I don't!

Now that I know for a fact that my mother reads this, I feel like I should address a subject near and dear to her heart: marriage. Not hers, of course, but rather my own future as Mrs. Gainfully Employed Jewish Doctor/Lawyer With No Family History of Mental Illness. The topic was broached while I was home over the holidays, albeit unintentionally. It did not go well.

It started with a phone call. Normally I dodge answering the phone like Bush dodges shoes, but because no one else was home at the time, I decided to accept the terrible burden of being polite and picked up. On the other end was an old family friend, looking to speak with my father about poker or lawn care or whatever it is men talk about. I have neither seen nor spoken to this man in at least ten years, and it was admittedly nice to speak with him again.

I should take a moment to mention that, like my Dear Father, Fred is from Iran. This is not his real name, either, but rather the American version of his given name. It appears to me that most Persian men adapted their names when they moved to the U.S. of A. That's how I ended up with an Uncle Tony, an Uncle Jim, and even an Uncle Sam. Nomenclature aside, their values can best be described by the almighty t-word: traditional.

My conversation with Fred was off to a normal enough start, the exchanging of pleasantries and such, but came to a grinding halt in roughly two minutes. "So you are in New York! You must love it! Have you found a nice man yet?" he asked. I gave him the standard Single Girl in Manhattan answer, telling him that yes, I do love the city, and while I haven't met Mr. Right, I am "having a really good time with my friends." After feeding him this line from my personal stash of lies, all I heard was the sharp intake of a disapproving breath. "Oh noooooo," he said, infusing his words with misery cultivated by membership to a tribe whose priority numero uno is to be fruitful and multiply. The words that followed will haunt me forever:

"But, you are getting so old..."

He proceeded to tell me why I should get married, and what will happen if I do not get married soon. Apparently, I have the shelf life (and appeal) of a bag of Doritos. Sure, I'm reasonably fresh now, but in two years I will be particularly stale and undesirable, wanted only by those who are willing to settle for expired product.

I began to grow impatient listening to Miss Cleo predict my apparent future as a lonely hag and quickly hustled him off the phone. Thanks for your input, sir. Speak to you in a decade or so. Still shocked by Fred's unapologetic dressing-down of my personal life, I called my dad, partly to deliver the message before my goldfish-like memory moved on, and partly to rant about the utter absurdity of this man's insinuations. How dare he!

"Dad," I said, "you will never guess what Fred just said to me! He thinks I am getting too old and need to start seriously thinking about getting married! Insane, right?"

My father, tapping into his infinite supply of support for his little girl, was silent.

"Well," he said eventually, "he has a point. You should be thinking about these things and..." Another premature halt to another prehistoric conversation. Who are these people? Hey boys, the 18th century called- they want their values back.

Or...am I actually getting old? Do I need to get married, like, now? Thanks to Dad and his friend, I might as well turn into an old Chrysler Le Baron on my 24th birthday- functional, yet not the best looking ride in town. Why am I even wasting my time writing about this? I should be using this time to join JDate!

There's not a lot to say about this little exchange, except that it's been two weeks, and I am still thinking about it. My subconscious must have been bothered, though, or else my aforementioned memory issue would have allowed me to continue to move freely about my mental cabin. I suppose my rational half let go of the conversation almost immediately, made a sandwich, and read some essays by hero single Jewess (O.B.M.) Wendy Wasserstein.

The other, less-rational half of me interrupted this post halfway through in order to select a Tiffany & Co. platinum solitaire round brilliant cut diamond engagement ring.

Old Years Eve

Boy, do I hate New Years! Forced revelry and anti-climactic moments abound. I am the New Years Eve scrooge, but I can't say I care. As I told Allie, January 20th will be my evening of celebration, as I do think that we (the World at Large) are about to turn a corner. Anyway, enough of my political stumping and grumbling about mandated holidays. I just want to wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year (you know, in case you celebrate today). May 2009 be a year of health, happiness, fewer drops in the Dow, and love and peace and all that other shit. A special thanks to all four of my blog readers--thanks! Next year I promise to write more.

Now if you will excuse me, I must go consume a bottle of champagne, bake and then eat 2 dozen cookies, and watch terrible television before my 2009 health resolution takes effect.

Please, Santa!

My Christmas Wish List- Recession Edition:

1. A "Single Ladies" leotard
2. To know everything

Express Train to Bitterville

It's been forever. Believe me, it is never my intention to go so long without blogging- it just sort of happens. I feel like in order to write a decent post, I have to be silly-angry. Lately, I've just been angry-angry and in no mood to bitch about the ways I feel I have been wronged on the interweb. Those complaints are best saved for face-to-face meetings, where my tears and angst can be appreciated to their fullest extent. Nor I am about to just blog for the sake of writing something. I'm hardly interested in my own daily happenings, a sentiment I imagine you, solitary reader, share. So, profound apologies.

A few things have been on my mind lately, thoughts ranging from the nominally serious to those with no importance or consequence whatsoever. And so, An Abbreviated List of the Things I Thought About This Month (in No Particular Order):

I. Green peas have no place in a salad.
The same goes for mandarin oranges. Nothing says "this salad will be disgusting" more than baby mandarin orange slices popping up behind intolerably large pieces of iceberg lettuce. In fact, calling mandarin oranges fruit is on par with calling a dust bunny a pet. Let's start labeling the cans appropriately- "Mushy Orange Shit (in heavy syrup)."

II. If you fart in an empty office and no one is around to hear you, does it make a sound?

III. Moving.
I saw a map of Denver, my place of origin, at the bookstore today and found myself getting surprisingly weepy and nostalgic. I am not taking this as one of those cinematic Signs From Above, but it is certainly weighing on my mind. In trying to navigate this post-collegiate haze of bill paying and general disenfranchisement, I wonder if I am not better suited for a quieter life back in that square state.

I miss the ease of driving a car, of not having to share a seat with large, sweaty men or girls dry heaving after a night of overpriced cocktails. That said, I do not miss the actual act of driving one bit, as my absentmindedness on the road would make that deep-voiced StateFarm man weep. (It's not my fault I only have two hands and a cell phone, a cup of coffee, and radio that all demand attention.) I miss the quiet that comes with urban sprawl, businesses that close at 7, and the peace after a good snowfall. Here, my ears are filled with the sounds of 8 million self-involved pricks scratching their way to the top. We live practically on top of one another, and there is no peace to be had after a good snow. No sir, there's nothing but gray slush and a collective bitch from those same 8 million about delayed trains. Colorado rarely made me angry, just sleepy from a general lack of things to do (unless you count beer drinking, mutton busting, and more beer drinking).

Walking in New York is fine, save for when it is infuriating. Fifty percent of my days are without major issue. Thirty percent of my days are with only a few minor issues. The other twenty percent make me want to take up sharpshooting. I stomp around with a dreadful scowl, continually ignoring the voice in my head that reminds me that such expressions cause wrinkles (and who wants those?). I can barely breathe without screaming, let alone form words and sentences. My head is filled with a noise that can best be described as what cutting the alphabet in half and letting the two sides beat the shit out of each other would sound like. It's unpleasant, distressing, and just plain annoying.

Speaking of sounds, I am afraid I must cut this little rant short. The leaping gazelles that live above me have begun their nightly romp, reminding me that it is almost midnight and I have to go to work in the morning. To be continued.

Udder shock and dismay

I am really excited for the new Of Montreal album, and decided to head to YouTube and watch a video for the first single. Perfectly harmless. What happened next has disturbed me in such a way that I have no choice but to blog about it.

When the song ended, the YouTube suggestion box popped up to alert me to videos I may want to watch next. I don't know how, nor do I know why, but at the top of the suggestion list was a video entitled "Breast feeding at 8 years-old." What a weird joke, pre-traumatized Me thought. My natural curiosity guided the mouse to the link, where I expected to find some sort of comedy routine, or maybe a puppy being cute. You know, normal YouTube fodder.

Wrong!

The video is exactly what the title states- a very large child, whose age is approaching the double digits, latched on to her mother's boob like a barnacle on the side of a ship. I thought my eyeballs were going to fall out of my head. I wasn't raised in the most prudent of households, but ohmygod! The Milkmaid's 2 children not only converse about the flavor of the milk, but also the shape, feeling, and milk out-put of their mother's breasts. At one point, the girls show off the pictures they have drawn of the breasts and the feedings. Let's just say they are very detail-oriented children.

What bothers me the most is the teeth. These kids have teeth capable of masticating the toughest of steaks, crunching Jolly Ranchers, and biting siblings foolish enough to pull hair and taunt. (Should something ever happen to my younger brother, God forbid, I have his dental records on my ankle, the result of my poor decision to kick him in slow motion.) One errant move or angry moment, and suddenly mom is without one of the many things that should always come in pairs (although this would solve the weaning issue in short order). I would sooner mix an 8 year-old a vodka tonic than let it near my chest. And how about the mother? Isn't she tired of playing Betsy the Cow to those kids? Someone should alert her to the modern parenting wonder that is the Happy Meal. The kids would be sated and entertained with a toy, thus distracting them from their portraiture.

I just don't get it. Or, I didn't until the end of the video, when the family says their own version of grace over a meal (Mom has her top on, so I guess the kids eat solid food, too). The moon, sun, and a few other celestial bodies receive their due gratitude as the family breaks bread.

A-ha! Light bulb! Stephen Hawking!

THESE PEOPLE ARE HIPPIES! Hippies! I knew there was an explanation for letting a child with fangs near the nips. Had I seen the program in its entirety, I am sure I would have seen the family tending to their beet crop, sewing new hemp pants, and packing a family bowl. Hippies!

I encourage you to watch the video, although perhaps not at work. And then, if you have time, check out the new Of Montreal song, because that's pretty good, too.

Where the hell have you been?

The short answer? Florida. I lounged by the pool, ate Cheez-Its and cookies, and just generally loafed about. I guess that is a perk of being half-employed: vacations when I say, for as long as I deem necessary. Just another way I exact my passive revenge on my abusive boss. I am almost entirely adjusted to the idea of my folks living in Florida, although there are still many reminders that their house is definitely, well, theirs.

When my parents moved in, "my" room became a dumping ground of sorts for the odd pieces of furniture they did not want to part with- but also decided they did not want to look at on a daily basis. It's ugly, and smells a bit like the dead relatives that bequeathed a majority of the aforementioned furniture. Given it's proximity to the laundry room, there are almost always carefully sorted piles of clothes heaped on the bed. Adding to the mix is my father's decision to put any photo or portrait they own of me in my room. I have often tried to convince him that it makes the room feel like a memorial to a departed one. Going home means sleeping in a creepy shrine that smells like Grandma Rose and Tide. I also try not to answer the phone while home. If I do, I am nearly always asked to speak my name slowly and clearly, and then explain my relationship to the known occupants of the home. I am the Narnia of the three children- very few know I exist, and the rest just don't buy it.

All in all, it was a very pleasant trip home. I did a fair amount of shopping, but mainly for boring things at stores frequented by Young Republicans. I discovered that Neiman Marcus is the best place to be when having a down day. The salespeople quite literally trip over themselves to get to you first so they may have the privilege of showering you with compliments and agreeing with you. If I told the saleswoman that I thought she was ugly and her perfume smelled like cat pee, her response would have been nothing but praise for my selection of the "Purple Vamp" eyeshadow and my flawless, dewy complexion.

I supposed that's the news for now. I'm back in New York, bored, a little sad, and eating peanut butter straight from the jar using carrot sticks. Apologies to James for not writing on Thursday, as promised. Perhaps I will make it up to you by coming to Savannah soon.

Unless there are bugs there. I don't do bugs.