History repeating

My five-year college reunion was last night, and I got suckered into going by some passive-aggressive peer pressure and, most importantly, the fact that it was at the pub directly across the street from my apartment. I had absolutely no excuse to avoid it, and – as one is – I was mildly interested to see who showed up. Alumni events have a tradition of being sparsely attended, but a respectable number of people had RSVP’d, so I girded my proverbial loins and registered.


Judging by this one – being my first reunion and all – these things are fun for about the first hour. You see people you haven’t seen in five years, meet a few “new” ones (or, well, you’re apparently new to them, despite the fact that you saw them at the dining hall daily for four years), track down the few people you do care about seeing, and reminisce with the smattering of fellow Londoners from your semester abroad. That all takes an hour or so. And then suddenly it’s nearly three hours since you arrived and you’re with your usual friends at your usual table at your neighborhood pub with the musician playing his usual lineup of songs (various Irish tunes, “Hey Jude,” “Sweet Caroline,” “Country Roads,” and that one Irish song that you’ve never quite learned the words to, but it involves clapping and gets your London friends hollering, all “Hey! Guys! Remember this from Killarney?!"). And then you’re ready to go home.


The thing about reunions is that nothing has changed. The Mean Girls (specifically, a Bert-and-Ernie pair with the same first name and last names both beginning with “McK”) are still the Mean Girls. The old social groups start to reemerge, separating like oil and water, once the novelty of “Hey, I remember you!” has worn off. The two guys who wrote point/counterpoint pieces for the campus paper are in intense discussion at the bar, one with a beer and the other with a martini (dirty, two olives), one now writing for the Washington Post and the other a former Giuliani staffer. The clingy guy you tried desperately to avoid for four years (and still do, occasionally, when you spot him on the Metro) inevitably appears at your elbow, and one by one, people around you “spot friends across the room” or “need another drink” and flee. It’s all weirdly, yet unsurprisingly, the same.


Except that Mean Girl #2 has gained 15 pounds. So, you know, small victories.

Um....thanks? I think?

On Friday evening I was out to dinner with my grandparents, who were in town for a short visit.  We were having a lovely discussion about the arts or our family or the memorial service at which my grandfather was to eulogize the next day, when, out of the blue, I received a text message from my friend Ashley.  Ash's husband Jason is....well, I don't think it's a stretch to say that he's a fan of me.  As evidenced by this:


So Jason and I were just discussing the new show on TLC, "Sister Wives,"** and he says to me 'I wish Hannah could just move to Saint Louis and I would become a polygamist.'


How do you resume talking about funerals after that?


After some thought, I decided to take it as flattery, rather than a sign that I should invest in some Mace. And after further thought, I decided to share it with all of you, because it cracked me the heck up.


**This show looks horrifying, by the way.  

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did any of you read the old design/lifestyle magazine Blueprint? Or, when it (sadly) went out of print, Domino? Which then folded itself, after only a year or so? Well, I did, and I adooored them. I don't think I looked forward to any other magazine before or since the way I anticipated those. I saved all of them and still pull them off the shelf occasionally --where they are lovingly filed in a magazine box covered carefully with decorative paper (the editors would be so proud!)--when I need inspiration.


But today, this momentous day of days, I found something. that made my heart leap with glee (or "leep," as I first typed it in a delirious fervor of joy):


www.anthologymag.com


It's NEW. It's a PRINT publication. (I love my blogs, but there's just something about that glossy paper....) It looks SO MUCH like it's in the vein of Blueprint and Domino. I could not be more excited. And, yes, it's quarterly and kind of unbelievably expensive for a magazine, but I don't care! I am subscribing straightaway, forthwith, immediately! Or whatever.

100 cats in IKEA (not a metaphor)

Like cats? (Perhaps.) Like IKEA?  (Obviously. Who doesn't like IKEA?)  Then please enjoy this utterly pointless and yet completely awesome video.

The most wonderful time of the year

No, not Christmas, though that's pretty excellent, too. I'm talking about fall. I love fall. Looooovvvvve. For a number of reasons, among them mild days, crisp nights, Tennessee football, scarves and sweaters, pumpkin spice lattes (which, not caring for lattes, I've never actually tried, but they SOUND delicious), and the onset of boot weather. I bought new fall boots three weeks ago, and it's killing me that I can't wear them yet.


But last week, the weather started to turn here in DC. It was over 90 degrees again this week, but instead of the oppression of summer, the humidity remained at bay, and it still felt as though the end was in sight.  Fall is, indeed, imminent.


I've spent the last couple of weeks wrestling my calendar in an attempt to shoehorn a few weekend trips in amongst the work-related symphony concerts, jazz shows, and piano recitals. Among the destinations: home to Tennessee for a football game at my high school alma mater's brand new stadium; a quick trip to upstate New York to glimpse the autumn leaves and perhaps go apple pickin' with Jules; and a solo jaunt to New York City to catch a few shows and maybe see an old high school friend. Last weekend was spent in West Virginia with my sister, featuring a bit of shopping, visiting with my cousin and grandparents, and watching hours and hours of Sports Night episodes and DVD extras.  (However, despite the fact that the US Open was on, we watched NO tennis, much to G's great joy.)


Hopefully all these trips will work out, but if not, I'll be content here in DC.  The summers are brutal, but Washingtonians are rewarded by beautiful, glorious falls. Stay tuned...

Gotta cut loose, footloose

In my first life (or, well, until I turned ten), I was a dancer. Not a particularly good one, mind you, but I did my best.  I no longer harbor dreams of dancing with Baryshnikov on the Metropolitan Opera House stage, but I do still like to shake my tailfeathers now and again, usually within the confines of my living room, and occasionally while watching the "Shake and Shimmy Edition" DVD of Hairspray. (They teach you the choreography! It's awesome!  I'll do "Ladies' Choice" right now, if you want to see it.)


Anyway, if you like dancing and/or dance-related movies, as I do, then I bet you'll like this.







After two viewings I've identified clips from:


Flashdance
Dirty Dancing
White Nights
Footloose
Saturday Night Fever
Singin' in the Rain (and several other Gene Kelly-related clips)
Step Up
Step Up 2: The Streets
Mary Poppins
Kill Bill
West Side Story
Moulin Rouge
Jay and Silent Bob
A movie featuring Jamie Lee Curtis, John Travolta, and terrible 80s leotards, which I've identified as a film called Perfect
American Pie
Grease
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
Billy Elliot
What I think is Titanic
Strictly Ballroom
Phantom of the Opera
Something with Michael Jackson
High School Musical
Happy Feet
Save the Last Dance
Honey
Mamma Mia!
What I think is The Mask of Zorro
Coyote Ugly
Austin Powers
A Knight's Tale


Most surprising? The recent Steve Carell-starring remake of Get Smart.
Most surprising omission: Where the heck is Center Stage?!


There are a number of clips I couldn't identify, but take a look, folks. What did I miss?

He's baaa-aaack!

$%&*%#$!! 

It's back.

The mouse, that is. 

It want scampering across the living room floor, straight into the closet, as I watched The Closer last night.  The closet WHERE A TRAP IS ALREADY SET, WITH PEANUT BUTTER AND EVERYTHING.  JUST IN CASE.  The trap did not catch it. (Me, aloud: "What kind of cheap-ass trap IS this?!")

This time, however, I stayed calm.  I was only paralyzed for maybe two minutes, rather than twenty.  I did not summon reinforcements.  I did not hightail it to get traps.  (I did, however, put on my boots.  The calmness would've promptly disappeared if the interloper had gone dashing across my foot.)

This time, it wasn't so gross.  Having more of a profile view of the mouse, rather than birds-eye, it looked more like Stuart Little than a yicky gray rodent.  It was more of a gleeful scamper than a surreptitious scurry.

Then I started wondering whether this was the same mouse who made the brief appearance last fall or a different one.  Which would be better, less creepy/gross?  Is my apartment just a waystation on a rarely-used rodent Underground Railroad?  Or is one mouse (ONE MOUSE.  Not a family of mice.) residing in a cozy mouse-house under the floor somewhere?  I can't decide which I'd prefer.

Anyway, at some point I shall go retrieve more traps and set them all over the damn apartment.  But for now, I may be residing with a mouse.  God help us all.