gettin lucky in kentucky (part one)

This is not actually about "gettin lucky in kentucky." Please! My mom reads this blog. However, Brandy had been repeating the slogan for about three weeks before I left, so I'm paying her some homage.

Last weekend was my first time to Pittsburgh, Washington, PA, Cincinnati, and Kentucky. As someone who rarely ventures far from states other than New York and California, you might be wondering "why," and the reason is simple: Sam's cousin was getting married in Northern Kentucky. Before going to the hotel for the wedding on Saturday night, we stopped by Cincinnati to see his sister's apartment and have family lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. The night before, I flew in from Oakland to Pittsburgh (Sam flew in from Denver), and his parents picked us up there. Friday and Sunday night we stayed with Sam's folks at their beautiful home in Washington, PA.

Where to begin...?

I guess I should start from the top.

Exactly a week ago, I was shuffling my Vera Bradley carry-on (a gift from my mom's friend/ boss/ partner in crime, she is a wealthy hippie with a huge house and a huge heart) and my Jeep bag on wheels (a token from Brandy because after I left for a business trip to CO, Tanya TFR took run of the house allowing a stranger in my beg and Aires the Cat to pee in my giant purple duffel on wheels, which all of the Parkers have: Adam, Daniel, Pam, Lee, and even Alyson ended up getting the same ridiculous luggage by chance). The Friendly Cab picked me up, which is a lime green SUV, and it was mainly a non-eventful ride. The driver told me he played volleyball, so he could handle my luggage, no problem. All was quiet until, I get a call from an unknown number which I very rarely pick up, but because of the job search have changed my policy to answering: Hello, this is Amy.

There wasn't a person on the other end of the line I realized, glazed stare out over the highway. Just a recording from Southwest alerting me that my flight won't be taking off until 3. "Shit!" I startled the driver as we exited the highway, and he asked where I was going. "Pittsburgh... I hope" trailing off at the end, and then realized he was asking not out of curiosity, but he wanted to know which of the two terminals to drop me off at. He still seemed a little nervous that I screamed a curse into my cell phone, so I went on "I'm on JetBlue. I have a layover in Vegas, so at least if I don't make it..." and he picked up telling me about how he flew to Toronto for cheap, but now the tickets are expensive or something like that.

I told myself not to get all worked up about missing my layover, having to ask Sam's parents to wait at the airport until 4am, freaking out on the poor soul who was about to think he or she was only needing to assist me in weighing the Jeep bag and tossing it on the belt. I waited in the not-too-long line, noticed the woman monitoring the line was wearing the sneakers that answer the question: What would happen if Richard Simmons and the Spice Girls had a baby? Impressed with myself for maintaining my cool, I asked if those were those new exercise shoes, the same way one of my four grandmas might (I'm picturing Lenore). She said yes, and I continued with a smile "Do you like them?"

"They make my feet swell if I wear them for 8 hours in a row," I smiled before I recognized the complete flatness of her tone. She continued her rounds up and down the line of 15 people or so making sure none of us had printed boarding passes already.

When I actually made my way up to the consul, my palms were damp, and after I told the woman about my predicament she scolded "Too bad you didn't get here earlier. I could have switched you to an earlier flight."

As I fought the urge to slap her, she pulled up something(s) on her screen and called someone else. This Someone Else told her that the flight was back to being on time, because they switched out the flights. I was so relieved that I thanked her, even though it clearly was not her doing and she wasn't very nice either. My phone rang as I made my way through security and the automated voice told me that my flight had moved from 3 to 1:50. Ass holes. A few older women ahead of me in the Southwest A,B,C lineup were appalled by the situation, and seriously concerned that what if someone turned around after hearing the first message. Then What?!?!

I had a layover in Vegas, and put one dollar in the Wheel of Fortune slot in honor of the adventure that was the Summer of 2008. Lenore, Marilyn Reich (Lenore's bff), Alyson, Lisa D and I stayed at the Belagio for a magical week. I called my mom (Alyson) so we could bitch about being in the same place but forced apart by TSA. We discussed a business proposal, which we often do. Everything from bicycling trash to traveling poker lessons.

I also took the liberty of explaining the situation that was my outfit. Afraid that Fred and Sarah Landenwitsch (The Boy's Parents) might think that due to my stint of unemployment that I had become homeless, I thought I should talk it through with my mom (Alyson).

To start, I explained that in Oakland one can often find a rectangular patch sewed over the crotch of someone’s skinny jeans. And not just any someone, but a composting, bike-riding, queer-identified, Do It Yourself enthusiast. These ladies are all about the crotch-patch. So I decided a couple of hours before my flight, with bags slightly packed, to patch my black stretchy jeans. Unfortunately, I only had an off white plaid old collared button down from my dad. And that was the project that became my pants.

workout videos: a revue

Work out videos are wonderful.

While I was recruiting for Green Corps down at Stanford, I met my friend Carolyn for lunch. Her and I had co-counselored during High School summer months at Ardsley Day Camp. We had almost completely lost touch, but I figured while I was in her neck of the woods, it might be fun to see her.

She told me about her boyfriend (the same one since we worked together 5 years ago- wow), her family, and her state of unemployment. When I asked how she was keeping herself busy, she confessed her new addiction: workout videos. I think she might have called them workout DVDs, because that's really what they are, but I feel that "workout video" captures the essence of spandex and sweat right in the comfort of your very own living room.

I laughed as she interpreted the ripped sweaty men and women that take up an hour of each day. I can't remember if I admitted to joining Carmen Electra in getting Fit to Strip in spurts over the past few years.

My first experience involving a workout video involved another ADC co-worker: Golsa, a good friend from growing up times and beyond. We tried out a few of the 4 DVDs that came in the set. My clearest memory which still brings a smile to my face, was when we could stand next to each other in front of the TV in the den at my parents house breaking a sweat to the hip hop dance DVD. Awkward flailing, kicking, and booty shaking galore.

Now that I'm unemployed (little cash/ lots of time), I've started up with Carmen again. However I keep it restricted to the normal workout DVD vs. hip hop, stripper dance, or who even knows what the 4th one is all about... but I think it involves costumes. I like it. Some of it is hard for me, but it can get boring to always here the same thing from the screen. Although I laugh to myself every time the guy says "the biggest muscle in your body- the legs!"

At the library, I spotted Hip Hop Abs. A perfect time to branch out. And I loved it. Sean T is the flamboyant trainer who raps his own intro. His whole thing is that he doesn't do crunches. But if your mind isn't overly cluttered by steroids or protein shakes, you might realize that you basically are doing crunches while standing, jumping, or dancing. This is in fact harder than just doing crunches. But I will admit, Sean T's signature Tilt, Tuck, Tighten is f-ing great. He walks you through each part, and intermittently will say things along the lines of "It's OK if you want me. You know I look good." or "C'mon girl, don't you wanna fit in that bikini?"

Sean T: 4/5 because it's fun, you will sweat, but your back doesn't get an even chance so it will hurt the next day

Next time I went to the library I spotted the Belly Twin's Bollywood Blast and Indi-Hop DVD. This had some promise, while looking hilarious. Win. Win. Unfortunately, this dynamic duo (for real identical twins) didn't have what it takes to get my blood pumping. And I was mostly annoyed because they would show a few moves and then put together a routine, that didn't necessarily correlate, and they would just go right to it. How am I supposed to know what combination these belly twins will come up with? I need direction during exercise.

Belly Twins: 2/5

And the of course there's Carmen: 4.5/5

I can always count on DVD #2 for a good workout, and if there's a need to spice things up, the rest of the DVDs are right there. Theoretically. I mean, the other three of mine are in New York.

a moment at 54th St

I got a job offer.

You might find this to be cause for celebration. I find it cause for anxiety. Maybe that's because I'm jewish. And therefore neurotic.

When I read the congratulatory e mail last night, shell-shocked, I made my way into the kitchen to tend to some Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and took a seat among Tashina, Tanya, and Brandy. As I sat, Tanya was in the midst of doing the catch-up-thing with Brandy. The usual: How are you? How's the job? How's your sisters baby? Ooops wrong sister. To the Usual (for our little house in the bay area): Are you still in therapy?

As it turns out, all of us have been to therapy. Tanya chuckled with a hand tossed onto her forehead "Jews love therapy. They love it." I agreed, and she went on to share intimate details about why she started going like pieces of candy getting tossed from the side of a fire truck during a 4th of July parade.

misadventures of a wednesday in Northern California

Yesterday started out with such an intimate adventure. Just the two of us, hopped in the rav4 (avoiding the final hours of TOR's moms visit) and headed north. We hiked up rolling hills, past blossoms and banana slugs. After the back of my polka-dotted tank top was soaked through to my backpack, we turned to go back to sea level.

Cooling down, our eyes reached over the Pacific without rest until the horizon. I pulled two carrots, two oranges, and a peanut butter and agave syrup sandwich out of my bag. Nicole, my romantic playdate of the day, had packed rice and beans in a plastic rectangle.

Triplets, two girls and a boy, about 2 years old and seagulls circled and squared us.

It was a complete Northern California afternoon. Before returning to the highway, we stopped at the town market to get some chocolate. Nicole struck up a conversation with Manny. He is a twenty-something who can't leave his home town, the good surf, the bikes, and why would anyone want to?

After a pause that lasted a bit too long, a hit the unlock control. It stuck. The alarm sounded, and the serenity o

f Wednesday was taking a cosmic turn. A tall blond 18 year old leapt off the school bus from the stop sign across the street, and nodded "Sweet car alarm," as the swarm giggled as they migrated into Manny's store.

Eventually it stopped, we rode over the Richmond Bridge, and made it home just in the nick of time to see off Tashina's mom. It was a slightly awkward goodbye, lacking hugs, and they walked off to the bart. Nicole and I had about half an hour before TOR would return, mom free, and be ready to celebrate her birthday.

Zanetta came over to be lazy until it was time to grab a drink and some food. TOR wanted us to go to a champagne bar in downtown Oakland, so we did. I realized upon entering that this was the same place that Sam, Nicole, Genny and I had made fun of as we passed by during Oakland Art Murmur. Yuppie Central, or by its given name: Mimosa.

After "mini tacos" and "micro paninis," we were still hungry. Genny who had biked over to meet us, Z, Nicole, TOR and I made our way over to Off the Hook Burrito, which was as amazing as the name implied. The portions were HUGE, as you can see from Z's fried catfish/ french fry/ bread tower. But before you enjoy an extra large portion you order either Mexican or Soul Food from a middle aged Chinese couple through bullet proof glass.

If you didn't guess, you have to bus your own dishes. Unless of course someone hungry comes in, asks for money, and you hand over left overs to her. Zanetta did, and TOR was quick to follow.

As we were indulging ourselves, Ebony (Z, Zanetta... all the same), received a text about ladies night at the Den, which was only a few blocks away. Full of grease, we made our way to celebration spot #3.

To be clear, ladies night in Oakland is ladylove night. And it was poppin. Good music, groovin ladies, and pricey drinks. Since it was TOR's birthday and all, Z finagled a free shot for her. Z moved over to TOR, a tree stump in wedges, to let her know the alcoholic news. "I've never had a shot," she droned.

"WHAT." I said, head leaning in to make sure I understood the newly 29 year old, and she slowly repeated. Then I repeated. Laughed. And we made our way up to the bar. Z, a very kind soul, told the bartender she had never had a shot, and he asked how old she was. His eyes boggled out of this head, his lips parted, and he said something about making it weak, attempting to hide his growing smirk. Brown rum, lemon, and sugar water in a tumbler. She sipped it. 29, and she still has not ever taken a shot.

Dancing, booty shakin, chest pumping, and then Nicole and Brandy left to pick up Tanya, The Original Roommate - shit same initials- The First Roommate- from San Francisco airport, but not before Brandy treated Tashina to a Cadillac Margarita.

At the stroke of midnight, Zanetta ran the risk of getting a ticket on her car, the Oakland equivalent of turning into a pumpkin. Zanetta ended up running the last three blocks, and I was left to usher Tashina. "I'm derunk," she murmured, and I knew it would be a long few blocks. Barefoot down the streets of downtown Oakland, I held her hand to keep her upright. She told stories without punch lines, and I shared random thoughts.

I collected ice water, advil, and a piece of toast to feed her before she passed out. She swallowed it one by one, and crab walked behind the white curtains that separate her room from the kitchen.

update

1. I drove TOR to the bart to pick up her mom last night. TOR's mom is a warm, friendly, quite normal seeming mom. Nature over nurture perhaps? (Because TOR's mom is actually her aunt. Other theories should come out as the next two days go on.)

2. Second round interview invite. Fingers crossed, please.

house meeting on mother's day

Last night Nicole (The Roommate), The Other Roommate, and I had a house meeting. Normally I'd be inclined to call this sort of thing a "family meeting," because doesn't a "family meeting" sounds a million times better than a "house meeting?" It's much warmer and more inclusive if it's a little family, but it surely is not.

We needed to have this coming-together, because sometimes people would go grocery shopping, and then other people would eat up the food. Or because someone would go food shopping and then ask for money to pitch in and someone would not give money. If your wondering who's who at this point, I am the shopper and The Other Roommate is the one who wants to "share" when it means other people shop, pay, and cook, and she gets to eat. Good deal for her.

So we needed to sit down and figure out some kind of system.

Fifteen minutes in, after Nicole has gone over a few of the ideas she has scribbled down on a pad, and I have agreed along the way, and voiced that I am very flexible on the food issue, I finally ask TOR (let's refer to The Other Roommate as TOR, and see how we like it) "Do you have any thoughts or feelings?"

"Um," she begins in her usual low and slow tone, sitting at the only chair pulled far out from the table. "I guess um..." dark eyes rolling to the top of her thick black rimmed glasses, "It's just that... for me" she gestures towards her slumped over chest with her sweatshirted arms "I don't want to share prepared food." Avoiding eye contact with me to her best ability she goes on "Um, I mean I..." looking towards Nicole for some sort of support, but hoping for her thoughts to come out of her roommate's mouth. "I just want to make my own food."

The beat is turned up as Nicole jumps in. "So, you want to eat the food you make, AND eat the food we make?"

The nonsense went on for about an hour from here. TOR does not want to share anything, but she has a habit of eating the last of things like mac n cheese and vanilla soy milk, so we'll see how it goes. I never saw myself as a food-labeling person, and I hope not to become one. Before we broke, I suggested that people start cleaning their dirty dishes right away. I don't think this would be earth shattering news to Regular Roommates. But since TOR has moved in, there has been an ongoing pile of dirty dishes on the counter to the right of the sink. And I can't stand it.

I didn't call her out, since I was attempting to be polite, or something. "While we're all sitting down together, I just want to ask that we all clean our dishes. It's gross to have a pile of dirty dishes." I added the second sentence because it seemed like TOR needed an explanation of why a person wouldn't be OK with dirty dishes all of the kitchen. "I understand if you're on the way to work or just not in the mood, but I think all dishes should be done within the next... 24 hours let's say."

Nicole's eyebrows lifted either out of surprise to hear me want to enact a rule, or because she knew it wasn't directed at her and thought it was amusing to address TOR's dirty-ness. "Yeah that sounds good," said Nicole as she started to jot down the new house rule. "I know I'm weird for writing everything down."

"No" I told her. "It's good. You're keeping organized."

And out of her black jungle hair, TOR submitted an "if clause." She wanted to establish a stipulation that someone (meaning someone besides her) should be responsible for putting the dishes from the drying rack into the cabinet because "I mean... for the motivation," eyes drifting through the corner of her glasses to me, and then back to Nicole "to clean the dishes."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I thought. With that tone, but different words, I explained that "Yes, a part of washing the dishes means that you have to start by putting away clean dry dishes. It's something we all have to do. It's just a part of the process." Nicole said nothing, but reached into her brown leather purse hanging from her chair scrambling for her phone.

I stood, pushed back my chair, and was on my way back to hang out with The Boy before he heads to Denver. But before Nicole and I could make our escapes, somehow TOR put it out there that she would only mop the kitchen IF we would approve a no shoes in the house rule. At this point we had both had enough. Half heartedly we each attempted to spell out that mopping the floor is a part of kitchen duty no matter what other rules there may or may not be.

This is more hilarious because her mom (who is actually her biological aunt, but there's no time for that right now) is coming here tonight, and staying with us, on our futon, in the living room. She won't fucking mop, but then looked to me as I was walking out of the kitchen "Um Amy... the bathroom... if it was clean... because my mom is... ya know... staying here." I had an urge to slap her in the face and scream "JUST ASK ME!" But I said "OK", continued to my room, and whispered the story of the house meeting into The Boys ear and we laughed.

I have no idea what to expect in the next couple of days. This might very well end up being the worst part of being unemployed- home with TOR's mom.

Open Letter to Folger's (sign on folks)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5lPYUB2_ww


Dear Folger's,

Fuck off.

My draw nearly dropped to the ground when I first saw this commercial. I was watching an unnamed reality show with negative moral standing, but this really threw me. The question now is: Where do I begin?

1. We don't live at home until we get married. I guess I shouldn't try to make broad generalizations about "we." I am especially scared to do so, after being subjected to the message you are delivering. But let me tell you this, as a young woman, I do not live with my parents. And no, I don't live with a husband either. I don't have one, and I might never have one.

I live in a split level house, and my two roommate are also women. One of them might actually enjoy this revolting display, because she did enjoy a book called "The Road to I do," which sounds like even more bull shit than the ideas you are selling. The other roommate, well she has a degree in Womens Studies, and she's... sleeping with another woman. I think she'd take my side.

How do you expect the smart, independent, fun-loving American women to respond to this crap?

2. I DO NOT want my significant other to ask my dad for permission to do ANYTHING. This idea is only good for Fiddler on the Roof, and even then it doesn't play out how Tevia intended. Tradition is only good for a laugh, or a musical.

3. "Dad, I'm not sixteen anymore." ::Cute blond smile:: I just threw up in my mouth.

The best part of waking up will never be Folger's in my cup.

Love,
Amy