In observance of the misery that Philadelphia calls summer, Debbie brought ingredients for ice cream floats to our monthly book club meeting yesterday: creamy vanilla ice cream, Canada Dry ginger ale, and nutmeg to sprinkle atop. Well, I just returned home from a couple hours of lolling around the hot and humid streets of Philadelphia clothes shopping and opened the freezer for some ice cubes...when I saw the quart of vanilla ice cream just sitting daintily in front of my eyes. As the cool air from inside the freezer met the humid air particles of the apartment, dreamy cloudy wisps swirled around the vanilla quart and before I knew it, it was sitting on my kitchen counter as my hand fervently searched my dish rack for a clean spoon. Never before was I so glad that someone left their ice cream behind. I picked up my phone to call Debbie, but then I looked at my grocery bag with the big 2-liter ginger ale I had just picked up from WaWa and...there was just no turning back. I threw the two together and made another happy float. No nutmeg, but just as cool, refreshing, and delightfully tasty as it was yesterday. So while Debbie won't get her ice cream back, I'm one satiated fool.

Free Stuff

John Chow dot Com, a blog that helps you make money is giving away a 24″ wide screen LCD monitor! To enter, you just have to write about it. The contest is sponsored by BlueFur, who wants to let you know that they’re hosting Canada and the rest of the world.

Yeah, ok, so like I need to acquire anymore stuff, but since I've not won anything since a 6-pack of 7-up from an elementary school field trip, I'm going to do this every chance I get. One of these days, I will win. I'm determined.

Over It

Many thanks to all of you who have patiently lent me your ears time and time again (sometimes I wonder why you actually answer the phone when I call these days) these past couple weeks as I go through this apartment transition. I know I overreact and stomp my feet more than necessary sometimes and I appreciate your calm voices of reason and guidance. Muchas gracias. I'm just over it.

One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Treasure

When I opened my e-mail and found this message from ebay, it was like I was back in second grade all over again with a gold star sticker added next to my name. It took me a while to jump on the band wagon, but when you're trying to get rid of your belongings and have some time, ebay's kind of fun. I can see how people can make a full-time business from selling other people's junk. Now it's time for me to mail the item and hope the buyer's happy.

Morons, Rules, and Cake

It's 12 p.m. on Friday afternoon and there's one ever so slightly greasy, pajama-clad, roly poly Julia donning her glasses to gaze her eyes upon a big fat cake sitting right behind her on the kitchen counter. There are sprinkles, in case you are wondering.

Some moronic neighbor of mine brought in a contractor without prior permission from management and as a result, the water in my section of the building shut down around 7 this morning. They said it'd be up by 10:30 a.m. It's now noon. There was a lovely moment when the water turned on for about 4 minutes after which I was all ready for the shower and then the stream turned icky and the faucet went dry again. It was a sad moment in my life. I pathetically alerted the folks at work of my unfortunate circumstance and now I'm here eating a cupcake from the same batter as the aforementioned cake on my lunch break remotely accessing my work desktop. Even though the cake was meant for my office, if I'm too dirty to go to the office and deliver the cake, there's no way that sucker will survive through the weekend - not in this apartment with a Julia walking around in it with a dozen forks neatly piled in the drawer beneath the kitchen counter. So, I just delivered it downstairs to the front desk and am left with a few cupcakes (sans sprinkles, may I add, since I ran out). Perhaps the cake will act as a bribe to fix the water pipe sooner than later.

My building's long list of rigid rules irks me incessantly, especially when they fine tenants for rolling furniture through the front lobby even when the loading dock's closed, so I think I should start my own list of rules when, because the building's taking forever to fix a problem, I have to brush my teeth with spring water. As I shared with my boss and the rest of the office, thank goodness I had the urge to empty my bladder this morning at the crack of dawn. I think a toilet tank holds enough water for one flush even when the water's turned off, but seriously, this whole no-running-water issue is cramping my style. This is, I think, the third time this happened in my three years at this building. Well, pretty soon I'll be complaining about new digs, won't I?

Get Fuzzy

I love the guy who writes this cartoon.

I hope the New York metro has this same comic strip.

(The Philadelphia Metro published this cartoon in the April 25th edition this year, I think.)

You're No Angel

I'm strolling home today when, right by the cafe next door to my building, I see a tattoo on this young woman's back that nearly got me run over in the middle of the street. I was so stunned that I stopped dead in my tracks as I was jaywalking. Firstly, this woman's shirt was nearly backless and therefore revealed much more than is usually acceptable around this neck of the woods. Secondly, an unusually bright and colorful tattoo graced itself on nearly a third of her body, a set of angel wings spanning the entire length of her torso on the backside.

I couldn't quite put my finger on why this was so startling. Angel wings are a lovely image, right? Then why did I find these so repulsive? The art itself I'm sure was amazing because the vibrant colors and patterns forming the wings were what initially caught my eyes. I think it was the act of making permanent an intensely objective symbol onto one's own body, thereby permanently negating the symbol's innate beauty that disgusted me. Who would be so self-absorbed to think so highly of herself to strut around with a mark of goodness so brazenly inked onto her very own flesh? Or was her intent one of cynicism? I'm not sure which - but either way, it made me want to run in the other direction.

Your Dream Job

Personal Assistant for Investment Banker

Investment Banker seeks personal assistant to run his life while he is working extended hours. Qualifications include: eminenently presentable, occasionally for client contact; ability to schedule interesting and disparate travel; limited personal shopping; some high-end gifting. Impeccible taste; discretion; and some fashion sensibility. And be educated from someplace considerably better than average, or have done very well anywhere.

Interested applicants, please submit cover, resume & recent photo.

Compensation: $35/hour, 12 hours / week

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I just have this thing about proper grammar, spelling, punctuation, sentence structure, and verb agreement. When you post a job requiring an individual to be eminenently presentable, have impeccible taste, and be educated from someplace considerably better than average, one would think that only a lunatic would have the sensibilities to actually apply to work for the investment banker who hired the other moron who posted this job.

Happy Bloomsday!

Ulysses may have been one of the most challenging books I've had to confront in my day, but Joyce's modern adaptation of Odysseus' journey on June 16, 1904 is, without a doubt, a stunning tribute to classical literature. I still maintain that I must have [shamelessly!] missed at least 80% of the allusions in that book - especially the sexual ones. Do you know that Ulysses was actually banned in the States?

For those of you who have not yet approached this monumental piece, I bid you to allow a former English professor of mine, a leading Joycian scholar, to persuade you. She's not just one smart cookie - she's also one of those genuinely decent human beings, passionate about her research and teaching, yet down-to-earth and admirable. Her brief introduction can be found on the website of the Rosenbach Museum and Library, outside of which its annual public reading of Ulysses excerpts took place today.

Med School, Here She Comes!

2007, May 5.
Radiantly glowing after finishing her MCAT.

2007, June 15.
Enjoying her reward for scoring high enough on the MCAT to nab a slot in Penn Med's class of 2011.

Bubble gum rocks!

Rest Peacefully, Stranger

I just learned that my friend's sister endured a frightening experience earlier this week. Only in New York City would something like this happen: the discovery of a dead neighbor in the apartment next to her and her roommate's. Apparently there was a stench that progressively worsened over time. Her sister resides in an apartment complex owned by Columbia. When school (or was it public?) officials entered the unit on Tuesday, it seemed as though the apartment hadn't been well maintained in quite some time. They estimate the 50-some-year-old man passed a couple weeks ago in his bed with the television on. Can you imagine an individual going MIA for such an extended period of time and no one came looking for him? Whoever you were, may you rest peacefully now.

Nesquik Lasts Forever

Perhaps my biggest weakness is my pure lack of self-control when it comes to food and cravings. Today, I made the mistake of walking past WaWa on my walk home from work and could not resist the urge for some Nesquik. I was actually hankering for some of that tasty vanilla flavored milk (baby-sitting does expose one to foods that adults would not otherwise even know about), but their display only included chocolate and strawberry. Against my preference, this one time, I opted for the chocolate.

Sidebar: did you ever notice that it's called a "milkshake" and not "chocolate milk?" Strange.

Anyway, it's creamy, overly sweet, and delicious. Also, as evidenced by the second photo above, it turns out that this beverage will last for four months. Pasteurized milk usually goes bad after about ten days max. What about Nesquik makes it stay drinkable for so long? I don't want to think about how artificial my tasty treat was. No doubt the artificialness is the very thing that I crave.

A Glutton and Her Indian Food

I enjoy Indian food so much that I embarrass friends by calling my Indian restaurant of choice to ask whether samosas are on their buffet spread or not. If they're not, you see, then Julia will not make an appearance that day. But once I do confirm, I'll proceed with my plans. Today, after a long hiatus from New Delhi Restaurant, a friend and I went for a tasty lunch. This hiatus, in fact, had been so long that I skipped the phone call altogether and took my chances. Much to my glee, the samosas, fit to burst out of their golden crispy outsides with their deliciously starchy fillings, patiently sat on the buffet spread and caught my twinkling eyes immediately when we entered the dim establishment in University City.

Two vegetable samosas, three slices of naan, gobs of chicken tikka masala, and plenty of other goodness sprinkled throughout the meal and topped with a serving of sweet and creamy mango ice cream, I sat stuffed like a bird gasping for air.* Neither I nor the situation was a pretty one. I somehow managed to roll back to my office and get through the remainder of the day, even getting through an interview with a first round candidate. Then, as though God knew of my greedy mistake, it quickly turned dark outside in the late afternoon, thunder loudly rumbled, and it started to pour so hard that a sheet of white covered the view from my office window. Needless to say, I got soaked hauling my painfully distended tummy back home.

Four, five, six hours after the meal itself, my tummy still ached from the pain of my glutton. And so, after several failed phone call attempts to chat with friends (the idea being that I force myself to stay awake through the digestion process by yapping on the phone until a reasonable bedtime), I laid down on my couch and conked out like a baby.

And now I'm awake but still with much discomfort and still feeling like I just ate an hour ago. Ugh. Perhaps this pain will finally end my gluttonous ways. Perhaps.

*I do this every single time I go to this buffet. Case in point: the last time I dined at this establisment in October of 2006, I blogged an almost identical post to this one about my meal.

So Long, Bed!

It's been fun - sorta.

Holla!

Grow Up, Paris

Since I've already sunk to a new low (i.e., bad mouthing Blogger), I may as well continue my day's rampage with a brief commentary on that rich blonde anorexic girl that so many people seem to idolize these days. Paris Hilton. [It hurts to even type her name.]

If the California court system can't figure out a way to enforce Paris Hilton's prison sentence so that she actually serves her time on prison grounds, then there's really some serious flaws in the American judicial system. To let someone, just because she has money, pretty clothes, fame, and enjoys sex on camera, receive special treatment as a form of punishment? That would just be too much for me to handle. Americans should speak out against this. Write Arnold a letter or something, dangit. She broke the law, got caught, and should do her time. Some psychiatrist probably wrote a note stating that she was under severe emotional and mental stress living under such circumstances. Cry me a river. Life in jail sucks - that's the whole reason behind punishment, fool!

And while I'm on the topic of this heiress to the Hilton fortune, I'd just like to state, for the record, that Paris Hilton looks like a scrawny bag of bones and I don't find her facial features attractive either. I don't understand why people find her so stunning. She honestly looks like a mutant alien to me. Maybe my cruelty comes from my lack of respect for Ms. Hilton. Her entire life goal is to spend her family money - that's it! She's done absolutely nothing to contribute to society. With so much star power, how about taking on a cause and doing some good for a change instead of just polluting the media with your trashy images? She just wreaks of bad character.

Grow up, Paris, and march your butt straight back to your private cell. The least you could do is set a good example - for once - and follow the law. Had you done this before, you wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

Blogger Error bX-7mplh0, I Detest Thee

I have this theory that Google's going to take over the world. I mean it. From search engines, e-mail, chatting interfaces, anything and everything that has to do with electronically stored information, they're going to be "it." That's what I held fast and true to my heart all these years.
Until today.

I am entering day number 10 that this blog refuses to upload pictures. I get this terrible error message bX-7mplh0 every single time I try to upload an image. No matter what I do to try to appease the photo uploading tool gods, they won't have anything to do with juliaipsa. Pitooey.

I was patient at first; primarily because I had no choice. I browsed Blogger's help groups to find the solution, but there was none to be uncovered. So I finally joined the help group myself and posted asking for a solution. And here I am ten days later without the solution. In fact, I've only received more inquiries from Google employees requesting more information that I already provided. It's as though they can't follow a threaded post.

I can't figure out why Google, the company to which I have been so loyal and so faithful and even pushed onto other friends who had alliances with yahoo and msn and those other yucky competitors...has failed me. I am still waiting for an answer and I really want to post pictures!!!!!!!! And if not pictures of the life around me, then at least small image files that give a little visual umph to my posts (isn't it so much easier to read when there are pictures?).

So unless I upload image files to my flickr account and link to each url, you won't see any images accompanying my posts. Google, please get your act together and tell me what's going on. Or even what I did wrong (I have no problem admitting that I messed up code or something along the way - did I?).

I've never had a problem with Blogger before. Ever. But now this is getting pretty frustrating. bX-7mplh0 is slowly destroying my loyalty to Google.

A Rittenhouse Anecdote

A friend has been faithfully perusing the online ads on craigslist in search of new seating options for her quaint one bedroom apartment. Alas, she discovers a bright red Ikea chair and matching ottoman located across the park from me, about two blocks from her pad. Being both neighbors and friends, I agree to help her transport the cumbersome items to her apartment. As so many craigslist exchanges pan out, the seller's friend who agreed to show the items to my friend was running late. We almost managed to bypass the doorman, but not before he told us that we'd have to wait in the lobby; a lobby, if I may mention, that's harsh on the eyes, what with its outdated seventies marble tile, fuschia wall trim, and bronze wall accents.

After patiently waiting for a while, I laid my tired back atop the lobby's black leather lounger where we were seated. As I'm chatting with my friend seated right next to me on the same lounger, I hear the sound of a female voice somewhere off in the distance yucking out loud, "Get up! Get up! Get up!" I slowly tilt my head forward and see that the lady (without a neck, I should add...no, for real - it's like her chin sits atop her shoulders) is barking at yours truly. "You can't lie down there. You have to sit up." Oops, I thought.

Then this white-haired grandmother with a cane loudly thanks the front desk lady for setting my poorly mannered ass straight. Then, before I even knew what was coming, her frail frame teeters towards me, her burning eyes menacingly stare me down, and the little old lady (did I mention she had a cane?) fiercely throws a firm nod in my direction as though this very infraction on public etiquette would send me straight into the flames of hell. I swear she spat on me. At least that's what her intense glare felt like.

Am I the only one who recognizes that IT'S A LOUNGE CHAIR?! That is, a chair for lounging??? And my feet were still on the ground! By the intensity of this woman's reaction, you'd think I had sprawled out naked in the middle of the lobby floor drunk with a pool of urine pooling beneath me.

Asian Toasted Sesame Kraft Salad Dressing

It's about freaking time. When a corporation as large as Kraft FINALLY figures out that the term "Oriental" should be restricted to rugs and permanently erased from all their food labels, I know that America is finally progressing in the right direction. If I can't convince you of this, think about this: do you use the terms Australian, European, African, or South American?

Just think for a moment about this. See a pattern? Seems sort of silly to use Oriental, huh? Ahem. Yeah. Exactly. If nothing else, for the sake of consistency, let's stick to Asian, shall we?

So, hello, Asian toasted sesame Kraft salad dressing and goodbye to those tacky days of Oriental sesame dressing. Stay as long as you wish - until people become more cognizant of the fact that there's more to Asia than Japan and China just as most folks know that there's more to Europe than France and Spain.

By Golly, NYC Is Expensive

Determine how much one should make to maintain a certain NYC lifestyle. It's more money than I can bear to think about! Go to http://nymag.com/guides/money/2006/23500/.