On my way to Oz

As I'm repacking my bags and getting ready to leave LA, I'm hit with a horrible realization: I'm going to miss THE REAL WORLD on MTV. Not only tonight, but for the next five weeks! Why am I doing this to myself??

Thirty

I did it. I turned 30. I was waiting for some huge epiphany about what it means to be an adult, who I am and what my purpose is to hit me this weekend. It didn’t. I did have a lot of fun though, and that’s just as important.

The best birthday gift I received this weekend was from my 15-year-old self in the form of a letter that I wrote on October 28th, 1992. Let me bring you back to that Monday almost 15 years ago. It was one day before the Clinton/Perot/Bush election. I was a sophomore at Berkeley High, my brother had been born one month earlier, I was dating a boy named Harlan, and my social living teacher gave her students the assignment of writing a letter and placing it in a sealed, stamped envelope, which she would then keep in her files and send on the date indicated.

My letter arrived in Berkeley earlier this week. Mom over-nighted to Brooklyn in time for me to read it out loud at my birthday party on Saturday. It’s four pages long, way too long to include on the blog, but it starts off like this:

“Dear 30-year-old Audrey, Happy Birthday. Wow, you’re old. So, how is my life now? It’s so far off, I can’t even contemplate. Am I married? Do I have kids? Am I married to Harlan? I don’t know, I don’t care if I’m not married yet, but I hope I’ve started my career as an English teacher.”

It includes my comments on politics:

“How is the U.S.? I’ll bet it’s gone to shambles! I’ll bet violence has gotten pretty bad, not to mention money [I think I meant the economy]. Who’s president now? Everyone I know is voting for Clinton tomorrow, he had better win.”

On fashion:

“What clothes are in style now? I’ll bet they’re ugly. Now I wear baggy jeans, V-neck T-shirts and leotards. Ribbed shirts are in, but I think they’re ugly.”

My take on being a teenager:

“Being a teenager sucks (of course) but fifteen’s not that bad, I mean it’s tolerable anyhow. I’m generally happy. Of course I’m depressed once in a while, but isn’t everyone? Usually my mood depends on who I talk to at school and whether or not this guy, Christian, flirts with me or not. He hasn’t in a while, it’s very depressing. Yes, I know, I have a boyfriend, it’s just the principle of the thing.”

And a P.S. to sum up my frame of mind at 15:

“I’m very pacifistic, I think clothes are dumb and I love Berkeley. I just got four cavities (frowny face).”

And the rest of the letter is about how good looking I was. Well, at least I had a positive self-image.

Diary Friday - in need of fairy dust

Sorry I’ve been slow on the posts. I’m no longer sitting in an office all day, but out enjoying Brooklyn with visiting guests. It might be time to get used to a lack of daily posts for a while, since I can’t promise to hunt down an Internet café every day I’m in Australia and New Zealand. I will, however, try to blog as often as possible to keep you all updated on the trip.

But before my trip (which starts on Tuesday), I must turn 30 (which starts on Sunday). As I’ve been discussing, I have mixed feelings about getting older. On the whole, I am happy. I like where I am in life (on my couch in Brooklyn watching VH1, presently). But I’ve always had a slight aversion to aging. Haven’t we all? There’s not been a Diary Thursday in a long time, so I decided to post one today. Even though it’s Friday.

Saturday, June 27, 1989, 12 years old

Big news – I graduated from 6th grade. I’ll be sad to not be going to Prospect anymore, but excited to go to Martin Luther King Junior Junior High next year. The thing is, I feel like I’m growing up too fast. It seems like soon I’ll be going to college and then I’ll be a grown-up and then I’ll die. I know I’m only 12, and I probably have at least 60 more years left of my life. But I’m already in Junior High! I wish I could go to Never Never Land and stay a kid forever.

Never Never Land. It’s funny how things change – I used to want to be one of the Lost Kids. Now I want to be a Pirate.

Talented

Lots of stuff going on in my life right now – it’s my last day of writing about constipation (which makes me strangely sad) and the last week of my twenties. I have a friend coming into town tonight, a giant trip to prepare for and some serious partying to plan...

It’s all a little overwhelming, so let’s talk about Tetris.

I’ve gotten too good at it. And by that I mean that I can continue playing one game all the way through the subway ride from my office in Manhattan to my house in Brooklyn. Which means that when I arrive at my stop, I have to either sit in the station and finish my game, or I have to play while I’m walking home, which has led to a number of bumping into things and causing car accidents.

So what’s the solution? I suppose that I could just stop playing and do something more productive with my time, like reading or curing cancer. But I think it’s pretty clear here that I have a gift. And this gift, this rare talent, has to be encouraged, so I can blossom into the greatest cell phone Tetris player of all time.

Itty bitty

I leave for my trip in exactly one week. And I'm psyching myself up for it in the same manner that I psych myself up for all big trips – by purchasing myriads of pointless travel-sized items. I've always been drawn to travel-sized crap – it's just so cute. Like its regular-sized counterpart, only mini. I usually restrain this strange love of mini, but when a vacation approaches, I let it run free. And this unfettered passion for wee things has caused me to buy large bags full of uselessness in the last few days.

I never use hairspray at home, but perhaps in Australia I'll suddenly feel the need to style my hair. What if there's an 80's Junior High party and I need to tease my bangs? Good thing I bought that travel-sized bottle of Aquanet. And mouthwash. I don't use mouthwash. But I'm now the proud owner of mini Scope. Dental floss. Dental floss isn't that big to begin with. But, they can make it smaller. And they do. And I buy it. Along with a travel toothbrush and mini tube of Colgate. I'm going to have the cleanest little mini teeth in all of New Zealand.

Gung Hay Fat Choy

Chinese New Year brings back fond and fearful memories. No, not of colorful firecrackers, nor of red envelopes filled with money nor of giant Chinese dragons parading up Kearny Street. But memories of a particular chicken dish at a particular Chinese restaurant chain for which I advertised for many years.

This particular restaurant chain promotes the same chicken dish every February as if it’s new. In fact, they often go out of their way to make it “new,” by adding a feature like 30% more crunch! (i.e. water chestnuts, because they are in fact, cheaper than chicken). Though they didn’t go for my suggested headline of “Now with 30% less chicken!”

As part of this Chinese New Year promotion, I would write an ad campaign including print ads, radio commercials, a website and what they call instore. Instore included anything in the store like signage, cups, menu boards and fortune cookies. Yes, the fortune cookies were included in the promotion.

See, and you thought wise old Chinese men sat in dusty factories inscribing predictions for your future. Nope. These clairvoyant messages come from a surly copywriter, sitting in her sterile office cubical staring at a computer screen, trying to bang out 150 fortunes that relate to the Chinese New Year containing 76 characters or less. It wasn’t easy.

Especially since some of my best ideas got rejected. I thought it would be really funny if someone opened their cookie to see “What happens in Vegas really stays in Vegas” Or, in the New Years theme: “Enjoy this year. It will be your last.” Or of course, the old joke: “That wasn’t chicken.”

The temptation to write inappropriate fortunes was compounded by the fact that the year I was doing this was the Year of the Cock. I mean, come on.

My old coworker Amy was cleaning out some files and recently sent me the list of the fortunes that did make it to the cookie factory. So, if you ever get these as your fortunes, you’ll know that they were written by yours truly:

To soar like an eagle, you must first learn to waddle like a duck.

Don't get cocky in the Year of the Rooster.

If you cannot find wisdom within, try the Internet.

Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.
(After 100 I got bored and just started quoting song lyrics)

Thanks, Amy, for that little stroll down memory lane.

Labor of love

In keeping with yesterday’s theme of my mother and her obsession with reproduction, I’ve posted my next story at Auds and Ends. For those of you that know my family, this should sound very familiar. For those of you that don’t, well, this should explain a lot about me.

I saw my first live childbirth before I could talk. In fact, by the time I could say “Placenta,” I’d probably seen about three dozen. My mom was a home-midwife and when she couldn’t get a babysitter for last-minute births (which pretty much all births are, fetuses don’t exactly send a “save the date” card) she’d just take me along. Some people think it’s weird that I was exposed to so much raw emotion, so much blood and gore, so much vagina at such an early age. But, growing up with it, I thought it was the most natural thing in the world. And, when you think about it, reproduction is the most natural thing in the world. Read more.

Farmer Mom - ten days and counting

Ya know, Valentines’ Day can be hard for people who aren’t in a serious relationship. As can turning 30, when you see some of your friends getting married and having babies, and you don’t yet feel responsible enough to get a puppy. But all this is made easier for folks like me who have such a caring and supportive mother.

I get home the night of Valentines’ Day, after watching a 3-hour performance of people reading out old unrequited love poems, break up emails, and rejection letters (all of which were hilarious by the way), to find the following email from my mother:

Dear Audrey,

I see all this counting down about your trip on your blog but nothing about present desires. What's a mom to do? You're going to be thirty, a big deal. It sounds pretty young to me now but it didn't then.

So I feel like I should give you a big present. But what? Maybe we should harvest your eggs now and not wait till later. You still have some good years left, of course, but this way there's no pressure. Maybe you won't meet Mr. Right till you're forty, and you wouldn't have to worry about fertility at all. Maybe you're thinking I'm crazy; maybe I am.

Well, it's just a suggestion and I won't be offended if you don't want to do it. What else do you want? See's Candy?

Love,
Mom

HARVEST MY EGGS?!? Because I’m so old and dried up and disgusting that it will be TEN YEARS before a worthy man wants to father my children? A note to mothers everywhere: this is NOT what your daughter wants to hear on Valentines’ Day, ten days before her thirtieth birthday.

At least mom caveats it with, “You still have some good years left, of course, but this way there's no pressure.” Which I read as: “You still have some good years left...” As in: You’re not completely done for yet, honey. Some man out there might want to have sex with you before your ovaries shrivel up into little useless prunes.

What? You don’t want to undergo a painful surgical procedure to capture what little remains of your fertile youth? How about a nice box of See’s Candy instead? Yes, that’s clearly the next logical choice.

Oh Mom, while I’m completely appalled because I know you meant this in utter seriousness, I’ve also enjoyed many hours of laughter since receiving this email. Thanks, I love you.

A day for revolutionaries everywhere

I'm a regular text messager, and I often use T9word to save time. For those of you that don't text (my over-50-something readers) T9 stands for “Text on 9 keys” and it’s software that comes preloaded on many cell phones to make texting faster by automatically entering words. But the words it thinks you are trying to say are often comical, getting whole sentences entirely wrong.

Like when I tried to write "Valentines" today, it ended up with this:



I accidentally sent “Happy Takeover Day” to multiple people. I like that, Takeover Day. Forget this whole Valentines’ thing. Happy Takeover Day indeed!

Looking back too soon

T-minus two weeks until my adventure down under. T-minus 12 days until my thirtieth birthday.

I’m already getting nostalgic for all the things I’m leaving behind... New York, my neighborhood, my house, my friends, my job, my 20’s. Granted, New York, my neighborhood, my house and my friends will all be here when I return five weeks later. My job is questionable. My 20’s, pretty sure those aren’t ever coming back. Oh, the things I shall miss...

Then again, this is the girl who gets nostalgic over a subway station. Oh, A/C train 14th street subway stop... with your steel drum player - forever pinging out a botched rendition of “When the Saints Come Marching In,” your homeless man that smells like urine taking up three seats on the bench, your 14th street rats, always so clever to dodge that electric third-rail... how I shall long for thee while I’m away.

Insomnia

I love my cute Brooklyn neighborhood. I do. I love my street and my neighbors, and I think it's fabulous that everyone recycles. But does the truck have to pick up the bottles at two in the morning? Is that really necessary?

Ski Retreat Crasher

Torture for Audrey: knowing that your friends are downstairs in the bar drinking and playing Taboo while you’re stuck in the hotel room puking your guts out.

I’m not sure what made me sick in Vermont over the weekend. It could have been the six hours of attempted snowboarding in sub-freezing weather. Or the repeated falls on to cold, hard ice. Or running through the snow with wet hair from the hot tub to the hotel. Or perhaps the raw fish I had for dinner. Whatever it was, I was not a happy camper Saturday night or Sunday.

But it was still a fun trip over all. Vermont is beautiful in the Winter. And the snowboarding trails were fun – I have the awesome purple bruises all over my body to prove it. Thanks to Cate and Jane’s law firm for picking up the tab!

Fashion saved my life

You know I’m not big on fashion. But I have to give props for the fashionistas at Cole Haan for stepping in at just the right time. If the snotty boss lady there had not snubbed my roommate's new North Face down jacket and insisted that she get a new one from the winter collection, I would not have the hand-me-down, “unfashionable,” comfy, cozy, knee-length puffer that I now wear on a daily basis. So thanks to my roommate and to the snotty boss lady at Cole Haan, you saved me from freezing to death in this sub-zero East Coast winter. Who knew fashion could be so handy?


Do you see a difference? (Aside from the fact that one houses a pretty girl while the other is occupied by an invisible phantom). I don't. And that's why I'm not in the fashion industry.

Addicted

I don’t consider myself to be one of those people with a very addictive personality. I’ve never been a smoker, I don’t drink to excess (shhh, my parents read this), I can use drugs in moderation (and by drugs I mean Advil, Mom), I can even go a day without coffee… if forced. But there is one thing that even I cannot resist, and it has come back to haunt me: Tetris.

I downloaded Tetris on my cell phone for entertainment if I ever happened to be on the subway without a book. But recently, I’ve found myself playing even when I have a book. And, sadly, even when I’m not on the subway.

It’s becoming a problem. Again. This is not the first time I’ve encountered Tetriholism. As a kid, my sister and I saved up our allowance for months to purchase a Nintendo. I’d rush home from school to plug my brain into our new toy for two hours before dinner. I’d see Tetris pieces when I close my eyes. I squint at trees on the sidewalk thinking, if I could just turn that oak 90 degrees to the left it would fit perfectly between that house and that UPS truck.

It’s happening again.

There is something more to Tetris than the simple joy that most video games bring their players. Tetris fills an innate need. It has a draw that’s almost lustful. Here’s my new and somewhat family-inappropriate theory: Tetris allows women to experience the satisfaction of sticking a long, straight piece into a perfectly fitted empty space. It just feels so damn good to get that big block into the blank hole and have four lines blink and disappear.

Just thinking about it is making me want to play right now. Maybe I can sneak away at lunch for a quickie.

Cold hard flash

It has come to my attention that some of my family is not terribly thrilled about me posting stories about them online, which is completely understandable. Especially if the facts aren’t 100% accurate (they are to the best of my knowledge, with perhaps a bit of added sizzle). Anyway, I apologize if anyone was upset by the stories. I’ve removed all names (except my own) and please remember that any jesting is only meant in love.

The new story up at Auds and Ends involves no one but me and “the twins.” (And my mom and my sister briefly). I think my family will still dislike this story, as it’s rather politically incorrect and lacking in any sort of feminism. But, so be it. I wrote it a few years back, and here it is:

When I was about twelve, an amazing thing happened. I went from being the tall, boring, shy girl in my sixth-grade class to being the tall, boring, shy girl in my sixth-grade class with boobs. Two little mounds of flesh, no bigger than two ping-pong balls suddenly made all the difference in the world. Boys wanted to hang out with me, girls wanted to be me. And I hated it. At night before bed, when every other 12-year-old girl was praying for the breast-god to bestow such blessings on her, I was praying for mine to shrink. I slept on my stomach every night in hopes they’d get squashed and crawl back into the place from whence they had come. Read More.

19 days and counting

I’ve decided that I needed to do something fun and crazy for myself upon turning 30. I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks and I’ve narrowed it down to shaving my head or traveling to Australia and New Zealand.

I’ve chosen the latter. It costs a little more, but I think, over all, it will be a better life experience. Plus, shaving my head will make me even colder in this freezing New York weather, where as traveling to the Southern Hemisphere will make me warmer. And I’m all about being warmer right now.

I'm thinking of it as a very special, very expensive 30th birthday present to myself. Yippee.

Furrier

I just saw a dog dressed in a fur coat. I know that it's cold outside, but isn't that sort of redundant?

Fancy Pants – Part 2

“Hello, welcome to Lululemon New York.”

“Hi there, I recently purchased these pants from your store in Toronto.”

“Yes?”

“And, I noticed that they’re getting sort of scuffed on the waist, see all this pilling and threads coming out? As you know, these are expensive pants and I expect them to last more than a couple months before deteriorating. I’d like to exchange these for another pair or get my money back.”

“Yes, I see the abrasions you’re talking about. We’re happy to replace our products when there’s a defect in the internal design or stitching."

"Great!"

"But this looks like it was caused by an outside source. Like it was caught on Velcro… kind of like the Velcro on the waist-level strap of the messenger bag that you’re carrying over your shoulder right now.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, that’s an interesting theory.”

“Sorry. You’re welcome to look around our store if you’d like to buy another pair.”

Note to self: don’t wear Velcro messenger bag during next attempt to return pants.

Diary Thursday - Happy February

It’s the first day of February, which means different things to different people.

Some are hailing the beginning of Black History Month. Others are basking in the excitement of the day before Groundhogs’ Day. To many single people, it starts a two-week scramble to find a date for Valentines’ day.

But for me, February means it’s almost my third favorite day of the year (after to Bay to Breakers and Passover): my birthday. And this year, it means the beginning of COUNT DOWN ‘TILL THIRTY! Join me as I celebrate my last moments as a youngun’ and prepare for impending doom...

25 days and counting.

Let’s spend this Diary Thursday reminiscing over another birthday when I thought my life was about to be over.

Friday, February 24, 1990, 12 years and 364 days old

This is the last day of being a kid! Tomorrow I turn 13! I can’t believe my kiddom is over. Tomorrow I’m having a birthday party with all the relatives and everyone. I’m excited, happy, scared and sad. (Not about the party, about turning 13). On the whole, I don’t want to be a teenager. I miss when I was a kid and had no cares in the world.

Goodbye childhood, I’ll miss you.


Sunday, February 26, 1990, 13 YEARS OLD!!

You know what? Thirteen isn’t that bad. In fact, I like it. But fourteen, yuck, that’s WAY too old.