the ocean

We've recently discovered that we have a TV channel called Bravo Vault, and it is wild. A true journey into our problematic recent past. You see, they play "old" Bravo reality shows from the early 2000s. And man, were things different then (yet also the same, you know? #philosophy).

First and foremost, The Millionaire Matchmaker. I never watched this shit in the day, but it is so harmful to America. A horse-faced woman with a less than ideal haircut tries for find mates for rich men (and sometimes women), while insulting them and their potential mates with absolute impunity. Frequently she holds recruiting sessions where she tells complete strangers things like "you need dental work" or "you're out of shape, I'm sorry" in the same tone she likely uses to accuse her cleaning lady of stealing her jewelry. She also helps her clients my psychoanalyzing them after knowing them for roughly ten minutes and sometimes setting them up with therapists/reiki masters/personal shoppers to provide quick superficial fixes. There's a "Dr. Nikki" advising a "candle collector" as we speak. All very uplifting.

There's also early Top Chef, back when the contestants hadn't figured out how to be on TV yet and segments appeared to often have been filmed in Radisson conference centers. It was a much shaggier affair and Padma frequently looked like she didn't want to be there (this actually never changed). The contestants seemed unafraid to openly despise and undermine each other. And they did a lot more psychological probing of the chefs during eliminations, seemingly drawing on the enhanced interrogation techniques of the Iraq War era. Lessons to be learned aplenty.

Then there is classic Vanderpump. Do I even need to say anything about that? When they were all still poor and had shitty apartments it was pure gold.

And there are old Housewives. Well, it's the episodes that are old, not the housewives themselves. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of old. I've reached an age where my own definition is basically Aunt Gladys.

Such was the infamous rallying cry of the bartender at the Brass Rail in Champaign, Illinois, after my sister and her friends entered the establishment, used the restroom, and left without buying anything. But it is also an appropriate sentiment for this lovely holiday weekend.

Our holiday started, as so many do, with me ruining a fuck ton of potatoes, as a number of people have now told me they never believed to even be possible. But I found a way. I think the issue was that I didn't boil the potatoes long enough, even though I went twice as long as the recipe said, because they never really became soft. So they didn't mash properly, and even the interventions of (in order of escalation) a hand mixer, a blender, and an immersion blender that we bought at Target after the potatoes killed the first blender could not save them. They had the consistency of oatmeal. Oops.

But on the bright side, I've been wanting to reduce my carb intake, anyway. And everyone else's, I guess?

The rest of the meal was great, and we of course also watched the insanity of the Macy's parade (big ups to the Holland America float celebrating Alaska with well-known Alaskan Jewel singing thirty weird-arranged seconds of "You Were Meant for Me") and the Chicago parade (mostly local folk dancing groups and marching bands). And we decorated, which is now like a 48 hour task involving various beagles charging up and down stairs and in and out of doors. It's actually quite festive, to be honest.

Then we got the massive snowstorm yesterday. I'd say ten to twelve inches? It was wet and cold and terrible, and anyone going on about how it's pretty should be pantsed and thrown into a snowbank. 

Anyway, now it's almost Monday! Funny how that keeps happening.

Because I am incredibly Type A and tend to plans things months in advance, I am already working on writing the show I hope to perform in April 2026. As in, I already have about 3/4 of the songs written. At times, my tendency towards compulsion can be problematic, as when I'm supposed to be writing up-to-the-minute topical parodies, but end up with the Coldplay Kiss Cam warmed over nearly a year later. Fortunately, though, the subject of my April show will be the '90s, and they don't seem likely to change much in the coming months. Still lots of flannels and Seinfeld, I would imagine.

The actual problem I am having is that there is just so much that is interesting to me about the '90s! (And potentially not interesting to anyone else, may I add.) I mean, I could do twenty minutes on the mid-decade swing dancing craze alone. Or the fashions on Supermarket Sweep. Or the devolution of Designing Women. Which is not to say that I should or will do any of these things. But I have some real passion here.

And the music! How could I possibly to justice to Alanis Morissette or the ladies of Lilith Fair? Does anyone actually want to hear me attempt grunge? I can 100% tell you that I should not rap, but I hope no one mistakes that for a lack of enthusiasm for Snoop Dogg (before he became a brand) or Lauryn Hill (before she decided to focus on Facebook rants). What about America's brief flirtation with ska? Or the insidious creep of teen pop late in the decade? So much ground to cover.

And news. Desert Storm, OJ, Oklahoma City, Lewinsky, Columbine all sort of seemed like era-defining events, but haven't better people than me already covered them pretty extensively? And no one wants to hear me share deep thoughts, but should I or anyone really try to mine these events for humor? 

God, it is so difficult to be perhaps the foremost artistic genius of our time. Whatever, I'm getting cheese fries.

Somehow it is already November. I certainly can't say I know where all of that time went, but I can speak for some of it.

Work, of course, is a thing. And it has taken up some of that time. I was up until 1 AM for a case filing a few weeks ago for the first time in years. I am perhaps no longer really equipped for that sort of thing. I reached a point where, as I attempted to read, words no longer made sense to me. There was also a bit of maniacal laughter for no reason. All perfectly normal, I assure you. I've also had work travel, which is not just eating lunch alone at an International House of Pancakes, but also having awkward encounters with all manner of security personnel. And performing unlicensed therapy for clients, of course. It's all a very rich text.

There are also the joys of home ownership, of course. Planting plants, watering plants, murdering plants as the cold season approaches. Staining and caring for wood that seems to have a death wish. Wondering where all the bugs come from and if there is some gentle, ethical way to get them the fuck away from you. Putting up holiday decorations, taking down holiday decorations. Working with contractors who clearly despise you. It takes time to do these things right.

Social engagements. Charcuterie boards, appetizers, dinners in and out. Engagement parties, bachelor parties, weddings. All manner of alcoholic escapades. Seeing friends in shows. Talking about having seen (or not seen) friends in shows. 

Also, of course, family. My niece and nephew now have packed schedules of dance, theater, and sports. I fortunately do not have to drive them to all of these activities, but I do have to show up and appreciate those activities occasionally. I assure you that grade school dance recitals have lost none of their luster.

And then there's the creative stuff. Lots of time spent writing and probably twice as much time spent staring despondently at the screen and not writing. Time performing or meeting about writing or performing. Dreams haunted by weak rhymes or awkward meters. 

Dogs have gotten a lot of time, too. I am less convinced now that they are trying to kill me than I was a few months back, but it's still a distinct possibility.

Anyway, it's all flying by! In a good way. Also a bad way. But regardless in a way we really have no say about.

This weekend, I re-organized not one, not two, but three different closets. 

I'll give you a minute to control the arousal you are naturally feeling upon reading that sentence.

You see, I had to finish converting my primary bedroom closet from summer-fall clothing to fall-winter clothing. (After weeks of denial, of course.) So that involved swapping things to and from the guest bedroom closet. At which point I got inspired to do a full gut rehab of the primary bedroom closet, changing the location of my short sleeved tops and purchasing a bunch of close organization items from Target. At which point I decided to go ahead and clean up the organization of our pantry as well, since I feel like various dog-related items are always falling out of there and causing a frenzy. And before I knew it I was on a stepladder culling our collection of old shopping bags for the recycling.

Obviously, these are very exciting times.

I also cleaned the front patio, ordered new heads for my Sonicare, and called my mother.

Let no one say I am not down to earth and relatable. 

 Here are some photos of recent happenings, just because I can.

My niece started building a fort in our basement and then cried when they had to leave before it was finished. I'm pretty sure Gaudi felt the same way about Sagrada Familia. Regardless, Dolly found it to be a pleasant place to crouch, so we've got that going for us.

Fall is actually not my favorite, but there are plenty of fun ways people can observe it:

As an attorney, I am constantly doing exciting and glamorous things that are exactly like what you see lawyers doing on television. I'm basically that lady ADA from SVU. Not the tall blonde one, the shorter, squarer one. I'm constantly in court and my cases only last for 52 minutes once commercials are removed.

No, the truth is that ever since I left the exciting world of people who murder their elderly business partners with hammers, my work more closely resembles The Office than The Practice, to say nothing of Love Island. I sit at a desk and type. I meet with people. I go to the break room and hope that there are still some Sun Chips left. (There are not.)

Last week I broke things up with some travel. Saw some New Jersey and Michigan conference rooms for a change. Ate a meal by myself at a Buffalo Wild Wings and decided just to go with an appetizer sampler as my entree. Ate a meal by myself at an airport Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville and was assaulted by live steel drum music for forty-five minutes. Dominated the heck out of boarding group two.

Then this past week I was a panelist at a conference. It was kind of wild because pretty much no one in the audience did the same kind of work as me, so I realized I could pretty much just say anything and no one would be the wiser. I did not, of course. With great power comes great responsibility. 

Just as I'm complaining about my lack of things to write about, I have work travel that provides plenty of fodder for discussion.

Monday I flew to Newark for some work meetings. As fate would have it, I was seated next to an elderly Russian couple who spent the entire trip loudly discussing in two different languages how confusing nearly every aspect of the flight was to them. 

When I arrived, the man was hunched over in his seat with his eyeballs approximately one inch from the in-seat display, messing with the parental controls settings for no earthly reason. Then, his wife coached him on the process of selecting a movie to watch, which resulted in him accidentally starting an episode of the NBC sitcom I forgot existed, "St. Denis Medical," with what appeared to be Dutch subtitles. Understandably terrified by this development and apparently unaware that one can exit out of erroneously selected programming, the gentleman asked his wife to switch seats, but she was already too invested in The Barbie Movie to agree to that.

Shortly thereafter, and it's really important you understand I am not making this up, the woman became convinced that we had already taken off and landed, when in truth we'd just been doing the incredibly long taxi for which O'Hare is so well known. She convinced her husband to ask the flight attendant why we had landed so quickly, leading to one of the most meaningful stunned silences I've ever encountered. Fortunately, my new friends were actually delighted to learn that five-minute round trips are not actually in the United Airlines playbook.

Then there was the in-flight service. They asked the snack lady for a drink and the drink lady for a snack. Then the wife asked if they had any chocolate alcoholic drinks, apparently mistaking the plane for a bespoke speakeasy in Brooklyn. After discovering that alcohol was not complimentary, she settled on bloody mary mix with no vodka, which she then complained tasted like tomato juice. 

Once we landed, they entertained a ten minute phone call with their pet hotel on speakerphone whilst we waited to deplane. During which they asked to speak to their dog. Which I feel, but still, do not understand the need for the entire row to be involved. Particularly during the hold music, which was a janky electronic version of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. Finally that music history training has paid off.

Needless to say, I am now best friends with these people and they're coming over tonight. Travel really does expose us to new horizons.

I am struggling more and more to come up with things to write about here, and I'm not sure why. I mean, yes, my life is relatively uninteresting, but hasn't it always been? It's not like I used to be a backup dancer for Madonna or Hillary Clinton's lesbian life partner (or both) or anything. I'm still in the same straightforward and largely not for disclosure profession I've been in for twenty plus years, and I'm still married to the same dude I've been with for more than a decade. I guess I do spend less time "out on the town," as no one says, than I used to, but it's not like I remembered most of that to write about it, anyway. I'm certainly not watching less television or doing fewer stupid things than I did back in the day.

Case in point: I was in my friend's wedding last weekend and, after two days of being friendly with strangers and taking photos for hours with only a Walgreen's sandwich for sustenance, I decided to practice some intoxication. And I ended up giving the Uber driver a combination of my current address and the address I lived at three years ago, realizing I hadn't brought my keys and could not remember the code for the back door that I enter literally every day of my life, and having to wake Ian up to let me in in the dead of night. 

Oh yeah, so maybe that's the shit I should write about. Except I just did. And it's not like I had anything funny to say about it, other than the fact that it happened. 

Should I start recapping old episodes of "Caroline in the City" or something? Only issue is that I would then have to actually watch old episodes of "Caroline in the City."

Actually having a reason for being is such a high bar for a blog...

Getting my dream Beauty & the Beast style home library has led me to realize I have a lot of books, though not nearly enough to fill all the shelves in my new Beauty & the Beast style home library. (For that, I am going to bring some books back from my parents' library in Quincy; that library also doubled as my bedroom when I was a kid, so I feel I have a valid ownership claim.) Among these classic volumes with which I could not possibly part are the following:

2009 Novel & Short Story Writer's Market. I have never written a novel and I haven't written a short story in years. But if I do, I will certainly want to know where I can publish it in 2009.

Spanish Beginner's Dictionary. I never took Spanish at all, so I guess I am definitely a beginner.

America's Next Top Model Fierce Guide to Life. This requires no explanation.

Hoodoo Conjuration Witchcraft Rootwork, Volume Five. This was my dad's; he was a folklorist, among other things. Aren't most dads? I do wonder where volumes one through four went, though.

The Power of Kabbalah. This is Ian's. I assume it's related to Madonna's Kabbalah phase. He's also a big fan of her turn in Evita, as of course we all are.

Make it Nice by Dorinda Medley. I imagine this was a gift? I've not read it. I prefer a more literary bent in my housewives, you know like Danielle Staub.

Two copies of The Canterbury Tales, which I have never read. I mean, I ready excerpts in high school and college, which seemed like plenty. But I do plan to get to the whole thing before I die. And apparently read it twice.

Twenty Great American Short Stories. I have read this and must say that most of these American short stories are really just kind of mid.

How to Clean Practically Anything. Maybe from my mother? I do like things to be tidy.

UN Law on International Sales. This one is just for fun.

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. Some of these actually remain scary, even as an adult. I rarely if ever tell them in the dark, however.

Contemplating Courts. Just a great title, frankly. I think this was a textbook from one of my college classes. I just couldn't bear to part with it!

Approximately six thousand copies of everything I've ever written. I am nothing if not a narcissist!