Rest and exasperation

I'm technically on holiday. One week away from the 9-to-5. Except the 9-to-5 is a temporary gig and our sweet, sweet (paid) time together is ticking away.

This is no time to vay-k. Though I'm happy to give it the ol' college try.

Today I swapped my 6 a.m. gym time for a leisurely 9 a.m. ooze out of bed and into the kitchen. After a night of intense drowning, running, trapped-in-small-spaces dreams I was eager to be awake with some conscious thoughts.

By noon I was at the gym taking a mid-day class. Yes, they have these. Who ARE these people who take these things? But I tell you my class was PACKed. A few were sneaking out of work for an extended lunch, others...well...who was I to question? The class was led my some sort of pocket-sized She-Man between the ages of 19 and 57 complete with a wicked Boston accent.

"OH-vah"

"OH-vah"

"OH-vah"

She screamed into her Evangelical microphone.

It took me three tries to figure out where she wanted my arm to go and when.

While She-Man screamed "just eight mower" at the class I sneaked a rest and got a glare from the bendi-grandma in the back.

No, I think I'll go back to worrying over jobs on the couch.

My new (imaginary) occupational boyfriend

Finding a job is like dating. This seems to be an apt metaphor for a situation that poses a serious imbalance of hand.

Have you met my new occupational love? He's incredibly smart, well-connected and absurdly confident. He's got this ridiculous pad in New York City and all the girls flashed a knowing look when they saw us together.

Man I want him. I want him so bad I dropped everything - my current occupational boyfriend, my friends - and just jetted down to New York like I was always planning to do. Yup, just a casual run-in really. I was breezy. "Oh, Monday? Oh sure, well I was going to be in the city anyway."

I wore my best outfit, something I knew occupational man would appreciate, with pumps (I mean - pumps in the city!). I thought we really clicked - I think we even shared a laugh (girl giggle on my part). I floated my way out of the city thinking of all the time we could spend together - the late nights, the coffee breaks. It could be so good!

I mean, maybe I was a little eager, e-mailing the very same day. I may have thrown an exclamation mark in there - I know! Too much. So I didn't hear back. One, two, three, FOUR excruciating days passed.

Then, all of a sudden, an e-mail. Another date. Monday? Like, this coming? Well sure, I don't have, uh, anything else I have to do day.

Back down the eastern seaboard in a new fancy outfit (same pumps) for another breezy hang. This one there were definitely sparks. I could feel the tension. I was a bubbling breeze of interesting conversation and witty retorts.

I e-mailed the same day again. I know, I never learn. But I thought he was feelin' it too. A few days go by, no calls. A week: no calls, no e-mail no contact. Two weeks: same deal.

But, hey, I'm not gunna sit at home just waiting by the phone. Nope, there are other occupational loves out there. Maybe. I'm sure. Right?

So maybe I flirt a little. Get back out there. I get a new date (ol' girl still's got somethin' in her yet). I drop everything once again, same old routine. I traverse the eastern seaboard again. Maybe I recycle an outfit here and there, but it's not like he knows.He seems nice, you know. Reliable. Loyal. He lives in the suburbs, a little more settled, but I play nice because I'm a single girl who can't be picky.

But suburban and I didn't fit. Maybe he felt it, maybe I didn't put out the vibes. Maybe I was still wanting for Mr. New York.

This occupational love life stuff is rough I tell you. I could really use a top 40s song that I can sing along to - let it all out. But all those cheesy fabulous songs out there are just about plane old person-to-person love. What gives? Everyone goes through this. I know I'm not alone.

Kelly Clarkson? I mean I KNOW you. Ms. American Idol orig. I know you tried and failed at your career before we met you. Don't lie to me. Life isn't all about those dudes you love and lost and like and leave.

Lady Gaga? Same goes for you... Ms. Stephanie Germamotta.

Now...sing about what you ladies know...or knew so I can scream-sing along to some tunage when I think my occupational love likes me, like really likes me.

Mini hiatus

Hello loyal readers/mom. I do so love to fill this blogs with rants, thoughts, and webbie things, but I have been terribly distracted by trying to get my professional act in gear. It's been a trip: suits have been worn and slightly ruined, grand traverses across the eastern seaboard have been made, puppies have been photographed.

But it's all good fodder for blogging it up. I will return soon, perhaps with a job or perhaps with a larger chip on my shoulder. Who's to say. But let's hope and pray for the former.

More soon, I swear.



Sit, stay, I'll be right back.

Oh there's a good honey.

xoxoL

The Round up

This webby week:

to check out: I have found a new You Tube swoon and he/she/it is named Thorn2200. Thorn has combined my love of the British comedian Eddie Izzard with my nostalgic want for playmobile. The result? Little plastic people with English accents, or, hilariousness.

Let's see there's Death Star Canteen:


James Bond:


And loads more. Thorn also has boat-fulls of other videos that appear to have humans in them, but I can't vouch for those pups since I only watch musicals or inanimate objects being animate.
If you're not familiar with Eddie Izzard, well, that's lame and get on it already.

In other video news: someone clever made something awesome:



Flight patterns - Long exposures of bugs under a street light by Charlie McCarthy. Via Monoscope. Man, Vimeo is pretty, right?

to read: Young, female Newsweek writers get down to business and take a good hard look at gender equality in their workplace. This editorial honors a 40-year-old gender-discrimination case started by Newsweek employees back in the day. This is personal-meets-historic journalism and thoughtful to boot. Yes, depressing, since there is (shocker) still inequality among working men and women. Though I'll take some lower-pay, inequality and hey, even a little sexism, if I could just get a workplace. THEN I'll show 'em what I've got (in passive aggressive venting ways).

Speaking of ladies, this kid-o is cra-azy: rowing her way across the ocean in little more than a glorified banana peel A-LONE?! Kids these days are full of extremes. On the one hand they're obese, sleep-deprived computer addicts with only virtual friends. On the other they are young, ridiculously adventuresome death seekers. What gives? No, I couldn't paddle my way around the world when I was 22, I was too busy working out my tooth enamel resistance to jugs of carlo rassi.

to procrastinate: web design ledger is always good for losing chunks of time, but their recent post of 30 laugh out loud ads was the clincher.
This Olympus ad for a zoom lens definitely followed through on the headline's promise:



and to cuddle:

this cuddletastic brought to you by daily puppy.



Get in my lap.

xoxoL

Future thousand-aire

Today during my usual scavenger hunt of web site searching I was bombarded my a pop-up ad.

Shocking, I know.

It read something like: “WIN $1,500 by just filling out this itty bitty survey.”

But then I blinked and saw: "LAUREN YOU COULD WIN SOME CASH!!! come on and play!"

The survey was for the New Scientist web site, being that I had clicked onto one of its articles. Figuring that whoever made this survey was clearly a trusting doctor of some kind, I clicked on the window and spiraled into a dark whole of a Mensa moment that strikes only the desperate, unemployed.

But then again, a mere seven minutes later, with ego-checking questions answered (Q: what is your estimated yearly income? Can I factor in the potential $1,500?) and survey complete, I felt pretty damn nearly sure that I could maybe possibly be the triumphant winner of that bag o cash.

Still gloating with my potential win I Googled “cash giveaways” and filled out a few more "harmless," though progressively more time-consuming surveys. Sure, this lunch break of (in)activity may not be worth my time in the spam I’m sure to recieve, but just think of all the goodies I could get…

And by goodies, of course, I mean groceries.

And maybe some spring shoes.

On a side note, I totally dig New Scientist's culture lab blog. Check it out.

xoxoL

The Round up

Ohhhh good things are happening in the interweb this week.

Dear design: Mother Nature may be hinting at spring here on the East coast but that doesn't mean that winter isn't lurking around the corner, in cold closets or under the sheets of the strangely unheated bedroom.

Enter: Happiness in bed's sleeved blanket. I know what you're thinking, didn't this come out years ago in Cookie-monster blue alongside a ridiculous marketing campaign? Well, yes. But THIS guy is new and has gloves! It comes in hipster white to match your squatter-chic decor.



to procrastinate: thanks to flavorwire, I can waste whole hours, if not entire days, on things like Best Dance Sequences. How can it be bad when it feels so good?

West Side Story sweeps, obviously, taking three out of the 35 spots.



Man, ballet has never felt so...inTIMidating. I'm going to keep those moves in mind for when I next find myself defenseless in a dark alley. You want to try me? I'll ballet-kick your ass buds.

There are so many classics and so many goodies that it's really hard to pick. Annie, Dirty Dancy, (ah hem) Save the Last Dance? I have to admit that though I really hated Ms. Stiles/snaggletooth this ballet breakdown is pretty kickin. Is it possible that she's a tamer, earlier version of So You Think You Can Dance?

to long for: I've never let go of my desperate want of cute specs. A few years a go, not being able to resist, I bought a floral-printed pair of glasses that just happened to have prescription in them. The motivation being that IF I wore them SUREly my eyesight would meet the damaged requirements of said prescrip. Sadly, 20/20 prevailed. It's probably for the best, many I'm sure would argue, as this accessory comes with a hefty price.

That was, until, Warby Parker came out with cute AND affordable glasses. Brought to me via New York Magazine.



At $95 I feel like I owe it to SOMEbody to get a pair. But which to choose?! It's so hard. The Huxley with the clear bottoms? Or maybe the Roosevelt with the bold top frame (in blue? Don't mind if I do).

to read: this little bit in the New Yorker is a quick, hilarious treat. Mannahatta, by Yoni Brenner re-imagines the sale of Manhattan by Native Americans to the Dutch in the 1600s ripe with contemporary, classic New York City gripes. Set in a screenplay, this piece is comic genius.

A taste:

LAPOWINSA: (pensive) You know, it amazing how warrior can live among so many kinsmen and yet feel so alone

to check out: This past Saturday was International Night at R's school. Unfortunately, I missed the babies dressed in saris but I did arrive in time to watch a Canadian represent for his/our country. This Molson commercial said it best:



And don't ask, just watch (courtesy Chris Bean - who clearly has a You Tube searching gift)



And, just in case you haven't had enough movie buzz, here are eight famous movie quotes translated into graphics, from the American Film Institute, via The High Definite. This one made me laugh out loud:



to cuddle: Finally, get pumped party people because its Easter time which means...

BUNNIES



and

CHICKs



xoxoL

Let's play pretend

This weekend brought us Arthur, whom I prefer to call Russel.

Russel is an English Setter, 6ish years old, and our charge for the weekend while friends ventured down to D.C.

Now, I should preface this by saying that I was *this* close to securing future puppydom with R. I've been making hang-dates with friends who have puppies, sending cute finds direct to R via e-mail and even starting a (ah-hem) puppy wall. best. thing. ever.

Since Russel is well into his middle age I figured this would sinch the 'Let's get a pup' campaign. Sure, he was recovering from a recent brush with death, death in the form of a small branch that he sucked right up his nose. It was an $800 accident for the puppy parents and a fact that I generally smooth over whenever it is brought up by R (but OUR dog won't inhale small trees). It was working for a while.

We were to stay at their place, which gave us further opportunity to try out home ownership. And if the dog and the home didn't work out, it was like a mini break away from our apartment. A free bed and breakfast. delight.

Friday, evening. I'm still at work until six and R is attempting to write his thesis. After carefully reading the Arthur the dog memo I realized that Russel needs be walked by 530. The vote goes out and I opt to skiddadle out of the office, back to our apt to pick up the key and then over to our pied-a-terre.

The blatter-filled pup was jonesing for a walk so we took a brisk one around the block. This kid has really got an eye twigs of all sizes. He chews, eats, knaws, claws and, yes, snorts them all in and around his snout. Dear God it was the shortest walk to an anxiety attack I've ever had.

With R still back at school Russel and I got down to the business of hanging. Only Russel isn't so big on hanging, or cuddling, or spreading any sort of nuzzle love. What he IS into is starring.

No, it's more than a stare. It's like a window into the darkest part of my soul that obviously ate his parents.

This face, and this doesn't even capture it, is clearly plotting my early, slow and torturous death.


Luckily I distracted him with treats (like a lot), long walks along the sun drenched sidewalks and maybe even a few (small) twigs.

He even made a (twin) friend.




Honestly, all was going well. R was into it, we ordered in, watched some cable. Delight.

Then Sunday morning rolled around and R and I were trying to sleep through the parade of babies pounding across the floor above us. The Arthur the dog memo said that Russel can sleep in until 9 on weekends (woo hoo!) and that if he had to go out he would whine loud and clear. End of story: it was 10, there was no whine, but there was two poops and a splatter of pee.

Unfortunately, R saw it first.

"Is this was dogs do?" he asked.

Does, not OUR dog work for that?

"It's only 10," he continued, "what, we can't sleep in with the dog? He can't wait?!"

Yeah, well there's only so much soothing our imaginary dog can do.

Russel went for his official morning walk while i cleaned up the little mess and we said good bye to our mini break pied and the hope of getting a pup any time soon.

{sign}

And thus began the 'Let's get a puppy campaign TWO.'

xoxoL