my favorite part of battlestar: razor so far (which is really saying a lot)

just occurred, shockingly, during a commercial break.

Here be spoilers - obviously.

And it's even funny for you non-Battlestar fans. Just read the following with an appropriately deep and grave voice, as befits a guy who probably does trailers for, like, gritty Clint Eastwood Oscar fare (as opposed to schlocky Clint Eastwood Oscar fare):

"It's been revealed: Helena Cain and Gina Inviere are lovers."

(beat)

"Brought to you by Quiznos. Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm! Toasty!"

Now: to figure out how to make this my cellphone ringtone....

drive-by

Greetings from beautiful Wheeling, West Virginia! Which I am visiting on account of it being almost halfway between St. Louis and New York and on account of me being crazy enough to think that driving home for Thanksgiving was a good idea.

I had a wonderful if busy time back in St. Louis, but I'm looking forward to getting back to New York, having the chance to blog about something other than publicity, and for the love of all that's holy finally being able to watch Razor.

Until then, a few quick things:

1. My email at unhappymedium.com is ten kinds of wonky. If you've emailed me in the past week and a half or so and I haven't responded, I am so sorry. I just fixed my incoming mail and only just read your email tonight. However: I haven't yet been able to figure out how to route my outgoing mail through an smtp server that isn't my home ISP, so I cannot respond. If anyone has any ideas on how to fix this, feel free to email me! You'll know if your idea worked if I'm able to write you back. As soon as I'm back in Queens, though, I promise particularly witty responses for all those who have written me.

2. Only I would go back to my old high school to talk about language and writing and end up ranting for ten minutes about Crash.

3. If your last name is Raper, you should: change your name. You should not: publicize your RV dealership with dozens and dozens of billboards along I-70 that proclaim "Tom Raper Country." Because I guarantee that "Tom" is not the first word that motorists will see. While driving through Indiana this evening it took me three separate stops to find a gas station I was willing to go into by myself.

4. My hotel in Wheeling only had two rooms still available when I checked in tonight. As I was chatting with the nice man at the front desk (something I would normally be too shy to do, but he was reading A Clash of Kings, which outed him a fellow fantasy nerd), he told me that Tuesdays and Wednesdays are their busiest nights. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.

5. Even less explicable: Mizzou is ranked #1 in college football. Anyone who isn't from Missouri might not understand how completely insane this is. Imagine Ethan Hawke winning a Nobel Prize in literature. That insane.

6. Raper. Raper.

fear factor

So: my book is now available for purchase. Today was originally the official on-pub date, but as of last week it started showing up in a few stores, and Amazon is now shipping copies (to everyone but my mother, it seems). Which means that for the next few weeks, I will cease to be a writer and instead become something absolutely terrifying: a talker.

I'm under no illusions. I am absurdly, insanely lucky. I have, pretty much, my dream job. (Well, the writing part is, anyway. The freelance editing I do to keep me in text messages and crappy health insurance is rather less than dreamy.) But one of the things I love best about writing is that I get to do it in my apartment, by myself, in silence. Or near-silence, depending on how frustrated I am with a given passage.

In print, I am open and outgoing - probably too outgoing, actually. In person, though, I am painfully shy. I can hide it sometimes. Or I can dampen it with the magic of sweet, sweet alcohol. But I can never completely get rid of it. And there's not much that scares me more than having to stand in front of a crowd of people and entertain them. (In one of my masochistic periods, I contemplated trying my hand at stand-up comedy as a way to cure myself. Then I realized that any comedy set I would do would basically be a combination of Andrew Dice Clay, Jerry Seinfeld, and Jay Leno - that is: profane, obvious, and unfunny.)

But today I have to just get the fuck over myself. Because I have my first radio interview in like a half an hour, and although I gazed longingly at the Negro Modello in the fridge when I woke up, it's a little too early for liquid courage. Then, later this afternoon, I have my first newspaper phone interview. The real crunch starts next week, when I leave for St. Louis to do a bunch of local publicity. I'll be doing readings, more interviews, and even an event at my old high school.

However, as much as I dread the prospect of putting myself on display, this is one thing I am not worried about: being entertaining. Because these early interviews and readings are going to be rocky, rocky things. You know all that dead air during the TBS baseball broadcasts? Yeah, like that. Except instead of being able to watch a ball fly out, you'll be able to hear me quietly wanting to die. And if reality TV has taught me anything, it's that there's little else that's more entertaining than watching somebody squirm.

So if you're in St. Louis, Boston, or New York for one of my upcoming readings, all I can say is stop on by. It's sure to be a treat.

return from witch mountain

To new readers, welcome! And to old readers, welcome back! I am immeasurably grateful to all twelve of you for not deleting me from your bookmarks/links/rss feeders.

As you can see, there are some changes up in here. First of all, I'm no longer blogging semi-anonymously. This is because I no longer have a real job, which means that I no longer fear for my gainful employment. In fact, as a full-time freelancer, I have come to accept the fact that I will never again have truly gainful employment. Or health insurance.

So let me introduce myself. (Or re-introduce myself, as the case may be.) My name is Elizabeth Little, and I'm a writer and editor living in New York City. For the past eight months or so, I've been hard at work writing my first book, Biting the Wax Tadpole: Confessions of a Language Fanatic, which will be published in November 2007 by Melville House, an amazing independent press that is, frankly, far too awesome for the likes of me.

Biting the Wax Tadpole is my take on comparative linguistics, a fresh, irreverent look at the languages of the world. (I'm also, as you can see, learning a few things about marketing copy. Ad agencies looking for stringers, call me!) I wrote the book in part in response to all the holier-than-thou language books already on the market. I have some very strong feelings on the state of the grammar industry (and an industry it is) - but I'm saving those for next week. But if you're the sort of person who has always believed yourself to be incapable of learning a new language - or even if you've just been bored to tears by all the soul-killing grammar classes you've suffered though - then you're the reason I wrote this book. It's designed to be as accessible and enjoyable as possible, without resorting to the sort of pandering condescension that you find in so many guides to style. Instead of warning against grammatical errors, I revel in them. The way I see it, there's far more pleasure to be had in fucking up than in grim perfection.

I also wrote the book because if there's anything in this world that I truly love, it's language. And also television, but that's another story. Although I'm well aware that you probably don't want to spend your free time rifling through Yoruba grammars, that's not enough to keep me from standing outside your window with the equivalent of Peter Gabriel on a boombox, doing my best to convince you that language is far more exciting and entertaining than your teachers ever made it out to be. (And, yes, begging for your approbation. Blogging wouldn't exist were it not for the basic human need for positive reinforcement, after all.)

(That being said, I also welcome criticism. There's nothing I enjoy like a good conversation. Or flame war, depending on your perspective.)

If you're interested in the real-life nitty-gritty, you can find out all about me by clicking here. There's also a handy set of links with information about me and my writing on the left sidebar (a sidebar that took me far, far too long to code properly).

Speaking of, if you're visiting the site itself, you've probably already noticed the redesign. I hope you like yellow. If not, get thee to an rss feed. As everything I know about html and css could fit on a postcard, it's entirely possible that there will be kinks and errors here and there. If you have any trouble browsing this site, please don't hesitate to email me at elizabeth@unhappymedium.com. I can't promise that I'll be able to fix all errors, but I can certainly promise to curse and throw things while I try.

The illustrations in the header graphic deserve special mention. These are portions of drawings by Ayumi Piland, the kick-ass illustrator of my new book. I repurposed them for the website, but all inherent awesomeness is totally due to her skills as an artist and not to my measly skills as a Photoshopper. You can see more of her work at apakstudio.com and, of course, throughout Biting the Wax Tadpole upon its release.

In the coming months, I'll be using this blog to write about a variety of topics, including language, television, and the long list of things that offend me. All in addition, of course, to book-related news and events. And as I'm going to try to teach myself a chunk of Hungarian before I go to Budapest in December, I'll also be relating a number of embarrassing stories about how crappy I am at Hungarian. (I haven't actually started studying yet, so I don't know for sure if I'll suck, but given what I know of the language and myself, the odds are pretty good.)

Regular posting will resume on Monday, so come back and check it out.

the five stages of new jersey

1. Denial

Okay, so I'll make it to Jersey City by 9, then I'll take the Holland over to the Battery and will totally be back in Brooklyn by 10 ... traffic seems a little slow, but I'm sure it'll clear up.

2. Anger

What the fuck is this? The left lane is fucking closed? And who the fuck are all these people, anyway? Shouldn't they be at home? It's fucking 10 o'clock on a fucking Sunday and I've been fucking sitting here for twenty fucking minutes and for the sweet holy LOVE, what the FUCK is holding us up - IS THAT A FUCKING VESPA?

3. Bargaining

Maybe the Lincoln Tunnel will be better.

4. Depression

I'm never getting across this river. I'm never getting back to my home or my friends or my television. I'm never getting back to New York. I am stuck here. I am stuck here forever. But I don't care. I don't care about anything but sleep. Because I can't feel my feet. Or my soul.

5. Acceptance

Which means I'll fit right in.

mommie dearest

I'm going to say what we're all thinking: this blog has become the Christina Crawford to my Joan and it's only a matter of time before I find it making out in the stable with some strange boy and am forced to cut off all its pretty, pretty hair and you love it, don't you? YOU LOVE TO MAKE ME HIT YOU.

What I mean to say is that the past month has been a bit of a mess. A wedding, a funeral, a crisis, a breakthrough. A new writing project. A new job. The premiere of So You Think You Can Dance.

My life, see, is just an outdoor statue for the pigeons of fate to shit upon. And someone's been slipping some senokot into the feed these days.

Regular updates will recommence later this month when I have a minute or two to catch my breath. If you're looking to procrastinate in the meantime - and it's practically summer, so who isn't - I suggest a visit to the official My Little Pony site. Seriously. You can build your own tiara. And choreograph a pony recital. It's so much more awesome than anything else you will do ever.

And there's not a wire hanger in sight.

broken lizard

So a couple of years ago, Annie and I took a class on Michelangelo together called Michelangelo and The Something-or-Other. Or The Something-or-Other of Michelangelo. I couldn't tell you for sure - I didn't exactly take that much away from the class. Our professor was adorably Dutch and enviably well-educated, but his lectures were rambling and unfocused, punctuated with sudden bursts of rapid-fire Italian or dire pronouncements along the lines of "Michelangelo, he was a gay, you know."

I do remember a few things, though. I remember being warned about Albanians. I remember needing a great deal of Nicorette to make it through the day. I remember quite liking the Pietà.

And I remember this: LIZARD = DEATH. Which was written, just as you see here, on the chalkboard when we walked into class one day.

At that point in my life, I'd only known Annie for a matter of weeks. And yet, as soon as our professor began explaining to us exactly why the reptile subset in question was so tainted with mortal peril, I knew with absolute certainty that she was about to deliver a good, swift kick to the man's intellectual nads.

She did. And it was glorious.

But not so glorious by half as her most recent art-historical smack-down, which everyone should read because it is very smart and very funny and very apropos. Anything that combines Disneyworld, The Da Vinci Code, and unicorns is very much worth reading.

And you don't even have to sit through a three-hour lecture to do so.

for the first time in my life, I deeply regret not being an actor

This may surprise many of you, but people who work in theater often make excellent roommates. And not just because they work nights and give you free tickets to their shows.

Theater professionals make the best roommates because every so often they troll Playbill's job listings and find things like this:

Thank God someone is finally making strides to restore the dignity of the singing, dancing undead in this post-Lestat world. It's about time.

(And Alison, if there's any way you can work on this show, I will love you forever. Even more if you can get me some comps.)

tea and cake or death

Turning 25 seemed like good idea at the time. It was kind of quiet and unassuming but it still had an appropriately noteworthy feel. I shed the hefty naivete of my early 20s and settled comfortably into the ... slightly less hefty naivete of my mid-20s. It was, as far as birthdays go, not bad.

But no one ever tells you the dark side of 25. Because everyone's too excited about your brand-new eligibility for the Hertz #1 Club to bother to point out that for the next five to ten years of your life, your summers and your finances are officially fucked. Because you've entered the zone - the wedding zone - when everyone you have ever known will give up and in and decide to make it official.

And chances are you're invited.

My wedding season, appropriately enough, kicks off over Memorial Day weekend, which means that the pre-party to-dos have been ongoing for a few weeks now. This past Saturday I attended a bridal shower for a friend who's getting hitched in June (wedding #2, six days after wedding #1). The shower was uncommonly nice as mandatory social occasions go: swift, fun, pretty. We sat outside and drank tea and champagne and commiserated about the absolute impossibility of relying on the F-train on a weekend. I also ate half my weight in mini-quiche.

I had never actually been to a proper shower before, so I was moderately concerned that I was going to be coerced into one of those shower games, like The Apron Game or Toilet Paper Bride. Or Tacks on the Hot Dog. (Um, and why do we have these games again? I get that occasionally a group of adults can't be trusted to socialize with one another, but that's why God invented alcohol. Is the entire wedding process just not quite infantalizing enough without pornographic pin the tail on the donkey? It's almost enough to make a girl long for the day when men would just club you over the head and drag you into the nearest cave.) Luckily for me, though, the bridesmaids in charge of the shower erred on the side of not-evil, and the event was blessedly free of excruciating game-play.

Well, mostly free, that is. We did participate in one group activity, where each guest had to take a card and scribble down a few keepsake words of wisdom for the bride-to-be. Things like "Remember you're a team: even when you fight you're still on the same side." Supportive things. Grown-up things. Things you might see crocheted on a pot holder.

Now, I'm a little unclear about the verifiable long-term psychological effects of divorce. I'm sure I'm probably supposed to be, like, scarred or whatever it's called these days. Bad at the relationships or something. Which, yeah, I totally am, but for reasons that have less to do with my personal history than my persistent, obnoxious misanthropy.

That's what I tell myself, anyway - I'm sure a therapist would say differently.

(Which is probably why I refuse to consider therapy.)

And there are probably other effects, too, but I've never bothered looking into it. I vaguely recall some intellectual blowhard suggesting that kids with divorced parents couldn't appreciate great literature, but I only remember this because I was so appalled by the suggestion. (Although, in retrospect, he may have been right - at least in my case. After all, no one who really appreciates great literature would be so perverse as to work on the business side of publishing. That would be like Julia Child lobbying for a gig as a manager at Applebee's.)

But I am pretty sure of one thing: kids who grew up in an environment of dysfunctional parental interaction are going to be total crap when it comes to matrimonial advice.

Because after many minutes of careful consideration, this was the best I could come up with: "Always laugh at each other. Except when you can't. And then watch Eddie Izzard."

It wasn't until much later that I realized what I should have written: "When in doubt, don't hesitate to ask for advice. Just don't expect much from your 25-year-old fuckwit friends."

Maybe by the time I'm 26 I'll actually have something useful to contribute.

Somehow, though, I doubt it.

northern exposure

In fourth grade I was given what should have been a simple assignment: to draw a picture of my life's ambition. It was supposed to be simple because it's supposed to be easy to know what you want to be when you grow up - provided you're a kid and don't have the slightest clue what growing up really means.

But I was pathologically indecisive at an early age, so I had a bit more trouble than my classmates. (My shortlist of potential careers, circa 1990: a geologist, a kung fu master, a cat burglar, a chemist, a paleontologist, a spy, a submarine captain, a witch, a Ghostbuster.) Eventually, though, I settled on two pictures. For the first, I drew skeletons and a volcano. For the second, I drew a net, a puck, and the number 50.

I've long since lost the pictures, but here are some reproductions:

Now, if you know me at all, it probably won't surprise you that no one was much troubled by the first picture. I was, after all, a freakish only child who had turned to National Geographic for companionship and really wanted to excavate dead bodies in Pompeii. My classmates knew this and avoided me accordingly.

The second picture, however, caused some consternation - because no one knew what it meant.

I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious: I wanted to be the first woman to score 50 goals in 50 games, naturally. I wanted to be just like Rocket Richard. Just, you know, a girl. It didn't matter that I could barely skate, much less play hockey - I could do it. After all, I was half-Canadian, dammit. And according to my dad that was a good 30% more Canadian than anyone from Quebec was anyway.

You can imagine how well this went over with my classmates.

Suffice it to say, I got made fun of pretty mercilessly for months. I think that people were actually still bringing it up in high school, despite the fact that by then I'd landed myself in far more humiliating circumstances.

But this is what happens when you let fiercely loyal Canadians raise their kids in the States: endless childhood trauma.

Because Canadians, at least in my experience, tend to be exceedingly (and rightfully) proud of their heritage. In fact, I suspect that many Canadians even have a pro-Canada pitch ready to go, one refined over a lifetime of answering to skeptical Americans who can't help but ask: what's so great about Canada anyway? (Short answer: high standards of living, really nice people, reasonably intelligent social policy, poutine.) And I guarantee that any Canadian - and particularly those Canadians living in the U.S. - can name at least a dozen Canadian-born celebrities with hardly a moment's thought.

My dad's favorite go-to Canadian celeb is Pamela Anderson. Mine is Rae Dawn Chong. It's hard to argue against Canada in the face of evidence like that.

Canadians love their country, and they're not afraid to let you know it. And they're even less afraid to let their kids know it. All the time. Day in. Day out. Until the kids sing O Canada more clearly than the Star-Spangled Banner, announce in class that Saskatchewan is ten times better than Minnesota's Land of 10,000 Lakes, and start to wonder what they did that was so wrong, that their fathers would keep them hidden away in St. Louis, so very far away from what is obviously their rightful home.

Really, though, I think it's all pretty sweet.

(Curiously, although New Yorkers display this same compulsion to shamelessly self-promote, I have never found it at all charming. In fact, I found it profoundly irritating. So irritating that I was forced to move here so that I would never again have to hear "What, you haven't been to the Frick?" or "It's not exactly Bergdorf's, is it?" or "In the city we have 24-hour public transportation.")

(N.B. to those of you not living in New York: this non-stop public transportation thing is bullshit in any case. When you stumble out of a bar and onto the subway at 4am, you're more likely than not going to pass out and wake up 40 minutes later in Coney Island, which is not - trust me on this - worth the 20 bucks you saved on cab fare.)

But even Canadians need to be reminded of their history on occasion, and this is why we have a little something called Historica.

Officially, Historica encourages "the best possible Canadian history education ... by providing or supporting programs and resources that inspire Canadians to explore their history." But what Historica really does best is produce one-minute historical reenactments, many of which are shown in Canadian movie theaters as part of the pre-show entertainment. I was in Vancouver this past weekend and I got to enjoy a number of these shorts while waiting to see The Notorious Bettie Page. And I can safely say that the Historica shorts were the highlight of my afternoon: for the most part, the Historica Minutes are tiny slices of comic genius. (And, okay, I thought Bettie Page was pretty middling, but that's beside the point.)

And so I've decided that instead of bleating incessantly about how much I just so heart Canada, I will just encourage everyone to take a low-budget look at our great neighbor to the north.

The Historica site is chock-full of delectable historical morsels on subjects that range far and wide: the Montreal Expo, the Underground Railroad, syrup. And you can learn all sorts of new and exciting things, too. Did you know, for instance, that we have Canada to thank for Winnie-the-Pooh? And time zones? And orphans?

My personal favorites include "Jacques Plante", about the brave and awe-inspiring invention of the goalie mask, and "Flags", about the intense political debate that surrounded the adoption of the Canadian flag. ("Do we want one Maple Leaf - or three?")

The most curious film by far is "Grey Owl", an ode to the James Frey of the early twentieth century. Grey Owl was a Brit named Archibald Belaney who conned the world into believing that he was half Apache and became a best-selling author as a result. From what I can tell, though, Grey Owl had slightly nobler aspirations than Big Jim: he was a dedicated naturalist and conservationist and, quoth Historica, "helped create a legacy of awareness and protection for Canada's forests and wildlife."

Which is all well and good, but not particularly revelatory from a one-minute-reenactment point of view.

Until you see the actor portraying Grey Owl:

The way I see it, there are two ways this could have happened. First of all, it's possible that this short is just a collection of scenes from the 1999 Richard Attenborough film of the same name. Or it's also possible that the Historica people put this together in conjunction with the film's release in Canada. It's awfully hard to tell, though, given that the Grey Owl short is not substantially different from the rest of the Historica series. That is, it has the production values of a PBS pledge drive. Were it not for the inclusion of Thomas Crown here (looking mighty uncomfortable in those pigtails, if you ask me), I would never have guessed that it was a film tie-in.

On the other hand, the movie was so bad that it went straight to video in the States, so maybe it was just naturally in keeping with the Historicaesthetic.

(Either way, I'm sure you'll all be glad to know that Sir Richard is sure to be back in top Best Director form with his next film, which stars Mischa Barton.)

But of course, no survey of Canadian history would be complete without a nod to the man who is, depending on whom you ask, either the Babe Ruth or George Washington of Canadian history: Maurice "Rocket" Richard. And Historica does not disappoint, featuring a segment on Richard's legendary 1944 performance against the Detroit Red Wings, in which he scored 5 goals and had 3 assists. And which they celebrate by immortalizing Richard's remarkable skill in the Historicarchives.


His remarkable skill, that is, in being his family's bitch. Yes, Richard spends 50 of his 60 seconds moving furniture for his folks.

Which just goes to show that my ten-year-old self was actually much wiser than I realized. Because in one way, at least, I have grown up to be just like Rocket Richard.

Just, you know, a girl.

german expressionism

In elementary school, one of my favorite events was the seasonal distribution of a slim mail-order discount publishing catalog. Basically, it was like a Girl Scout Cookie order form, but for nerds. To be perfectly honest, my brain waters a bit just thinking about it.

I can't remember what they were called or what company produced them, but I do remember that it was a fairly important element of my ongoing childhood strategy to wheedle as many books as possible out of my parents. ("But Mo-om, these books are for schoo-ol! And I get five! For a dollar! The last time books were this cheap was when you were a kid!")

Occasionally, though, the offerings were less than impressive, and I would have to settle for a few oddball selections in order to make my bulk-discount quota. This is why, in sixth grade, I ended up buying my first foreign-language dictionary - in German.

It was, pretty much, the most useless book I could have purchased. My school didn't teach foreign languages, not really, preferring instead to have us study much more useful things like meditation and advanced Oregon Trail. We also had a three-month unit on the tundra, during which we spent two torturous weeks reading To Build A Fire.

Unfortunately for me, my dictionary didn't include anything about permafrost or impassable quagmire, so it wasn't of much use. It was soon relegated to a bookshelf in the corner of my bedroom where it has sat, neglected, ever since.

I have never had reason to regret that decision.

Until today.

Because today I discovered a series of amazing, almost Salad Fingers-like instructional videos at MyGermanClass.com.


I have no idea what's going on between Übel Knübel and his bester Freund here - and, actually, I have no idea what's going on in any of them, but I bet if I'd paid more attention to that dictionary, I would know. And I'm pretty sure it would be awesome.

be my guest

Spring. A time of renewal. A time of regrowth. A time of really pretty flowers.

And a time of neverending houseguests.

For the past three weeks, my roommate and I have played hostess to a veritable conga line of out-of-town guests. We've had friends, family, former colleagues. And we're going to keep having them. Until, like, July.

This weekend, the houseguest in question is my mother. She's flying into town today for some sort of business trip - what kind of business, I don't know. Spreadsheets are involved, I think. And money. But beyond that, I couldn't tell you.

(I have a mental block that makes me completely unable to process descriptions of financial job-type things. This mental block has a very real purpose, as my mother is convinced that I would make an excellent banker, and I have made it my life's work to convince her otherwise. So, the more insistent she is, the dumber I decide to be. Unfortunately, the longer I stay at my abysmally low-paying job, the more insistent she becomes. It's only a matter of time, really, before I just start shoving dollar bills into my mouth - "You mean I'm not supposed to eat it? That's funny. What were you saying about UBS Warburg again?")

Anyway, my mom has meetings through Friday and then she'll be spending the weekend with me. We'll probably eat, wander through a museum or two, and dig around Chinatown for cheap jewelry.

My mom will invariably tell at least a half dozen people "This is my daughter - she lives in Brooklyn! In her very first apartment!" And I will do my best not to remind her that my current apartment is, in fact, my eighth.

However, all things considered, my mother is a pretty easily contented lady. All I have to do to make her happy is keep her company and not mention my father. Or my grandmother. Or my job. But other than that, she could really care less what we actually do.

Most out-of-town visitors are not so pliable.

The moment you move to New York City, long-distance friends will come crawling out of the woodwork, just like the adorable multi-legged creatures with whom you now share your living space. Your friends will bubble over with plans to visit and, oh, by the way, can they crash on your couch? Just for a couple of days? You can't really say no because you know how much hotels cost here and you sympathize. And, also, you don't want to be an asshole. Not so soon after moving here, anyway. Personality shifts are a lot like scotch: you have to let your inner asshole age for a few months before releasing it into the world.

So you really can't help but agree to let them stay.

It doesn't seem so bad at first. You fold out the sofa, hand your guest a pillow, and make a few empty gestures of welcome: A glass of water? A stick of gum? Last month's issue of National Geographic? But then, just as you turn to escape into your bedroom, it happens: "So what are we going to do tomorrow?"

Congratulations: you've just been appointed cruise director. And this is when the trouble starts.

Because in New York, local is local, and tourist is tourist, and never the twain shall meet. Except in Times Square.

Tourists come to New York to see the Statue of Liberty, visit the Empire State Building, and stroll through Little Italy. They want to take in a show and traverse the city. On foot. And, occasionally, horse and buggy.

None of these, of course, are activities that locals enjoy on a daily basis. Show me the New York City taxpayer with a reservation at Tavern on the Green, and I'll show you someone with an out-of-town guest.

I think this will help illustrate what I see as the crux of the problem:


(This is the same rigorous Excel work, by the way, that got me a passing grade on my undergraduate thesis.)

See, given the choice, I would always prefer to spend my time at a dive bar with a 2-for-1 drink special. Obviously, though, I can't do this with my out-of-town guests. I don't want to ruin their visits, after all. Nor do I want them to think that I have a drinking problem. So, instead, I've developed a houseguest strategy.

Which I am going to share with you.

Herewith, my tips for entertaining out-of-towners with minimal expense, effort, and exasperation, either on your part or your guests'.

First of all, be sure give your guests a spare set of keys and a detailed description of how to get to your apartment. This will give you the freedom to ditch your guests at a moment's notice. If, for instance, there is a motion on the table to go to ESPN Zone, you need to be able to leave and leave fast.

This will also get you out of at least one night of entertaining, because if you know what's good for you, you're going to have a sudden crisis at the office that will require you to work late. If your guests are youngish, send them to a live-music venue - specifically, a live-music venue frequented by hipsters. To you, hipsters might be "annoying" or "completely fucking intolerable". To them, however, hipsters will seem "exotic" and "cool".

If your guests are oldish, send them to the Oak Room.

Be sure to text your guests regularly with apologies. Feel free to blame your boss, as in "I can't believe he/she is pulling this shit last-minute! I so wish I could be out with you!"

You don't, but it's okay to lie. Hospitality, after all, is just another kind of falsehood.

If you have a car, or access to one, I highly recommend using it as much as possible. Not only does this provide an opportunity for wide-ranging, minimally enervating sight-seeing, but you'll also be able to waste shitloads of time while looking for street parking. This technique came in handy most recently when my cousin came to town. He was very insistent about needing to go to the Hard Rock Cafe to purchase a "New York Rocks" t-shirt for his girlfriend. I managed to circle around long enough that by the time we finally got there, well, shoot, it was already time to go.

If you don't have access to a car, you can achieve a similar effect by finding a way to include the G train in your travel itinerary.

Although this might seem mean-spirited, as long as you can keep up a running monologue about life in the city - "What's the deal with alternate side parking!" - your guests will be pleased. For them, it's all part of the New York experience.

Follow this advice and you, too, can make it through an entire weekend with minimal houseguest-related hassle. If you can suck it up and find it within yourself to enjoy one real cheeseball activity (a trip on the Circle Line, cupcakes at Magnolia, tickets to Wicked), they will never know that you weren't super-psyched to see them. And, even better, you'll probably get a free dinner out of it.

Just try not to let that dinner be at Tavern on the Green.

lipstick jungle

About a year and a half ago, I was kicking around the idea of online dating. I hate meeting people in bars, after all, and I've known for a long time that I'm better in print than in person - it seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, though, I was too embarrassed by the prospect to go through with it. Regular dating is icky enough. Throwing myself at a throng of cyberstrangers? Totally unacceptable. I couldn't do it.

And, okay, I also got totally hung up on the profile.

As usual, I was trying to game the survey, and one question in particular - "Which celebrity do you resemble most?" - sent my brain into a bit of a tailspin: Why the fuck is this question here? Aren't I supposed to include an actual picture? Is this a perception question? A taste question? A personality question?

And what the fuck am I supposed to do if the obvious answer is one that totally fucking sucks?

Now, I don't exactly have movie-star looks. I'm never going to be mistaken for Kate Beckinsale or Catherine Zeta-Jones - I'm the bookish, gangly type. From time to time I've been told I look like Sylvia Plath. (Brainy!) And Alyson Hannigan. (Quirky!) And, once, lasciviously, "That girl from Secretary." (Creepy!)

But 90% of the time I hear the same damn thing. Usually from women. Or, to be fair, gay men.

"Oh my God," they say, "Do you know who you remind me of?" They pause, consult their companions, and suck in an anticipatory breath. Then, all in a rush, "You are so Miranda!"

Okay, okay, so: I happen to be a young professional woman working in Manhattan. As it turns out, I spend a great deal of time with three other young professional women who also work in Manhattan. One is sexually adventurous. One has exquisite, enviable fashion sense. One is undeniably traditional.

And then there's me. Tall. Occasionally red-headed. A big chunk of ice for a heart.

Yes, I get it. There's a superficial resemblance to the characters from Sex and the City. Slightly more for me, what with the physical resemblance, but fine: for all four of us. But this is where the similarities end. Because we are actual people, not caricatures drawn for a 30-minute medium. Our Samantha cares overwhelmingly for the people around her. Our Carrie is eminently sensible and totally selfless. Our Charlotte has the foulest mouth of anyone I've ever met. And me? Our Miranda? Well, I'll be fucking damned if my character arc ends with a melodramatic denouement in a bathroom in Brooklyn.

To the fifty or so people who have told me how much I remind them of Miranda over the past eight years: fuck off and die horribly. Love, me.

But I have to ask: how in the hell did these women become the archetypes of modern femininity? Is it really possible that you can take a random group of women and, after a few minutes' contemplation, divide them neatly into Carries, Charlottes, Samanthas, and Mirandas? It must be, right? Because I can't tell you how many times I've heard otherwise independently minded women arguing about their Sex and the City counterparts.

"No I'm the Carrie!"

"No I am!"

"Whatever, Samantha."

Even HBO's getting into the game, producing a reality series that's loosely based on Sex and the City. Given how easily women seem to correlate with the Sex and the City stereotypes, it should be a fucking breeze to cast the women for this show, right? Because Sex and the City is just like real life.

No, seriously. People really fucking believe this. A few months ago, Rebecca Traister wrote a singularly vile defense of chick lit in which she argued that chick lit "chronicles exactly what the sensationalist gothics and pious sentimentalists could not: the young female experience of professional, sexual and economic power." That's right, ladies: chick lit is the historical record of our life and times.

Every time I think of this article, I picture a grim-faced Sam Waterston slamming a hand on the jury pen, all "Let the historical record show: Women of the early twenty-first century were catty, self-absorbed, image-obsessed label-whores."

Come on, Traister! No, strike that: come on, everybody! Sex and the City and its sordid spin-offs offer no more a realistic representation of womanhood than a Vogue editorial spread. They are sparkly, swishy creations, as practical as a pair of peau de soie Manolos in a snowstorm. And yet people persist in believing it - and believing in it. I go home for the holidays and people actually expect me to regale them with stories about three-appletini lunches and sordid affairs.

Except no. For the vast majority of the population, life is not like this. Not in Manhattan. Not anywhere.

Look, I'm not trying to make a blanket statement about chick lit. Love it, hate it, whatever, but it's a pretty broad fucking genre, and it's awfully hard, I think, to craft a defensible argument about chick lit as a whole. Not to say that I haven't been guilty, on occasion, of sneering in the genre's general direction, but it would be close-minded of me to dismiss the entire enterprise offhand. I've said it before and I'll say it again: generalization is the refuge of the intellectually lazy and the preternaturally elitist. Pick any medium of expression, any area of study, and you'll find a nice long list of things that will annoy and disappoint you. On the other hand, you might also find a few things that will surprise and delight you.

But I'm talking about a very specific type of chick lit, a type that manages to be pretty fucking obnoxious across the board, even without the pseudo-intellectual spin from Salon. I'm talking about aspirational glam lit.

Before Sex and the City, you had chick lit of the Bridget Jones persuasion. Pudgy, pratfall-prone heroine gets some self-confidence, gets a man. It's moderately insulting in that it implies that romance is a bit of a raison d'etre, but, I mean, that's nothing new. Trashy, escapist romance has been around for centuries and, for better or for worse, it'll probably be around for centuries to come. Truth be told, I'd take trashy romance over turgid self-importance any day.

All things considered, Bridget Jones is pretty harmless. I mean, after all, no one wants to be Bridget Jones. And no one tries to be Bridget Jones, either. You never find a group of women sitting around, swirling their Disaronno while discussing in excruciating detail who's Bridge, who's Shazzer, and who's Moaning Myrtle.

Sex and the City-spawned aspirational glam lit (or, more succinctly, ass lit) features glossy-haired, rosy-cheeked glamour girls and invites us to step into their 400-dollar shoes. The implication being, of course, that we shouldn't be satisfied with our own, pedestrian footwear. Or our own, pedestrian partners. Or our own, pedestrian pursuits. Like work. But don't be fooled by its saucy, just-between-us-girls tone. Ass lit is ad-friendly, not woman-friendly. If ass lit were a mirror in a fairy tale and you asked for its honest opinion, it would say something like "Well, not you darling, never you, but maybe if you stop eating and squeeze yourself into that Marni jacket and those 7 For All Mankind jeans you can't afford. And, okay, a bit of Botox probably wouldn't hurt and seriously: Creme de la Mer. You're killing me here. And what about a hot, stupid boyfriend? Even better if he treats you badly. You'll never be the fairest, but you might just manage to get somewhere close to fair."

In short, Bridget Jones pokes fun at feminine foible; Sex and the City exploits it.

And when we sit around and cast ourselves as SJP understudies, we're just aiding and abetting.

I think that it's time. It's time to stop. It's time to get the fuck over Sex and the City. When life sucks hard enough that you need to indulge in a little fantasy, fine, pick up that book. Update your Netflix queue. Whatever. We all have to cope and I'm not one to deny a girl a guilty pleasure. It's a hell of a lot better than locking yourself in a bathroom to smoke a shit-ton of crack for a few days.

But, understand this: Sex and the City is sitcom, not self-help. And, while I'm at it, Carrie isn't wise, she's glib. Charlotte isn't demure, she's stuck-up. Samantha isn't liberated, she's tragic. And Miranda isn't driven, she's terrified. Don't try to be these women - fucking try to be better than these women. There are better role models in this world than those brought to life by the man responsible for Miss Match.

Because if we keep going the way we're going, Traister might just turn out to be right, and fifty years from now our grandchildren will look down at their Women's Studies syllabi to find Bushnell, Sykes, or - God help us all - Weisberger. Is this really going to be our contribution to history? Thirty years ago we fought for equality and now we fight for, what, frivolity?

Enough. We're done, here. Women of Manhattan, women of the fucking world, repeat after me:

I am not the Samantha.

I am not the Charlotte.

I am not the Carrie.

And for the love of Betty Friedan: I am not the motherfucking Miranda.

basketball diaries

An admission: I don't normally go in on March Madness pools.

Please don't get the wrong impression, here. It's not that I don't care - it's more that I kind of care too much. If I were the sort of person to rank my priorities, college basketball would fall somewhere between paying the rent and Diet Coke. I know that I'm, like, a total girl or whatever, but the tournament is, all the same, kind of a big fucking deal to me.

But, even so, I usually don't enter tournament pools. Because when you get right down to it, I'm just too fucking competitive. If I'm publicly accountable for the predictions I make, I transform from your everyday obsessive fan to an actual, honest-to-God, foam-at-the-mouth crackpot, tearing at my hair when things go wrong and desperately indulging superstition when things go right. At some point, I usually end up on the floor in front of the television, knees pulled protectively to my chest while I balance a pillow on my head. Because you never know: the pillow may be lucky.

And remember, the tournament is two weeks long. Other events I typically bet on - the Oscars, for instance - are over in, like, 4 hours. I can get in, get out, and get second place with hardly any trouble at all. An NCAA tournament pool, on the other hand, will actively ruin my life.

Which is why I'm in some trouble this year. Because last night, while discussing the bracket with my dad, he basically taunted me until I agreed to go in on his pool (which is, officially, "for recreational purposes only") at work.

If anyone out there still believes that sports appreciation and cognitive ability are somehow mutually exclusive, they need only skim the rules of this pool to have their worldview severely undermined:

It's been nice knowing you, sanity. I'll see you again sometime around April 4th.

that's so retrograde

Fucking Mercury, man.

Astrologers will tell you that Mercury is in retrograde nine or so weeks a year, and during these nine weeks, things are pretty much a mess when it comes to communication, technology, and travel.

In my opinion, this drastically understates the matter: I find that when Mercury is in retrograde, everything in my life goes straight to everlasting shit.

Whether or not this is a self-fulfilling situation is a question I choose to ignore.

But for the past twelve days, the tiniest and most annoying of planets has wreaked some serious fucking havoc on my life, which is why I haven't posted in such a shamefully long time.

(It is also, I suspect, the explanation for the release of Failure to Launch. That shit just does not happen during astrologically benevolent times. Even by Hollywood's increasingly low standards. You just know that everyone involved with that film is in a full-body cringe right now. Even Terry Bradshaw.)

(No, scratch that: especially Terry Bradshaw.)

Now, I realize that I might not seem the type to take much stock in astrological prognostication. I mean, I'm the daughter of economists. When I told my dad what I was going to major in at college he sort of rolled his eyes and mumbled something about "quantitative hand-waving" and "intellectual mumbo-jumbo". And it's not like I was suggesting a degree in Applied Folk & Myth or anything: I majored in political science.

But I'm a contrarian at heart. And since I was too much of a goody-goody in high school to engage in any real rebellion, I instead needled my atheistic, academic family by developing a deep affection for mysticism, witchcraft, and the occult. I collected tarot cards and learned to read palms. I cast spells and read horoscopes and was, like, totally obsessed with The Craft.

(Not that anyone should have to justify an obsession with The Craft. That's just good sense.)

I started visiting psychics in high school, too, digging for information on past lives and future loves and whatnot. One time I allowed myself to be convinced that I was being trailed by a vaguely inappropriate ghost - so much so that I spent the majority of an AP English exam covering up my legs, shifting about nervously, and glaring at a particularly suspicious patch of floor.

In retrospect, it was probably just the medium's way of telling me that my skirts were too short.

Since then, I've given up on annoying my family and have devoted myself instead to annoying my friends. And anyone with the bad sense to read my blog. Even so, I haven't quite managed to leave my spiritual self behind. I still read my horoscope religiously and occasionally I'll go see a psychic. And I still have a truly unforgivable tendency to say - in all seriousness - things like "Oh my God, he's such a Pisces."

(My favorite astrologer, by the way, is a woman named Susan Miller. Delightfully, she feels really bad when she gives you less-than-pleasant news. Like: "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, dear Aquarius, but the next two weeks are going to see a catastrophic climate shift and widespread destruction. As the water bearer you will be, I am afraid, one of the first to go.")

But you know what? It's actually sort of nice to be able to ascribe, on occasion, my generally asshatted ways to something other than inherent stupidity. An excess of reason is, after all, one form of insanity, so why not let myself believe from time to time that I'm at the mercy of some sort of all-powerful planetary force? It may be irrational, but at the end of the day it's pretty fucking therapeutic.

And if there's one thing that anyone trying to get by in this city needs, it's therapy.

If you don't trust me, well, consider this: even my extraordinarily logical father has come to recognize the possible benefits of occasional mystical vapidity.

Not too long ago he was dealing with a few non-trivial health problems and for a couple of months he was pretty nervous - I could tell because he kept making really uncomfortable jokes about how he wanted me to dispose of his ashes. ("Dump them out with the confetti at the end of the RNC, kiddo - maybe I can infect the Republicans with good sense.") But then, one day, all of a sudden, he sounded better, calmer. I asked him if he'd heard from the doctor, and he told me no, but he had heard from his friend Todd up in Vancouver. Apparently Todd's newly formed coven had cast a get-well spell for my father.

"I realize that we have some of the best doctors in the world here," he said, "but you know what? It can't quite compare to knowing that you have a gay Wiccan coven on your side. I think I'm going to be fine."

And he was.

And even though I've had a week of unremitting illness and confusion and disappointment and chaos, I can find some comfort by telling myself that once Mercury returns to normal, my life will follow.

Mercury may only be retrograde nine weeks a year, but bullshit can be bliss all year round.

missouri compromise

My mother called me tonight to tell me that she's decided she wants to move.

This isn't entirely surprising: my mom hates St. Louis. But usually she refuses to admit that she hates St. Louis because she's lived there for 35 years and doesn't like to be wrong.

"Well," I said, "Missouri'll do that to you."

She ignored me. "I want to move," she continued, "But I just don't know if I can leave the house -- "

"You do love that house."

"No, no, I mean - I mean, I do, but I always said that I wouldn't sell the house until after you got married."

I waited for the punchline. As it turned out, she was serious.

And I was silent.

For, like, three minutes.

Eventually, my brain kicked back in. "I, uh, always thought you were joking, Mom."

"Why would I joke about that?"

"I don't know, because you've been saying that since I was 13?"

"We'll have the reception here, out back in the garden -- "

"Mom -- "

"I'll just open up the doors off the living room and maybe I'll move the chairs around so there's more room."

"Mom."

"And I can make those prosciutto things you like so much."

"MOM."

"What?"

"Mom, listen to me: I don't want to get married."

She snorted in disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you want to get married."

"No. I don't. And you know this. I mean, I've been telling you this since ... well, since you started telling me I should get married at the house."

"But Lizzie," she said, sternly, "You have to have babies."

I rolled my eyes so hard she could probably hear it over the phone. "I don't have to get married to do that."

I heard a crash, a muffled curse.

"Are you okay?"

"I knocked a glass over."

"Oh."

"It was just ... it was too close to the edge of the counter, I guess." She made a quiet, defeated noise on the other end of the line. I knew what that meant: I was being a jerk.

So I backpedalled.

"I mean, I don't know," I said, "Maybe ... maybe if I met the right person -- "

"Yes! The right person. You just haven't met the right person yet."

She sounded so excited that I just couldn't help myself: " -- because I guess marrying for money wouldn't be all bad."

"Sweetie!" she sputtered, "You don't mean that, either."

"I don't know," I said, obnoxiously. "Maybe I mean it."

"You want to marry someone you love, though, don't you?"

(It is worth pointing out here that my mother was, pretty much, destroyed by marriage. But it's nice that she can keep such a positive attitude about it.)

Because I'm an asshole, I pressed on. "At least money gets you stuff."

"But you don't care about money. I mean, look at your job -- "

"I know," I snapped, "I'm poor. And I have no one to blame but myself." I took a deep breath, regrouped. "Okay, maybe the money isn't the point. Maybe I'll marry someone with OCD so I never have to worry about cleaning the apartment."

"But you like cleaning your apartment."

"So maybe I'll marry someone with a great jump hook and breed power forwards."

"Oh come on, Lizzie, you know you only like short men."

"Fine! Point guards! And how many times do I have to tell you: that's circumstance, not choice."

"Well, there's a very nice young man at work."

"You mentioned. Several times."

"And he's taller than you."

"So's O.J. Simpson, Mom."

She expelled an explosive sigh in the way that only mothers can. "I just don't understand how you got this way. Why would you marry someone you don't love?"

"If I marry at all," I reminded her.

"Elizabeth Ann!" she screeched. "Now you're just being stubborn."

"No, I'm just being practical. I mean, most people eventually end up married to someone they don't love, right? Why not get a head start?"

My mother sucked in a breath. "This is all your father's fault, you realize." Then, after a moment, "Which means that you might have a point."

"I usually do."

"Well," she said, "you can do whatever you want -- "

"I usually --"

"-- just as long as you know that if we're not going to wait for your wedding, then you're going to have to help me pack."

Checkmate.

"Oh, you're good."

"I try."

"I'll let you know when I have a ring."

"You do that."

upstairs, downstairs

I can't tell you how many times I've heard some jackass say some variation of this over the past few weeks:

"Can you believe how warm it's been? I guess we're in for a mild winter, huh!"

Come on: have we really forgotten how easily tempted Fate is? Each time I heard this, I mentally ratcheted up my prediction for the first snowfall of the year by about an eighth of an inch or so. By the time this past weekend finally rolled around, I wasn't at all surprised when we got slammed with about 26 inches of snow.

Some people blame it on a Nor'easter. I choose to blame it on an excess of inanity.

Luckily, I had fuck all to do except watch the Winter Olympics, so for most of Sunday I was able to stay happily ensconced in my living room. When I finally did have to go out, I made sure I was well-prepared for the inclement weather. (This may or may not have had anything to do with my slight obsession with The Day After Tomorrow.) I wrapped myself up in a coat, hat, and gloves and struggled into my heavy-duty snowboots. Then, I braced myself and walked out the door.

Whereupon I promptly fell on my ass.

The truly embarrassing thing is this: I wasn't even outside. I was walking down the stairs to the first floor of my apartment building and my boot just flew right the fuck out from under me. I managed to clutch the railing at the last minute and break the fall slightly, but I fell hard - really hard - on my left hip and elbow. The wind was knocked right out of me.

And, honestly, I wish that it had stayed knocked out of me because once I caught my breath, I let out the most pathetic sort of animalistic howl. It was so pathetic that, even through the pain, I was terrified that one of my neighbors was going to poke a head out into the hall to see what all the hubbub was about, only to find a spastic, twitching girl sobbing hysterically into her bright pink snowboots. (Did I say heavy-duty? I meant preposterously juvenile.)

At the time, the entire situation seemed roughly equivalent to dying of a heart attack while sitting on the toilet.

It was this fear more than anything else that got me up and into the apartment, where I collapsed in the hallway and tried to stay very still for a very long time. Because it hurt like a goddamned motherfucker. And it still hurts. I'm hobbling around like I'm Tina Turner and Ike just had a hell of a day.

But as I was lying there, I couldn't help thinking that, as usual, it was all my family's fault. Because, really, they're to blame for the fact that I am just too fucking tall.

When I was 14, I went with my father to a family reunion in honor of my Gran's 80th birthday. I had just about stopped growing and was slightly over six feet. And yet I was one of the shortest women there. Now, I was slightly taller than my uncle Gary, who's only six feet tall. But it's telling that he's known, affectionately, as the runt of the family.

As I was coming off a growth spurt, I was also by far the smallest woman there. I think I probably weighed about 120 pounds fully clothed and soaking wet; the rest of the women were built like tree trunks. Or, more accurately, built to throw tree trunks. If any man ever decides to saddle himself with me on a long-term basis, he should take note: I can't help think that it's only a matter of time before I turn into Miss Trunchbull.

But my point is that these people are giants. And they know it. And they should all know better than to breed with other giants. Because that's just cruel. Like, okay, take Andre the Giant. If he were alive, that is. And then shack him up with Rebecca Lobo. Now: imagine the offspring.

I am a slightly less absurd version of that.

Don't get me wrong, I love being tall. It's tremendously useful if, for instance, I need to retrieve an item from a high shelf or instill a Napoleonic complex in an dissatisfying suitor. On a crowded subway car, I can actually brace myself against the ceiling. It's very handy. But the problem with being so tall is that it never stops surprising me. I am absolutely incapable of calculating spatial relativity: I'm always a little bit bigger than I expect to be.

So I have a habit of hitting my head. And stubbing my toes. And tripping over my feet. Not only am I really great at falling down stairs, I'm pretty good at falling up them, too. Sometimes I break bones, sometimes I sprain joints, and sometimes I just bruise the hell out of my ass.

And it all comes back to temptation. Being stupid tempts fate. But being stupidly tall tempts a far more diabolical force: gravity. Not to mention gravity's close cousin, comedy.

Well, I might be bruised and half-broken today, but I can at least take comfort in the fact that if this publishing thing doesn't work out, I have a totally viable career in the circus. It probably pays better in any case.

we named the dog indiana

New York City nightlife is a lot like this. You think you've found something all bright and shiny and delicious, but you're really just a few crappy special effects away from a very bad end.

At least Walter Donovan had the luxury of a dusty death. I had to spend the day hungover and I had to hear the voice of that fucking knight, saying over and over in my mind "You chose ... poorly."

Although, in my defense, when faced with a two-for-one weeknight drink special, it's hard to choose wisely.

a letter to bobby brown, on the occasion of his birthday

Dear Mr. Brown,

Happy Birthday! I hope that you and Whitney have big plans for each other on this special day.

Today is my birthday, too - which means that we're, like, totally twinsies! Of course, I'm only 25, so I still have ages and ages before I hit middle age, and the big 4-0 is creeping up on you pretty fast, isn't it? But don't despair: I'm sure you'll make the last three years of your thirties as awesome as the first seven.

But do you know what? We have so many other things in common apart from our shared birthday. For instance, in 1986 you were voted out of New Edition on account of your drug habit. And in 1989 I was kicked out of Girl Scouts on account of not being a spiteful bitch like Theresa Tieffenbraun. But I hear that you were just smoking weed at the time; and, as everybody knows, I am absolutely a spiteful bitch. Which means we so did not deserve such unfair treatment. Just because we're Aquarians and march to the beat of a different drummer (or, in your case, drum machine), that doesn't mean that we should be punished. The world needs our originality. I think you must agree.

And, speaking of Aquarius (totally the best sign ever), do you ever read your horoscope? I read mine, and every time I read it I think how it also must apply to you! If you don't read it, well, you should, because it looks the coming year is going to be very eventful for us. In fact, I think you'll be particularly excited about this:

"The artist in you is truly inspired on a more profound level than ever and the music of the spheres is within your hearing, and indeed music and film is your forte now. Finances are somehow linked with this revolution and you may learn what is really of value to you. Currently Jupiter squaring up to Neptune from Scorpio is also affecting this small group, bringing a mixture of strange denial and extravagance, a sense of unreality versus the longing to escape the old life with its pressures and its more superficial values. The end product is a remarkable gentleness, humility and a real wisdom brought to your being, which ultimately brings you on the side of the angels."

Of course, anyone who has ever heard My Prerogative couldn't possibly doubt that the angels have been on your side for at least 17 years - and how! I mean: "Yo! Tell it, kick it like this!" Jesus himself couldn't have said it better.

But how amazing is this prediction? I personally couldn't ask for a better birthday present. Music, film, and fortune? Perhaps I'll finally find work as a critic, and maybe you'll finally live up to the potential that we all saw so long ago in Ghostbusters II. And there's no way your new album can fail now - the stars are with you, Bobby!

Also, I know that I could use some gentleness, and I'm sure you could too - Whitney's been looking a little strung out lately, my special birthday friend.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you, Whitney, and the kids (even those you may not know about). I can only hope that by my 37th birthday I will have as much to celebrate as you.

All my birthday best,
Elizabeth

wanderlust

My brain appears to be taking its sweet time emerging from vacation-induced languor. Over the past two days I have managed incredible feats of inanity, to the point that I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a menace to society, and whether I should be able to take a personal day on account of stupidity. For instance, it took me three separate trips to Staples to procure the proper envelopes for 2005 tax forms. Because I cannot, apparently, distinguish "1099" from "W-2".

Then, on the way to work on Tuesday, I noticed a service advisory for Manhattan-bound F trains. I wondered why the signs were posted on the Coney Island-bound side but dismissed the thought. I boarded a train and curled up into a corner seat. 15 minutes later, I realized that I was heading in the wrong direction.

And yesterday afternoon I noticed that a sign across the street from work has been torn so that it now reads "Same-day assports". I laughed so hard when I saw it that I started choking on my gum, attracting the attention of an elderly woman with a cane and a slightly moldy fur coat. She asked me if I was okay, but when she saw what I was looking at she emitted a scandalized chirp and scuttled away. I had no choice but to swallow the gum. Which is just punishment for being unable to maintain one's composure in the presence of the word "ass".

The only problem with vacations, as far as I can tell, is that they have to end. And the shock of plunging back into real life is far too brutal for the brain to handle; as a result, we go dumb.

The following paragraphs should provide sufficient proof for this theory.

I spent the past weekend in Florida with three of my closest friends. We all work in publishing and, as such, are generally exhausted and embittered. We're also poor, but Jet Blue was having a fare sale and my friend's father has an apartment in Palm Beach, so the way I see it, the trip was less an indulgence than a responsibility.

Although, don't get me wrong, there was certainly a great deal of indulgence. I spent most of my time sitting poolside, sipping Bloody Marys that were magically refilled by a very helpful man in a crisp white uniform. Occasionally he would also bring me peanut butter cookies. I don't know his name and we never spoke more than two sentences to one another, but even so I think that this man might be a little bit perfect: I never once felt guilty about asking him for what I wanted.

Unusually, though, I managed to fall in love with a vacation without falling in love with the destination. I say unusually because, in truth, I am a raging geographical slut.

When someone self-identifies as a commitmentphobe, they generally mean that they have a fear of committing to a romantic relationship. I have no patience for these people. They piggyback on a long and glorious tradition of existential angst because they just can't bring themselves to say "Well, I just don't know if I like you that much" or "I like you a lot now, but I'm not sure I'm going to like you a lot later". Come on: provided you have a basic grasp of modern contraception and no great tendency to find yourself walking down an aisle, getting out of a relationship is, all things considered, pretty fucking easy. There's nothing scary about romantic commitment unless you really suck at breaking up with people.

Real terror is this: handing over first and last month's rent, making a down payment, finding a grown-up job, signing a contract, changing residency status. Whenever you do these things, whenever you make these choices, you're restricting future choice and opportunity in a profoundly terrifying way. The opportunity costs of transitory monogamy can't begin to compare.

From 1999-2004, I lived in 7 apartments in 4 cities in 2 countries. I explored careers in academia, film, design, government, theatre, and publishing. I chose the most interdisciplinary major I could find. Nearly everything I did in those five years was, very specifically, about not making a choice. I like new challenges and I hate missed opportunities; the very idea of settling down in any way, form, or fashion was repellent.

Naturally, I chose to go to graduate school.

I was drawn to graduate school because it is, in a way, a non-choice choice. Or, at the very least, a choice to avoid any truly consequential choice. You get to spend 5 years or so in relative freedom, reading and arguing and writing, and when you're finished you have honest-to-God qualifications that you can take just about anywhere, into any number of fields. You can leave, you can come back, you can apply for fellowships, whatever. Doctoral programs are the open relationships of professional life.

As it turned out, though, not open enough for me. Now I am, I suppose, what you would call a reformed rake, having settled for a city and career that makes the finding and fashioning of new ideas its business. I'm not exactly thrilled by the commitment, but there's enough novelty to distract me from opportunities elsewhere. It's a compromise.

Even so, I have a bit of a wandering eye.

Whenever I'm out of town, I turn a calculating gaze on my surroundings, a rapid consideration of moving costs and employment opportunities and decorating schemes. For a while, I wondered about living in a cottage in Nantucket. I seriously debated moving into a crumbling townhouse in Savannah. I've even thought about returning to St. Louis and insinuating myself into its newly revitalized downtown.

I also routinely torture my friends and colleagues in New York by threatening to flee to Mongolia or Canada or England. The other day Alison mentioned that her mother had spent a summer in Tasmania, which resulted in a flurry of online research on my part and an exasperated sigh on hers.

Once, I requested an application from the Peace Corps. Even though I know, with absolute certainty, that I would be the worst member of the Peace Corps in human history. (Third-worst if you count fictional characters.)

But there is no daydream more soothing for a true commitmentphobe like myself than the dream of relocation, and every city I see enables my nomadic tendencies.

This is why it was unusual that I didn't feel any great compulsion to move to Palm Beach. Palm Beach was like a warm-weather version of midtown Manhattan: terrifying in its affluence. And also terrifying in the age of its inhabitants. People there are seriously half-desiccated. It was like walking through the Egyptian collection at the Met.

So, in the end, I've come to the conclusion that Palm Beach is the perfect place to go on vacation. Even if I have to pay for my drinks or - God forbid - fetch them myself, it's a lovely place to while away a weekend. But I know I'd swallow a bottle of hydrochloric-acid-spiked cyanide if I had to stay, so I don't waste any time wondering if it's a city worth ravishing.

And when I return, my brain is dulled by sun and travel and booze, and for a little while I forget how very much I want to run away.