Tonight – at dinner at friends I consider my big brother and sister in London – we discussed questions that would make you question whether you should show up for dinner at all. (Or show up with a pizza instead of a bottle of wine.)
This came from my telling my friends – we’ll call them J and L – about the time I was having people over for dinner, panicked, and nearly called J beforehand to ask him if a clove was just one little nub of the garlic, or the whole thing. The only reason I didn’t call him: Because he and L were the ones coming over for dinner. (For the record, I figured out the correct portion of garlic. Why does one’s brain occasionally misfile such information, and how does it get refiled?)
J – who, while we’re setting the record straight, admitted that he sometimes struggles with the garlic issue – offered the following to the list of questions that would make one fear dinner: “I left the milk out and I don’t think it’s been 24 hours and anyway I’m cooking it so it should be OK, right?”
“How about, ‘I’ve spent the past hour prying the mussels open,’” I suggested. J – a comedy writer -- laughed.
“Growing up in a kosher-style home I don’t know if I’d know that one,” said L. “But I read it in a Sweet Valley High book.”
I looked at her and started to giggle. The only reason I knew myself was because in one of the books closed mussels are how Jessica Wakefield gives her family food poisoning. I bet it’s the only useful thing I learned from the entire series.
Sunday, 26 November 2006
Roman Holiday
Back from Rome last night after a yummy, crazy Thanksgiving dinner at a wine editor’s house and a chance meeting in front of the Vittorio Emanuel monument with two friends from DC. Oh yeah, and a ridiculous assignment where I spent so much time (legitimately) sitting in one fancy schmancy hotel bar I fear deep vein thrombosis – and where I got about two hours of sleep a night.
I am slowly making my way through e-mails and obligations and dreading the return to the office tomorrow. I’m also dreading a lunch I have cancelled at least six times, with the (world’s skinniest Russian) wife of a celebrity jeweler*. After a week and a half of pasta, I do not want to find something to wear. Nor do I want to spent two hours making polite conversation – plus an hour travel time -- when I’d rather be hiding in my office in jeans and communist chic sneakers, getting actual work done so that I don’t have to stay in the office until midnight.
Sigh. As my mother would say, things are rough all over.
Still.
Must. Find. New. Job.
(Hello, so not going to happen in December.)
*though last time I got to try on Christina Aguilera's actual engagement ring -- she had sent it back for repairs. I know, I know -- not that thrilling. Trying to psych myself into this.
* * *
The friends I bumped into in Rome I saw when I was in DC, but this couple has been peripheral friends – part of the same circle, but never the sort of people I had any independent relationship with. In fact, I was surprised a couple of years ago when they turned up to my book signing and insisted on each buying their own copy of my book for support (no small thing, since the male half of this couple is notoriously cheap), and even more surprised when I once got a long-ish, thoughtful email from male half in response to a quick one I’d sent.
I knew they’d be in Rome – they were taking a week’s vacation in Italy – but they were arriving the night before I was scheduled to leave, and they wouldn’t have a phone or blackberry (yes, I know people organized their social schedules long before the invention of either). Plus I didn’t want to be the gooseberry on their romantic vacation. But there they were, standing in front of the Vittorio Emanuel memorial when I finally got out of bed after a Thanksgiving dinner that ended at six in the morning.
We hit the Pantheon – I had been already, but they hadn’t -- then had a tartufo in the Piazza Navona. (Male half of couple: “If we have these to go it will cost half as much.”) We walked across the river to see St. Peter’s at sunset, then got dinner in Trastavere, laughing and gossiping and just hanging out. And of course, commenting on how surreal it was to bump into each other in Rome, and how it wouldn’t have worked out that well if we planned it. In another year or so I would likely have lost touch with them – another casualty of the expat life, where friendships without enough of a history (or a short but significant history) eventually become history, sometimes even despite one’s best efforts. Thanks to about 12 hours in Rome, I’m sure this one won’t.
I am slowly making my way through e-mails and obligations and dreading the return to the office tomorrow. I’m also dreading a lunch I have cancelled at least six times, with the (world’s skinniest Russian) wife of a celebrity jeweler*. After a week and a half of pasta, I do not want to find something to wear. Nor do I want to spent two hours making polite conversation – plus an hour travel time -- when I’d rather be hiding in my office in jeans and communist chic sneakers, getting actual work done so that I don’t have to stay in the office until midnight.
Sigh. As my mother would say, things are rough all over.
Still.
Must. Find. New. Job.
(Hello, so not going to happen in December.)
*though last time I got to try on Christina Aguilera's actual engagement ring -- she had sent it back for repairs. I know, I know -- not that thrilling. Trying to psych myself into this.
* * *
The friends I bumped into in Rome I saw when I was in DC, but this couple has been peripheral friends – part of the same circle, but never the sort of people I had any independent relationship with. In fact, I was surprised a couple of years ago when they turned up to my book signing and insisted on each buying their own copy of my book for support (no small thing, since the male half of this couple is notoriously cheap), and even more surprised when I once got a long-ish, thoughtful email from male half in response to a quick one I’d sent.
I knew they’d be in Rome – they were taking a week’s vacation in Italy – but they were arriving the night before I was scheduled to leave, and they wouldn’t have a phone or blackberry (yes, I know people organized their social schedules long before the invention of either). Plus I didn’t want to be the gooseberry on their romantic vacation. But there they were, standing in front of the Vittorio Emanuel memorial when I finally got out of bed after a Thanksgiving dinner that ended at six in the morning.
We hit the Pantheon – I had been already, but they hadn’t -- then had a tartufo in the Piazza Navona. (Male half of couple: “If we have these to go it will cost half as much.”) We walked across the river to see St. Peter’s at sunset, then got dinner in Trastavere, laughing and gossiping and just hanging out. And of course, commenting on how surreal it was to bump into each other in Rome, and how it wouldn’t have worked out that well if we planned it. In another year or so I would likely have lost touch with them – another casualty of the expat life, where friendships without enough of a history (or a short but significant history) eventually become history, sometimes even despite one’s best efforts. Thanks to about 12 hours in Rome, I’m sure this one won’t.
Wednesday, 15 November 2006
The Brain Trust
I was back in the office for less than an hour today – not even in the office, actually, but at lunch – before job-loathing set in again.
A senior editor arrived from New York, calling for help from us because she couldn’t get in a cab because “I don’t have any Euros.” She said this repeatedly, apparently unaware that the UK has not joined the Euro. Other things she is unaware of: Who we are, how we report (she asked me how our bureau planned to report the Tom and Katie wedding because she had no idea how we did it), and who the band Keane is (apparently I’m not the only one who doesn’t read the very magazine I help produce).
And this particular senior editor has most favored nation status in New York.
Get me out of here, pronto.
A senior editor arrived from New York, calling for help from us because she couldn’t get in a cab because “I don’t have any Euros.” She said this repeatedly, apparently unaware that the UK has not joined the Euro. Other things she is unaware of: Who we are, how we report (she asked me how our bureau planned to report the Tom and Katie wedding because she had no idea how we did it), and who the band Keane is (apparently I’m not the only one who doesn’t read the very magazine I help produce).
And this particular senior editor has most favored nation status in New York.
Get me out of here, pronto.
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
My Country, 'Tis of Thee
How do you sum up two and a half weeks in the U.S – the most time you (well, I) have spent there on vacation (as opposed to the three weeks I spent there when my mother was dying) since I moved here?
I can’t, except to say: My friends are great, and – I never thought I’d say this – America is great. It’s not perfect, but sometimes it is great.
I love that people are friendly, and frankly, after surly English salespeople, I don’t even care if it’s faux I-want-to-sell-you-something friendly. I love that you can send a blueberry muffin back at Cosi just because you think it tastes like cardboard, which is exactly what I did to prove to a Scottish friend (she was visiting) that it could be done. I love that it can be freezing and miserable in Boston and then you can hop on a plane for $89 and three hours later be in Miami, no passport required. I love (even though I shouldn’t) that it cost me $30 to fill my tank with gas, as opposed to the $100 it costs in London. I love that I can buy contact lens solution at 1 a.m. -- and on a Sunday, no less -- if that's when I realize I need some.
I just got off the plane in London a couple of hours ago, and the thought of summing up my sister’s wedding (though it seems like an eon ago), further career angst brought about by Washington Post interview, the guy I bumped into who I haven’t seen in nine years who remembered what felt like every word I ever said, and the up-until-4-a.m. conversation I had with my grandmother seems too daunting for now. Besides, I didn’t turn my blackberry on the whole time I was away, so I’ve got mega e-mail to catch up on. Oh – and I’m off to Rome tomorrow for the wedding of you-know-who. (And if you don’t know who, I envy you.)
I can’t, except to say: My friends are great, and – I never thought I’d say this – America is great. It’s not perfect, but sometimes it is great.
I love that people are friendly, and frankly, after surly English salespeople, I don’t even care if it’s faux I-want-to-sell-you-something friendly. I love that you can send a blueberry muffin back at Cosi just because you think it tastes like cardboard, which is exactly what I did to prove to a Scottish friend (she was visiting) that it could be done. I love that it can be freezing and miserable in Boston and then you can hop on a plane for $89 and three hours later be in Miami, no passport required. I love (even though I shouldn’t) that it cost me $30 to fill my tank with gas, as opposed to the $100 it costs in London. I love that I can buy contact lens solution at 1 a.m. -- and on a Sunday, no less -- if that's when I realize I need some.
I just got off the plane in London a couple of hours ago, and the thought of summing up my sister’s wedding (though it seems like an eon ago), further career angst brought about by Washington Post interview, the guy I bumped into who I haven’t seen in nine years who remembered what felt like every word I ever said, and the up-until-4-a.m. conversation I had with my grandmother seems too daunting for now. Besides, I didn’t turn my blackberry on the whole time I was away, so I’ve got mega e-mail to catch up on. Oh – and I’m off to Rome tomorrow for the wedding of you-know-who. (And if you don’t know who, I envy you.)
Friday, 27 October 2006
Wedding Countdown
Text from my normally reserved British boss yesterday: All best 4 your sis’s wedding. There is something v spesh abt seeing a sib wed. To have a twin must be extra so. Have a great time. b thinking of u.
I hate textspeak, but this reduced me to emotional goo. I’ve spent a month teasing my sister about the bride-and-groom-imprinted tissues she ordered, and suddenly I fear I’m going to need about half of them.
I can’t believe she’s getting married. It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t slept in about four days – damn those McCartneys – and that I’m so tired I practically can watch my own cognitive dysfunction from outside my body. Partly because of lack of sleep – and partly because of a couple of glasses of wine – my life seems surreal.
Returning to college for my final semester senior year, I was sure I’d die in a plane crash. I couldn’t visualize my life past graduation, and so I was sure I just wouldn’t live to see it. I feel the same way about my sister’s wedding. I’ve known about it for months, but it is only today, really, that I have considered the physical idea of one foot in front of the other up the aisle, and the fact that after it, my sister is married.
Married.
I can’t get my head around that. Or around the fact that my old friends-with-benefits from DC is now engaged. Or the fact that – as I learned tonight – my friend O. has gotten has ex-girlfriend pregnant and is running and hiding in the U.S. and maybe South America. I've been joking for the past couple of years that I've been living like a college student (only with slightly more expensive shoes) while my friends have grown up and fulfilled their contracts with adulthood. Suddenly, it doesn't seem so funny.
I hate textspeak, but this reduced me to emotional goo. I’ve spent a month teasing my sister about the bride-and-groom-imprinted tissues she ordered, and suddenly I fear I’m going to need about half of them.
I can’t believe she’s getting married. It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t slept in about four days – damn those McCartneys – and that I’m so tired I practically can watch my own cognitive dysfunction from outside my body. Partly because of lack of sleep – and partly because of a couple of glasses of wine – my life seems surreal.
Returning to college for my final semester senior year, I was sure I’d die in a plane crash. I couldn’t visualize my life past graduation, and so I was sure I just wouldn’t live to see it. I feel the same way about my sister’s wedding. I’ve known about it for months, but it is only today, really, that I have considered the physical idea of one foot in front of the other up the aisle, and the fact that after it, my sister is married.
Married.
I can’t get my head around that. Or around the fact that my old friends-with-benefits from DC is now engaged. Or the fact that – as I learned tonight – my friend O. has gotten has ex-girlfriend pregnant and is running and hiding in the U.S. and maybe South America. I've been joking for the past couple of years that I've been living like a college student (only with slightly more expensive shoes) while my friends have grown up and fulfilled their contracts with adulthood. Suddenly, it doesn't seem so funny.
Monday, 23 October 2006
Niceland
A quick stroll through downtown Reykjavik is all you need to understand why the birth rate is so high in Iceland (at 2.4 kids, it’s the highest in Europe) and why the music scene is so absurdly prodigious: There’s absolutely nothing else to do.
I got back last night from three days at Iceland Airwaves, a music festival that was the most fun I’ve had in a while. I attended the festival with two friends and came back with at least four new ones. We hopped from venue to venue – including a church, an art museum, a basement, and one hideous ski chalet-ish bar where the floor was higher in the front than in the back – seeing bands until past two in the morning. Then we hit the after parties until four or five.
For me, what was so unusual about this festival was the mixing between the artists and the press – so much so that one of the buses to the Blue Lagoon party (more on that in a minute) was for “Artists and Press.” Probably because I deal with artists who are much more famous than the ones who played in Iceland, I’m used to attempts to keep me as far away as possible from artists unless I’m doing an interview or a specific piece. But here the artists weren’t only on our bus – they were on the streets and they were at the after parties (in the case of the Kaiser Chiefs, DJ’ing the parties), and there was no VIP room. By the end of the festival I was on hugging terms with more than a few of my favorites.
And the Blue Lagoon party: This is the festival’s infamous hangover party, held about 1 p.m. Saturday in a geothermal pool. Much as I dreaded putting on a bathing suit – especially in front of skinny indie rockers and their equally tiny hangers on – I knew I’d be missing out if I skipped it. And I would have -- it was hilarious: Aforesaid skinny indie rockers cavorting in the water with white silica mud masks on their faces, drinking (blue) vodka drinks. (Indie rockers are hardly known for their well-scrubbed appearances, so a running joke among my friends was that we were safe in the knowledge that the musicians had had a bath at least once this weekend. Maybe you had to be there.) For the record, the time we were allotted in the water – about 90 minutes, max – thankfully was not enough for the party to degenerate into a frat party in the water. But the artist and press bus smelled like puke on the way home, not that that stopped one Swedish reporter and his friend from drinking seven cans of Viking on the 45 minute trip back to downtown Reykjavik. Ugh.
I was sad to see the festival end, but not that sad – frankly, I’m too old to stay up that late for more than three nights, and I actually used earplugs once or twice because it was that loud. (Lest I sound that old, I should point out that earplugs were bought for me by 23-year-old Canadian reporter. Then again, I should point out that 23-year-old Canadian reporter decided not to meet up on the last night with an Icelandic girl he’d met the day before because “then I’ll be up until eight in the morning.” Hello, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at 23 – and then promptly brag to all your friends about it?)
Other people clearly had no problem carrying on drinking – I have a picture of a group at the airport who had at least 20 empty bottles of beer at their table. And on the plane on the way home, someone started doing somersaults in the aisle.
It was great to go, but it’s good to be home.
I got back last night from three days at Iceland Airwaves, a music festival that was the most fun I’ve had in a while. I attended the festival with two friends and came back with at least four new ones. We hopped from venue to venue – including a church, an art museum, a basement, and one hideous ski chalet-ish bar where the floor was higher in the front than in the back – seeing bands until past two in the morning. Then we hit the after parties until four or five.
For me, what was so unusual about this festival was the mixing between the artists and the press – so much so that one of the buses to the Blue Lagoon party (more on that in a minute) was for “Artists and Press.” Probably because I deal with artists who are much more famous than the ones who played in Iceland, I’m used to attempts to keep me as far away as possible from artists unless I’m doing an interview or a specific piece. But here the artists weren’t only on our bus – they were on the streets and they were at the after parties (in the case of the Kaiser Chiefs, DJ’ing the parties), and there was no VIP room. By the end of the festival I was on hugging terms with more than a few of my favorites.
And the Blue Lagoon party: This is the festival’s infamous hangover party, held about 1 p.m. Saturday in a geothermal pool. Much as I dreaded putting on a bathing suit – especially in front of skinny indie rockers and their equally tiny hangers on – I knew I’d be missing out if I skipped it. And I would have -- it was hilarious: Aforesaid skinny indie rockers cavorting in the water with white silica mud masks on their faces, drinking (blue) vodka drinks. (Indie rockers are hardly known for their well-scrubbed appearances, so a running joke among my friends was that we were safe in the knowledge that the musicians had had a bath at least once this weekend. Maybe you had to be there.) For the record, the time we were allotted in the water – about 90 minutes, max – thankfully was not enough for the party to degenerate into a frat party in the water. But the artist and press bus smelled like puke on the way home, not that that stopped one Swedish reporter and his friend from drinking seven cans of Viking on the 45 minute trip back to downtown Reykjavik. Ugh.
I was sad to see the festival end, but not that sad – frankly, I’m too old to stay up that late for more than three nights, and I actually used earplugs once or twice because it was that loud. (Lest I sound that old, I should point out that earplugs were bought for me by 23-year-old Canadian reporter. Then again, I should point out that 23-year-old Canadian reporter decided not to meet up on the last night with an Icelandic girl he’d met the day before because “then I’ll be up until eight in the morning.” Hello, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at 23 – and then promptly brag to all your friends about it?)
Other people clearly had no problem carrying on drinking – I have a picture of a group at the airport who had at least 20 empty bottles of beer at their table. And on the plane on the way home, someone started doing somersaults in the aisle.
It was great to go, but it’s good to be home.
Thursday, 12 October 2006
Material Girl
In one of the worst-timed, most tasteless pitches I’ve ever seen – and yet another sign this celebrity/fashion collusion has gone too far -- a fashion PR e-mailed to tell us Madonna was wearing her client’s clothing while in Africa. Much as I might wish we would, I don’t think we’re going to run a story about the clothes Madonna wears while she buys a child in Africa. The dress is from the designer’s spring/summer ’05 line, according to PR, and I couldn’t help wondering if that is supposed to make it better: Madonna wears old designer clothes to Africa?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)