I'm about to get all Anderson Cooper on yo' asses

Here's a secret: Geographically, New York is not my first love. It's New Orleans, and if it wasn't so damn humid there the majority of the year, I would move tomorrow, taking up residence in some cute apartment on Decatur with those shuttered French windows that open to a tiny balcony that I'd fill with ferns and flowers and windchimes and voodoo dolls...

Anywho, I visited once in 2003 and on my recent trip back, I was determined to take a Katrina tour because I wanted to see the hurricane devastation for myself. The running consensus seems to be that the tourist areas are fine (which they largely are) and that the Ninth Ward was completely wiped out (which it was), but that's where all the poor people lived anyway, so who cares?! Get over it New Orleans! Mother Nature did you a favor! (At least this is what my republican cousins say.)

What I don't think many people realize is that most of the places you saw on the news--people climbing to rooftops for safety, doors with morbid X markings on them--were largely in the suburban upper and middle class areas of Gentilly and Lakeside--places kids like you and me grew up in. So imagine your parents' house when you look through these photos, because the areas of Gentilly and Lakeside are where I took the majority of these pictures. (FYI, I was confined to a bus, so apologies for the less-than-stellar photography. Not that I'm usually Annie Leibovitz or anything.)

According to Joe Genduse, a tour guide with Grayline and native New Orleanian (he said things like "ageen" instead of "again"), 80 percent of the city was destroyed, with the French Quarter suffering mostly wind damage and with Gentilly, where Joe lived, losing the most people. "I stayed because I couldn't get out," he said. "Imagine trying to evacuate 1.5 million people. People who tried to evacuate sat in traffic for 24 hours to go 12 miles." So, he batted down the hatches.


Today, there are areas of Lakeview where there still is no electricity or water pressure. You can tell the areas where these utilities exist, Joe says, because handfuls of trailers will start popping up there. "It's the infrastructure of the city that is the most damaged," he said. Police, firemen and banks all operate out of trailers, some without bathrooms, forcing the use of portable toilets. (Check out The New York Times recent story, the first of a three-part series, about how residents are trying to re-establish areas like Gentilly.)

Looting still happens, so much so that people who can still live in their homes are forced to either hire security or spray paint "beware" signs on the side of their houses. As you can imagine, some houses are so damaged the owners don't even bother to drop a dollar on a "for sale" sign. Instead, they simply spray paint their phone number across the front of the house.

It's a completely eye-opening experience to take a tour like this and if you come to New Orleans--and I recommend you do--you absolutely should take one. It's been two years since the hurricane and people still talk about it like it happened yesterday. I think that's largely because the majority of the city is still in such dire straits. Visitors coming to New Orleans can only help speed the progression.

So enough with the doom and gloom--why do I love New Orleans so much? Well, at the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, there is just something so magical about it. I'm fascinated by the architecture, the cemeteries, the insanely friendly people who will still say hi to you even when you blatantly avoid looking them in the eye. My first night on my last visit there I was having dinner at an outside cafe when a man crossing the street got hit by a car (that's no small feat on the French Quarter's tiny streets, mind you). Everyone ran to him--not to gawk, but to make sure he was OK (he was). Now, I've also seen this happen in New York, and while people did stop to help, a good number kept right on walking.

But the thing I love most about New Orleans, was best summed up by the guy dining at the table next to me at dinner that same night, after his waiter placed his po'boy in front of him: "My god, I think they fry everything here but the Coca-Cola!"

Breaking: Cabo's Airport to Be Less Scary

If you want a true test of friendship, take a vacation to Cabo San Lucas with a flight that departs from San Jose Del Cabo Airport.

I specify “departing” because upon arrival at the airport, you might be inclined to think it’s quite quaint. For instance, instead of disembarking into a tunnel that leads you into the airport, you instead step off the plane and onto a flight of stairs that leads you directly to the tarmac. Not only do get to feel like a celebrity disembarking a private jet, you’re also automatically greeted by Cabo’s fresh, warm air, a welcome respite from the freezing and likely germ-infested airplane air you’ve been inhaling for the last six hours.

That cuteness fades when you arrive for your departure, as Ilyse and I found on our trip back in March. Ready to get the fuck out of Mexico, our eager spirit was dampened when we saw the long—and I mean wrap-around-the-block loooooong—lines at check in. Turns out, the wait was due to the fact that the electronic check in systems were down, so employees had to name-check passengers on computer paper I swear was printed by a Commodore 64 and then hand-write tickets for boarding and baggage claim.

Well, stuff happens, we calmly told ourselves. Ilyse even went out of her way to joke with Ricardo at check in, “So, when was the last time you had to hand write a ticket—1982?” “Nope,” Ricardo somberly replied. “Just last week. This happens a lot.” Oh.

Handwritten tickets in hand, we passed through security and into the claustrophobia inducing waiting area, where 600 or so passengers were crammed in, waiting to board their long-delayed flights, which were seemingly delayed just for fun, as the weather in Cabo only gets as bad as partly cloudy. Food choices were limited to Burger King, nachos or personal pizzas; we opted for the latter, which I later discovered was an egregious mistake of which I’ll spare you the details.

Feeling ill makes me very cranky and poor Ilyse, already at the end of her rapidly fraying rope, had to put up with my whininess. Because of the mysterious delay, we missed our connection (although we only found this out after running the marathon through DFW), forcing us to spend the night in Dallas and thus swear off Mexico for the rest of our lives.

Thankfully, I’ve just got word that the Los Cabos Tourism Board has planned to upgrade its shotty airport, adding a new terminal and parallel landing strips for quicker departures, among other things (hopefully larger bathrooms with toilets that actually flush are also part of the plan). The hope is that these enhancements will “ensure visitors’ comfort and ease of safe travel upon arrival and/or departure in keeping with the destination’s upscale appeal.”

All I can say is, Los Cabos Tourism Board, you’ve got a lot of work to do.

My favorite airline becomes my Fear Factor

Ew, ew, ew, dear God, ew:

Reports the AP: "Continental Airlines Inc. is apologizing to its customers for 'poor conditions' aboard a transatlantic flight where one passenger described sewage spilling down the aisle from a lavatory."

Apparently, the flight crew still served meals in the dutch-ovened cabin during the seven-hour transatlantic (aka, no-where-to-land-because-we're-flying-over-water) flight from Amsterdam to Newark, NJ, advising customers "not to eat too much." All these poor people got in return for their extended bout of nausea were $500 flight vouchers.

Meanwhile, over at Continental, the top press release reads, "For the second consecutive year, Continental Airlines has ranked the highest in customer satisfaction among traditional network carriers in North America in the J.D. Power and Associates 2007 North America Airline Satisfaction Study."

If I were Continental, I'd expect 2008 results to be a teensy bit different.

Enough already

Lots to catch up on here, people. Get ready.

I've always likened myself a deep person, but considering my understanding of the philosophical meaning of "deep" came from "Pump Up the Volume" (thanks to a severe pre-teen crush on Christian Slater), I'm not so sure that's the case. Further evidence to wit: The following rambling post about Death and What It Means To Me. Sort of like, "What I Did On My Summer Vacation: The Morbid Version."

Right before I left for my trip to Opio, the Grim Reaper decided to level a few blows (four in the last two weeks; with one more impending; thankfully some have been peripheral). Oftentimes, these things make sense (my great uncle: in his eighties; suffering from throat cancer) and sometimes, they don't (as in my 21-year-old sister's friend). The obvious point here is that you never know when your minute's up; so carpe diem, as the cliché saying goes. But never has death been so much on my mind than when I was in France, trying my damnedest to relax. I'm not sure whether it's due to dramatics or a result of the mindful awareness I've been trying to practice lately.

"The present is the only time we have to perceive; to learn; to act; to change; to heal."

So lately I've urged myself to do things I'd otherwise let segue into laziness: apologize when bumping into someone on the subway; spend 30 euros on a cab to a tiny, medieval village; occasionally stop what I'm doing and remember to breathe. It's this new mindset that's helping me learn that I am largely responsible for what happens to me (it sounds so simple, but its taken me 27 years to grasp this concept) and also what I think is causing death to bother me so much (probably because I'm not necessarily in control of it).

As much as I enjoy the slightly more relaxed and "present" me, I sometimes wish for the old gal to appear who can't manage to see two feet in front of her face. At least she was ignorant of such things as time. This more mindful version is only more aware of it, which means there is still more work to do. Any of this making sense? No? Good. Moving on...

In order to end on a happier note, here are some photos of me practicing the art of carpe diem that resulted in my abdominals being sore for days:




Normally I wouldn't seek out a trapeze (trapezing?), but while in France the opportunity presented itself and off I went. Wrapping your legs around that bar is harder than it looks and I've thus realized I need to step up the abdominal core work in my yoga practice. It only took two minutes to swing, but my abs ached for a full two days afterward. Cie la vie.

More Opio photos here, which tell the full tale of the trip quite well. You can also check out an awesome video from a fellow journalist on the trip here. I make the occasional appearance (usually eating), including an inadvertently bitchy send off at the end.

This is how we live now (maybe)

I'm currently on a press trip in the small village of Opio in the Provence region of France (yeah, yeah, tough life, I get it) and, as often happens on press trips, I've bonded--usually temporarily--with my colleagues. Most of them are older than me and have lived lives I can currently only dream of, such as say, spending a year abroad in a small provincial European town, with your equally travel-loving boyfriend. To hear them talk about it, it sounds amazingly easy: save money, rent a house for a month--or a year--while yours is subleased, freelance for extra income and witness your life change. Not a bad gig.

Usually in these situations, I feel as though I need to humor these people, as in, yes, yes, contact me in six months and I'll be in France, jetting around town on my Vespa with a just-baked baguette and freshly picked lavender jutting out of my basket. Given they never follow up, I never feel like I have to follow through. But this time is different. Not only do I feel as though not fulfilling this premonition will severely disappoint these people who seem to believe I'm destined to live this life, I also suddenly feel my life will be somewhat incomplete if I don't take advantage of this opportunity so seemingly readily available to me. We may just be witnessing a life change here. Or an evening filled with too much rosé. TBD.

Sometimes God has a strange sense of humor

I'm a bit of a closeted hypochondriac. It's not something I readily admit, but I've been known to cancel plans if a friend is coughing heavily or avoid them altogether should they have contracted the flu in the last six months. Now that the weather is too warm for gloves—meaning I actually have to touch things like door handles and subway poles—my hands are cracked and dry from using too much Purell. So naturally, I've been fascinated by this honeymooning jerk off with a deadly strain of TB who eschewed his doctor's advice against flying and jetsetted around the world, thanking the powers that be that I did not fly Air France on my recent trip to Marseilles.

Fast forward to this morning, where I'm avoiding work by running out for a bagel and then eating said bagel while reading Gridskipper, which tells me that Patient X spent an undisclosed 72 hours in Manhattan. Intrigued, I click on the link where Chris Mohney helpfully tells me, "So if you stood in line at Essa Bagel in Murray Hill on May 25 with some other guy who was coughing a lot, you might want to, you know, get yourself checked out."

I'll give you one guess where my freakin' bagel came from this morning.

UPDATE: Patient X now has an identity and CNN has a good roundup of all the infuriating details, including insight into this dude's sense-of-entitlement douchebaggery.

France-y pants

Some highlights of my cruise from Savona to Marseilles: being surrounded by skinny French women eating carb-laden, buttery breakfasts, which meant it was OK for me to do the same; getting mistaken for an actual Italian (somehow it makes me feel so sophisticated--a rare occurance); free massages; spending QT with Ma Merritt; and surviving my first cruise without contracting norovirus. In all, a success! More exciting pictures here.

Oof

So I’m at work today, bored out of my mind because I am the one person on staff who doesn’t have a trazillion fazillion things to do. Either I’m very efficient, or such a horrible writer that the ad people have trouble selling my section. It’s probably both.

As I’m lamenting this fact, I check my personal e-mail only to discover that one of the worst writers I’ve ever worked with recently landed a somewhat coveted gig. My first instinct was jealously, as I recalled the thousands of résumés I submitted to said company with not even so much as an acknowledgement rejection letter. That was the sucker punch…

Then, for good measure, came the swift kick to the stomach. My next e-mail was in regards to a freelance article I’m working on. My PR pal thought I might find this interview subject intriguing: “My client, More Successful Than You, is the youngest national news anchor at Major News Outlet You Would Kill to Work For,” she wrote, adding that success is in her blood, as—in addition to MSTY winning her own smattering of highly respected journalism awards—her father also once was nominated for the Nobel Peace prize. Oh, and she speaks 16 languages and is only 22.

“Sure, I would love to speak with her,” I replied, “so long as she doesn’t mind me wallowing in a few drinks during our little Q&A session.”

So hooray for all of you who, when you name your place of journalistic employment, someone says, “Hey, I know that!”

It's so hard to say goodbye

I've just been dealt a devastating blow. The time has come for me to depart with one of my closest companions: The Jeep.



My mom just called with the news that someone is interested in buying it. I knew this time would come, but honestly, I didn't think it would happen so soon. No lie, I gasped when she told me.

After the Big Move, it didn't make much sense for me to keep the Jeep in New York. The city annoyingly has alternate side of the street parking weekly, if not daily (I don't know, I never checked), and given my travel schedule, I'd have to hire someone to move it or else match my monthly rent in parking fees. So off to my parents' house it went, along with the other things I've recklessly and not always willingly abandoned over the years.

In order to fully understand the magnitude of this, we need to walk down memory lane. This was my first big purchase--the first thing ever that I bought and paid for all on my own.

Every month for six years, I faithfully wrote checks for $168.51 to Onyx Acceptance Corp. to make that car mine. (Those checks are burned into my brain, because the amount was so big to me at the time. Oh, foolish youth.) It wasn't a fancy car--air conditioning was its only amenity--but it suited me fine.

Together we took mundane trips to the mall, work and the like, although strangely the Jeep didn't seem to enjoy our longer hauls as much as I did. There was the time I got a flat tire in the middle of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania and mine and Ilyse's boyfriends at the time had to change the tire in the darkness of a Sears parking lot because the employee refused to change the tire unless I bought four news ones.

Then there was the time, about an hour from my destination of visiting Melissa in Providence, Rhode Island, that my car started smoking and eventually stopped working on I-95. Poor Dad had to drive three hours to come get me and tow the truck home. However, on our final and most recent three-hour jaunt for a weekend in Atlantic City, the Jeep gave me no problems. Its almost as if it knew. (That's us on our last trip, above.)

So the Jeep has been at my parents' since March, nosed between the shielded Mustang and my father's 22-foot truck. From what I hear, it hasn't seen all that much action in the last few months, so it's probably best the Jeep moves on to someone new. I'm glad that after 16 years (nine of them in my hands) its in relatively good enough condition that someone else wants to give it new life.

I know its completely ridiculous to sentimentalize something like this, but I can't help it. It's like having to give up a cherished pet because you're suddenly kicked out of your house with no where to go. (Oh, wait.) Also, ridding myself of my car officially cements my status as a New Yorker (that, and the dumpster diving I took part in a few weekends ago) and that's an unnerving feeling.

Now, my mother said I could take time to think about it, but I told her to do what she thinks is best. Some things are just better left unsaid.

Yes indeed-y, its pious vegetarian time...

This is why I don't eat meat:

People have eaten millions of chickens that were given feed tainted with recalled pet food, federal officials said Tuesday...

I have enough to worry about in life without meat, I can't imagine how much more worrisome I would be if I did consume chickens, cows and pigs. (Now, before you freak out, actually click on the link and you'll see the lede finished with: "though they said the threat to human health is minimal." I was going for shock value, there people. Now where do I sign up with PETA?)

People often ask me why I gave up meat and it's always a hard one to answer, because though the explanation is simple, people usually don't get it.

Sure, I like animals, but I also really like bacon (though I can't recall the last time I had it). I read "Fast Food Nation" several years ago and that was partly what pushed me off the purely plant-eating cliff, but it's not as though I'm protesting weekly outside of local slaughterhouses.

No, the reason I gave up meat is because it grosses me out. That's it. There's no "Save Wilbur" or otherwise worthy cause involved, it's simply a matter of taste. This is usually where people cock their head at me with a puzzled expression of "my, what a high-maintenance crack head."

To further complicate matters, I often add that I do sometimes still eat meat, albeit in small portions. My mother's amazing parsley bread contains chopped pepperoni and Jay makes these life-changing risotto balls with shreds of prosciutto. Both are made so rarely, they're hard to pass up and I never do.

People are even more surprised when I say I'd eat red meat again before I eat chicken. I still crave burgers and steak now and then, so I know I'll go back to eating it eventually (maybe), but I think chicken has left my system forever, never to enter again. For starters, I can't stand that it's white, and therefore resembles (to me) human flesh. I also can't stand that under cooking it can cause severe intestinal distress and if you've ever witnessed my skills in the kitchen, this will make sense. In fact, the few times I cooked chicken for myself and my roommates in college, I sat up half the night waiting to hear them all rushing for the bathroom because I didn't cook it thoroughly enough. I find life is much easier not having to worry about such things as poisoning your friends.

So again, we see that I managed to turn something that is supposed to be for the better good of all beings everywhere that are happy and free, into something about myself. Hello again, selfish!

Will the real Jennifer Merritt please stand up?

After catching sight of this article, a friend e-mailed today congratulating me on my burgeoning freelance career. “Thanks!” I replied. Only that Jennifer Merritt isn’t this Jennifer Merritt. Someone else first laid claim to Jennifer Merritt The Writer and fortunately for me, she’s much more successful.


JM 1.0, as she will now be known, used to be managing editor of Business Week. She’s written a few books about business schools and is considered an expert in education, contributing to magazines like Selections and Money on the topic. In fact, I belive she is now on the masthead at Money. (Touché, I say.)

Besides uncannily sharing the same name and occupation, JM 1.0 and I also share a beat: education. (I used to work for CollegeBound Teen Magazine and now freelance for the education components of MSN and AOL, where if you dig through Google deep enough, you’ll find that these articles aren’t always so highly regarded. Again, touché.)

After contacting PR people in reference to these articles, I occasionally get such responses as, “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been up to! Little Johnny is five now and…” which is about where I trail off, figuring they’ve mistaken me for JM 1.0 and have hence unwittingly told a total stranger about Little Johnny’s bed-wetting problems.

On even more rare occasions, I’ll score an invite to some swank party for education professionals or be asked to provide insight for an forum on say, surviving business school. Usually I provide a light-hearted reply explaining the mix up, hoping to win over some of JM 1.0’s friends or maybe even an introduction to my predecessor. Turns out, all of JM 1.0’s friends quite rudely never reply.

But honestly, it’s not so bad playing second fiddle to JM 1.0. After all, if an out-of-touch past love or high school friend/nemesis is desperate enough to Google me, they’ll only think I’m some successful writer and editor with a corner office at Time Inc and shelves full of books with my name on them. And I have absolutely no problem with that—or shame, for that matter.

La dolce vita

As a certain someone likes to remind me, life is pretty damn good right now. I have my own apartment, happy and healthy family and friends, a fabulous boyfriend and a job that lets me travel the world on someone else's dime. Plus, a recent trip to the doctor unveiled a sizable weight loss just in time for my vacation to Cabo. Yippie.

However—you knew that was coming, didn't you?—despite all my recent good fortune, my mind and my body have never been more of a mess. (Hence the doctor's visit.) I've lost weight only because I've also managed to lose my appetite, which happens to me when I'm heavily worried about something. What's the trouble? Having nothing to worry about, apparently.

So thank you to everyone who currently makes life so great.

In essence, you all make me sick.

Nostalgia central

Witness above my commute to work. It ain't pretty, I know, but riding home today I started to feel a little sad. Maybe it was the JBJ rockin' on my iPod or maybe it was the drunken Knicks fans, but with seven days left until I move what little I own across the Hudson and East rivers and officially into a one-double-oh zip code, I got to thinking about what I would and wouldn't miss about living in New Jersey. Behold, my list, in no particular order ...

Au revior! to:

1. My 5:30 a.m. wake-up call and subsequent hour and 15-minute commute to work.
2. That pathetic look I get when I say I'm from New Jersey from every Alabama/Connecticut/Idaho native who's lived in New York a total of six months.
3. Living my life by the whim of NJ Transit.
4. Having to share a bathroom. (Nothing to do with living in New York, but it's still a perk.)
5. Spending every waking minute commuting to New York, Hoboken, New Brunswick, Stanhope et al because no one ever wanted to hang out in Bloomfield except for the one time I made them on my birthday.
6. Being associated with AquaNet, acid wash jeans and fringe bangs.
7. A lack of vegetarian options in the frozen food isle of the supermarket.

I may sniffle at:

1. No longer having emergency bathroom access on trains.
2. Feeling like I'm abandoning the homeland.
3. Spending every morning with the NJ Transit staff. Such nice folks, always, every day.
4. My roommate. (Aw.)
5. Parallel parking. It may just be my one talent in life.
6. Leaving behing my waxer and hairstylist, Tonya at Bangz in Montclair and Sam at Vanity in Upper Montclair. Oddly, I'm constantly getting compliments on my eyebrows and everyone just lurves the new chin-length hair cut.
7. New Jersey pizza. I have yet to find a slice in New York that can rival one of my many faves from the Garden State, i.e. New York Pizza in Rutherford, Vinnie's in Bloomfield, Lockwood in Stanhope, Ray's in NB and surprisingly, the pizza joint in the Hoboken train station. (I'm talking true $2 slices here, not ones that are of course delectable because you just paid $10.75 for it.)

That's all there is, folks. Tune in in two weeks when I'm having panic attacks because the toilet won't flush.

In the spirit of Valentine's Day...

Yeah, yeah, I'm a little late on this one as I'm sure you've all heard about the New York City cabbie who returned a Texas woman's suitcase o' diamonds even after she tipped him a miserly 30 cents.

Cute story and all, how it reaffirms one's faith in mankind, blah, blah. But the thing that bugs me is why this detail is at all relevant to the story:

"He said it never occurred to him to keep the diamonds.

'I'm not going to take someone else's money or property to make me rich. I don't want it that way,' said the soft-spoken cabbie, who was a contractor in Bangladesh until he came to the United States 15 years ago.

He does not own a cab but rents one.

'I enjoy my life. I'm satisfied,' said Chowdhury, who is single."
[italics: mine]

When the hell did The Associated Press turn into Match.com?

In a pickle

There’s been a shift in my relationship with Jay and it’s a little disconcerting. (I’m going to get chided for writing about this, but really what fun is blogging if you don’t detail things like your significant other’s bathroom habits? [Don’t worry, that’s not happening here—yet—so keep reading.])

Since our relationship’s inception, I’ve been the healthy eater. I order salad with dressing on the side while he chows on a double cheeseburger with bacon; I blot the grease off my pizza while he laughs at me between strings of melted, cheesy goodness; I coerce him into ordering French fries so I can finish off his leftovers. I’ll never forget the look on his face the first time I ordered my diner staple of a BLT without the B. I could quite clearly see the tears in his eyes as he tried to hold his laughter in.

But lately things have been different. Over Christmas, Jay went to the doctor and discovered that eating cheese steaks for lunch every day will give you high cholesterol. Ever since, he has taken to healthy eating with the fervor of Kristie Alley stumping for Jenny Craig, which now leaves me feeling like a porker every time I want to eat like crap. Witness the following exchange:

Me: Can we please, please break the healthy streak sometime soon and go check this place out? They have fried pickles!!!
Him: I’m down with checking that out sometime. I guess I could really let loose and get the frisee salad or the raw vegetable sandwich…
Me: I’m not feasting on fried pickles while you nibble on frisee. I hear their burgers are good…

Does it get more peer-pressure laden than that? Can’t you sense my desperation? What’s even worse is that it’s not the pressuring him to do something he doesn’t want to do that bothers me—it’s the loss of my healthy eating superiority. It’s not so much about having crappy-eating companionship as it is about bringing him down so I can gain the upper hand again. Boy better watch his back… We’re going to Soho Park for burgers and fried pickles and once he goes to the bar for a drink, I’m switching my order to salad and a water.

Fuck, fuck, fuck

It's snowing outside. It only amounted to about a centimeter, but still.

What's old is new again

I must admit, I haven’t been loving the ol' Gawk too much since J. Co left. I especially avoided the site once fingers started pointing at Jersey for the noxious odor that blanketed NYC recently. (You may not know it, but I’m viciously defensive of my home state.) Desperate to avoid actually working today, however, I landed at Gawker and came across this:

"Bad Smell Wrapup: Oh Captain, Mercaptan

The mystery (or is it a 'puzzle?') of yesterday's clouds of foul-smelling mercaptan (we learned a word!) hasn't yet been resolved, but everyone's been eager to point the finger at usual bad-smell scapegoat, the Garden State. The accusations have ranged in scale from subtle, i.e. the Times' whispered 'Some suspicion fell on New Jersey,' to the, uh, the not so subtle. We're left feeling sort of of bad for New Jersey, which hasn't at all been confirmed as the source of the odor. We're going to recommend that they go with the classic 'he who smelt it dealt it' defense-- it's been working for us since first grade."

I think I just feel in love all over again.

photo: solid threads

Anyone know a good tutor?

I recently scored this semi-cool writing job, at a publication that shall remain unnamed so that I don’t get fired from said semi-cool job. On my first day, I was escorted to my cubicle and found the following note scribbled by my predecessor:

“You have to be a little snobby in order to be a travel or food writer, otherwise no one will take you seriously.”

“Hmm…” I thought. “Robin Leach-snobby or Rachel-McAdams-in-‘Mean-Girls’ snobby?” The latter and childishly catty version I could definitely pull off, having actually survived middle school. But the richly sophisticated snobby, I wasn’t so sure. Yesterday came my first test.

A man came to speak to me about some new hotel, in some remote and absurdly green part of Ireland. He spoke of wonderful things, like personal assistants and serene boat rides with seven swans, free “spirits” and complimentary cashmere wraps. I was intrigued and tried to ask appropriately snobby questions, i.e. “Kind sir—tell me, what product line does the spa carry?” and “Must one really fuss with the personal assistant? When I travel I much prefer solitude.” On a later trip to the bathroom, I realized I looked like a complete slob.

I’m getting a cold, so my eyes were bloodshot. Our company holiday party had been the night before, so I was slightly hung over. That previous night I slept at the boy’s house and when I do so I never wash my hair, as it just requires too much maintenance, so it was greasily pulled back into a ponytail. I had just come back from a coma-inducing lunch of pizza (to cure the hangover, natch) and my breath reeked of garlic, which I had tried to mask by popping a mint--only at the start of the sit-down I concluded there is no way to appear sophisticated while sucking on a mint. Also, my wife beater was peeking out of my wrap shirt. I then decided I am in no way qualified for this job and have since suffered feelings of immense anxiety over my aesthetic inadequacy.

Now, I’m required to go to London to scope out some swank hotel. The restaurant serves food I don’t recognize and the pool has music underwater. Each guest room has original artwork. No, I’m not complaining. I’m just suddenly panicked about my abundance of Gap pants and Payless Shoes.

So here we are...

We all knew this day would come, the day I finally acknowledged that I'm self-absorbed--nay, deluded--enough to think you all would take the time to read my random rantings with some regularity. That's right, I just busted out some alliteration on the first post. Let the blogging begin...