions evokes the memories and dwelling on any of the experiences recalls the feelings.

Last night, as I lay awake, a new memory became ensnared in this particular web. Its similarity to the epicenter memory guaranteed similar mental categorization, but the point-of-view shift evoked the less delicious aspects of my other related experiences. And one by one, as the minutes of the night ticked by, each memory in the web mutated. An appreciative gift became pity. Pent-up longing became boredom. The epicenter memory remained relatively pristine until mid-morning, but it inevitably turned on me too.

I walked and thought and remembered, and by the time I circled back to my own neighborhood, time had been rewritten. I have a completely new set of memories now. And unlike the ones they replaced -- those blessed moments that sustained me during some pretty dark times -- these new ones make me feel terrible. I know I won't be able to call on them to help me through a single damn thing.

Appropriately, between the time I left my apartment this morning and the time I returned this afternoon, James De La Vega had been at work in my neighborhood. De La Vega, a prolific artist who chalks words of wisdom on the streets of New York City, wrote the following message on the pavement a few blocks away from my apartment:

Many of De La Vega's messages tend to repeat -- "become your dream" and "you are your best investment" are two common ones -- but I'd never seen this one before. It's a lot less uplifting than his usual stuff too, which makes me wonder whether his muses intended it for my eyes only today.

Nice fix there, Patsy's.

Why correct a mistake when you can cover it?

Silly Love Songs

"Why can't I let you know the song my heart would sing, this beautiful rhapsody of love and youth and spring? The music is sweet, the words are true. The song is you." -- Oscar Hammerstein

A few weeks ago, Rutila tweeted a "break-up song" for each of the last five years. I liked the exercise and wanted to emulate it, but I had trouble assigning one song to each of my failures in love. (I tend to forgive, forget, and repeat mistakes, resulting in several break-up songs per man. Whoops.) I had even more trouble assigning one song to each year of my life. (I make twenty-track albums each year for that purpose.) Thus, I shelved the project.

This week, I decided to forego listening to a particular playlist or album and just left my iPod on shuffle during my daily routines. And many times during my listening, a song played that, for some reason, reminded me of a man from my past. Some songs represent the beginning of my association with these men and some represent the end, some were assigned immediately and some retroactively, some were just plain stuck in my head while we were together. Whatever the reason, they're irrevocably linked with a certain person in my mind, so much so that I could probably relabel each song with the appropriate man's name and still be able to navigate my music library with perfect ease. When my iPod shuffled to any of these songs, I'd stop whatever I was doing -- even data entry and its associated trance-like state -- and think of him after the first few notes.

I thought the observation needed a playlist. Thus, I dusted off my old 8tracks account and created one this evening. The playlist contains eight songs; they're presented in chronological order, and each song represents a different person. Here's a link to play it, plus a tracklist.

1. Samson -- Regina Spektor

"You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first. I loved you first."

2. Pirate on the Run -- Pat Monahan featuring Brandi Carlile

"I was perfect for her soul. I was perfect for his heart. And together, we are perfect apart."

3. Forever My Friend -- Ray LaMontagne

"I just think if we keep our hearts together, I just think if we build on this trust that we have for one another, maybe we can make this last a lifetime."

4. The Origin of Love -- Rufus Wainwright

"But I could tell by your expression that the pain down in your soul was the same as the pain down in mine..."

5. Follow Through -- Gavin DeGraw

"All I really want is you, for you to stick around. I'll see you every day, but you have to follow through."

6. I Can't Make You Love Me -- Bonnie Raitt

"Here in the dark, in these final hours, I will lay down my heart and I'll feel the power. But you won't. No, you won't."

7. Goodbye Philadelphia -- Peter Cincotti

"Though we may not know it now, things are never gonna be the same. Here on Second Avenue, I tip my old top hat to you. I hope you find somebody who will love you like I do."

8. Holding Out For A Hero -- Bonnie Tyler

"It's gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet. I need a hero!"

Happy Pi Day!

"It's like Pi... you can keep figuring it out and always be right and never be done." -- John Currin




I highly recommend Smitten Kitchen's adaptation of Nigel Slater's apple plum pie for your celebration.

Stepford Made Simple

"I think you'll love hating this." -- Rutila

Yesterday morning, Rutila sent me this Brokelyn article with the above subject line. The piece outlines an unemployed woman's tips for being a successful stay-at-home girlfriend (with success defined solely in terms of keeping her boyfriend happy) and covers illuminating advice such as "keep the place clean," "keep yourself up," and "pamper him." And no, it's not satire.

As a modern woman who (I believe) excels at being both a badass man's world fighter and an old-school domestic goddess, I was offended by the article. The author's stated mission to keep her boyfriend happy at all costs was disturbing and her "tips" offered no practical advice for living on the cheap in NYC (which, funnily enough, is Brokelyn's mission). What bothered me most, though, was her assertion that her boyfriend should be allowed to leave his dirty laundry on the floor because he's a working man and doesn't have time to pick up after himself. I joked to Rutila that I should write my own list of tips in retaliation, but I let it drop when half of the internet beat me to the punch in criticizing the article and its author.

However, as the hours passed and my thoughts marinated, the idea seemed more and more attractive. The author of the original article may have missed the point with her list of "tips," but that doesn't prohibit me from sharing what I've learned about how to be both a workaholic and a Stepford Wife. These aren't orders or demands; they're just the time-saving things I've done to keep my home neat, and hopefully they'll be useful to someone out there. Thus, I present my personal pointers for...

How to Work 10 Hours A Day and Still Have Enough Time to Cook Dinner, Groom Yourself, and Not Leave Crap on the Floor of Your Apartment


1. Keep the place clean.


There's no need to ever throw laundry on the floor. Keep a hamper with three compartments -- one for whites, one for colors, and one for delicates -- near your usual changing area. Feel free to keep the lid open if you want to lob your clothing across the room instead of walking it to the hamper. Install a hook or keep a shelf for items that can be worn again before being laundered.

Keep side towels in the kitchen and in the bathroom. Get water, crumbs, or makeup on a surface? Wipe it up with a side towel as soon as it happens and toss it in the laundry once it gets skanky.

Stash a Swiffer sweeper in a corner and run it over your floors once every few days. I'm a long-haired woman who sheds, so this is quite necessary.

Taking off your shoes as soon as you enter your apartment keeps your floors cleaner AND ensures that all your shoes stay in one spot.

Keep a tray or dish on your desk, your coffee table, or any surface where small items usually accumulate. Let your small items accumulate in the tray instead of all over the surface.

If you don't have time to make your bed with meticulous precision each morning, invest in a thick comforter. It takes fifteen seconds to toss it over your bed and straighten it out immediately after you wake up each morning, and if your sheets are a little rumpled underneath, no one will be able to tell.


2. Cook dinner.


I can fill a hundred blog posts with cooking tips alone, so I'll stick to basics here. You'll save a ton of money and eat a lot healthier if you commit to cooking at least half of your meals. Learn how to steam, sautee, simmer, braise, toast, and roast. Learn how to make homemade stock. Learn how to handle a knife. Keep it simple and use fresh ingredients. Don't overseason.

Use fresh vegetables whenever possible, and buy them (and other perishables) as you need them to minimize waste. Since I'm in NYC and there's no shortage of supermarkets wherever I go, I usually make a couple of small trips each week instead of one big one. Get familiar with how long your perishables stay fresh, and if you buy a whole head of broccoli or a dozen eggs, make an effort to plan a few corresponding meals within their usable time frames to avoid having to throw anything away.

Make a habit of preparing a little more of each meal than you need so you have leftovers for a second meal (or lunch the next day). Keep a cabinet of food storage containers and portion out your leftovers for refrigerating or freezing.

Every time you buy bagels, bread, or rolls, put a few slices in the fridge for immediate use and freeze the rest. It'll last forever. Thaw in the fridge or toast directly from the freezer before eating.

Buy meat and fish in bulk. Before you freeze it, portion out the pieces into single servings and individually wrap them in plastic. On that note, almost any perishable item can be frozen for later use if you know you won't be able to use it fresh before it goes bad; just Google the best way of doing it.

Learn how to cook an entire meal using as few pots and pans as possible, and learn how to prep an entire meal with an 8'' chef's knife (tip for the small stuff, base for the large stuff). And make a habit of washing up while you're cooking... especially in terms of dirty dishes. When you're finished with an item, don't put it in the sink -- wash it out and reuse it, put it away, or place it in the dishwasher. There's no greater pleasure than to not have to deal with a sink full of dishes after dinner.

Wipe down your cooktop and counters after every single use. A little wipe goes a long way.

3. Keep yourself up.

Set aside some time on the weekend to iron all your clothes for the next week. This is what I do while I'm catching up on my week's worth of recorded TV shows.

Perfect a five-minute makeup routine. I cannot stress this enough.


4. Tackle bigger jobs on the weekend.


Set aside a few hours hours on Saturday or Sunday for things that can't be done during your daily routine. The trick is to multi-task by layering activities that require short bursts of energy over activities with lots of down-time. Throw your laundry in the washing machine (which shouldn't take long because, owing to your hamper, it's already presorted), then head back to your apartment and take half an hour to wash or vacuum your floors. Clean your bathroom while your clothes are in the dryer. Dust and make the bed while stuff is in the oven. Iron while your floors are drying and your freezer is defrosting.

5. Pamper your guests and cohabitants... but stay true to yourself.

Since keeping things clean and whipping up quick meals for yourself is a no-brainer at this point, feel free to extend the same courtesy to your houseguests. Only if you want to, though. Don't be a doormat; your houseguests shouldn't expect you to clean up after them and any blogger or article that says differently shouldn't be believed. It's not your job to cook or clean for anyone other than yourself (as long as kids aren't in the equation) unless you're happy and willing to do so. Keep a clear head, don't let anyone guilt you into pulling their weight for them, and compromise is key.

Open Up My Eager Eyes

"But it's just the price I pay. Destiny is calling me." -- The Killers

I visited my parents last weekend and, in passing, I mentioned "Mr. Brightside," the prolific rock anthem by The Killers. My mother wasn't familiar with the song, so I pulled out my iPod to play her a verse or two. She never got to hear it, though; she got bored and wandered away as I tried to find it.

I have "Mr. Brightside" on my iPod. Of course I do. And all of my music tracks are meticulously labeled and catalogued, making these types of searches simple. What was the problem, then? I live for well-done covers, and I have so many cover versions of "Mr. Brightside" on my iPod that the original gets lost when I try to search for it by title.

I've often joked that I could fill an entire CD with "Mr. Brightside" covers and not make it sound monotonous, so today, I've decided to share some of the best with you. It's one song made to sound like five, played in completely different styles yet seeming like it was written for each, which is the truest testament to its brilliance that I can imagine.

First, here is the original Killers track and its moving music video (starring Eric Roberts as Brandon Flowers' nemesis):

Here's an incredible piano and violin cover by musician Eric Wuest:

Here's music legend Paul Anka's big band/swing version: link to Stereogum.

Boyce Avenue kills it on acoustic guitar here:



British boy band McFly recorded this pop version for charity in 2005.



And here's my favorite version, the Los Angeles Orchestral Academy's symphonic cover. It just begs to be blasted as high as your stereo can go.

I Still Have A Doppelganger

"Oh Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start. And I bet, then you exploded in my heart. And I forget... I forget the movie song. When are you gonna realize it was just that the timing was wrong?" -- The Killers


I've written at length about my doppelganger -- the woman my colleagues mistake for me at the gym who was also spotted on the UWS by my nurse last fall. (We're ignoring the Cafe Mozart portrait model and the Notre Dame High School graduate from 1948 here, since it's unlikely that my doppelganger is anywhere near as old as either of those women.)

I bet you wondered whatever happened to the nameless chick who dares to walk around the island of Manhattan wearing my face. Well, an entire year passed with no sign of her. But apparently... she's back.

About two months ago, a security guard in my office wished me a good morning and struck up a conversation...

Guard: You're so lucky to live so close to work.
Me: I know! It's exactly one mile.
Guard: One mile? You live in the corner building above the Chinese restaurant!
Me: No, I don't...
Guard: Does your boyfriend live in the corner building, then?
Me: No, he doesn't. Why do you ask?
Guard: I've seen you come out of that building a couple of times.
Me: It wasn't me you saw.
Guard: I see you every day! I know what you look like!
Me: I'm telling you, it wasn't me!
Guard: Weird. Oh well.

About one month ago, I stopped at Gotham for coffee and the woman on line behind me smiled in my direction. She kept smiling and I kept my gaze fixed firmly in the opposite direction as I collected my coffee. She then approached me as I was adding milk.

Woman: You seem busy so I won't stay to talk long, but I just thought you should know that Winnie is still in physical therapy.
Me: I'm sorry, I don't know who Winnie is.
Woman: But...
Me: Apparently, there's a woman in this neighborhood who looks just like me. I've been mistaken for her before; perhaps she knows Winnie. I'm sorry.
Woman: Okay...

About one week ago, an elderly couple strolled into my office lobby as I was waiting for the elevator. They yelled "Michelle!" a couple of times. After the third yell, I realized that I was the only person in the lobby and turned around.

Me: I'm Ashley.
Man: Ashley? But you look just like Michelle! Doesn't she look like Michelle?
Woman: Yes! You and Michelle could be twins, dear!
Man: They absolutely could! Same height and everything!
Me: Um, thank you? I'm assuming that's a good thing, at any rate.
Woman: Of course it is. Wow, what a funny coincidence! I need to tell Michelle!

The elevator appeared and I hightailed it the hell out of there.

Finally, two days ago, my boss came to work with a stiff neck and shoulder. Why? He saw me on the street -- miles away from anywhere I actually walked that morning, of course -- and jerked around to wave at me, giving himself a muscle strain in the process. He eventually realized it couldn't be me because of the woman's location, but isn't it funny that the similarity caused him to react like that?

Yep. At what point should I start getting freaked out about all of this?

No Frapp For You!

"She was lucky the Gotham staff is so nice. My local coffee shop is so anti-Starbucks that they would have told her to take a hike the second she said the word 'tall.' -- a coworker


I've written about my favorite coffee shop -- a warm, privately-owned, completely unpretentious place with superbly friendly baristas -- before. It's as different from Starbucks as you can get... but apparently some people still get confused. I overheard the following conversation while I was adding milk to my coffee this morning:


Patron: I'd like a tall soy misto, please.
Baristo: Pardon?
Patron: A tall soy misto.
Baristo: I'm sorry, I don't know what that is.
Patron: Sorry -- a SMALL soy misto.
Baristo: Yep, got that part.
Patron: Okay.
[Pause.]
Baristo: So... is that just coffee with soy?
Patron: Steamed soy.
Baristo: Ah, so a soy cafe au lait!
Patron: Yeah. Whatever.

Safety first!

"Always wear expensive shoes. People notice." -- Brian Koslow


Last night, Dan told me that a combination of snow and rain covered the sidwalks of DC with an eighth of an inch of slush, i.e. "just enough to make you slip and die." I replied that NYC was due for the same disgusting weather today. We discussed the treacherous conditions, strategized how to navigate them without running the risk of cranial fractures, and ended the conversation by telling each other to stay safe.


This morning, one of my colleagues told me a story from her walk to work. As she trudged through the sleet from the bus stop to clinic, she couldn't help but stare at the woman about to cross her path. Or, rather, at the woman's feet. Alone in a sea of miserable boot-clad commuters, this daring lady was wearing sky-high purple suede heels and was blithely hopping over puddles and ice floes en route to her destination.


My colleague stared at the woman for a moment, then realized that she recognized her. She punctuated this part of the story by shooting a glance at my feet and quirking an eyebrow.

Ahem.


In my defense, I was just popping fifty feet across the street for a meeting! And the sky-high purple suede heels are made by Melissa... meaning they're injection-molded from flexible polyvinyl chloride and are thus nonslip and waterproof! And I did wear sneakers for my real commute! And... yeah, I'm out of excuses.

Pwned.

"ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US." -- Zero Wing and its associated meme

I'm a geek, I work on a small research team filled with geeks, and we spend an inordinate amount of time trying to outdo each other with nerdspeak, SAT words, and pop culture references. Last week, I neatly hid the phrase "all their space are belong to us" under the fourth bullet point of our team meeting agenda.

I expected at least three of my colleagues to recognize the phrase and get a kick out of it.

I didn't expect to arrive at the meeting and find several surgeons, a couple of nurses from a different department, and some new research staff -- all of whom are woefully unfamiliar with my sense of humor and the shenanigans my teammates and I enjoy in our spare time -- sitting at the conference table.

My target audience of three individuals chuckled when we reached the fourth bullet point. Judging from the facial expressions of the newcomers, I surmised that none of them got the joke.

And judging from the fact that one of them muttered the words "subject-verb agreement" after the meeting adjourned, I knew I was right.

Pwned.