If What They Say Is True...

...that you create environments that directly reflect how you feel inside, then judging by the sad state of affairs in my bedroom, I need to get my shit together.  Like, yesterday.  Nothing's where it should be.  Everything's haphazardly found its way to the dusty floor or sitting in a pile at the foot of my bed or hanging from some random hook.  Time to start cleaning house.  Purging is supposed to be cathartic.  

Try To Follow Clockwise, If You Are So Inclined

I'm going to stop turning down alcohol, but only because Mr. Walker has stared me down every day since Christmas.  The presence of fine whisky in your home can do strange things to a girl.

WWII England was like a gal's best friend - she gave great advice.  Cheerio.

Jo Malone kind of rocks my world.  I will know the minute I meet my future husband because he will smell of one of their woody cedar scents.  There was one particular cedar-y cologne, a limited release in the fall of 2008 (or was it the spring of 2009?), that was particularly heavenly.

Sometimes I wish I owned a sparkly Blackberry in a fun color.  It would kick my ugly grey practical Samsung Alias to the curb.

One of the three buttons on my winter coat fell off on Tuesday and I still haven't gotten around to sewing it back on.  There's just no motivation when the weekend forecast calls for clear blue skies and a cool fifty degrees.  Hello, Spring?  Is that you?

Where does Penn get off mass mailing an alumni magazine pegged as "The Food Issue?"  Is that, of all the possibilities, stir fry gracing the front cover?  How novel.  Let's not talk about how the closest class even remotely related to gastronomy on that campus is probably some mandatory first-year med school course about the anatomy of the mouth and stomach.  

I quite enjoy picnic-style hodge podge meals comprised of whatever's in the fridge...even if a look at my plate might suggest that my palate resembles that of a toddler.  Yes, that's styrofoam.  Someone had the nerve to buy a pack of styrofoam plates because it was cheaper than paper.  The gall.  Then three people used all of three plates at the event.  I went ape shit about the plight of our earth and really, was it worth saving a whole two dollars?  Now the unfortunate plates sit quietly in my kitchen as I try to use them up one by one.  I cringe every time I toss one in the trash.

[5:13 a.m.] My Twitter Men & John Mayer's Anxiety & How If You're Looking For Something Coherent To Read, You've Come To The Wrong Place

Why am I up at this hour?  I started around eleven crafting some sensible cover letters for some fun positions I saw posted on idealist.org and now the sun's about to come up and my eyes are totally shot.  Dry eye syndrome is not fun.  But here's the good news: doc told me last week that I am the perfect candidate for Lasik just as long as I keep the dry eye thing under control.  That made my day since the dry eyes completely took me out of the running before.  So I guess I'll find a way to come up with a few grand at some point and go under the laser beam.  Ouch.  But oh, how wonderful would it be to have near perfect vision?  It gives me the tingles all over just thinking about it.  I'd smile from ear to ear for like, a whole month straight.  Waking up in the morning with perfect vision.  And I thought I had no dreams.  Pshaw.

It's comical: I now have five Twitter accounts bookmarked in my Chrome browser.  FIVE.  If I had an iPhone or a blackberry, maybe I would consider becoming a Twit, I mean, a Twitterer, but this gal is still using old-fashioned text messages and her voice chords to communicate.  Anyway, I thought it was curious that the five Twitterers I follow are all men; a wondrously strange composition of men, but ones I admire for one reason or another.  And yes, some have a flaw or two, but who doesn't?  

(In no particular order)

John Legend

Roger Ebert

Matt Logelin

Josh Groban

John Mayer

Seriously...blog friends, my infatuation with John Mayer's music is freaking hilarious and simply OUT OF CONTROL.  That concert was like...what did he say about Jessica Simpson in that Playboy interview?  Was it "sexual napalm?"  Oh, no, I'm thinking "crack cocaine."  Yes, I believe that's the one.  Anyway, since that concert last week {+}, I can play his tunes over and over and over again without overdosing.  It's ridiculous.  I'm ridiculous.  It's like crack cocaine.  I can't get enough of it.  Crack cocaine is ridiculous.  

It's the butt crack of dawn and I haven't even washed my face and put on the jammies yet...will I pull an all-nighter?  Maybe.  Ok, I'm VERY CLEARLY not coherent right now.  I'm delirious with exhaustion.  

But before I go, I wanted to say that I read some interviews of Mr. Mayer (crack cocaine, I say!) and I think the main reason why I seem to take pause and semi-pardon his douche bag reputation and actions is that he has an anxiety disorder.  I'm familiar.  Quite.  If you don't suffer from anxiety yourself or have someone really close to you that does (the crippling "I feel like the sky is falling on top of me" kind and not the "oh, no, I'm nervous for my interview" kind) I encourage you to refrain from judging.  Because, really, you'll just never know.  It's as simple as that.  I know how it can make you do things and say things and think things that make you come off as someone that you're totally not.  Even as you're doing it or thinking it or saying it, you know that it's a mistake and a poor reflection on you, but you still do it because your head gets ahead of you while your body feels like you're simultaneously having a heart attack/sweating like you just ran a marathon/about to pass out/shaking uncontrollably and before you know it, the deed is done.  The harm has been done.  All because your head can't kick the anxiety bubble that just burst inside you.  Some people withdraw and fall to pieces quietly almost in silence.  Others turn all out aggresive extrovert and fall to pieces in public in a very loud brashy ugly way.  I'm pretty sure that's what John does.  He's also a rockstar.  He must have a twinge of the egomaniac in him, too.  How else would you have the spine to be a rockstar?  A believable good one, that is.  One with attitude and a smear of "I'm all that and a bag of chips."  Anyway, Xanax, John.  Xanax.  The palindrome king of the prescription world.  Use it wisely under the guidance of your shrink.  Love it.  Embrace it.  Used properly, it can help you learn how to control yourself, especially if you're sweating over how much the media scrutinizes you.

Just went to another tab in my browser and sent out another resume.  Good for me.  Another resume sent out!!  It's 6:15 now and the sun is up.  I gots to get mine tushy to beddy-bye.  Nigh-nigh, y'all!

I feel like I'm on crack cocaine right now I'm so whack tired.  One hour of sleep, ready or not, here I come.

Being

I'm still reeling from a minor tiff with mascara this morning. It's an ongoing battle between me and make-up. I usually end up losing as I did today. Why do I poke my eyeball with the stupid mascara wand every single time?  You folks with long lashes don't know how good you have it.  I didn't even make it to the eye shadow step.  That's how terribly make-up and I get along.  If I get frustrated enough, I'd rather quit and walk away than continue.  If both eyes have been coated with mascara by that point, lucky.  If only one, that eye will just look bigger than the other, that's all.  My eyes aren't symmetrical anyway - one appears bigger than the other because my skin doesn't crease as deeply over one eye as it does the other.  No big deal.

I look like I'm about to lunge at someone. It's just me annoyed.

I'm in the thirtieth year of my life and I feel like well, nothing.  I don't feel like I'm living.  I'm breathing, yeah.  The heart's ticking, yeah.  So why, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a store window, do I not like what I see?  I don't see grace, I don't see joy, and I don't see fulfillment.

Maybe because today, uhmmah's in Korea celebrating her niece's wedding.  A couple months older than me, Yoon-Joo is the first of my first cousins on that side of the family to get hitched.  The pressure is building for the rest of us.

Maybe because when her brother visited in the fall {+}, I was hoping that I'd have a job lined up by now.  I don't.

Maybe because only a few weeks ago I seriously contemplated selling all my stuff and hopping on a plane to anywhere but here.

Maybe because for a long while now, the one thing that I look forward to at any given moment is writing my rubbish down in this journal.  It's so overwhelming, this desire to run and hole up somewhere with a Wi-Fi connection.

Maybe I just don't have enough stuff going on in my life that I'm over-analyzing and blowing up internally over things that would otherwise be relatively minor introspections.

This is unacceptable and I'm suddenly kind of mildly freaking out about it.  There's so much to do.

One might say that I had a mildly psychotic episode this morning when I popped in one of my sister's workout videos and -surprise!- it didn't go very well.  I had a good laugh.  But it means a lot that I tried. I then hopped out of the shower and decided that I should learn to paint my face in under ten minutes. They say practice makes perfect.  Mascara won today, but there's always tomorrow.

I've got a lot to do to make the next thirty count.

Roger Reminded Me

I happened upon Roger Ebert's blog a while ago and have been blown away ever since.  I'll always remember him as Roger of Siskel & Ebert, he the round one with a kind serious voice.  He's gone through a lot since those days.  A lot.

Well, "about 9 hours ago via web" he tweeted news of his own TwitterPage in the Chicago Sun-Times {+}.  I clicked and was surprised to see a fun little reminder of Philadelphia.  I needed to see this this morning.  This footage is of an amusing traffic officer who frequently worked the corner of 36th & Walnut, right at the heart of Penn's campus at a busy intersection in front of the campus bookstore.  Every morning he'd make direct eye contact with each pedestrian, smile, and boom out a "Morning!" or a "Let's go, darlin'!" without missing a beat of his little jig.  You could be having the worst morning of the week and he would still crack a smile on your face.

I hadn't seen him in a while during my last days on campus, but this video makes me miss Officer Johnson.  He had that special touch.  You know, the one that not everyone's lucky to have, the one where you can't help but admire for knowing that he does what he does because he enjoys it, and does so with quirk and finesse and oomph that leaves a little, yet unforgettable, imprint in the community.  Officer Johnson, I miss your being part of my life!

John Mayer. Really.

Thursday, February 25th, 2010, Sometime between 8:30 - 9:00 p.m.

New York City, Madison Square Garden, 5th Floor, The Green Room

(Image from www.johnmayer.com)

This one often causes ruckuses.  There's no getting around it: Mr. John Mayer has a very bad case of the verbal runs.  You know it, I know it, we all know it.  Lucky for him, he's on a great big ole' tour during which he entertains a live audience almost every night of the week to which he can also publicly deliver apologies for his less-than-admirable choice of words.  In mere minutes, his message from the stage finds its way from some lovestruck fan's all-in-one digital phone/camera/blackberry/camcorder/nose hair clipper/swiss army knife to YouTube for all the world to see.  Technology is on stardom's side.

All his missteps aside, in person, I thought John Mayer had a great aura about him.  Firstly, he's ridiculously handsome (I wasn't expecting that).  Secondly, he maintains eye contact with whomever he's talking (this is a huge thing for me - I think his parents or his agents have trained him well).  Thirdly, he has very kind eyes (another big thing for me).  Lastly, and what really captured my attention, was his remarkable speaking voice.  He's no James Earl Jones, but it's sexier than his singing voice.  He's also well-spoken.  Did you know that he contributes articles to various publications here and there?  He's a good writer, too.  Ladies and gentlemen, this package is not bad at all.

John Mayer and his music?  They're sort of awesome.  For living every professional's dream ---to make a good living doing what you love--- and every artist's dream ---to excel in your gift and share its beauty with the communities around you--- I truly admire him.  So much so that as much as I go on about how lame Twitter is, I've bookmarked John's Twitter account.  First Josh Groban.  Now John Mayer.  Oy.  After wishing the crowd safe travels home (Manhattan had been served a brutally long day of disgusting slushy rain and snow that turned to biting fast swirly snowfall by the time the concert ended), he posted to his Twitter account.

(Immediately after posting the comment at the top of this screenshot, he deleted it.  Maybe liability issues?)

Clever, that one.  He genuinely understands the power of social media.  And his fans are no fools - they eat it right up.  Even when he screams immaturity.

(Referring to his second show at Madison Square Garden tonight)

But he sure sounds like a lot of fun, doesn't he?

Nancy apparently has connections that insisted we not only enjoy the show in great seats (section 74, row G, seats 1-4 to be exact), but also be a part of the intimate meet-and-greet right before the show.  I thought it was funny that she and I were the only non-whites in a room of about thirty VIP guests.  I felt a twinge of guilt knowing there were so many die-hard fans that didn't have this opportunity.  I had no business being in that room.  Frankly, both Nancy and I kind of just wanted to get to our seats.  But that was not God's plan.  God wanted me to know that John's hand was a bit clammy.  Even rock stars get nervous, people.  Or maybe he just has naturally clammy hands.  I guess I'll never know.  Sitting just in front of the stage a few levels up, I was absolutely mesmerized by his performance, even when the guy behind me flipped on the guys smoking weed in front of us.  Something about how he had to take a military physical in two days and can't have that stuff in his system.  Oh, the drama.

In summary, there's just nothing like the energy of a night of live music, amazing guitar solos, and a sweet view of a talented musician rocking it out in his element.  How fun it was; my first experience at a Madison Square Garden event; all thanks to Nancy...and I suppose all the suckers who passed up this opportunity until it found its way to lucky me.

Tears

I saw something at work today and before I knew it, a couple little tears made a surprise appearance.  It came out of the blue; the urge, that is. It came suddenly, really fast, and really hard.

The nonprofit group I've been with this winter runs charter schools in an underserved section of the city. I've been working on a variety of projects, but all of them require access to sensitive and confidential information. Today, I went on-site to one of the schools for my most recent project. It caught me off guard when I came across the letterheads of several of the city's homeless shelters in the student files.  I noticed some of these shelters officially went by names that included transition home which I think is apt, but I think shelter is a better fit than home because home carries with it a sense of permanence and ownership.  Any home where you're forced to stay temporarily cannot possibly offer either of those two things.  But it can offer shelter.

So there you have it: children living in what they call transition homes even though they don't know exactly to where they'll be transitioning.

Children who have to produce signed letters 

From their homeless shelters

To bring to school

To prove that they are eligible to attend this school. 

Let's let that sink in, shall we?

The dates on the letters glared at me.  December something 2009.  That was two months ago.  Right before the holidays.  Right before my 29th birthday.  The birthday that fell in a month when I had funds to pay rent.  To buy groceries.  To even buy Christmas gifts for family.  At least I'm not ten.  And living in a shelter with my parents and siblings all the while trying to just be a kid.  Homework.  TV.  Music lessons.  Birthday parties.  Video games.  You know...kid stuff.  My thoughts continued.  Where do they do their laundry?  Where do the children eat?  In a dining hall?  At a soup kitchen?  Do they not eat?  Are the hot breakfast and lunch meals at school the only food they get?  What do they do for food on the weekends?

Shit. I'm crying again.

Hearts A Flutter At 85th & Third Ave.

I've been told that David Duchovny and his brood live in my hood.  More than two and a half years after moving here, I finally saw them yesterday morning.  He and his wife Tea Leoni were walking and talking with their arms closely linked together, their footsteps in tandem, her head slightly leaning into her husband's body.  For a couple in their forties, their affection for one another still shows.  Very sweet.  But they were both mighty thin.  I know lean is in and all, but an extra biscuit or two now and again would do those guys some good.

How lame is it that I get excited over bumping into celebrities and high profile individuals?  They're not very different from me, except maybe they have more in their bank account and maybe a few injections of Botox.  In my defense, the only time I got so excited that I nearly peed in my pants was when Jacques Pepin kissed me on my cheek at the French Culinary Institute {+}.  And mind you, Jacques is more like a sweet old grandfather celebrity (with mad kitchen skillz).  Chances of my mingling with a celebrity, like ever, are 0%.  So what is it that makes my heart skip a beat when I recognize high profile faces on the street?  Fame, money, glory, power, talent?  Why am I so attracted to these things?  They have nothing to do with me...

Which leads me to an embarrassing confession: Why do I follow Josh Groban's twitter?  (Totally covering my face with my hands right now.)  I've somehow - rather pathetically - managed to project my ideal man's qualities onto Joshua.  He exudes the perfect balance of kindness, humor, calm, intelligence, focus, silliness, and humility that I'd want in my future husband.  I find his good-natured sweetness very attractive; his voice, speaking and singing, nothing more than a bonus to the whole package.  I'm talking crazy talk, I know, but I bet every lady out there has a celebrity figure they admire in this way, too.  Don't worry - Julia hasn't lost her marbles.  It's just a resolute sign that it's high time I start actively dating for my future husband because my heart fluttering over someone I know absolutely nothing about and whom I'll never meet is just plain nonsense.  Anybody?  Are ya' with me?

Now excuse me while I listen to some Josh Groban while I bang out some cover letters.  I think a respectable job would help rebuild some of my self-esteem, maybe even enough to get me on track to being a happy girl looking for - what do they call it? - ah, yes, love.  To be clear, less of the David Duchovny sex addict kind of love and more of the Josh Groban sweetness kind of love.  

On Shaping Up

My cholesterol level is way scary.  This happened once before when I had my blood drawn after eating ramen noodles for dinner every night for a week.  That was dumb.  I got that under control with a quickness but evidently, I let it go again.  As my doctor wrote, "Diet, weight management and exercise is in order."  That was his professional way of telling me to stop eating gunk, lose some poundage, and get my lazy booty on a treadmill.  I can eat better, I bet I can even lose weight if I stick to my guns, but the exercise part...um, I kinda hate that.  Frankly, I'm too lazy for cardio.

I loathed lacrosse and field hockey training in high school.  Running running running three miles there, five miles there, sprints, lunges, buttlicks, another two miles-------aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, the ugly memories.  Training sucked.  You know how people say they feel so good after they work out?  The only time I felt good after a hard workout was when I was, you know, IN SHAPE.  There were amazing natural highs I experienced after running a few miles, but it took a lot of work to get me to that point: specifically, weeks of perseverance through painful sore muscles, cramps, and don't get me started on the blisters.  Those first few weeks of every sports season were pure torture, a torture I don't care to ever impose on myself ever again.  So the exercise part I gotta figure out.

In the meantime, I'm embracing oatmeal again.  Old-fashioned with bananas today.  Screw steel-cut.  Who wants to stand over a stove for twenty minutes when you can make them in five?  Life is all about choices, people.  And I choose old-fashioned over steel-cut.

Peeing In The Air And Oh, Look At My Pretty Bowl!

I went to Korea once as an adult.  I think I was twenty-one.  It was my second trip to Korea ever.  The first time I made the journey I was all of three, maybe two, and I wet myself during take-off.  Oops.  This time I managed to hold it in.  We weren't one of those Korean-American families who sent the kids to spend time with their family in the motherland (how unfortunate) so one year in college I asked uhmmah if she could send us over winter break.  She was game.  For the first time in our lives, my sister and I got the chance to spend a little bit of time with our grandmother and uhmmah's six siblings, plus their spouses and children.  I learned something valuable on that trip: my mother's side of the family is ten times more fun than my father's.  They drink (but not too much), they laugh (with you, not at you...well, ok, at you sometimes), and they kid (because they are silly).  I have a feeling we'd be different if we had grown up in the same country as they.  Our idea of extended family was seeing our paternal grandparents every now and then.  There'd almost always be church where we'd watch our grandfather at the pulpit preaching in his reserved Korean fashion.  The upside?  My Korean is atrocious, but I've retained the vocabulary for everlasting, glorious, almighty, and grace.  Actually, I can't seem to put my finger on all of them at the moment...so much for that thought.

I don't know if I'll ever have the opportunity to visit my parents' homeland again, but I do have a reminder of my brief time there.  One of the few things I brought back from that trip were a set of these rice bowls.  I thought they were so darling and pretty at the time.  I have the matching soup bowls, too.  They're not good quality or unique in any sense.  I just fell in love with them.  Ignorant friends often ask if they can get a set in one of Chinatown's bazaar stores and I'm all, "NO.  I GOT THESE IN KOREA."  They usually take the hint and shut it.

What you see here in one of my pretty Korean bowls is a bit of Stonyfield's low fat organic plain yogurt.  I drained out some of the whey overnight in the fridge and had dense and creamy greek style yogurt waiting for me this morning.  The yellow stuff is a wonderful thick lace of American honey.  Quite good.

Allow Me To Explain

Friends, some of you reading juliaipsa through a feeder may notice an annoying Google ad at the footer of this post.  For full disclosure, there is also a small ad box on my home landing page sidebar.  I feel like I publicly farted in the presence of my readers by adding these ads to this space - I'm embarrassed and feel the need to apologize.

Please bear with my ads for the time being.  I'd like to see what AdSense can offer a gal like me.  Perhaps it's just one tall soy chai latte a month.  Perhaps it's just one tall soy chai latte a year.  Perhaps it's not even that.  Time will tell.  And until it does, please don't be mad at me.

I request this of you because when I saw ads and sponsorships start to litter the home pages of many of my favorite longtime reads, I was not happy.  Some authors lined up two dozen sponsor buttons taking up half their home page.  I frowned at the prospect of less space for their original content.  Then their ads started to take up precious space in my Google feeder.  I got a little huffy puffy.  Then I noticed that the same bloggers began posting only the first few lines of their entries through syndicated feeders requiring me to click to a new window to land directly onto their blog...only to find that they entered breaks in their post requiring to me open yet another window.  I saw what they were doing - inflating their site traffic visits to increase their dollar return  and COMPLETELY DEFEATING THE PURPOSE OF USING A FEEDER. ARGH!   That's when I unsubscribed from several blogs in passive protest.  I mean, the gall!

So I promise that this will not happen here.  I will maintain this space with my original intention: nothing more than to create a historical record of my life.  Along the way, I have made a few friends which has been more than wonderful.  I so hope this space stays nice and small and cozy like it is today and never like the blogs-turned-monstrosities that I so detest.  But while I'm continuing my valiant search for a new professional home, I would so appreciate a free Starbucks beverage if Google provides the funds, even if it's just one cup six months from now.  'Cuz pinching pennies ain't ever fun.

Every Citizen's Duty

I would have felt significantly more productive today had my calculations resulted in the state owing me money and not the other way around, but such is life as a citizen, aye?  It did calm my nerves a bit when I saw that I could hold off on paying my taxes, scheduling the electronic funds transfer for April 15th.  In yo' face, New York.

100% Banana Nana Fo Fana

Have I ever mentioned that Haagen-Dazs is doing the world a great disservice by not selling banana ice cream?  Well, they are.

Drool-worthy endorsements of this all natural banana ice cream took over the blogosphere this past summer.  I bravely tried my hand at making some yesterday (this was about as exciting as my lone Lunar New Year celebration got).  It's nothing more than pureed frozen bananas.  Really.  All I added were a few drops of water to help the blending action along.  It turned out very smooth; creamier than sorbet, but not even close to the creaminess of the real stuff.  Next time, I'm going to add a couple tablespoons of heavy cream to get it closer to ice cream status.

Haagen-Dazs: Call me when you get your act together and add a proper banana ice cream to your line.  By the way, if you add walnuts or chocolate, I will call you Ben (or Jerry) and will be forced to put our relationship on hold until further notice.

Sharing The Love

The number one complaint we get from visitors to our humble abode is, "How can you stand living on the fourth floor of a walk-up?" followed by dramatic clutching of one's side where more often than not, a painful stitch has developed somewhere between floor three and our door.  I usually respond with, "Welcome to New York!" and remind them to take off their shoes before entering.  I'm considerate like that.

A nice stranger stopped by to pick up a space heater I was getting rid of yesterday.  She arrived at our door totally winded and instead of reacting with my typical cheekiness, I offered her water which she gladly accepted and chugged.  As her heart rate returned to status quo, I showed her how to work the heater.

Transaction completed, we chatted about randomness.  And then she asked if I wanted some condoms.

"Um, no.  I'm good."

"You're single?"

"Yep."

"Oh, sorry to hear that.  They were giving out free condoms on the west side.  I think it was the city."

New York does do this occasionally - hand out free condoms, that is.  I guess the health department thought we'd find these especially handy to have around on Valentine's Day weekend.  My mom would probably have a conniption if she heard about this.  Our generation is scandalous.

I sent her off happily with some extra goodies.  I had baked earlier in the morning so offered some oatmeal raisin chocolate chip cookies and some leftover Hershey chocolates to the friendly woman.  She gladly accepted.  It was the day before Valentine's Day after all and armed with fresh baked cookies, chocolates, and condoms, I'm thinking she and her husband had a very good chance of a fun night together.  I'm also thinking that I'll take all the credit.

It's Best In Show All Over Again, Only For Reals

I was approaching my work building's elevator bank yesterday morning when I heard "Linda, come here."  I turned the corner to see the lady behind the voice with her head bent downwards calling to her dog five feet away.  "Linda, come here," she repeated, even more sing-songy.  That's right: she wasn't calling her friend, her daughter, or her aunt.  She was calling her dog.  Named Linda.  (Hmm...maybe more of us should consider naming our children Fido or Buttons.  Marmaduke is nice, too.)

Friends, the Westminster Kennel Club is hosting its 134th annual dog show {+} in New York this weekend.  The show itself takes place at Madison Square Garden, but most of its human and canine participants are staying in the hotel across the street, the same building where I've been working these past couple months.

From the looks of things when I left yesterday evening, I think many of the show's sponsors host pre-show events on our floor.  On our floor, there are little paw decals leading from the elevators to clever Pet-A-Potty structures strategically placed smack dab in the middle of the elevator bank.  I kicked myself for not having a camera on me to get a shot of the Pet-A-Potty.  You have to see this thing.  Picture two brightly colored fire hydrants, one pink and the other orange, planted in a thick layer of bright green mock grass in a shallow wooden box.  It's really kind of adorable.  Where do you bring your show dog to relieve herself in between primping and prancing sessions?  Why, right out in front of the elevators!  You know, so that when people like myself step out from the elevators, we'll be greeted with a diamond-collared Dachschund mid-stream.  I found this picture on a flickr stream {+}, but it's from 2009 and this one doesn't do justice to the ones that are there this weekend.

In case you were wondering, even thousand-dollar pure breeds competing for the Best in Show title smell like, well...dog.  After just one day of activities, the hotel's main lobby needed a thorough airing-out.

Stuck Inside With Snow Snow Snow Outside

Let's see...

I'm feeling very blah these days.  Swirling thoughts, noisy neighbors, and dark wintry city days make for one blue Julia.

New York City is in official snowstorm mode.  Schools are closed today and most are "working" from home if their office isn't closed already.  

Craigslist is a wonderful thing, but sometimes online buyers are a hard bunch to work with.  I was stood up a couple times.  This morning, I talked on the phone with another potential buyer, a woman with an autistic son clinging and screaming at her side.  I couldn't make out anything she was saying because she spoke so softly and her kid was having a nervous breakdown in the background.  I heard him clawing at her phone and I think he got her face in the process.  As her son fell apart, I felt my blood pressure rising.  She apologized and called back five minutes later after locking her son up.  Those were her exact words.  I nearly fell off the couch when she told me that.  She sounded exhausted and tired, like she needed someone to talk to.  Having to lock up your kid in a room to have a one minute phone conversation - man, I felt for her.  She sounded like a zombie.  I bet somebody could punch her in the jaw and she wouldn't even flinch because she's so out of it.  Poor woman.  And that child locked up by his parent?  Is that considered abuse?  Neglect?  Woah.  I'm getting unnecessary heartache thinking about this.  

I thought today's up-side would be that I could finally take care of the laundry that's taking over the apartment (honestly, it's getting kind of gross chez Julia) only the laundromat is closed because, you know, there's more than one inch of snow on the ground.  Even New York shuts down when a blizzard is on its way.

The snow's really coming down now.  In thick gobs.  The Hangover just ended so I think I'll catch up on a couple episodes of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations.  Have I mentioned that he lives in my neighborhood?  He's actually quite handsome in person in that tall dark kind of way.  And you know what else?  His daughter is way too old to be pushed around in a stroller.

I'm running off to make some calls now.  I might take a nap afterwards.  [Yawn.]

I'm Thinking This Could Be A Serious Fire Hazard

I walked into my apartment tonight to be greeted by this:

My sister must have received this as a gag gift, "must" being the operative word here because if I were to find out that she actually purchased this item of her own volition, I would just about faint with embarrassment.  That, or die of uncontrollable laughter.

Coffee With My Sugar

It was perplexing when relatives visiting from Korea would clamber to purchase jars of instant Folgers to lug back to Seoul.  Brew your own.  Coffee's better fresh!  Why waste precious luggage space when you can buy it there?  According to them, yes, it's available in Korea, but only in a formula different from what's sold in America.  They insisted that the American version was infinitely tastier.

Since Starbucks fever hit the nation, it was a rare occasion when I'd come in contact with instant coffee.  It wasn't until my sister started dating a Korean guy that I was introduced to these super environmentally friendly single serving packets of Maxim instant coffee.  Instant coffee?  Who does that anymore?  Evidently this stuff was so popular in Korea that they decided to bring it to America, distributing in Korean supermarkets.  Well, I tried a cup and the novelty of freshly brewed coffee vanished *poof* into thin air.  Each packet contains coffee, cream, and sugar in proportions perfect for the Korean palate.  In other words, super duper sweet.  Funny thing is that Koreans don't really "do" sweets.  Dessert is often sliced fruit, cakes use paltry portions of sugar and butter, but sugary thin coffee?  A ubiquitous Korean kitchen staple.

A Long Wait

Practically everything nice I own is courtesy of Soeur.  She'll prance into a room out of the blue and announce that she has something for me.  Before I know it, she's plopped a mysterious bag at my feet and bam, I'm suddenly the proud owner of a lovely glittering new fill in the blank.  Whatever the gift may be, it's almost always something really nice, something I'm literally too scared to touch or handle.  I usually pat it gently and admire it for a good long while.  And by good long while, much to my sister's chagrin, I don't mean several minutes or hours; I'm talking months, even years.  I know things are just things, but when I see something that's so perfectly made and so gosh darned pretty, I can't bring myself to use it.

Case in point: I received a cashmere scarf from Soeur two Christmases ago.  Maybe three.  Umm, kinda think of it, it may be four...

In honor of the freezing temps that returned last night, I convinced myself to cut the tag off and finally wear the scarf this morning.  I was immediately reminded of why God put goats on this earth: so that one day I might replace my entire winter wardrobe with the luxurious soft warmth that only Kashmir goat hairs provide.  I snapped a picture of myself with the intention of emailing it to Soeur with the subject line "Pigs Are Flying Today," but I couldn't for the life of me figure out my camera settings.  I'm afraid I got nothing but hazy shots.  Ah, well, this will have to do.  Soeur was right, as she usually is about these things: I shouldn't wait to enjoy nice things.  All that time...wasted.

Moo Chocolat

For my birthday last month, I was surprised when a friend asked if there was anything I wanted.  This was new.  And weird.  She usually does all the thinking and mulling over and planning by herself and then drives herself bat crazy wondering if her selection was a good one or not.  Well, I thought about it and said I would like some jam.  I like good jam - a lot, dammit.  We had run out of the good stuff that costs six dollars a jar, unemployment was barely covering my rent and utilities, and golly is Julia cheap, so a simple jar of good jam would be lovely, please and thank you.

Instead of just sending along a nice jam per my request, an entire box of pretties arrived.  It contained all sorts of yummy things: food stuffs, recipes, a food magazine subscription, and I know it was just last month, but here I am having trouble remembering all the fun contents of that package like the grateful friend I am.  It was so incredibly well thought-out.  She had even wrapped everything with gorgeous paper.  And it arrived on time for my birthday.  I mean, seriously, it was as though she had turned thirty and then all of a sudden she decided to get on top of her shit.  Ha.

This adorable bottle of Silly Cow Farms hot chocolate mix{+} was one of the delights hidden in that box.  I can't get over the charming mini milk bottle design.  I had tucked it away high in the cupboards thinking that I would save my first cup for an especially cold night.  The bottle caught my eye this evening as I reached for some soy sauce.  With no milk in the fridge and knowing it wouldn't work well with my soy or almond milks, I attempted a cup with some water.  That was a good way to waste two teaspoonfuls.  You need quality milk to make a respectable cup of chocolat chaud.  I'll have to pick some up tomorrow.  I'm thinking organic.  Full fat.  I'm going all the way on this one.  Hooray for things to look forward to courtesy of sweet friends who give thoughtful gifts.

Hey, You.

Do you know how weird it is to read a blog written by someone you've never met personally and then feel like you sort of know that someone, as though you've hung out before?  Or at the very least consider an acquaintance?  And then you get to know the friends and family of that blogger because their blog regales you with captivating stories and darling photos?  Technically speaking, you don't really know them, but let's face it: you kinda sorta do.

Well, when I stepped onto my train this morning, who's sitting a foot away from me than the husband of a New Yorker whose blog I've been frequenting for well over a year now?  Not being a particularly shy person, my first instinct was to introduce myself.  But I felt like I knew him already.  Creepy, right?  I mulled over how weird this could be.  I remembered enough about him: he worked in a non-profit somewhere in the theater district so he probably had a few more stops to go.  But see how weird that is?  I know too much about this guy - a total stranger.  "Greetings!  How are you doing on this fine morning?  I read your wife's blog.  Are you on your way to work?  How's the baby doing?"  It's just sorta creepy - on my part, that is.  So I refrained from making any contact, he got off unceremoniously at the Times Square stop, and I continued on with my day.

But now I'm thinking about how disappointed I would be if one of the lurking visitors of this blog recognized me in person and didn't say anything.  That kind of makes me sad.  Part of the beauty of blogging is that you can choose to stay in your own world, never expanding your circle or exposing your identity.  Dass kewl.  But if that's not your style, I certainly hope that you'd introduce yourself if I were to run into you on the street.

I never intended for this space to be anything more than a personal record for me, myself, and well, ME (awemeegah, I really should work on getting over this whole self-centered thing), but since learning that I have regular visitors dotted around the globe, I feel like I have friends that I've never met.  Hello, Australia!  My planner tells me that it's Australia Day today but I have no idea what that means.  I hope it involves cake and happy things.  Hello, Texas!  I hear it's hot down there, and that everything's done big in Dallas, especially hair, but most of all, people get upset when non-Texans assume that Dallas is the only city in Texas.  Well, now you know how it feels when someone assumes I'm Chinese.  Yeah, it's kinda like that.  Hello, Canada!  I would marry a Canadian in a heartbeat because you all are such a genuine, nice bunch.  The paternal side of my family lives there and they're not as great as I sometimes wish, but I suppose you can't choose your family, just your friends.  Hello, Philippines!  Lumpia is awesomeness for the tummy.  How's island life?

If you ever see me around and I don't know who you are, don't feel pressured to stop and say anything, but if you so feel even the tiniest of desires, please do tap me on the arm and say "Hey!" because I guarantee that I will remember this post and get over any potential feelings of creepiness in half a nanosecond.  Because really, new friends are sweeter than pie.  Really.