I Am An Important Professional Business Lady Who Does Important Professional Business Lady Work

This is my cubicle.

With the Boss Man in it.

Eating my almonds.

And drinking what was my Diet Coke.

You'd think he'd prefer to sit in one of his corner offices, but noooooo.

You know who sits in his corner offices like a boss, though?

This girl.

And this girl.

A Sporty, Outdoorsy Weekend (Of Avoidance)

Friday I watched Roger Federer take Marty Fish to school. It was great night for tennis - cool, great seats, eye-candy.






































Federer is wonderful to watch. Agile, exact, graceful even. He went on to win the whole thing this afternoon.  

Saturday night we got front row tickets for the Reds versus Cubs game.




Oh, did I say front row? I meant last row, by the fence. It was actually pretty nice. There was a cool breeze and luckily we had a little extra room around us while most of the sold-out crowd was packed in like sardines. More room to each nachos and helmet sundaes is key.

The Reds lost, but it was another gorgeous night.





We were supposed to spend Sunday packing. Our move (to nowhere) is looming, and even though we don't know where we're going to live, we know it won't be here. House hunting has turned to earnest apartment hunting.

Oh, did I say earnest apartment hunting? I meant panicked apartment hunting.

But we spent the hours we would have packed at the park instead. The reprieve from the heat has been too lovely not to spend outside. Plus, Missy's wedding is coming up soon and I had to get to the business of writing her ceremony.

No better place than in the grass at Ault Park. 







Please, call me Rev.

Congrats To These Strangers

My dream of seeing a public proposal came true last night.

I always thought it would happen in a restaurant, preferably with the ring adorning a slice of cheesecake or something else amusing, presented to a not-really-suprised-but-maybe-a-little bride-to-be by a waiter on a platter. But alas, it was in Hyde Park Square.

I was enjoying a scoop of Graeter's chocolate and Ray was having butter pecan when we see saw these two. She was nervously excited, almost anxious. He was more calm.

Ray noticed something was up first and wondered if he was going to propose. Sure enough, the dude got down on one knee and pulled a ring box from his pocket. The proposal was quick, and she still seemed very nervous.






































It was thoroughly enjoyable to watch. Afterward they didn't shout or proclaim their love to the rest of us in the park or anything, they just sauntered past giggling as she admired her new bling.

I wish now I had stopped them so I could send them these photos.

Anyway, congrats to these two kids. And thanks for making my dream of seeing a public proposal come true!

Drinking Tea With The Taste of the Thames

Everything I know about Great Britain comes from the BBC. Specifically, Ab Fab.

It's kind of like everyone outside of the US thinking American's all live in New York or Los Angeles and are cowboys who carry guns and talk like Clint Eastwood.

When we were in London last fall I saw everything through the prism of Ab Fab, expecting at any second that Eddie and Pats would tumble out of a cab in front of me - a bottle of voddy in one hand and a cigarette in the other - yelling, 'Sweetie! Dahling! Fashion, fashion, fashion!'

Sadly, the only fashion I saw was a lot of shorts with pantyhose (not tights, mind you), and those unfortunate bowler hats. The male hotel employees still wear them, giving them a sinister, A Clockwork Orange vibe. Unsettling for sure.
 
Since we had only one day and night in London before leaving for Paris, I forced my pal Gabriel to hit the ground running with me to Westminster Abbey. We'd been flying all night and were exhausted from little sleep, but I had planned a full agenda with the first stop being Poets' Corner at the Abbey.

Gabriel at Westminster Abbey.

Did you know Chaucer is buried at Westminster Abbey? Chaucer. I'm not even a big Canterbury Tales fan, but it's not often you come across the tomb of perhaps the most famous English poet (outside of Shakespeare of course) who's Middle English poem makes your native tongue read like a foreign language.

Besides that, he is OLD. As in born in 1340-something old. 

I didn't even know they had dead bodies back then, let alone do anything useful with them.

And not just Chaucer, but Charles Dickens, Browning (read this), Kipling (and this), Tennyson, all buried at Westminster under these ordinary slabs of stone. You just walk right over them on your way to the next chapel.

Westminster Abbey is a fascinating place, and I could have spent days there hearing the same tour over and over it was so rich with ceremonial history and bizarre and violent deaths.

Virgins roasted on gridirons. Beheadings. Child murders.

I could care less about dead Royals, but who doesn't love tales of family in-fighting and power thirsty relatives. It all seems so... dramatic.

Afterward, Gabriel and I drank coffee from a vendor outside of Buckingham Palace and I considered how fortunate I am to be in no immediate danger of being beheaded. 

Later that afternoon we finally caught up with our partners who were coming from a meeting somewhere in Great Britain. I hadn't seen Ray in a week because of the meeting, and the first I saw him in London I was crossing a street near Buckingham Palace. We proceeded to kiss (and surely annoy) everyone around us on Piccadilly. But it was awesome, finally seeing each other again and suddenly in another country, on another continent.

The four of us headed toward the London Eye, where we rode the city's famous Ferris wheel and took a sightseeing boat tour down the Thames.

Our tour guide was a hilariously snarky girl who colorfully brought all of the sights to life.

"Look everyone, here is London Bridge. It's not that great, is it? But up ahead is Tower Bridge, which you will be much more impressed by!"

London Bridge - Despite the nursery rhyme, not that impressive.

Tower Bridge - Way more impressive...

even from underneath.

We were cruising down the Thames at sunset, making for an accidental romantic tour of London. And yet not once did I get tired of saying, 'Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament!'

So perfectly lit and gorgeous it looks almost fake. No Instagram required.

What's funny about when I first saw Parliament and the clock tower was that I didn't recognize it as the London icon. Gabriel and I were on back side by Westminster Abbey, and when I got out of the cab he said, 'Turn around. There's Big Ben.'

I guess it's Big Ben if you say so, just take my picture.

From this angle I thought it sort of looked like Big Ben, but not exactly right. Hmm, something is missing...

Gabriel had been to London several times, but yet I was standing there in the street saying, 'I dunno Gabriel, I think you're wrong.'

All of the photos I'd seen (and episodes of Ab Fab) always showed it beside the Thames. When we crossed over the river and I saw it for the first time from that angle it was immediately recognizable.

Oh my gosh you guys, look! It's Big Ben!

I think they all would have punched me if it weren't so hilarious.

The next morning we had breakfast at our hotel in the St. Pancras Renaissance.

English breakfast.

This is significant because it's steps from the St. Pancras International train stop where tens of thousands of Olympians and fans will be traveling between Olympic Park and central London. The Olympic rings were already up when we were there.






Anyway, I have to go, Opening Ceremonies start soon.

Happy London 2012 Olympics everyone.




_____

I stole this headline from Morrisey's fantastic song Come Back To Camden. Here's the mp3.  

The One Where I Keep My Word Against My Better Judgement

Remember last spring when I was going to lie to my dad about my old scooter he wanted? I was even going to pay you to buy it, or possibly cut the breakline so he could have it but not ride it?

I was desperate, remember, because I was worried he'd crash and I'd never forgive myself?

Well, I reluctantly kept my word. But only because he was so excited to tool around on my little scooter that I'd have been a complete jerkface if I didn't give it to him.

While I was worrying my poor ol' dad was going to crash to his death on Stella, Ray was giving me dirty looks because he had to hoist the thing into the back of a GMC Sonoma. 

But as fortunate would have it, he only got to ride Stella a few times before her 10-year-old battery died.

Hallelujah. My mom and I were spared the worry of him speeding through south Marion, helmetless, on a purple scooter. Summer 2011!

Then Big Al came into the picture.

"Big Al is about my size, no bigger," my dad told me.

And Big Al works on motorcycles, so my dad hoisted Stella back into the Sonoma and took her to get a new battery.

She runs like a dream again. The automatic start even works now, which is a luxury I never had with Stella.

My worry not withstanding, I have to admit it was pretty fun this weekend seeing Stella back in riding shape again. She's got some fire in her still, and it does seem that the quiet streets of my parents' neighborhood is a great home for her.

Thankfully, even fixed, my dad rarely rides her, and mostly just around the neighborhood to show off. I think he likes having it more than he likes riding it.

Which is just fine by me. Summer 2012.

Like A Hotel, Only Whiter

Everything in Ray's apartment is white. The walls. The sheets. The carpet. Even the photographs are black and white.

And it's neat. Insanely neat. As in, 'I-might-be-a-killer' or 'I-might-have-been-in-the-military' neat.

So naturally I look forward to staying at his place so I can muck it up. It's like staying at The Westin - crisp white sheets, view of downtown - only without the sales pitch channel touting the White Tea shampoo.

I walk in, toss my bag on the counter, kick my shoes off and proceed to make myself at home. And just like at a hotel, I know that miraculously my belongings will somehow end up neat and orderly by the time I leave.

We call his place The Raymada.

For effect, he'll sometimes leave hotel soaps on the bathroom counter for me. There is even turn-down service, ie, someone's gotta make the bed and that someone is often Ray. (The staff at The Raymada is superb.)

I'm a "preferred guest" I like to think, racking up double points for making caffeine runs to Coffee Emporium. (Hey, it's not every hotel guest that brings back coffee for the staff from all the way across the street.)

But it's even better when he goes to Coffee Emporium because usually a) I'm still asleep and b) he'll pick up a Sunday New York Times too. When I wake up they are both waiting for me on the frosted glass coffee table. (Of course it's frosted glass. It really is like a hotel, I'm not making this up.)

Last time this happened - omg, the New York Times Book Review and a soy latté, hooray! - I nearly peed my pants with excitement. Which really only adds to the urban experience, I think.

Often times I will bring over my laundry when I run out of clean underwear, you know, just to make sure his washer and dryer are functioning properly. Part of earning my "points" I feel: Equipment checks.

The only difference between his place and an actual hotel is that I always run out of hot water at the Raymada. (I would write a strongly worded Post-It note to the staff about this problem but I can never find anything to write on, that's how neat and put away everything is.)

This hot water issue would never happen at the real Westin. But that's because the people at the Westin don't turn their dishwasher on as soon as I'm getting into the shower to freeze me to death.

Nice try, Ray. But my reservation is for the entire weekend and I am not leaving.

____

Caveat: I originally wrote this when Ray and I first started dating. It has languished in my drafts folder for two years with another 182 drafts. I'm posting it now because as of Thursday I will no longer be earning points at the Raymada. I'm really going to miss the tiny hotel shampoos.

Summer To-Do

• Drive-in movie CHECK
• Plan a giant, full-swing picnic
• Introduce my friends to all of my other friends (because they should all be friends too) (see picnic)
• Read two books
• Ride Codzilla, "a high speed thrill ride" (it goes 40 mph)
• Find a house
• Ride my bike more (when not scorching hot)
• Walk more (when not scorching hot)
• Sit in parks more (when not scorching hot)
• Learn to speak fluent Spanish

House Hunters

Some of the colorful ways Ray has described the houses we've gone through: 

"What this house needs is an oily rag and a match."

"The door looks like the entrance to Liberace's house of crap."

"Oh, the basement has potential all right... for a fire."

"It looks like the Easter Bunny took a pastel dump in here."

"Wow, this is old knob and tube wiring. That's really cool... except we're not buying this place now."

Thus far the only things we've really liked are cat doors and a few porches. So the house hunting continues. Let's just say I'm eating my feelings a lot of Yagoot.

A Few Things for Friday

1. What about Allison Felix and Jeneba Tarmoh finishing in a dead heat for the final slot in the Olympic 100 meter dash? And now to decide the outcome, they have to decide between a coin toss and a run-off.

Can you imagine leaving your slot in the 100 meter dash - the most important track and field race in the Olympics, if you ask me - to a coin toss? To chance?

Like hell.

Then again, what if you tweak your ankle during the 200 meter heat, so you opt for the coin toss. But the other woman doesn't agree because she thinks you may have tweaked your ankle. Damn it!

If they do have a run-off it could prove more exciting than the actual event.


2. I finished Anna Karenina. Such a fantastic book. I spent the first month after I finished it slightly depressed.

Depressed it was over, depressed I was no longer living with those characters, depressed at the lack of art and love and vitality in my life. It was as if I was living each of the lives in Anna Karenina, and when it was over, my other lives ceased to exist too. Crushing.



It's an unbelievably wonderful read and I hope I take the time to delve further into a review of it.

Today I saw the trailer for the movie staring Keira Knightley, who must be the most perfect Anna Karenina I can imagine. But who's this clown as Vronksy? What, was no one hot available? (Sorry dude, maybe you're awesome on the big screen.)

But the movie looks gorgeous; I can't wait to see it.

Between Anna Karenina and The Great Gatsby, it's going to be a big fall/winter.



3. I read Tina Fey's Bossypants.

It's unfair to read any book after Anna Karenina, even Tina Fey. But still, Tina doesn't disappoint. You will laugh out loud.

Though if I were her editor, I'd have shortened or even removed the 50 or so pages about her impersonating Sarah Palin. It didn't add much to the book (nothing you don't already know) and it lacked that insight and humor she has in talking about her start in comedy, what she's learned from Lorne Michaels, working in comedy/women in the workforce, and becoming a mom.

4. It's going to be 11 ba-billiony degrees this weekend.

When I am not at the Mt. Adams pool I'll be at the Hyde Park Blast drinking beer and wishing I was still at the Mt. Adams pool. Speaking of, when did my favorite secret hole in the ground filled with chlorine become such a hot spot?

The sad '80s pop machine is gone and now there's shade (!!!) and grass (!!!!) and last weekend it was packed. Packed, I tell you. And everyone was drinking
vodka and lemonade what was most certainly just water from red solo cups. The lifeguards, who are 12, didn't even flinch.

They've doubled the price to get in though. It's now $2. RAGE.

5. Leinenkugel's Summer Shandy



Dear Sweet Jesus this stuff is good.

Reading List: Nora Ephron

I was first introduced to Nora Ephron in a 2006 New Yorker article called Serial Monogamy. It was about her cookbook crushes, and how she daydreamed that each chef was her personal friend and guide, ushering her through her first recipes and menus.

And then she met a friend of friend at a dinner party.

“And then dinner was served. Pork chops, grits, collard greens, and a dish of tiny baked crab apples. It was delicious. It was so straightforward and plain and honest and at the same time so playful. Those crab apples! They were adorable!

The entire evening was mortifying, a revelation, a rebuke in its way to every single thing I had ever bought and every dinner I had ever served. ...It was horribly clear that my entire life up to that point had been a mistake."

It was a great. I loved it. Later it appeared as an essay in her book I Feel Bad About My Neck. You can read the piece here.

Soon I learned that Nora had written the screenplay for When Harry Met Sally, still one of my favorite movies.

I am particularly fond of the scene when Harry is intensely discussing his divorce at a football game while doing the wave.



Cracks me up.

After that I read her book Heartburn, her thinly veiled account of her then-husband Carl Bernstein's affair that led to their divorce. I don't remember much about the book other than enjoying it and that finally, at the end, she reveals her prized vinaigrette recipe, which she couldn't believe her husband was willing to risk losing for a lifetime.

I've never tried the recipe, but I think I will soon. I will daydream that Nora is looking over my shoulder in guidance and approval.

So anyway, I am sorry to hear that Nora Ephron died. You get to know people through their writing or their art, and you feel like you'll miss them when they're gone.

On that note, from her book I Remember Nothing: And Other Reflections, here is the list of things she wrote that she will and will not miss.

Do yourself a favor and read it.

9 Stories - Highs and Lows of Las Vegas

I still haven't unpacked or washed my dirty, sweaty clothes, but no matter. The Las Vegas trip in nine easy-to-digest-for-summer-reading highs and lows.

High - The brunch buffet at Wynn.

Three plates of new muffin top. Did I say three plates? Yes, yes I did. Why have dessert when you can have dessert(s), as in a whole room of them.

Dear Wynn, I love you.




Low - The Electric Daisy Carnival kids.

In case you haven't heard of EDC before, it's a giant electronic music/dance festival. I hadn't heard of it until last weekend when there were 320,000 EDC revelers at my hotel pool.

I felt so close to them... and their sweaty, tattooed, costumed bodies.




High - The New York, New York roller coaster

Tick-tick-tick up 203 feet, then dropping down 144 at 67 miles per hour in the night desert air over the lights of Las Vegas is my idea of a good time.

Ray, however, would call this a low. He hates roller coasters, especially rattly ones on the Vegas strip.

On the drop out of the sky, I giggled thinking the dude behind us was groaning. Turns out, it was Ray.




Low - Smoke

Ugh, I hate cigarette smoke more than anything, and casinos are filled with it. If you want to do a line of coke next me, no problem. Shoot some heroin, have sex with a male hooker, have at it. None of this impacts me.

But I too have to breathe in disgusting smoke when it's indoors, and I do have a problem with that whole lung cancer and premature death thing.

And besides anyhow, people look ugly when they smoke.


High - Peepshow

I couldn't wait to see a Vegas-style burlesque show, and fortunately Ray also happens to enjoy these types of things. So after much research and reviews, I settled on Peepshow. It.Was.So.Much.Fun. 

It was like going to strip club only we didn't need singles because we paid in advance. And I think these girls may have had health insurance. Bonus.

All of the women were athletic and strong and terrific dancers. Plus, natural boobs! I couldn't tell if I was happy or disappointed by this, maybe both. But I certainly expected more fake ones. As it was, their bodies were athletic and completely attainable.

The show was steamy and sexy and cute and funny. I looked over at Ray at one point and his eyes were lit up like a kid at Christmas. It was great. And it totally made up for the sickened, annoyed 'I-am-going-to-kill-you' look he gave me on the roller coaster. Girlfriend, redeemed!




Low - The unbearable heat

How people go outside in the daytime without at least a kiddy pool within five feet at all times I'll never know.



I had the great idea of walking back to our hotel after the Wynn brunch buffet (to walk off the 3,000 calories I consumed) and had to gasp for air every few blocks.

That whole "It's a dry heat" thing is complete crap. The only difference with the "dry heat" is that it's like breathing into an oven. 


High - Cocktails with a view

Ray got invited to some industry event for his conference that had "free drinks and food" in The Lounge at MIX, so we thought we'd breeze through for a quick drink, check out the view and bolt.

Pssht. They practically had to drag me out of there. It was on 64th floor of The Hotel at Mandalay Bay and had an open bar. Dear diary, jackpot.

I got tipsy on dirty shirley's (so refreshing in the heat) and spent my time offering to run to the bar for people... so I could get more drinks for myself and stalk the waiters passing hors d'oeuvre.

I'm going that way anyway, it's no trouble at all!

The view overlooking the strip and skyline was spectacular, and there was a balcony where you could hang out, assuming you're not afraid of heights or the fallibility of plexiglass.



Then some sales guy took us to a swanky dinner at the MIX restaurant, also on the 64th floor of The Hotel.

You know how I know it was fancy? Everything was white. It was white on white. Even my food was mostly white.



I joyfully soaked up the booze in my belly with free range chicken and fried panisses.

What are panisses? I'm glad you asked because I Googled it for you. They're chickpea fries, made from chickpea flour and are popular in the south of France.

They taste like heaven.



Low - Conference talk

Dinner conversation centered around valves and fire pumps and sprinkler hydraulics and who knows whatever else. Thank God for those dirty shirley's, you know what I'm sayin.' I hardly heard a word of it.


High - Classic rock in cabs

Ray is making me say that hearing the cover version of Rocky Mountain Way played especially for him by the cab driver was a definite high, but I'd say their bonding over the cab driver's classic rock iTunes collection was more of an odd moment.

Most cab drivers you can't understand, then occasionally you get one who likes to rock it out at 5 a.m. to Joe Walsh.

But ok, it is a bad-ass song.

Speaking of Drive-Ins

Google has this very fun Doodle video today marking the 79th anniversary of the first drive-in movie. My favorite part is when the kids pop up out of the bed of the truck.

That was Ray and me a few weeks ago.



We rambled into the Starlite Drive-In in Amelia with his blue Ranger packed with blankets, chairs, bug spray and provisions. (Milk Duds, caramel creams and water.)

It's as if we are still underage. But mostly we wanted to save ourselves for a giant fountain pop and large popcorn.



We even bought a little transistor radio for the occasion. (Somehow neither of us owned a battery powered radio; this was a surprise to me as I thought everything had a battery option. In fact, nothing does.)

Ray claims I tried to swipe it on and off like an iPhone to get it to work, but that is pure hearsay.




Men in Black III and Dark Shadows was showing, but the real star of the night was the full moon and the snack bar.



You should go. Take the kids, or not. We thought it was pretty romantic.

It's Always Boring In Las Vegas

First things first: Las Vegas is horrible.

Contrived and stupid and hot. Not to mention so barren and ugly it makes the moon seem lush.

Nothing interesting actually happens in Vegas, which is why the Vegas tourism bureau wants you to keep quiet about it. I went six years ago and was stunned at how disappointing it was. Even the things I thought would be fun - like a giant fiberglass sphynx - was boring. 

And is there anything uglier than a bunch of tourists crammed into one place?

No. No, there is not.

Well, maybe casinos, with their bad carpeting and noise and sadness.

Yes, Vegas is terrible.

And I cannot wait to go again!

We leave this weekend. Ray is going to a conference. I'm going to the hotel pool. So while he's stuck in seminars or whatever (speaking of bad carpeting), my days will be spent reading magazines. I hope it's not windy because it's super annoying when it's hard to read magazines by the pool.

I may hate Vegas, but I love pools and free hotels.

My agenda is to pool, buffet, then maybe hit one show and one bar/club while we're there. And I feel like that will be accomplishing a lot.

I've already packed my fake eyelashes and some of those wine juice boxes from Target. I think these items make me 78 percent more prepared for a good time.

I'll let you know.

The Children of Mason Are Hilarious and Terrifying*

During those 15 glorious minutes of adult swim at the Mason pool this weekend, Ray and I took our lifeguard-given rights as adults and took over the diving board.

Instead of going to the snack bar and getting sticky popsicle goo all over their faces like normal kids, these kids remained lined up and (reluctantly) let us pass through while they waited for the whistle to unleash them into the pool again.

As the adults got on the diving board they chanted at us with increasing intensity.

Do. It. Do. It. Do-It. DO. IT. DO-IT, DO-IT, DO-IT!!!!!

It was a lot of pressure. And those kids are not shy about bragging either. As I waited for Ray one little girl turned to me and said, "I'm going to do a flip as soon as the whistle blows. Are you going to do a flip?"

I was afraid if I said no she wouldn't let me pass through. I am afraid of children. I think they are... feral.

No sooner did Ray hit the water than the whistle blew again. As I tried to squeeze past the lined up kids to make my way up the diving board one last time, they turned to me and yelled, "Back of the line!"

I am not kidding. It was like Lord of the Flies in that line. When adult swim is over, it-is-over.

So I went to the back of the line and waited.

As Ray was walking back the kid behind him boasted, "That's how you do a dive."

Ouch.

Ray was all, "Oh yeah, kid?! Well, I can drive!"

And kiss girls! Which probably doesn't mean much to this kid now, but it will soon enough.

Suck it, kids.

*Note: The children of Mason are not nearly as terrifying as their parents, who we watched yell at the kids for not being able to doggy paddle the length of the diving area and back. These kids were like, four, and they were doing a great a job getting to one end, but their parents (dad's mostly) would never know because they were too busy being disappointed and competing with the other parents. I felt like I should adopt all of them, even though they will grow up to boss people around on the diving board.

The Weekend in Photos

We spent a lot of time outside this weekend, specifically walking around eating street food.

First at Maifest.






And then at the OTR 5k/Summer Celebration. I celebrated summer by not running and having a Streetpop. I won.




The new Smale Park had its big grand opening this weekend and I can't wait to check it out (they rent bikes!), but we kicked it Ault style on Sunday for the glorious, glorious shade.






And then because it had been a whole two hours since we'd last eaten, we grilled. Turkey burgers topped with roasted red peppers and goat cheese. Damn they were good. Look out Memorial Day, we-are-ready.





*not pictured, the three naps I took this weekend; training for Memorial Day is hard.