boston staring out your window

Here is the one weird thing about Boston (aside from the ridiculous number of Dunkin Donuts): the east coast size up. Every person I passed on the street looked at me; no, they didn't look. They stared. Straight out, up and down, in the eyes, stared at me. Men, women, I even think a pigeon gave me the eye. It was surreal. For a little while I decided I must be the hottest stuff to hit beantown so I worked it until I decided that many people cannot be in awe of my cuteness. I kept checking my pants, my top, my shoes, my teeth. 

I mentioned this phenomenon to the miso and he said this use to happen to him in New Haven. There it was guys looking at you to determine (and let you know) whether they could take you in a bar fight. I'm not quite sure how this translates to the ladies, so I'm just going to toss my question out to the internets: what the fuck is up with the boston stare? Seriously, I otherwise totally love my new home city, but I don't know if I can handle three years of thinking my skirt is tucked into my underwears.  

can't we just call HGTV?

Me and the miso are trying to become homeowners and if I thought parents of 'gifted' high school students were over eager, real estate agents introduced me to a whole new level of yowza. We made the mistake of inquiring about one property and had a message from a guy calling us from his vacation to answer any questions we had. Even better, he yells at his son halfway through the message to ask what the local number was.

Aside from starting sentences now with 'according to our realtor' and 'a 30 year fixed just makes more since than a 5/1 ARM because', I think the weirdest part of all of this was seeing the names Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac on the bottom of our loan application. Seriously? No one at Countrywide (which apparently is still allowed to do business) thought to white that one out? I have also begun to listen with rapt interest to Planet Money and the financial episodes on This American Life. I learned lots from this week's podcast about master's insurance, foreclosed condos, and not being lured in by stainless steel appliances. But they're so shiny! 

I also still keep waiting for our realtor or mortgage lender or, frankly, my parents to finally call us up and say, 'listen, this has been fun and all, but you are a child. call us in twenty when you want to be a grown up and not play grown up.' I mean, my number one concern a couple nights ago was google mapping the nearest In-N-Out while watching gossip girl on cwtv.com. Would you give me a loan? 

So now my new mission is to look responsible and worthy of homeownership when we fly out east this weekend to meet with the realtor. I have nightmares of me in my chucks and l.l.bean backpack smacking on gum while our realtor slowly drives away in his marquis and I'm asking the mister 'well where the fuck is he going, honey bunny? should we, you know, follow him?' damn my adorably young face (which the blood taker at Kaiser recently informed me is 'so small! so perfect for movies! big screen, small face.' I love her). I think the trick will be in the pants - I need slightly ill-fitting pants from the BR and a button-up shirt. And perhaps some sensible flats. Add in a pocket checkbook and we have reached adulthood! 

plz 2 hlp

How in the world does the youth of america have any shot at excelling in English and grammar if this is the kind of crap their parents send to their teachers:

Jane Doe has taken both exams
Apparently for the nation latin exam we need the school code before we send it out
Could u help
Plz call us back
555-555-555
Thx 
-------------------------- 
Sent using BlackBerry 

I just got the msg from lib that they found the code
It was included in the packet
So we are all OK
Thanks for help 
-------------------------- 
Sent using BlackBerry 

the unexamined life

I'm an addict and I'm ready to come clean. I am completely, totally, utterly, and helplessly addicted to self improvement. The detox I start tomorrow is a case in point. My attempt to adjust my sleep cycle is a case in point (by the by, I have made it out of bed before nine three days running, which, sadly, is a big step forward for me). My veganism, my yoga, my pilates, my sets of exercise DVDs (Winsor Pilates, anyone? How about some Jillian Michaels?), my Oprah Spirit Channel podcasts, my Eckhart Tolle, my gratitude journal, my subscriptions to Real Simple, Women's Health, the happiness project...shall I go on?

For whatever reason, right around when I started graduate school, I decided I had to have a spiritual and physical overhaul. It was as though I woke up and felt any issues I have now in my twenties will remain with me forever unless I work them out in my twenties. Like nail biting. If I'm not stopping in my twenties, will I be a fifty year old with chewed up nails? Clearly this issue must be resolved. Now. Right now. Let's go look at website and enjoy the free counseling on campus to get this matter all taken care of. 

I also decided that I will never again have as much free time as I do now. Busy as my life can get, I can still, on most days, spend a Tuesday at home watching romantic comedies on hulu all day long and the world does not stop turning on its axis. Shocking, I know. And so why I should use all that free time watching Jennifer Aniston fumble through a relationship when I could be out running, or doing squats, or becoming the master of my destiny?

I'm not in anyway saying this is a bad thing. Trying to become a better person is a good goal to have in life, and, overall, I think I am (in specific, small, clearly defined places) a better person for all my efforts at betterment. The trick seems to be finding the balance between self improvement and self destruction. The decision to be better, after all, is based on the premise that there is something to fix or improve upon, and constantly dwelling on all the stuff you want to fix about yourself can become a one-way ticket to couchville.

So how do you find that line? That place where you still have a drive to grow, to live an examined life, and become a person you are proud of without going completely nuts and always feeling disappointed in yourself? Especially in 'the world we live in today' where everybody with a keyboard or videocamera is on a physical or spiritual quest and ever so ready to help you start yours. You can't browse the tv or the web without someone just like you completely reinventing themselves and detailing just how they did it. We seem to be a culture obsessed with self improvement, and I am the target audience. From organizing your closet (which we all know equates to organizing your soul) to running your first marathon (which is the true test of the human spirit). You can do it! We can help! Read: there is something wrong with you and you didn't even know it. But now you do! Hurrah!

The whole dilemma actually reminds me of something notoriousmle said once about exercising, 'Whenever I start going to the gym, I always stop going at some point, so I've decided to no longer start going. Why start the cycle all over again?' I've always found something so lovely about that statement. It never struck me as a defeatist comment but a well reasoned and mature understanding of oneself. Sometimes it's not about stopping a cycle but never starting it to begin with. Maybe becoming a better person is knowing when to start, when to stop, and when to never resume. 

ctl+alt+delete

After a celebratory week of lots of wine and lots of cheese, my body needs a clean start, reboot, and possibly a force quit of a couple applications that are using up all my time and energy.

I've decided that starting Sunday I'm going to follow the vegan detoox detailed in Jan/Feb issue of Body+Soul magazine (it's a Martha mag). I'm not really a detox fan, but this one is actually very reasonable (I tried it out a couple days last week while the miso was out of the house to make sure it was possible). Basically, you eat a lot of brown rice. Like, a whole lot. For breakfast it's oatmeal and green tea, for lunch it's brown rice and a legume of your choosing, and then dinner is brown rice with steamed veggies. You start and end each day with a glass of tepid water with lemon juice. Not bad, right?

I'm waiting until Sunday because, frankly, there is still pecorino in the house and a lovely bottle of wine that I think I will only rightly appreciate this weekend. And me and the miso have some serious celebrating to do.

In addition to the detox I'm trying to reset my sleep schedule. This might just be the hardest thing I've ever done for my own health. I love (I dare say lurve) sleeping in. As someone who takes a while to fall asleep at night, I relish the warmth and comfort of my bed in the morning. Any sleep anxiety from the night before is completely replaced with the warm snugglies of my bed in the morning. Yes, snugglies. My concept of heaven is a warm bed on a cold morning that I never have to leave.

But I hate that I don't start my day until 10. That I rush through the morning. That I get to campus to teach right before my class. That I never get the things done in the morning that I tell myself I will the night before. And I'm also realizing that if I don't start to do some sort of physical activity in the morning that impending wedding dress fitting will make me weep.

So I'm trying to go to bed and wake up at the same time every day. The biggest hurdle to this one will be the dear miso. My dear sweet miso who can stay up until 2 in the morning and still wake up at 7 chipper and ready to feed the cats. The problem is that I am a light faller asleeper and he is an immediate faller asleeper once he does go to bed, which is much later than I do. The slightest little sniffle will rouse me from sleep and I will be grumpy. In fairness, I will be a raging bitch filled with hate I never thought possible. And once awake I will seethe and stress and bemoan the fact that I will never fall back asleep. Did I mention what I catch I am?

Last night I wore a sleep mask and even put in ear plugs, but I still woke up around midnight after having fallen asleep early. I managed to get out of bed at 8:30ish...maybe it was 9 and took a 'brisk walk in the sunshine' as the interweb told me I should to help reset my clock. And that really did help - I was borderline tolerable during breakfast, and I made it to campus with time to actually prepare for class.

So we'll see how it all goes. I'm feeling optimistic about the detox because I'm pretty good about controlling my eating habits, but the new sleep schedule could end up being disasterous for all involved.

Personal Jesus

I saw this Obama image pop up on Google News and couldn't help but think of rooms upon rooms of medieval religious art featuring our lord and savior with the golden halo. Oh, bama, let's hope you live up to your iconography.

the name game

I always just assumed I would take my husband's last name. I never found it sexist, demeaning, or patriarchal that you took the name of the man you married. If anything, I was looking forward to it given my own last name. In fact, I think I intentionally gravitated towards boys with simple last names, Murphy, Price, Wilson, in the hopes of never having to spell my last name again. It all seemed so exciting, getting a new name halfway through life.

But now here I am, a mere six months away from the big day and the smaller issues surrounding the name change are starting to make my mind wander. For example, do I get a new email address? I'm guessing I stick with the same email address, especially since I'm planning on keeping my name 'professionally' (which then requires actually having a profession, and that, my friends, is a whole separate entry), but at some point I'll have to change it, right? Or not?

I always thought taking the mister's name made life simpler, and this seemed all the more true after addressing envelopes for our save the date cards. It was so hard to tell of our married friends who was Mr. and Mrs. who was Mr. and Ms. and who went on which line depending on their situation. My parents' friends were super easy: Mr. and Mrs. Fancy Pants. Done and done.

But for how long do I live a double name double life? I'm guessing my maiden name goes on my diploma but my married name goes on the passport? My students call me Dr. Maiden Name and my dentist calls me Mrs. Married Name? In some ways it sounds nice - keeping my worlds separate and feeling like my career is all mine and my home life is a partnership with the mister. But it also sounds potentially identity-crisis inducing.

My other minor marriage fear is that I am still not entirely clear on how to pronounce my future last name. Not only is it a Greek name, but even within the miso's own family there are alternate pronunciations and even spellings. What is a girl to do? Maybe we can just become name renegades, dub ourselves the Smiths come August, and go merrily on our way, both with new names.