A movie review, of sorts.

After spending several days with my parents, one of the things I've found most remarkable is how much I really, really like going out with my family. If you were ever a fourteen year-old girl, I'm sure you understand the weirdness, here: to my fourteen year-old self, the possibility that I might actually enjoy an evening out with my family -- that such an activity would ever have any result apart from total humiliation and the fervent wish for swift death --was so impossibly far-fetched that it would have come after "Alien Abduction" on the list of Things I Might Expect To Happen In The Next Twenty Years.

Well, I was wrong.

And so, in addition to having spent the past several days at my parents' place, I have been having a lot of fun hanging with my family -- including an outing earlier this week to see Paranormal Activity with my mom, my dad, and my brother.

And I liked it.

I liked it, that is, until I attempted to go to bed several hours after returning home from the theater, at which point I discovered that I was still scared out of my goddamn mind.

It's my fault, really. I should have guessed. I should have known that Paranormal Activity would, of course, be endowed with the same magical properties as The Blair Witch Project (another movie that scared me so badly that I had to sleep with the lights on for a week).

And it is. Oh boy, is it EVER.

There's no gore, no (visible) monster, no clear resolution in which Jack Nicholson chops his way through the bathroom door or a midget in wacky glasses comes and opens up a ghost-clearing portal in somebody's closet -- just endless tension and loooooong silences and half-seen things that encourage you, the viewer, to envision the Paranormal Entity as most horrible thing your imagination can conjure up on short notice.

Which, if you're me, is pretty goddamn horrible, and not only that, it is probably totally IN YOUR HOUSE RIGHT NOW.

So, for the past several days, my nighttime routine has gone something like this:

12:30 - 1:00am: Lie awake in bed, listening intently to the noises of the house. Jump and scream whenever a cat meows or a door creaks.
1:00 - 1:15am: Attempt to distract myself from meowing and creaking by reading old favorite books like "The Phantom Tollbooth".
1:16am: Suddenly realize how creepy "The Phantom Tollbooth" really is.
1:17 - 1:25am: Attempt to distract myself by thinking about Disney movies.
1:26am: Realize how creepy Disney movies really are.
1:27am: Give up.
1:28am: Turn off the light and attempt to go to sleep.
1:30am: Become convinced that there's a demon in the room.
1:31am: Get really scared.
1:32am: Want to turn on the light, but I'm too afraid to take my arm out from under the covers.
1:35am: Sack up and reach for the light.
1:36am: Fumble for the switch.
1:37am: Get totally freaked out and yank arm back under the covers.
1:38am: Panic.
1:42am: Reach for the light again. Turn the light on.
1:43am: Realize that the light only helps a little bit, because in the movie, the demon was totally messing with them even when the lights were on.
1:44 - 2:00am: Scream very quietly.
2:01am: Get out of bed; exit room in search of cat.
2:05am: Locate cat.
2:06am: Bring cat back to bed. Reason that if a demon is in the room, the cat will try to run away.
2:07am: Relax; cat is purring.
2:08am: Climb into bed. Turn off light.
2:09 - 2:15am: Pet cat.
2:16am: Fall asleep while petting cat.
2:20am: Jolt awake with realization that cat is meowing urgently by the door.
2:21am: THERE IS TOTALLY A DEMON IN HERE.
2:22am: Turn light on.
2:23 - 2:30am: Scream.
2:31am: Let cat out.
2:32 - 2:45am: Scream.
2:46am - 3:30am: Pass out from exhaustion.
3:30am: Repeat above until sunrise.


So basically. if you don't mind never being able to sleep again, I highly recommend that you see Paranormal Activity.

Also, I am now accepting donations of sleeping pills.

A postcard from Coxsackie

Since losing my job is, apparently, a yearly tradition around here, I have chosen to make the best of it in the aftermath -- by taking part in the now-also-apparently-yearly tradition of bailing on adult life entirely, heading upstate, and mooching off my parents for a few days. Yes, you heard it here first: The "Flee Your Problems" approach to unemployment makes the entire ordeal feel less like failure and more like an impromptu vacation. Albeit a vacation in which you are somewhat depressed, listless, and unable to buy anything. I went to WalMart two days ago, purchased a five-pair-pack of necessary socks, and realized as I threw them on the checkout conveyer that my far-too-brief period of respite from relentless worry about money had just come to a very, very unwelcome end.

At this point, I also briefly considered weeping. But I didn't. Because losing your job is one thing, but losing your job and then crying about it in a WalMart is quite another.

But cheap socks and superstores aside, I will say this: If I had to pick a time of year at which I'd like to lose my job and be left with nothing to do but traipse through the woods...

...or around my hometown neighborhood...

...or through the backyard...

...this would be it. Isn't it pretty?

So, this is my life for the next few days, while I figure things out. I sit on the couch with the dog, I contemplate my future from afar, I eat all the cheese in my mom's fridge, and the sudden loss of my professional livelihood doesn't seem so bad.

If only the dog would stop farting.

Ow, my scrotum of destiny.

Last week, as I was sitting at my desk and staring out at the dismal landscape of eastern Queens, I found myself fretting over this blog. After years of posting with semi-regularity -- years in which I almost never suffered for a lack of subject material -- I suddenly found that the well had run dry. Life had become staid. My marriage, my dog, my job -- none were providing me with anything approaching a blog-worthy event, and not only that, the vast majority of our office had gone off for an extended stay in China, leaving me with not even the possibility of a maddening encounter with Fuckface Ravioli to supply a few cheap laughs.

Damnit, I thought to myself, if only something interesting would happen!

So I only have myself to blame, really, for the fact that Fuckface Ravioli returned from China yesterday and immediately called me into his office.

"Soooo," he said, folding his hands in front of him gravely, "as you know, I spent a couple weeks in China with Company Honchos Number One and Two."

"Right," I said.

"Aaaaand," he continued, "the company is having some trouble, and Company Honchos Number One and Two have decided to make a few cutbacks."

"I see," I said.

Fuckface Ravioli looked like he was about to cry.
"And they, er, want to eliminate your position."

At this point, my response was more like a series of grunts than actual words.

"I'm sorry!" Fuckface Ravioli said. "I'm doing everything I can to get them to reconsider! I really like working with you! And this place is just so--"

"Excuse me," I said. "Sorry, but they want to eliminate the position? So that would be happening..."

"Oh," said Fuckface Ravioli, and this time, I started to think he might actually cry. "Yeah, that would be... um, on Friday."

At which point, I realized that:

1. Considering that he's been fighting to keep me employed, I should probably stop calling this guy Fuckface Ravioli.
2. Wistfully wishing that something "interesting" would happen to you is the same basic equivalent as begging Fate to bite you in the scrotum.
3. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Also:
"God damnit!" I shouted, as I collapsed back into my desk chair several minutes later. "Am I going to just lose my job every time I take a vacation from now on?!"



So, yeah, that happened. (As always, anyone who needs a writer, or knows someone who does, is welcome to email me. That little link in the sidebar will take you to a [newly-updated!] website with samples of my work.) Meanwhile, I'd continue in this vein, but I have more important things to do. Like, say, drinking all the beer in my fridge and shouting a lot.

Elsewhere and over there.

As most of you are probably aware, I have been freelancing for Barnes & Noble's SparkNotes site since the beginning of this year. It is, by far, my favorite writing gig of all time, and I post there three to four times a week about high school-related topics like prom, the SAT, staying awake in class, etc.

But on Fridays -- and this is where things get really exciting-- I get to change it up a bit... when I put on my advice-giving helmet and dole out hard-earned wisdom to bewildered, befuddled, and otherwise angst-ridden teenagers as the infinitely wise guru of all things, Auntie SparkNotes.

And oh my GOD it is SO FUN.

Anyway, I don't often devote blog posts specifically to my work over on SparkNotes (although there is a permalink to my posts in the sidebar, if you ever feel like visiting), but today... well, today, I wrote something that I like so much, I just had to share it with the wider world.

Off with you.

On any given Sunday, anything can happen.

Back in my dating days, men-of-a-certain-type would always tell me I was an awesome catch after learning that I am, quote, into sports. Which I am. I like playing sports, I like talking about sports, I like watching sports on TV, and I have even been guilty of memorizing bizarre sports trivia for the purpose of spontaneously repeating it at cocktail parties.

"Hey!" I will suddenly shout after three Manhattans and to no one in particular, "Did you guys know that Tim Raines is the only player in history to hit back-to-back home runs on his birthday?!"

But for all the credit I might get for having known the infield fly rule at age seven, I also have a confession to make:

Football, that acme of the American sporting landscape, has always made me go a bit cross-eyed.

This is mostly the fault of my upbringing, courtesy of parents who were highly invested in baseball and soccer but who mostly watched the Superbowl for the commercials (oh God, there's that east-coast liberal elitism everyone is always talking about!). I also blame it on my high school, whose team was so unwatchably terrible that the administration eventually decided it wasn't worth the embarrassment and shut down the football program altogether, and my college, which didn't even have a football field, let alone a group of burly be-spandexed dudes to run around on it.

But regardless of the cause, this guilt is mine: I managed to reach my mid-twenties without any idea of how football actually works.

I have since tried to remedy this, but it's been a slow process punctuated by frequent periods of confusion and occasional abject mortification, because something about watching a game in which I have no goddamn idea what is going on makes me completely fucking crazy.

My early attempts to to learn went something like this:

A helpful friend and I sit down to watch a football game on TV.

Helpful friend: Football is actually very easy to understand.
Me: Okay.
Helpful friend: See, right now, Denver is on offense.
Me: (staring intently at screen) Okay.

Play begins.

Me: (increasing confusion punctuated by flailing and pointing) Wait, what? Where's the football? Does that one man actually touch the other man's balls? Who's that guy? Why is that man running? Does he have the football? Does that guy have the football? Which team is Denver? WHERE IS THE FOOTBALL I CANNOT SEE THE FOOTBALL.

Helpful friend: ...I think we should watch something else.


In this way, I did eventually learn enough about basic play to make my questions more specific ("Why do all football players have such shapely butts?" "Why did the referee just hurl a towel onto the field?" "WHERE IS THE FOOTBALL?") until finally, finally -- like, as of last week -- I had reached a point wherein I could watch a game with a reasonable comprehension of what-the-hell was going on (and without spouting questions like some sort of interrogatory robot with a circuit-board malfunction.)

And all of this was a very good thing. Because this weekend, I attended my very first college football game ever, along with Brad and all of his friends.

Friends who went to a college with a football team.

Friends who can therefore watch a game without intermittently shrieking that WHERE IS THE FOOTBALL I CANNOT SEE THE FOOTBALL.

I was semi-anxious that I might make an ass of myself due to my lack of general football knowledge, but at the half, things were going pretty well -- I had only accidentally cheered for the wrong team once (and only because both teams were wearing the same colors! which would confuse anybody!), and my one outburst had been a totally-acceptable shout of, "But what does that MEAN?!" after the defense got called off-sides. (Response from the guy in front of me: "Don't worry about it.")

And so it was that I came to be standing with an acquaintance of Brad's, drinking deliciously cold beer in the lovely autumnal sunshine, and feeling quite pleased with myself.

"This is fun!" I said.
"Yeah! And I can't believe Brad got married!" said the acquaintance.
"Yeah!" I said, because if there is any other response to that particular remark, I do not know what it is.
"Did you guys meet in college?" he asked.
"No, in the city," I said.
"Where did you go to school?"
I told him.
"Oh," he said, "so did you guys have a football team?"
"No," I replied, "in fact, this is my very first college football game ever!"
"Really! You've never been to a college football game before?" he said.
"Nope," I said. "
"It's great, isn't it?" he said. "Isn't it awesome?"


And then he threw up all over himself.


College football: Yes, it really is awesome.

The Do-Over: An Odyssey in Seven Parts

Oh, hello.

Yes, I’m back -- but you guys, it was a close decision. In fact, when Sunday rolled around and it was time to pack my bags for the return trip, I was about one beer away from renting an island apartment, sending a “smell ya later!” email to my place of employment, changing my name to Drunkface Vacationpants, and living out the rest of my days from beneath a pile of feta cheese.

However, as reluctant homecomings go, one in which I trade Aegean Island Paradise for Autumn in New York really isn’t so bad. In the meantime, though, I’ll be attempting to recap the most exciting, interesting, and otherwise blog-worthy points of our trip in prose and pictures.

Here we go!

The Do-Over Honeymoon: Eight days of stone stairs, sweet sun, and wine and beer and cats.

Part I: Leaving Here

Here’s where I confess that, all evidence to the contrary, I hate traveling. Oh sure, I like being in other places. But the “traveling” part? The rush to the airport, and the dehumanizing line-shuffle, and the liquids-in-three-ounce-containers, and the ten hours of sitting captive behind some man who is dressed quite elegantly but who is nevertheless emitting farts so foul that it seems like they might actually bring down the plane?

Yeah. That part, I could do without.

But on the day we left, things were going so smoothly that I was feeling cautiously optimistic – our baggage was checked, our boarding passes were in hand, and no beefy TSA official had materialized at the security checkpoint and demanded to search our orifices for explosives. And as we boarded the plane and settled into our seats, I was ready to sing the praises of the entire airline industry… and then, of course, came the following announcement from the overhead speakers.

“Uh, folks,” said the pilot, who was clearly trying to sound authoritative but whose voice carried distinct overtones of I-have-no-idea-what-the-fuck-is-going-on, “We’re gonna ask you to, er, deplane. Yes, everybody off the plane, please.”

Thirty minutes of mass confusion later, everyone was ushered back onto the plane with the explanation that “there was an equipment problem” but “a test confirmed that things were fine”, which is not exactly a comforting turn of phrase given that people cheat on tests and ohmygodwearegoingto DIEEE.


Part II: Getting There

Surprise: We didn’t die.

Also: While I am sure that people did fart on the plane, I never smelled it. Luck!

After a ten-hour flight to Athens and a 45-minute hop to the Cyclades, we finally arrived in Oia. I’ll let it speak for itself.






Heaven. No, I mean it. HEAVEN. Look at this place. Could it be any more adorably Mediterranean?


We rented a traditional apartment in the village, which is built into a hillside overlooking the caldera and the long eastward curve of Santorini. I spent most of my time out here, on the private veranda, pretending to be Esther Williams.




An interesting fact: Traditional architecture in Oia places the bathroom outside the living quarters, such that one must get up, exit the room, and walk across the pitch-black porch and up a small staircase in order to have a midnight pee.


Another interesting fact: For reasons unknown, it is strictly verboten to actually throw toilet paper into the toilets in Oia. Instead, they give you a trash can. Yes, a trash can.



Part III: Free Cats for Everyone

On our first night, we were joined by a surprise guest. Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to Stavros Beercan, The Vacation Cat.



Stavros showed up on our veranda looking for love, and we were only too happy to adore him with all the delirious enthusiasm of a pair of drunk sorority girls. After several hours of petting and purring and cheese-feeding, we said goodnight and went to bed, where we laughed about what a one-night whore he was. We did not expect to see him again.

But he was there when we woke up.



And the day after that.



Ultimately, Stavros spent the better part of every day sitting on our veranda, and also showed up on our last morning to say goodbye. I miss him.



Part IV: The Long Walk


A winding staircase built into the hillside at the western end of the island leads down to the Oia harbor. In a tavern on the waterfront, we sat down to have lunch and watch the boats. Our waiter was very charming – which is how he convinced us that what we really, really needed to do that day was EAT A FIVE-POUND, FRESHLY-CAUGHT GROUPER.

This is the hideous aftermath of that decision.



Why, you ask, are my hands covered with fish in this picture? Because just when we thought we’d finally put away the last of it, our waiter sauntered past and cast a skeptical glance at the plate.

“What?” I wheezed, clutching my stomach. “Didn’t we do a good job?”

The waiter raised his eyebrows, gestured at the fish carcass, and said, “Well, if you were Greek, you would have eaten those other parts.”

“Oh yeah?!” I said, and then, not wanting to commit the hideous sin of UNGREEK fish-eating, tore open the fish head with my bare hands and ATE IT.

As it turns out, fish cheeks are the best part.

One grouper, ten anchovies, and three beers later, it was time to climb back up.



There are 528 steps in that staircase. We know this because, just as we started the arduous climb back up, a cheerfully malevolent Englishman clapped Brad jovially on the shoulder and said, “Just 528 steps to go! Ha, ha!”

Ha, ha.


Stopping halfway to pant.



The view from up top.
When we finally got up here, Brad said, “Now let’s take a cab back down to the bottom and harass that English dude when he starts to climb up.”


Part V: Literary Binge

Private veranda + Aegean breeze + hours of afternoon downtime = Reading heaven. I finished five books during this trip – Lolita, The Alienist, One Hundred Years of Solitude, the new Dan Brown book, and My Sister’s Keeper. (Recommended: all but the last, which was so much poorly-developed and manipulative shittery that I would have chucked it out the window, had I not been on a plane at the time. Ugh.)



Part VI: Downfall



If you’ve been feeling jealous over having been stuck at your desk for the past week while I was off jet-setting and climbing stairs and mauling fish faces, this is where you breathe a sigh of relief and say, “Well, at least I didn’t spend my Friday night throwing up every half-hour until the sun came up!”

Yeeeeah.

The paella I had ordered didn’t taste quite right, but our waitress kept looking worriedly at my untouched plate and asking me whether everything was okay, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I ate it.

Two hours later, I was sweating, feverish, and puking every twenty minutes. I threw up in the sink. I threw up in the trash can. I threw up into the storm drain on our veranda when it turned out that the outdoor bathroom was just too damn far away. In between throwing up, I hallucinated that a large, flesh-colored Fisher Price Person was standing at the foot of my bed and staring at me.

I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.

Suffice to say: The only thing worse than getting food poisoning is getting food poisoning on vacation in a place where the bathroom is outside the house, and furthermore, where the soiled evidence of your spewing misery cannot even be flushed down the damned toilet.


And also that I have seen the Angel of Death, and he has plastic hair and no arms.


Part VII: Rejuvenation

One of food poisoning’s parting gifts is that, for the next 48 hours, you are reduced to a plodding, exhausted, easily-winded shell of your former self. I got sick on Friday, which meant that our planned Sunday activity – to hike the cliffside path from Oia to the larger town of Fira – had to be scrapped. Which is disappointing.

Bright side of the disappointment: Taking the opportunity to wander down a hidden path on the hillside below our apartment, and discovering that it leads to the sea. And so, 24 hours after the Worst Vacation Experience Ever, on the afternoon before we left, I skipped down a sinuous trail lined with crumbled reddish stone, kicked off my shoes, and plunged headlong into the Aegean.



The sensation of floating on the surface of an infinite, impossible depth is semi-unnerving – you wonder what else might be down there, and you feel a bit like bait – but not unnerving enough to stop swimming. Look at the blue.


And finally, here we are, tanned and freckled and watching the sunset on our last day:




Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Do-Over: Successfully completed.

THE END.