You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February, 2008.
I feel I ought to post something today just to earn it the rare “February 29” designation. So odd to see the date in print; I want to memorialize it somehow. I also feel I ought to pay tribute to the thousands of publications bearing today’s date that were, tragically, destroyed. My role in all of this? Just call me the destroyer. The executioner for the written word. Here standeth I, in my black hood; here standeth journal, its leap day neck in the guillotine. Au revoirs all around (and drinks after work to celebrate).
Our publication has an ugly stepsister journal, a sort of “greatest hits” issue that runs every two weeks: every other Friday. Our associate editor put it together yesterday, and sent me the proof copies before I had to jet out in the afternoon. I read them over, approved them, and sent them to publications. They published, and were sitting in distribution today when I get a somewhat frantic call.
Evidently it isn’t, in fact, a strict every-other-Friday sort of deal. It’s a first-and-third Friday sort of a deal. This just oh-so-conveniently happens to be every other Friday unless your month has an unprecedented five Fridays. Like a leap year. Specifically, only a leap year. Our managing editor is off on about his billionth vacation of the year, and the calendar said publish. Not exactly our fault, and yet … HA. Ahahaha. Oops. And what an awesome surprise for our boss when he gets back. Well, we nearly burned the place down, but not quite! Not quite. Destroy, I said, and they did.
On a less destructive note, it’s also my cousin’s birthday today. He’s, let’s see, 6; 24 if you count the in-between years when he’d celebrate on the 28th. I’d like the rarity, but probably not the reality of that fate.
My Buddha celebrated the day in style, with another offering—this week, a rabbit. “Leap day,” the offeror said. “Rabbit is leaping.” Adorable. I’ve got to start documenting this. I’ve practically got a shrine going in my office these days.
In my own style of zen, I celebrated the night out with a whole riotous table from the office. Off in the corner, I noticed my boss’ boss having a quiet martini with some other suits, and I do wonder what they thought of us (and if they noticed us at all).
As for me? I’m tired. And slightly drunk. And planning to head to bed, sleep late, and be responsible later. Much later. Like, in March. (Is it really almost spring?!)
It’s amazing how I can go from insanely lazy, hmmm I’ll check my e-mail five billion times days to days where everything seems to be coming at me with little jet engines attached.
Today was definitely a jet engine day. I had to be at Commerce (as in Commerce, Department of) for an early morning hearing, yet I stayed up far too late last night drinking margaritas to make that a very pleasant encounter. Tequila has a tricky way of making everything seem like it’s suddenly all better. I’ve got to stop wanting to believe.
Of course the hearing ran so long it could legitimately have been called an early-afternoon affair, which left me scrambling to get back to the office in time to file a short report before I had to head out at the ungodly early hour of 3.30. Ordinarily this kind of early dismissal would delight me, and ordinarily tight deadlines bring out my best work. I was just too frantic, though. ”Think, Magda, Think!” I said, over and over, to an oppressively blank screen. I filed something of undeterminable quality at 3.28, and ran home to get my car to drive to J’s to take him to Baltimore so he could catch a flight. Then breathe.
Far more movement entered my day today than is usual. I took the train into the city, then a cab back to work; a train home and the car for the hour trek north to the airport. And all the walking and scurrying in between.
Mid-day metro rides are a different experience in a lot of ways, I realized (or remembered?) today. At 3.30, say, not too many people are commuting. They’re just traveling, just going. The aisles that house crammed be-suited urban professionals with ipods and impressive briefcases are empty, and almost refreshingly so. People dot the seats; a guy reading the paper here, a mom and a little girl there, but the empties far outweigh the occupieds. It’s quiet. It’s calm. I should leave at 3.30 every day, seriously.
There also were a considerable number of uniformed military personnel onboard. This does not surprise me; it’s DC, afterall, and the fatigues are a sort of city uniform. Sometimes, and I know this is odd, I see them all walking about near my office and I pretend I’m a spy. Like, a real spy in some eastern-bloc country, where the work I do in my windowless hovel is of critical national importance and I, magda, must infiltrate the enemy and bring justice and peace to all. Or something.
Today, though, I wasn’t feeling so spy-like. A serviceman in my line of sight was on his cell phone, his beret perfectly (perfectly!) pitched on his head. I looked at his wedding band, and I though of the sacrifice. The long nights, the fear and the anxiety, the trials of the love answering on the other side of that call.
Two women–one in fatigues, one in rather masculine pressed khakis and, dare I say, dull black flats–talked and laughed nearby. I mostly watched them in the reflection, covert-like, but they fascinated me. What it must take to trade normal hours and cute business suits for the front lines, to take combat boots over manolo blahniks for the every day.
I flashed them all the warmest smiles I could conjure on exiting. If I could have, I would have hugged them all, thanked them all sincerely for giving so much. For giving their skills, and their talent, and their lives so that I can wear impractical heels to run with freedom across the chambered halls of our government, to hear about the challenges of internet governance and know that it matters and we have a say, to travel how I want when I want with whomever I want, to live my life as me, howsoever much tequila that involves, and to realize that nothing is ever all that bad. Thank you. A million times over, thank you.
I was standing on a packed yellow line train home tonight after another predictably ridiculous day on the front lines (as it were). When a seat opened I snatched it, relishing in the luxury of reading the paper stashed in my bag—a relic of the morning’s much sparser journey in.
And then I started crying. Not like sobs, or wails, or tears with any real force— just an inconspicuous well of salt that blurred my eyes, then marched a sad but silent procession down my cheeks. Hi, I’m magda, the insane girl sitting next to you on the train, crying for no particular reason. Prefer to stand? That’s ok. I probably would, too.
There really was no articulable wrong, no specific injury that brought my reaction. This is one of my major grievances with the female design: can I not be afforded more grasp, more control of these emotions? Seriously.
I’m sure that lots of little things contributed. The sad English music being delivered to my ears, say. Or the headlines.
ALL of the stories on page 6 of today’s Post Express are dreary and could just as well say “the world’s going to shit, so go ahead, cry!” They are in sum total as follows, and I quote:
”Attack kills Pakistani army officer”
“Thousands participate in anti-Arroyo demonstrations”
“Turkey Reports 41 Kurdish deaths in Northern Iraq”
“Opposition calls for protests as power-sharing plan fails”
“South Africa revives Elephant Culls”
“Suicide bomber in wheelchair kills Iraqi official”
And, fittingly, “‘Doomsday’ vault set to open.”
Dear Post Express, Thanks for helping a girl out. What the hell. One happy story! Just one! Yes, the world is a bad and evil place sometimes, but there is no redemption in your presentation, none at all. Fire your page six editor post haste. Meanwhile, I will enjoy a large pour of wine, enjoy the “dinner cooking” smells emanating from the kitchen, and flip back to the Style section. Because nothing beats being a girl like some kick-ass beauty tips and fashion trends.
I’ve always had a thing for the Irish. Namely, I’ve always wished, and at times truly believed, that I was wholly Irish. I get this from my dad. We have an outlandish love for the Emerald Isle. We love Guinness. We affect Irish accents when I’m home on break. It’s a strange thing, surely, but it’s amusing.
Something about the new salon where I went this weekend had me so giddy—maybe it was the shamrocks already up on the reception desk (early, surely) or the glass of wine they offered when I entered (Coffee? Diet Coke? Wine? Why…yes!), who knows–but I told the stylist to go auburn.
My hair is a nice average brown. I’ve traditionally highlighted it dark blond, but today I write you, still a warm brunette, but with some very happy red overtones. With a green sweater, like the one I’m wearing today? I’d look brilliant with a Guinness. Brilliant!
I was so happy with the hair cutting experience. I have a ridiculous, but unfortunately well-grounded, fear of haircuts. It’s not so much the scissors and the snipping as it is the end result. The last coif I got was in August, and it ended with me, in tears, sitting in the parking lot with my hood up begging J to come pick me up. “I’ve been maimed,” I cried. “I’m not fit to be seen in public. Please, please, please come get me!” All this was followed by a several hour stint of me washing my hair, trying to pull it longer in some places while squishing it shorter in others, and bribing the mirror to kiss my reflection better.
My hair is unusual. It’s quite curly, but not at all ethnic (It’s Irish, my dad says!). Stylists either know it, or they don’t. They either listen, or they “have a vision.” Oh be wary of the stylist with a vision.
This head of hair is a delicate beast, but a beast just the same. It is a veritable medusa, in more than just its looks; if you stare too fixedly, if you’re too fascinated by its exterior, it’ll bite back, and I’ll suffer the consequences. You have to know what you’re getting into with my hair; you have to have a strategy or it will own you.
Now, however, I have found her. I have found my wine-pouring, hair-conquering, absolute genius of a stylist, which is truly quite a feat. Must be that old Irish luck.
They looked at me like I had everything in the world but didn’t deserve it, and I had no idea how to respond.
I went to my Catholic women’s group again last night. My best church-y girlfriend couldn’t make it, but I opted to go anyway. I hadn’t been in so long, plus (and this is very self-centered) I was looking especially cute. (Seriously, madga. It’s church. They won’t care. Moreover, you shouldn’t care.).
There were only four of us last night, but they were all strangers to me save one. I hadn’t been since before Christmas, and it seems the composition has shaken slightly. That’s DC for you—people move in, people move out, and it’s all very transient. Here, at least, a common faith creates a common ground. Or so it should.
The group I left was predominantly bubbly post-college girls, but last night was a different crowd. These women were older and, pardon me, bitter. They were ALL single and ALL unhappy about it. As I popped in, looking young and sparky with a cool career and a real boyfriend, you could see raindrops looming for their pity parade. I wish I could have fit, I wish we could have all talked like equals.
They didn’t hate me, but I saw a real resentment oozing out of them. They created a camaraderie of misery that excluded me. I just wish that they could have seen that I’m not really all that perfect, and not really all that happy-go-lucky. Sure, I’ve been blessed with a pretty amazing life, but it’s not like I just woke up one morning and the world waved its wand and said, “magda, you are my golden child, and I will lavish on you all things good and desirable.” I have wants and hopes and fears just as much as they do. Comparisons don’t always work, and I don’t think I’m “better off” just because my life, on the surface, matches their mental checklists of fulfillment. I don’t think my existence presents any outrageous unfairness. I just wish they could have seen that. It might have made them happier.
Subtitle: for some reason they pay me for this.
I got this in my e-mail from a friend last night, and thought it would be fitting to post my responses here, as well.
1. What time did you get up this morning?
My alarm was set for 6.50, but strangely and quite unpredictably, I got up at 6.07.
2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds, definitely—but seeing as I own none of those (hmm), I do occasionally wear pearls, and I like them, too.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Juno. It was amazing.
4. What is your favorite TV show?
Bewitched. Hands down. The first few seasons, before Tabitha was born and before it went to color. Of modern, turn-it-on-in primetime shows, Grey’s Anatomy, and I’ve also taken to watching ABC’s Big Shots on the web. It’s kind of lame, but amusing.
5. What did you have for breakfast this morning?
Cheerios. I heart them.
6. How long is your commute?
Half an hour, door to door. Plus or minus 5 minutes, I lock my door at 8.30, and arrive at the office at or just before 9.
7. What is your middle name?
Danger. Actually, no, it’s Michelle.
8. What is your favorite meal?
That’s a tough one. Basically anything with cheese involved.
9. What foods do you dislike?
Do liquids count? I hate tomato juice/V8/bloody marys (but certainly not vodka).
10. Favorite chips?
Sour cream and onion potato chips, else cheetos. Yep, I go for maximum caloric damage. Yummy.
11. What is your favorite CD at the moment?
Aqualung’s “Strange and Beautiful.” Sounds odd, but really very good. It’s on the list of what many call my “sad English music” playlist.
12. What is your favorite sandwich?
Grilled cheese—with cheddar, not American, and on a good crusty bread. Maybe also with tomato. I’m also partial to the New Orleans famous mufaletta, but as I’ve only had it twice, I don’t know if it counts as a true favorite.
13. What characteristics do you despise?
Poor hygiene, dishonesty, lazy slackassness, my boss.
14. What are your favorite clothes?
These days, probably my kasil jeans and a cute sweater with my green banana republic long pea coat (on sale!), though I’m also really partial to my pajamas.
15. If you could go anywhere in the world for a vacation where would you go?
Morea, Tahiti.
16. Favorite brand of clothing?
Too many choices! Most anything at Nordstrom.
17. Where would you want to retire?
A vineyard. I’d like to drink my way into old age oblivion with a bit of class.
18. Favorite time of day?
4.00p. Only an hour left at work, and the evening seems so open and uncharted.
19. Where were you born?
Sunny California. The west coast is the best coast, you know.
20. What is your favorite sport to watch?
I’m not a big sports girl. I like most sports games live, but baseball is my favorite. On TV, anything related to the Olympics is a sure win.
21. What are your favorite teams in Basketball and football?
Whoever’s winning? Whoever has the coolest uniform? Again, not really a sports girl…
22. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
I have tried, on various occasions, to convince myself that I’m one or the other. Right now I’m mostly a night owl, but I think I’m most productive at doing work/studying in the morning.
23. What did you want to be when you were little?
I wanted to be a dentist for a really long time. I also thought I’d be a second grade teacher. Never, ever did I say I wanted to be a lawyer. And yet, here I am.
24. What is your best childhood memory?
To hard to pick a “best,” but definitely up there is when my younger sister and I were hanging out in our back yard over the summer; I was probably about 12, she 10. I somehow convinced her that it was “an old Indian legend” that she could be immune to bees and other pesky insects if she ran around the house naked three times. “It’ll work like a charm,” I said; “They’ll stay away from you forever.” She did it, and more than one neighbor later reported the sighting to my mom. I convinced my sister to do a lot of really idiotic things. Good times, good times.
25. Piercings?
One in each ear, one in my bellybutton. Actually, it’s really in the flesh of my abdomen, pretending it’s in my bellybutton. It hurt like ALL HECK, and I don’t really recommend it. But it is actually quite adorable with a bikini.
26. Ever been to Africa ?
No. I’d regret this if it weren’t for all the shots I’d need. I would, however, really like to go to Egypt some day.
27. Ever been toilet papering?
Nope.
28. Been in a car accident?
Yes, one major one and a couple of small rear-ending incidents—but nothing while I was driving.
29. Favorite day of the week?
Friday. Obviously.
30. Favorite restaurant?
Zaytinya, downtown DC
31. Favorite Flowers?
Tulips. Also the big tropical ones that come in nice bouquets, though I don’t exactly know what they’re called.
32. Favorite ice cream?
Ben & Jerry’s half-baked frozen yogurt.
33. Favorite fast food restaurant?
I can’t even remember the last time I ate fast food. I love taco time, but I don’t think they have that here. I also like popeye’s chicken. Very tasty.
34. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Nordstrom, or maybe Coach. Provided, of course, some third party would pay it off—never would I max the card on luxury effects.
35. Bedtime?
I’m usually in bed at 10.30. Owing to the distractions presented in my laptop and in various bedside novels, however, I’m rarely asleep before 12.
36. Last person you went to dinner with?
J and his parents, in NY last weekend.
37. What are you reading right now?
Anna Maxted’s A Tale of Two Sisters. Chicklit for sure, but not all that shallow. It’s fantastic.
38. What is your favorite color?
Traditionally navy blue, but the color most recurring in my wardrobe is grey. I also really like silver (as a color. Not to wear. That might be odd).
39. How many tattoos do you have?
None, and I never plan to acquire any. Yuck.
40. Favorite magazine?
My favorite magazine to read is probably Glamour. I always read it in the gym when I’m there, a habit I took on in law school when my roommate gave me each issue as she finished, and I read them all cover to cover. The only magazine I actually subscribe to is Bon Appetit, but I really only read it when I’m looking to cook something fancy, i.e. for more than just myself. As this happens rarely, the magazine exists for me predominantly as reference.
And there you are.
I’m not a big believer in soul mates. The idea that there is one person out there for me, designed for me, just waiting for me is more frightening than reassuring, really. First, I doubt the world. Accidents and acts of God/fate/etc. happen every day. If my one soul mate gets wiped out, what then? I’m sunk? I don’t want to be a widow before I’m a bride, thanks ever so much.
Second, I doubt humanity. What if he—or I!—made one cataclysmically unfortunate choice? Move away; take an unworthy job; stay in on the night we’re supposed to meet. Or, worse yet, settle for something less and marry the “wrong” person.
The whole soul mates thing is too risky; too much depends on the undependable.
I think, instead, that love is there for the taking in various facets and in multiple places. Love isn’t something that, once you find “the one,” it’ll be sunshine, lollipops and rainbows forever. It’s going to take work.
Coming off the train last night, I saw what just might have been a spark to set something going. In the bustle to get down the stairs, a young, artsy-seeming woman lost a collection of papers and cards out of a book she was carrying. They fell off the side of the staircase, and landed at the feet of a similarly aged and situated man. Retro-ish clothes, square glasses, styled hair; you know the type. He gathered them up, and waited for her descent; he presented them to her, they locked eyes, and I swear I was looking around for the film crews. It was just too perfect.
So say these metro-meet-ups start a relationship (and really, my fingers are crossed for them). Say they come to love each other; they have their differences, and their problems which aren’t too serious, but mostly good times. They get married, and they tell their friends that it was fate. The universe brought us together; we’re soul mates who were destined to meet at exactly this time and place! But are they? What if he had missed his train and not been there, or if she had left those cards back at her studio? Or what if one or the other had been flustered, or bailed on a date, or flat-out said no? They each may have gone on to have had equally fruitful relationships with other people, I’d say. I don’t think they would have missed their one chance. Maybe they would have met up somewhere else, but maybe not. It seems too simple to wait for the world to make it work.
I love J with my whole heart. He is my everything, but it’s a struggle, and it’s a choice. I believe that the universe has presented in him an excellent opportunity. I don’t believe it has offered me my fate.
If something were to happen to him, or to us; if I were to pick up and move to Australia or darkest Peru and start carrying cards in books on trains, I think I could find someone else, if I put the effort and compromise into it. I think I could be happy elsewhere (and frankly, the banking all my happiness in the relationship—“I could never be happy without you,” et cetera—is a bit alarming. I could be. I just don’t want to be).
This should not be mistaken as some veiled desire: I don’t want to leave J, and in fact I want nothing more than to wake up beside him every morning forever more. All I’m saying is that I think we have a more active role in love than we are perhaps ready to acknowledge. It’s a choice and a chance, love is. I’m not as concerned with whether J was designed for me and only for me as I am with offering awe and gratitude for the chance, the proper alignment of circumstance, that gave me the opportunity to fight for the “us” inherent.
He is my one true love because I’ve intentionally, concretely, permanently affixed him in my heart. We are what you may call soul mates because we’ve chosen to love each other completely.
So arguably, this would be a better post for tomorrow—Wednesday Whys and Wonders, feel the alliteration love. But alas. It’s a Tuesday that feels like a Monday, I’m in the office and I’d rather be in bed with a book, and sometimes it’s just like that.
Why can’t we get four-day weekends, like in high school? Or a midwinter break. My high school sends a calendar every year, the kind with cheesy photos and stuff, as part of their fundraising. I have it in my office for reasons largely unknown, and it informs me that this week is midwinter break. I’m feeling a little bit ripped of, being here.
Why did my boss call my office at 8.38 this morning, and why was I here to answer? The man arrives around 11, but we’re all meant to be here at 9; I think he was hoping to just leave a voicemail. Weenie.
Why is my hair doing all kinds of frizzies? Can’t it just make nice ringlet curls like normal? Hair, I hate you.
Why did I think it would be a brilliant idea to wear my wool mini skirt today? I’m walking down the hall and all the old ladies of the office who normally hide out in their offices seem to be out on the prowl today, and they are all staring at my skirt. All of them. It’s like a little parade of my mom, telepathically screeching “unprofessional! Who let you out of the house like that? This is work, not a party!” Hmmm. It is, however, very adorable, and paired with this sweater it is not, despite its length, inappropriate.
Why does my office seem like a giant magnet chamber for sucking away all possible motivation and/or energy? Gaaah.
Why do all of my shirts seem to be shrinking, and/or why is my abdomen seeming to elongate? I.e., why do I feel like I’m constantly tugging at my tops to make them feel long enough?
Why do I want nothing more than a giant hunk of cheese, or a cheesy Mexican lunch, when I ate a giant cheese pizza last night and had melted cheese on a bagel for breakfast? And, given this pattern, why am I surprised and incredulous when J says he thinks I eat too much junk food?
Why isn’t cheese, being dairy, considered a health food? And ice cream, for that matter.
Why did I almost buy ice cream four times this weekend, only stopping short when I realized I’d given it up for lent? I never used to want to eat it so much. Serves me right for taking the easy path to Lenten fasting, I suppose.
Why did I dream that J proposed with a chocolate ring? And why, upon waking, was I a little sad that it wasn’t true? (seriously, mind, chocolate? At the time it seemed desirable; strange).
Why did I have to come in to work today, why do I feel like the only person who’s really doing work (even when, ahem, I’m clearly not working), and why is another weekend so far away? Why?
It’s a cold morning in New York, but I am writing from a big warm bed with a big strong espresso. We’re up at J’s parents’ house; J is helping his dad out with some things downstairs; but first, he woke me with a most excellent tray of breakfast goodness. It’s gestures like this that make me really feel loved. I don’t need a big production or a fancy present, just something to show that he’s gone out of his way because he thinks of me that often; concerns himself with my wants first; puts me as a priority worthy of devoted attention. It’s cliché, but it really is the little things.
We’re going to spend the weekend just hanging out, J and I, and I think that’s exactly what we need. The stress of the city is so much sometimes; we work and we try and we love, but the love seems sometimes to get washed out, faded as a priority. Relationships are hard. Sometimes you need to take a step back and breathe some life into them again, roll down the windows and let the country air rip through the stiff orderliness of everything.
And so we are here, on the farm, about an hour out of NYC but so. amazingly. peaceful. They have barns and rolling green spaces, and it feels ten million miles from anything.
This may sound bizarre, but part of me is still so impressed that we get to share a bedroom here. I think my puritanical upbringing indelibly shaped my thinking, because I’m all, really? Your mom’s ok with this? How modern! J slept in the guest room both times he’s been out west to my house. I don’t know if it’s an illusion of chastity or just a nod to tradition or what, but I feel like a real rebel up here, sipping coffee from my boyfriend’s bed. Truth is? I really like it.
In Japan (I am told), Valentine’s day is a girls-only affair. It’s only the girls in line for chocolates, ordering flowers, and gushing out their love in poems and e-mails and pink and lace sealed letters. They set their eyes on their man, and they make it as clear as possible that they’re in it, that they love him, that he’s wanted.
A full month later comes March 14, White Day. This is when the men reciprocate: if it’s committed, they show their love back; if it’s new, they either return your affections or not.
On the one hand, this seems extremely aggravating. A whole month of waiting to see if he likes you back! Unfair, too, in the sense that the girl sets the bar: he has a measuring stick and the advantage of already knowing just exactly how far he needs to go to match (or top) her.
On the other hand, though, there’s an order to this system that seems a bit appealing. You know precisely what’s expected, and you know that, whoever you are, on this one day your affections need to be unilaterally directed to your other.
So that, say, when one party says hey, come over, I’ll make a surprise dinner, you know from the outset that this is all about you, and you can relax uninhibited, basking in the glow of love. Without these distinctions, you may well find yourself peeling potatoes and clearing the table; being a co-pilot and getting in the way. No problem: but, really, not much different from any other night.
If you had some parameters, you wouldn’t let your imagination and your expectations get the better of you. You wouldn’t ruin a perfectly acceptable night of cooking a deux because it lacked the glamour you’d mentally imposed. You wouldn’t let your disappointment show on your face (despite being one for whom this is a practical inevitability), and you certainly wouldn’t end the night crying. Tears on Valentine’s day are just a bummer all around.
In magda-land, the day after Valentine’s, V-1, is hereby decreed black day. This is where you say you’re sorry for being selfish, for being petty, and for failing to communicate. You apologize for overlooking all the good, and drowning out the effort undertaken on your behalf because it didn’t align with your internal assignations of the perfect. You say that you know your love is strong enough, and even if you peel potatoes forever, it’s worth it. That’s what you say.
