Friday Night Insights

I'm mostly writing this post so that on my list of things I did today I can add "Wrote a blog post" and feel less... I don't know... unproductive? Mopey? Slobbish? I mean, I DID do like a truckload of laundry, (Thought for today: Laundry looks really poetic flopping around in the dryer when accompanied by a provocative soundtrack) but really I've just been caught in a reverie of "To get things done or NOT get things done?" ...aaaand I think I went the way of Not.

Of course, an unproductive day for me still involves a lot of thinking... mulling, if you will. Sometimes I feel like I have so many creative juices inside me they just don't exactly know where to slosh themselves, like the water that washes up into elaborate sand projects little kids make but finds itself getting warm as it sits in a puddle somewhere a few feet from the ocean. I have so many IDEAS and IMPULSES and desires to write -- to write music, to write words, -- as well as desires to sing, but nothing I already have in my Black Binders (capitalized, of course, because they are tantamount to My Bible. If my Black Binder is lost, so am I.) I need school to start, I need to be pushed to create and produce and DO SOMETHING. Or else I sit and watch Say Yes to the Dress all day. Pathetic. Although it IS helping me get an idea of what not to wear on my wedding day. As in, I wouldn't be caught dead in a ball gown, thankyouverymuch.

But you'll be glad to know that I have done a few things I can be proud to tell you about in this blog. Number One: Enhancing Sports Knowledge. I spent two hours in a Barnes and Noble reading Football for Dummies. I'll tell you, the prose is not exactly top notch (but then again, who expects Howie Long to be the next Hemingway? Not I...) but I DID learn a few valuable things that are easing me along the path of Football Literacy. My time spent in B&N was one of those excellent "What are people thinking about me right now?" moments as I sat at a table, a strong cup of burned Starbucks coffee in my hand, holding Football for Dummies and Cosmo magazine at the same time. These were the thoughts I imagined swimming around me:

"Wow, that girl is so transparently desperate to pick up a man in a bookstore." (A female perspective, of course.)

or

"Damn, football and sex tips? That chick is hot." (A straight male perspective.)

In fact, what they DIDN'T know was that Cosmo was just my cover, my trench coat if you will, donned to hide the naked truth of my visit. I didn't even leaf through the glossy pages, didn't even attempt to discover what the new, hot erogenous zone on the male body is (honestly, ladies, if we haven't found them ALL by now, what have we been doing since the beginning of time and procreation?) Instead, I stayed glued to the responsibilities of the quarterback, to the different types of "backs," to the various ways you can be penalized. Admittedly, now that I know Mark Sanchez is brawny AND brainy (he has to know ALL of the plays in the big scary playbook!!), I'm considering entering Jets fandom more by the day. However, I suspect that being a Jets fan is a lot like being a Mets fan... consistently disappointing and thoroughly disheartening. So I'll weigh my decision heavily before committing. Regardless, I MUST understand football. My quest for Sports Knowledge has led me to a serious quandary... now that baseball season is nearing its end, SportsCenter is all "Football this!" and "Football that!" SportsCenter is, like, my most frequently watched show. I can watch hours upon hours of it. How can I watch if all of their main stories sound like gibberish because I don't understand how one can get a "safety"? I'll have to give up and get entangled in The Real Housewives of Atlanta!

This picture is completely gratuitous and only on here for your viewing pleasure. Me-ow. I considered a topless pic from gaysports.com (HA) but thought, no, we're classier than that. We like clothing here on WMWC. And by we, I mean me. And by "We like clothing," I mean "This is not ladies porn. This is serious blogging." Wow, too much caption? Yeah, I think so.

Ehem! Where was I? Oh right, Sports Knowledge is taking over my life and driving me to the Sports section at Barnes & Noble because apparently I can't even read real literature anymore. Ugh. However, on another, cheerier note, I did something else this past week that I consider a very "Me" thing to do. Something cool, a little artsy, a little dangerous (if you consider paint fumes dangerous, which most people don't.) I took a stencil and a can o' gold spray paint to the wall above my bed, painting a mural of golden leaves blowing their way across the wall. I think I have a bit of a leaf obsession (leaf headband? leaf bracelet? leaf necklace? leaf WALLS?) but I find them earthy and beautiful, both in shape and in color. Wearing leaf adornments makes me feel like a goddess or a grecian urn... or a goddess ON a grecian urn (ooh, did you like that?) But nevertheless, now I have fingers covered in spray paint residue but a very cool, crafty looking room. Martha would be proud, I believe.

Since this is turning into a hodge-podge of ramblings, my "I Want to Write a Novel" pipe dream most definitely stalled only moments after it began, but the desire is back! A friend of mine who is an avid blog reader specifically told me he would love to see me write a novel, and demanded that I shut myself up and write like crazy in order to do so. Hearing that made the gears start turning again, and I'm hoping that I can get something going even though my schedule this year will be hectic. So stay tuned, the dream hasn't died quite yet. Someday you'll hear about my novel, or my SOMETHING because these creative juices are just dying to burst out, Gushers-style, with none of the Head Turning Into Fruit and all of the "It'll Blow You Away!"

As American as Apple Pie, Baseball, Fireworks... and Swine Flu?

Currently, I've got a thermometer in my mouth. I don't really know why - I'm pretty sure my temperature is normal. It was like 97.5 the last two times I checked, but I think I'm just checking again because it was sitting in front me of. It's a curiosity thing. Like a less-terrifying version of "Hey, there's a scale sitting on the ground. I wonder what I weigh?" I feel like it's also a sign of adulthood, though. Owning your own thermometer. It means I don't expect Mommy to take my temperature again, or even to supply the First Aid kit.

Wow, shocker. My temperature is 98.9 degrees now. Does that mean, like, borderline fever? My mom said I should buy the thermometer because Swine Flu is going around... and then she actually named people she knew who had it. So I bought one.

Fever or no fever, I'm pretty bored. I've watched enough SportsCenter to make my HEAD explode and just can't watch the Phillies beat the Reds 22-1 anymore. I mean, it was funny to see the Not Top 10 of the Mets' dismal season, but once you've seen it twice, it falls more into the category of "depressing" instead of "hilarious."

So I decided that even though I'm all sniffly and feverish, I'd blog about my weekend and remember the days when I wasn't confined to the couch because my attempt to get off it was unsuccessful. (Note: The attempt this morning involved getting ready for work, stepping on the L train, and only making it to 3rd Avenue before I almost passed out on the crowded subway. Everything was going black and I couldn't breath. I had to escape the subway car and squat on the ground in the subway station until I could breath well enough to make it to the wooden seats. Yup, I think the couch was calling to me to take one more day off...)

I should do this quickly - SoapNet has a few episodes of the O.C. on at 3 and I have two cartons of ice cream that aren't going to eat themselves. So here goes.

Yes, that IS the new Yankee Stadium, where The Boyfriend and I went on the Fourth of July to do some of the most patriotic things a pair of hot-blooded American 20-somethings can do: Eat hot dogs and hamburgers, sing both the National Anthem AND God Bless America, and revile people for getting paid millions of dollars and failing to do their job right. (I'm talking about YOU Robinson Cano.) It was a nice time, albeit a sunny and rather long game that went into extra innings but paid off with a win for the Yanks. It was also nothing short of hilarious to accompany The Boyfriend to a baseball event, possibly our first sporting event together, and observe the different styles of baseball-watching. [Him: It's f*cking ridiculous that he didn't just lay down the bunt. Me: I love everyone! And everything! Etc...] But I got a sunburn that turned into a sun tan and felt oddly proud to be an American on the Fourth of July. Weird, right?

This is our view from the rooftop of where I intern, at Martha Stewart Living. It was basically THE perfect place to see the Macy's fireworks. The Boyfriend and I packed a picnic of pasta that we ate out of plastic cups and watched at least four different barges set off fireworks while the station on the roof was turned to the radio broadcast of totally cheesy, wonderful American music. I've never been a huge fan of fireworks - I used to plug my ears when I was young, yes I was THAT kid - but these were just amazing. And to watch them with someone I really like was pretty fantastic... a Fourth of July to remember.

But now, of course, reality sets back in. And not even the "Oh, weekend's over, back to work" kind, because I can't even make it to work in one piece. I've watched, like, fifteen episodes of 30 Rock and have decided that I want to be Liz Lemon for Halloween. I've replaced many a meal with ice cream, all while telling myself it's to "soothe my throat." And I've traipsed about my apartment making little whimpering noises that no one can hear, looking out my window at my backyard and talking to the trees, saying "I don't feel good..." Yeah, it's weird, but maybe I DO have a fever. Maybe I should check again. I mean, the thermometer's RIGHT here....

Okay, 98.6. Totally normal. But I don't feel totally normal, so I am headed back to the couch.

Uh, What Happened To Me?

What just happened a few minutes ago: I walked in my front door, took off my suffocating skirt, put on comfortable pants, and sat down on the couch. Adorable Welsh Subletter offered me the TV remote since it seemed to be my turn to choose the channel. I switched on the "Guide" function of our wonderful gazillion-channel cable, and I literally had a conniption as I was presented with a terrible dilemma.

Yankees Vs. Red Sox or Lakers Vs. Magic?

And then, of course, I had a second conniption.

Why am I having a conniption!?

This is me. If you take away the couch potato bit, because I spend a lot of time out of the house. 

But really. Beer? Remote? Couch? Check. Check. Check.

I mean, okay... I'm taking solace in the fact that I'm still a little bit sad that The Real Housewives of New Jersey is ALSO on and I can't possibly change the channel. But re-read that sentence. I'm choosing TWO SPORTING EVENTS over Bravo. Count 'em, two. And this is not out of the ordinary. Ever since the summer started and I got cable, I have been coming home and flipping right to baseball. Or SportsCenter. Or, with a little guidance from The Boyfriend, the NBA finals. I hated basketball! I do hate basketball! I... I... I...

Oh shit, double play. Really, Yankees?

Sorry, sorry. I know this isn't completely well thought out, but I'm beginning to feel like my quest for Sports Knowledge in order to Entrance the Male Sex has had this opposite effect where instead of luring all these beautiful, sporty men, it has, instead, transformed ME into a man. A pony-tail wearing, tight-tank-top-sporting, pink-fingernailed man. Who drinks beer. And watches sports. And then watches the POST GAME SHOW. 

I think that's when you know it's getting bad.

When I used to visit The Boyfriend up at school, there was constantly some sort of sports game on TV and that was the norm. Walk into any room where there are men and they won't mind - hell, they'll encourage it - if you turn on a channel that deals with sports or games or physical activity or beating someone up. But when you live in a house with girls or are even just watching TV with females around there's just something very strange about going "Wait, wait, wait. Can I interrupt this broadcast of What Not to Wear to check the score for a second?" They look at you like... like your hair is blue. Or you pee standing up. Or something.

Want proof? Adorable Welsh Subletter just went on a cereal run to the grocery store around the corner and the first thing I did was turn off The Office and turn on the basketball game.

I'm living a double life of shame that involves ESPN gamecasts and not-so-secret desires to visit sports bars. But then again, my good friend just revealed to me today that the reason my gladiator sandals were sticking to her kitchen floor is because she and her multiple female suitemates have been practicing beer pong every night. So perhaps I'm not alone...

Stop. I have to draw the line somewhere. As my faithful readers know, the line used to be basketball. Well, I'm officially recanting that statement. Basketball is pretty good. It's sometimes exhilarating and occasionally really interesting. And you can't forget the freak factor - I mean, these guys are effing TALL. There's a certain Ripley's Believe It or Not thrill to basketball, like seeing a lamb with two heads or something. But mark my words, friends. I WILL NOT watch... are you ready for it?... Ultimate Fighting. There is too much blood, too much punching in the face, and FAR too much naked man-hugging. If I want to see scantily-clad man-grabbing, there are plenty of places in New York City I can take myself where I also don't have to hear the crunch of broken facial bones. Sure, it will probably cost ten bucks and a possible two drink minimum, but I'm okay with that.

Now that my secret's out, will you keep reading my blog? Now that you know I'm a cupcake lover AND that I drank all of The Boyfriend's beer he left in the fridge, will you still want to be my friend? (Heh, he didn't know that until now... we're just spilling secrets all over the place, now aren't we?)

Oh, and one more thing. The other night I came home from a late night work shift at Anthropologie (where I tend to wear a headband that has big cloth flowers attached to it and flouncy little skirts) to hang out with The Boyfriend, who was staying at my place. I had a lot of energy, and he seemed to be energetic as well, so we decided we should do something fun. I said "Hey, what do you want to do?" and he said "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

I thought for a second, and then offered a suggestion.

"Want to play a video game?"

Uh oh.

Someone's On To Me

Sometimes it's frightening how insightful people can be by accident. There's this girl in one of my classes who can only be described as abrasive and a little scary. But the other day, she surprised me - because she saw right through me. Here's what happened...

Scene: The NYU Journalism Department, which only looks like a beautiful, fully-functioning academic building but instead is full of the usual broken computers and incompetent professors. Cupcake Lover is sitting at the table with everyone else when class begins. She has taken out a crossword puzzle, which she hopes to finish by the end of class... and usually does. The TA with a strange, unplaceable accent that involves a lot of odd vowel sounds begins to talk about an article in the New York Times that morning. Cupcake Lover is very proud of the fact that she receives the New York Times (and tries to read it) every day. Today, however, she did not read the article. So she can't strut her commitment to periodicals. Great.

Cupcake Lover: I can't believe I didn't read that article! I didn't read the front page section. I read every other section... I read the arts and leisure section, the dining section. I even read the sports section!

That Abrasive Girl: You read the sports section? Are you trying to get laid?

And that's when, suddenly, Cupcake Lover realizes. 

Yes.

That IS why she reads the sports section. Of course, CL doesn't say that. Instead, she blushes and says this:

Cupcake Lover: No! Please. I uhhh... I really like baseball. I like baseball season. It's the only sport I totally understand so I read about baseball season. I like baseball!

I do like the Yankees. Pinky swear.

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. And it took some weird girl in my journalism class to show me the light. Who am I kidding? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like sports. And I really and truly DO like baseball. Maybe even a lot. Okay, FINE. I like baseball uniforms... and baseball too! Whatever. 

The point is that I'm a manipulative little harlot and I didn't even realize it. I read the sports section because I think it's going to be attractive and super-cute to open my mouth and be all, "Wow, so how about Chien-Ming Wang's new ERA. Sucks, huh?" Or to use little tidbits to incite more talking. Such as, "Okay, I understand the play that just happened, but can you tell me a little more about this whole line of scrimmage business?" Vocabulary words are key (such as line of scrimmage) and it's very important to get them right. I read the sports section because I'd rather be the girl who DOESN'T say "Did they just score a touchdown??" during a game of hockey, or something to that effect. But I do find myself trying to memorize little things out of yesterday's article about The Game because, well, if a bunch of guys in my class are talking about it, I want to be able to interject. With a big, fancy sports word. And a giggle.

I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I can't rely on my feminine wiles to get me anywhere in this world, considering "flirting" for me consists of smiling a little wider and feeling uncomfortable. So what do I do instead? I rely on the fact that I'm a girl and it's cuter to say "Go team!" when you're a girl. I may be setting the entire female species back by half a century, but I'm doing what I can. And I WILL watch this week's Yankee games (the ones that aren't on the YES network. Bastards.) And I WILL read the sports section. And I WILL use it to attract men.

But I WILL NOT watch basketball. Because it's boring.