Youth is Definitely Wasted on the Young: How does one compete with youth? It's such a sad thing how quickly the sand runs and all of a sudden you're my age wondering if you've been tapped out. I just finished watching American Idol where one of the contestants has been (in Simon terms) "overshadowed" by younger contestants...at the age of 28. Could musicians really be considered "old hat" at such vibrantly young ages? Are you really over-the-hill by twenty? Society seems to run on basic principles. Women are supposed to be young. They are supposed to be limber, strong and maintain the body of a sixteen year old throughout their lives. With thoughts like, "She looks good for her age" it is difficult to escape the stigma of being anything but younger. Despite her inventiveness, her creativity and her social skills, but it doesn't hurt if she looks like Catherine Zeta Jones or Madonna. Let's face it: society is us. The collective "we" has a tendency to punish women for the natural aging process. Expectations are high. By the time women hit thirty, society expects the following:

1. Wrinkle-free skin - "Age-Defying Formulas", "antioxidants", "facial enhancers", cleansers and creams are hot selling products to keep a woman's skin abnormally supple and pliant. Think plastic-girl with skin like a baby's butt. That's what I said: ew.
2. Perfect Marriage, Perfect Home, Perfect Children - Forget the Stepford wife motif. Women have long suffered to protect the unwritten rule that they must achieve these levels of perfection. They are judged by how happy their households are, how healthy their kids seem, and how solid their relationships are with their husbands. Anyone who says that society doesn't do that is either lying or a spinster.
3. Steady Career - Those who get away with #2, fall under this category. Dedicated and "married" to their jobs, these women model their lives after Oprah. If there is a Stedman around, he's lying dormant under the foot of his driven fiancee. Oh, and it helps if she has a mooch friend like Gayle King, who can back her shit up and tag along with her on "girlfriend" trips around the world.
4. More than One Child - They say the first child is practice. The second child gives a woman experience. Parenthood is often judged by how many children you learn to manage over time.
5. Speaking of Experience... - It helps if a woman is worldly while she's still young enough to enjoy it. As if we should all lay down and die the minute the clock strikes thirty. Isn't life only a quarter done at 25?
6. Health Conscious - Nevermind the struggle to stay away from fatty foods, as one gets older, you're also expected to go to the gym at least 3 times a week, drink 8 glasses of water a day, and learn how to work out the mind as well as the body--whew! Factor in osteoperosis, early menopause, and breast cancer and it's no wonder women are the highest percentile to suffer from depression.

Plus, women have longer life spans in which we can ponder the mysteries behind our mates' mid-life crises and compete with girls half our age eager to step into our spotlight. It's not just perky breasts and flaky dispositions. It's coping with the fact that we may experience cheating a million times over before we ultimately decide to become nuns, exotic dancers, spinsters or lesbians. It's time, precious time. Fleeting, patience and time that licks us. How can we avoid gray hairs knowing that these things may come to pass in our lifetimes? I can't say that we can. Everytime I see a young "bippie" (as I like to call them) I can't say that a little green man called, Envy doesn't rear his ugly head. I'm ashamed to say it, but it does. I used to be that bippie. But alas, I haven't found any fountain of youth. Now, when my bones crack, they really crack. I can hear them. It takes me million years to get up in the morning now when in the past, all it took was a couple of minutes. About the only joy I find is knowing that one day that young bippie will become an old fart. It happens to the best of us. Unless you're a freak of nature like Demi Moore. I've a feelin' though that someday, man...That is...I hope.

So yeah! We may not all be able to stay shiny like brand new copper pennies but over time, we save them and know what they're worth.

So I'm watching "Dinner for Five", a show on the IFC channel where various celebrities from the Indepent circuit sit around a table and chat about whatever young talent talks about. The mix of talent is really good and can theoretically be quite entertaining, actually. For reality tv junkies like myself, it offers a refreshing change from watching Project Runway and American Idol Rejects. Enter this series that attempts to engage the viewer by making the famous relatable and hopefully interesting. The fly-on-the-wall concept is good. Every viewer would love to hear what is said at the table at awards ceremonies. The problem is that it doesn't deliver. At least, not with this group. Now I'll admit that this cast involved a rather ennui-ridden panel that left it up to one contributor: Adam Goldberg to offer his views on literally EVERYTHING. Adam, comfortably talkative, was a master at dominating the conversation. We can all stand to learn a lot from him. He was funny, silly, and very outspoken. Not so of the rest of the group he was carrying. The problem that I saw with this particular installment, was that despite all of this young talent, some stars are too ensconced in the traditional "I'm-broody-don't-talk-or-look-at-me" attitude or the "I'm-too-important-to-comment-on-such-things" stand. Then there are those who--let's face it--have NOTHING to say. Those actors/writers/musicians/artists are just happy to have been invited. There was Christina Ricci who succeeded at doing what she does best: appearing wan, puffing away on cigarettes to appear secure. She reminded me of, dare I say, Anna Nicole Smith with her slow, slurred drawl. Maybe she was just drunk. I can't tell. The highlight of her contribution to this episode? An impersonation of a Mister Rogers puppet in The Land of Make-Believe, which seems fitting considering her line of work. Make-believe. I don't think she even bought her performance. But she should be given marks for at least attempting to appear normal. Jon Favreau, who should be guiding his "peers" to gain some forward momentum in the conversation, waited to let his peers shine on without him. Sensing that the ship was going down in a blaze of glory, he wisely switched gears toward the end, directing his attention to the only student contributing to the class: Adam. What I felt the most gypped on, was that I was left with nothing memorable. There was no conflict (save for the little tidbit from Christina about some nasty remarks from Vincent Gallo). Steve Drozd also had nothing to say. They kept placing the description, "Steve Drozd from The Flaming Lips" underneath his name just to remind the viewer of who he was. Likewise, Giovanni Ribisi shyly added that he was not aware of the experience he'd had as Phoebe's brother on "Friends". That was a big let-down because I can scarce remember his performances in anything else. Oh, except maybe "Gone in 60 Seconds", which is just about the length of my attention span whenever Mr. Ribisi mumbled to himself in the corner. Where I wanted to go, they were unwilling to go. I can get more from Inside the Actors' Studio with James Lipton! Underneath it all, these artists want to keep working. They cannot be brutally honest for fear that they may be blacklisted. Thus, the conversation is limited to talk of "creative challenges" on various "projects". In order to succeed, Mr. Favreau needs to make sure that the artists he chooses are present and accounted for. Otherwise, what the hell's the point?

I Don't Have Time For This: I have just come to a conclusion. I am so not skilled in the HTML coding thing. I tried, I failed at switching gears on a different blog platform. But my attempt to try to use codexes and XHTML and all of that sort of crap didn't work. Shucks! When could I get to blogging, after all? Like the immortal tattoo of Angelina Jolie: "Quod me nutrit, me destruit" (what noursihes me, destroys me); I realize that I have been defeated. It reminds me of my Futonian Defeat. Only you don't know that story yet, do you? Foiled by a Futon: Picture this: an unseasonably warm winter day which sets the stage for my moving (long past ~ thank goodness). So I'm trying to figure out how in the heck I'm going to deal with: a) a moving truck which was smaller than I expected b) a hired hand that was neither handy nor cooperative c) independently moving with little-to-no-help (See "b"). I began trying, in vain, to move small boxes which I made the fatal mistake of overstuffing with random everyday items like pots, pans, books. Thus, the boxes wouldn't close shut making the stacking process for the van near impossible. Not to mention that the shape of these aforementioned boxes were all sorts of weird and inconvenient. Think oblong rectangles and loose (like prepared for recycable bins). Argh! *Note: In my defense, this was my first and (hopefully) last move for a very, very, very long time. Okay, so I'm still attempting to over-stuff already heavy and complex trapezoidal Chinese origami-like boxes to prepare them to be further stacked, shoved, and squeezed into a mini-van. You get the picture. Not exactly smoothe sailing... It is decided that since the small stuff was getting to be worrisome, that the bigger stuff would be saved for later on. Among the larger items? You guessed it: my bulky futon. *Note: I was and am not a futon fan. Ever. The reason for the purchase had to deal with Sara moving in with us. We needed a place for her to sleep. I am so glad to be able to say that out loud: I AM NOT A FUTON FAN. Being an American in America affords me that right. But onto the futon... It arrived in the second run of our move. By then, our "helper" decided to bail, bums were offering--you heard me--BUMS were offering to help move us, which resulted in frustration for all involved. It did however give me a giggle when one of the bums kept repeating to Sara over and over: "Stay in school and get an education. I'm serious. Don't end up like these bums here." I don't think he included himself in the same breath as a bum (even though that's what he was) because he kept mentioning how he was a Vietnam Vet and all. I think all bums in Jersey City have used this excuse at least once in their lives to justify their reasons for being bums. The funny part is?! They're still--that's right--BUMS!!! Trust me on this one. I grabbed hold of the one end of the futon and Carlos had gotten a rather big and tall friend to help pick up the other end. The problem was that it was hard maneuvering it through the doorways. A split-second decision was made (which in retrospect was THE WORST DECISION EVER) to disassemble a portion of the "dang" futon to get it to fit. Well, we moved it in two pieces; ever mindful that eventually we would have to re-assemble the monster. Later on that evening, while Sara was whining about it being late and having to get to sleep or whatever, Carlos had said that I should wait until he returned in order to assemble it. I, however, have never responded well to orders, suggestions, or the belief that I am not every woman and that it's not all in me. This proved to be a mistake, of course. With Sara's aid, I still could only manage getting one of the sides to fit in the base of the futon. Whenever we tried to manipulate the other side, a series of banging, pinching and pain began. After trying it out for a solid hour, I realized that I'd been bested. By a futon. Ugh. Needless to say, Carlos had to offer his delightful help the next day. If it weren't for his manly-man strength, I swear I don't know what I'd do. Only I can't ever directly admit to that and if someone presents this blog entry as evidence, I will deny, deny, deny. Hey, it's worked for The President...

STOP WITH THE HUMMING! Occasionally, I become acutely aware that as I get older, I get a wee bit judgemental. No matter how big or small the infraction, I have a tendency to go postal to the point of plugging my ears and stomping my feet in a childlike tantrum fit. So why, kiddies, why do I have to go through the torture of enduring other people's stupidity? Please note that I am not neurotic. Ok, maybe just a little. But still... Since I woke up in a good mood this morning, I thought that today would be special. I sincerely believed that if I made it to work without something bothering me, then I would be experiencing what some believe is utopia. Off I went. I made it successfully to the station without one thing bothering me--not a bad start. Surely though, I would get on the lightrail and some sort of incident would happen that would ruin my day. Maybe it'd be that random commuter out for a leisurely stroll why I slowly have a heart attack over how long they're taking to get on the lightrail...especially when the driver is clearing waiting for them to get on. That's always a favorite of mine. Or maybe there would be the half-asleep commuter who realizes at the last moment--as the train is about to depart--that they forgot to STAMP THEIR TICKET. That one is one of my personal faves. But, no. By some miraculous workings of the divine, I made it to work without a hitch. Enough chance to daydream while I passed the back highways and byways. So far, so good. Yet I was convinced that perhaps I would have one of my traditional elevator situations. (See Feb. 10's entry) But surprisingly, nothing occured. All was well. I still wasn't convinced. Since--like Neo in the Matrix--I had a pre-conceived notion; a self-fulfilling prophecy was imminent. Maybe it was more like a sixth sense (like Haley Joel Osment's character only without dead people) or a woman's intuition (minus cornball Jewel song and closeups of a women's shaver). Sure enough, as soon as I took off my coat, settled in my cube, and logged onto my computer...it happened. The annoyance was unavoidable given the relative proximity between myself and the party who ruined my "perfect day". The person sitting next to me is...*gasp*...a HUMMER!!!! That's right boys and girls. You heard me. Not since grade school, have I been more annoyed by a natural reflex or an unconscious behavior. Where Have All the...(Flowers?--no, Cowboys?--no) Hummers Gone? If the world all hummed, what would it sound like? A cacophony of voices similar to that of a busy New York street, perhaps? Besides whistling, can there be any other more annoying activity?! Ok. I could think of a couple, too. So scratch that. I guess it's just that I am so used to the office being as silent as a church that maybe I feel less than sensitive to society's hummers. I'm sure the company doesn't mind humming if it increases productivity. I'm also sure that the hummer is thoroughly unaware of his or her's ability to annoy those around them. Wouldn't it be cool if it was discovered that hummers did indeed increase productivity by annoying people into doing their work quicker to avoid the humming? Can one really be hired as a professional hummer? Or are there repercussions? Can one die from hearing too much humming? Can one go dumb or feel numb from The Hum(ming)? Instead of Pavlov's dog what if the pet were trained by humming? Wait a minute, now that I think about it: Isn't there like hum-therapy or something like that? I could've sworn I saw that on one of the Surreal Life episodes. Maybe ultimately, humming should be entered as an Olympic sport. Why not? I mean, who really likes the sport of "curling" anyway? Wouldn't it be better to watch incessant hummers annoy each other for days on end in order to reach Olympic gold? I mean it would take stamina and endurance and heck, it may even go as far as this movie: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116481/ Just read the premise. And yes, if you watched these slack-jawed yokels in that film vie for a monster truck (like I did ~ thanks, Seth), you'd giggle just the same. Yeah, you would.

Cheers to Human Ingenuity..."Hip, Hip, Hooray!": Apparently, all you need to get creative is a blizzard. That's right, folks. Snow makes Man (or Woman for that matter) turn to their most primitive natural instincts to find abstract solutions to their problems. A most beautiful concept. So it is without further ado that I inform you of the nature of my goddess-like ability to adapt to change...quickly. I know--I haven't mastered modesty, right? Well, one thing at a time, people! Before you bask in the glory that is My Mighty Brain, let me first explain (try not to complain)...Hey, I'm a poet and I didn't know it! Okay, I'll stop before I drop--but I digress. There was a huge snowstorm now aptly titled, "The Blizzard of 2006" (not to be confused with the Blizzard of '88). Unbenownst to me, however, was a lovely batch of laundry just a-swinging in the chill winter breeze. By now your probably thinking:

1. What, no Laundromat? - Nosireebob! I am of the belief that those places take advantage of the huddled masses yearning to wear clean clothes. Based on necessity, people haul large sacks of laundry from home to mat, mat to home. I am too spoiled for that. There is also an addiction to nostalgia and doing things the good, ole-fashioned way. And I can't afford all the quarters. *tee, hee*
2. What in the heck were you doin' laundry in the wintertime fer? - Excellent question. Truth is, I wasn't. I actually had forgotten them from the last time I did wash and left them on the line. In my own defense, it wasn't that long ago. Remember those unseasonably warm days for a winter in Jersey? Yup, I took advantage. I guess I'm just that kinda girl.

So here I am reveling in the Christmas-like scenery--large flakes falling on cedars--when all of sudden it hit me. My wash! Oh. My. Gosh. MY WASH! Just then it was as though the sky opened up and everything started to grow dark and ominous. It was as if I were doing everything in slow motion. The world was fading to black... "NOOOOOooooooooo!!!!" I screamed from the rooftops. My legs propelled forward as I made it to the second-floor window overlooking the top of my roof in record time. I could see the remains of my laundry strewn about like bodies of dead Confederate soldiers and wounded Union Army men. Only, decorated with snow on top like icing. Umm...icing...

Light Bulbs Aren't Just an Edison Invention:

Divine Inspiration came over me as I reflected on what needed to be done here. First, there were clothes and they were stranded on the roof. I was the only one who could save them from their fate. Unfortunately, I am not Plastic Man and can't reach that far. I also didn't have any means by which I could physically jump on the roof to rescue the laundry. What to do? I began first by gathering my thoughts enough to invent a solution that would do MacGuyver proud. I needed something long enough to be able to give me the added reach I desired. In this case, the only thing that I had was...a broom handle. It's good to know that the dang thing finally was put to some good use (albeit not the one that was originally intended). Next, I needed something that could grip. I knew that chewing gum doesn't work except in Little Rascals episodes. What could I get? After much labored thought, I imagined clothespins. I tried and tried and couldn't get that to work. What other thing could I use?

When In Doubt, Think of Pasta:

I tried a spatula, another handle--to what I think was a vaccuum extension, and a bunch of nondescript items. Nothing was working. I then had what can only be described in Oprah terminology as an "Aha! moment". Don't ask me why I turn to Oprah during these distressing times. I just do. I thought of food. Not just any food, mind you, but pasta. Yes, in order to capture those clever little slippery noodles, you need to get a spoon and a fork. It wasn't just to get one of those two utensils. It was the understanding that I needed the circular motion--similar to the noodle-spinning--to get a grip on the slippery laundry. What a breakthrough! I know it doesn't sound like much to you, but when I succeeded in pulling up the articles of clothing piece by piece from off my roof, I felt like the Goddess Queen of the Universe that I am.(Don't believe me? Goto: http://www.roomwaview.blogspot.com)

This was my Mona Lisa, my Tower of Piza, my triathlon all in one.

Now, bow down and kiss my feet.

The Girl from Iponima & Other Elevator Scenes: In case my fans haven't heard, there is such a thing as elevator ettiquette. How do I know? Well, believe it or not, our company once held a training seminar about it. Yeah, I know. But I actually did come away with something more than at the "Sexual Harrassment in the Workplace" seminar. Allow me a quick digression here: BusinessMan walks up to BusinessWoman and says, "Is this felt?" BusinessMan proceeds to be all Cro-Magnon and starts touching BusinessWoman's sleeve. Then, he says, "...it is now." Cut and print. Laughter ensues (only we are supposedly there to learn about Sexual Harrassment)! It was meant to be serious! No, really. Back to the elevator topic. I mean, it really is important and useful to know these things. That way, you can tell your friends and they can tell their friends and so on and so on...

1. Mommie, what are elevator eyes? - Well, honey, it's when someone is being rude and perusing your very person by looking you up and down, up and down like an elevator. Get it? Well, it's RUDE. So stop it.
2. Get outta my way or I'll mow you down! - Yes, some people still think it is alright to hit you with the force of Mack truck just because you're slow in getting in. Trust me, even if the person in front of you moves as slow as whale shit, YOU WILL GET TO YOUR FLOOR...eventually.
3. It's my turn to push the red, candy-like button - Just for clarification, a good indicator that the button has been pushed already is the glowing circular light at the center of it. That means, basically, that frequent incessant pushing/tapping/clicking of the button will not make the elevator appear any faster. Once pushed, it's been registered. It's not a mouse and therefore doesn't require double-clicking. Review Diagram Below:
4. Stop the world, I wanna get off! - For those unfortunates who are forced to take the elevator to the 2nd or 3rd floor, remember that you're not browsing at the mall. No, this isn't Ladie's Lingerie or the Big and Tall Men's Department. Just keep saying to yourself: 'This is an elevator I'm riding. This is an elevator I'm riding.' That way, when you get to your floor, you'll remember to GET THE HELL OFF! I cannot tell you how many times I've got dazed and confused people going to the second floor, when I have to get off on the 10th!
5. Hold the Door Please... - If someone is tripping over themselves racing to catch the elevator, please let them on. If you're near the door, please press that nifty button that reads, "Door Open" NOT the "Door Close" button. These buttons were specially designed for you to save your soul. Stop faking hitting the button or God won't let you into Heaven. Even if you're athiest or agnostic: JUST HIT IT, ok?
6. When is Holding the Door Not Cool? - If it's 5 o'clock on a Friday and the means by which I can get home faster is by getting downstairs as quickly as possible, please DO NOT hold the door for a friend. Monday morning going to work? That's ok. It just seems that people pick the most incovenient times to be gracious. Let's face it: if you didn't do it before, don't try to redeem yourself at an inopportune time.
7. Don't hum to the Muzak - Even if the song is the muzak version of 50 cents' "Everybody in the Club", please don't hum, sing or dance in the elevator. Unless, of course, you are me. But you're not, so stop playin'.
8. Moo-ve Over, You Cow! - As with letting people on, there is a certain finesse--a dance if you will--to letting people off. First, give them room to maneuver around you or just get out of the elevator so they can go on their merry way. Either way, try incoveniencing yourself to convenience others. You can get back at them another time.
9. Keep It To A Low Roar - I don't really want to hear about your boyfriend troubles or listen to the electronica music blaring on your earphones. Correction: I do want to hear about your boyfriend troubles, but that's only 'cause I'm nosy.
10. Don't Release the Stink Bomb - I really didn't want to mention this one, but it begs to be mentioned. If you feel a rumble in your stomach and you know you had a taco for lunch, please hold your body's functions until your floor. Don't get on if you can't hold it. Please.

So Quiet, You Could Hear Crickets Chirping: You won't hear a peep from me on where I've been, my dears. It's all relative to where I am. And since it is all about me, I think that I'll spill the beans when I'm good and ready. Or, at least until they're cooked to perfection.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Miss Ali McBeal:

10. The one, true definition of "cackle".

9. Bathroom stall remote controls.

8. "I love a fresh bowl."

7. John Cage.

6. Fish-isms like, "Bygones" (This word should be used daily in a sentence)

5. Helped launch new careers (Vonda Shephard / Josh Groban).

4. Helped revive old careers (Carly Simon / Dyan Cannon ).

3. The Dancing Baby.

2. The Green Mill Bar "aka Ally McBeal bar".

(http://wwww.centerstage.net/bars/articles/bars-television.html)

1. The unisex bathroom!

Don't even ask me why I was thinking about this today...

"I'll Be Over Here, Fermenting": Every morning, as I head on over to the temorary-job-that-will-be-ending-soon place, I pass the time mentally recording the experience. Fist off, let me tell you that the route is much, much longer. Ugh. So I always underestimate. But sometimes, I get on the lightrail (which I overheard someone describe as "like a trolley-car") and it travels faster than usual; at which case, I've overestimated my travel time. Ugh-ugh! I tried to account for the difference in time and realized that one of the lightrails were given the title: "Bayonne Flyer", while the other was just the plain, old "22nd Street" train. Eureka! But alas, my excitement over my discovery was shortlived. Turns out the Bayonne "flyer" doesn't always fly.