I'm posting this again, because I never heard back from my one respondent.

I have a copy of The Time Traveler's Wife that I'd like to swap with someone for something I haven't read. I'm happy to swap by snail mail - if you're comfortable, I'm comfortable.

I'd love to read any of the following:
-social science or cultural studies(anything on gender, class, or ethnicity is great!)
-anything by Haruki Murakami
-a classic or neoclassic
-interesting young adult fiction

Make me an offer via comment...please.

I bought this book at a thrift store tonight, because it was written for me:


Book report to come!

Until then, here's the blurb on the back cover:

With humor and emotion, Kristina Girsh celebrates the terrific intricacies of multilayered, interfaith relationships in this girl-meets-boy dating guide. She waxes poetic about why Jewish men are great boyfriend material: They're smart, entrepreneurial, generous, doting, and funny. They love to eat, and they're passionate in bed. Sure, their neuroses have neuroses. But isn't it nice to know there are guys who analyze relationships more than you do?

Chapter such as "Why Choose the Chosen Ones?," "The First Shtup," and "Talk Yiddish to Me" detail how a sexy Shiksa can meet, date, and love a nice Jewish boy of her own.

Beauty is only skin deep, but think of all the skin products you've accumulated in your lifetime. If the typical woman piled all of the facial cleansers, moisturizers, toners, and exfoliating scrubs she's ever used on top of each other, she'd reach dizzying celestial heights. The typical guy might get to the top of a ferris wheel maybe. Because guys are living longer these days, and girls are only getting pickier.

My point is that almost everyone cares about their face value. Don't worry so much about the clothed parts, because your face is your life sentence and your features are the punctuation. I'm feeling very silly about the metaphors here, and I blame my recent facial, which happened to be my very first.

I went to this place that everyone recommends and everything went really well. The aesthetician piled on these nice layers of lotions and scrubs to beautify me and I didn't walk out looking like I'd passed out in a chicken coop. I was so relaxed that I had to be helped out of my chair, which was just like a dentist's chair minus the nearby spit sucker. Being intimately handled by strange professionals really does it for me. I can only think of one person in my life who will touch me so gently for free. But even that person probably wouldn't want to see what came out of my pores recently. (I think I saw a Bagel Bite from 1998).

My only problem with the aesthetician was that she referred to the skin tags on my neck as "growths caused by a virus." I was pretty sure she was wrong, but I was too relaxed from the facial massage to argue. "You must get them removed," the aesthetician said in her soothing European voice, "or they will spread...everywhere." I nodded, not caring if she was talking about my ovaries or skin tags, as long as she kept rubbing.

Then I started to imagine flesh toned nubbins growing on every surface I touched, like spores on a fern. How embarrassing. Imagine how squishy the computer keyboard would get.

When I went home with a face as smooth and naked as it gets without chopping one off a toddler and wearing it as a mask, I looked up skin tags. My mom has them, so I thought they were hereditary and had something to do with melanin. Turns out, they might be passed down genetically and they probably occur due to friction in skin folds.

Skin folds?

I was kind of looking for a correlation between skin tags and sex appeal or IQ. I didn't want to know they're more common in middle-aged overweight people who have flaps of skin that rub together.

I have the neck of an old person, I guess, minus the wrinkles and skin flaps. And now I realize that the aesthetician - bless her epidermis - thought my tiny, innocuous skin tags were warts. Fabulous. Now I fear I might be referred to as "the Amanda with warts" among the staff.

My mind reeled further. How many strangers who stand really close to me on the subway think I am necking amphibians, or however the old wive's tale goes?

At my next facial, I have to set the aesthetician straight. "Dude, I'm just an old, heavyset person trapped in a spastic mid-twenties body. You saw Freaky Friday, right?"

That is, if I haven't had skin tag removal by then, replacing "warts" with what will surely look like hickeys. But at least those are from humans.

TBID would rather go to a museum than wander through the woods. One time when I was telling him about my fruit picking adventures, and how much closer to nature I felt when I did my own berry and apple gathering, he replied, "Yeah, I feel that way when I go to the farmer's market and get stuff for lunch."


The farmer's market in Union Square?! With ready-made pies, jams, and breads and fruit in crates?!

The guy was asking for a schooling. Saturday, or Saturberry as we called it, we spent a day in Long Island Wine Country. Incidentally, it's also Long Island Fruit Picking, Hay Riding, and Middle-Aged People Shucking Corn Country.

The orchard where I had my previous experiences is a quiet place. Harbes Family Farm has a touch of amusement park in it, offering pony rides, live music, a concession stand, cooking demos, and farm animals on Sunday Funday.

"We've got to go in the fall if we still like each other!" I exclaimed when I heard about the last part. "Farm animals! Maybe you can milk a cow!"

A pregnant pause. "This is sounding more and more like a third grade field trip," TBID replied snooty seventh-grader style.

So animal teats weren't going to sell the experience. I had to take other measures. We started thinking about all the things we could do upon picking a ton of blackberries and raspberries: 1) Eat them right off the bush until we explode, 2) eat more after recovering from exploding and explode again, and 3) maybe make a pie...if we don't explode first.

Sounds like a great time, no? We loaded a Zipcar with Al Green cds, sunscreen, and swimsuits. TBID has an annoying proclivity for being spontaneous. "Why not pack a swimsuit just in case we decide to go to a beach after berry picking?" he suggested, as if I regularly shave my legs or something.

I went along with it and dug my swimsuit out of the laundry bag it's been in since we celebrated our nation's birth via hot tub. There's an interesting misplaced modifier for you.

We placed a moratorium on any work talk. We lost most of the urge once we got out of Manhattan anyway. Instead, we discussed this book we've both read and tried to parody Al Green songs. At one point, TBID was singing, "Don't say you don't poop just because you're a gir-ir-irl..." It was appropriate, considering all the fiber we were about to consume.

Once we arrived at the farm, we visited the concession stand and got lemonade and a slice of peach pie. A schedule of the day's events had been placed by the register. The one between the shucking race and wine tasting caught my eye.

"What's the corn hole competition?" I asked the cashier with a straight face.

"It's basically tossing ears of corns through holes, and yes, we're thinking of changing the name," she replied knowingly.

Eventually, TBID and I headed across the road to the orchards. We got two pint-sized cartons and woven baskets. The blackberries and blueberries were ripe and abundant, but only a few raspberries remained from the barrage of pickers weeks earlier. This might have normally disappointed, but city blocks of blackberries awaited me. We sampled different sections of each bush, our mouths flooding with blue-black sweetness.

I loved it. There's something about getting your hands inky with fresh fruit and reaching into the sun for edible jewels and then getting pelted with unripe berries by a tall boy who is dwarfed by at least one sunflower on site.

We were so full of berries that we ended up buying less than two pints. Then we ended up at this swingset on Long Island Sound and later, an Italian restaurant. I'd wanted Pizza Hut, but TBID refused. Nobody's perfect, I guess.

It was one of the fullest, ripest days I've had with TBID. We were pretty sure we'd explode, and we did. I'm glad we picked each other.

Sunday night alone.
I haven't seen Juno yet.
Hot date with the couch.

I'm in the room I share with four guys at work. Two of the guys, one gay and one straight, are teasing each other about something. At one point, I hear, "I don't think Amanda's gay."

Co-worker 1: We're a shifty group, and watch out, we recruit.

Co-worker 2: Like a sexual Jehovah's Witness. A JeHOMO'S Witness!

We don't have an official employee handbook...yet.

This week, like many before, has been a blur. I've been working from 9-8:15 each day with three commutes factored in. The good news is that I'm plowing through books. The bad news is that I haven't spent more than an hour on my new couch.

That's right - I'm officially a grown-up, guys! There's a place to sit in my living room besides the office chair or that hideously scratched and stained thing I salvaged from the trash and never reupholstered. I will go into more details later. In fact, I have a lot of details to go over. Some interesting things have transpired in the last few weeks. These iPhone pictures do them no justice.

Sometimes Mike and I go to Daffy's during lunch and bargain hunt. I like getting all Tim Gunn up in the men's shoes department.

Every time I see the Chrysler Building this close up, I think back to a detestable job I had. Then I try to replace it with the memory of working with Life Coach. That was a year ago, but feels like ages. I'll never forget his first piece of advice: "Break up with your boyfriend and get text messaging!" I'm not sure if those two things were supposed to be related or not.

This is my new couch. It is the plushest, stripiest, and only couch I've ever had. I want to be on it right now.

Because I'm tired of my oxygen being free! These cans of oxygen are for sale near the Nicorette gum at the Duane Reade pharmacy counter near my office. The back of the can reads, "Not for medical use."

It's been hot and the hydrants are aflowin.' I took this picture while balancing an ice cream bar in the other hand. TBID thought about running through the stream, but he was afraid of being mistaken for a pedophile.

I have a copy of The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. Does anyone want to read it?

I'd love to do a book exchange with someone who's got something I want to read.

*By the way, I'm up early to go see Feist on Good Morning America!

After getting an email regarding Hurricane Dolly and then seeing storm coverage on Yahoo!, I decide to call home and check on my parents. I leave a message and then hear back from my dad immediately.

Me: Hey! What's going on with the hurricane?

Daddy: There's a hurricane.

Me: Okay... So you guys are alive?

Daddy: Yep.

Me: Is it raining?

Daddy: Yep.

Me: Did Corpus get evacuated?

Daddy: Yeah. We're evacuating.

Me: You guys are going to evacuate?

Daddy: Yeah, I just evacuated my office and went to the living room.

True story. I'm fully dressed for the day much earlier than normal - in a nice skirt and heels even - so I can get free breakfast on Park Avenue. Also, maybe work contacts, but breakfast is the definite draw.

And like a jaded, heartbroken person re-entering the dating scene, I'm pretty sure it's going to be disappointing.

Like bagels. I am done with dating bagels (which is not to be read as, "Bagels = Jewish. TBID = Jewish. No more TBID).

He is strawberry pancakes and scrambled eggs and some kind of juice bar, but I'm thinking this meeting won't be.

You Got Served (An English Lesson)




I'ma admit it - every time I hear "Let It Burn," I have to stop what I'm doing, even when I'm listening to it at work on headphones via Pandora Radio. As a wise man by the name of Lil Jon, once said, "Usher got the beat to make yo booty go [clap]."

I'm still working on that move actually, but yaknowI'msayin?

But. There is almost nothing I like about "Love In This Club." It sounds like that "Bed" song that twelve-year-old Jing has on her cellphone, the one that I think is inappropriate for her age. The one that sounds so dissonant that I know I'm getting old.

Usher, you're not who you used to be. You're married now and a father, too. Though it's been "fifty-leven days" and "umpteen hours" since I sorta thought you were cool, I have to give you props for one thing:

You said "THIS" club, not "THE" or "DA" club.

At last! Someone in hip pop who realizes there's more than one place to get your freak on where urrbody get tipsy. There are many clubs, and Usher, you want to make love in one in particular.

I hope this sets a precedent. You go, boy.

Last Saturday, TBID rented a Zipcar so we could pick up a photo I had at a gallery in Westchester. The photo never sold, the gallery is going out of business, and I think those two situations are related. Had someone just bought my overpriced photo, everything would have been fine.

I decided I might as well pick up my jilted artwork and hang it in my apartment. Plus, Westchester has Taco Bells and drive-thru windows, which I never get to experience in the city. Since I started dating TBID, a ridiculous foodie, I haven't eaten much walk-in fast food. The boy is discriminating and almost won't eat anyplace that doesn't have some kind of fancy reduction (as in butternut), but that is another story.

TBID had also never experienced Target until he met me. He has now visited three different stores, surviving the one in the Bronx by camping out in the lawn furniture section and reading The New York Times on his Blackberry. Hours later, I found him asleep on a green striped chaise in a large, mosquito-proof tent.

Before picking up the Zipcar, TBID stopped by some slow food Mexican place to get lunch. He asked if I wanted something, and I told the truth: My heart was set on Taco Bell, because sometimes I want to eat tacos that look like they're made with dog food.

Love me, love my poor health choices.

It was hard to make a run for the border or whatever the slogan is now, because there really aren't a lot of Taco Bells in Westchester. Certainly not any for which he hadn't missed the exit. Then Google Maps produced another raised red dot. The nearest Taco Bell was in the South Bronx, and TBID was ready to prove how much he likes me.

We passed the Late Night Hustler's Barbershop, where TBID is sho nuff getting his next haircut if I have any say in the matter, and pulled into the drive-thru. The Taco Bell still had the red, yellow, and green corporate colors of the days of yore, instead of the current purple and pink. We ordered Pepsis just in case we found an entire car lot of battery-corroded cars and lots of food. Everything was ready in a mere three minutes. Amazing! The money and food window was made of bulletproof glass and designed in such a way that hands never touch.

TBID and I sat in a rented BMW, looking through the smudged bulletproof glass and car dancing to something funky. We'd later scarf everything down - yes, even Foodie McSnobberson ate two chalupas - on the way back home.

I was so proud of him.

I am currently obsessed with this song.

Pants: Too hot to wear 'em; too hot to keep my legs from sticking to my leather office chair without 'em.

Summer is getting uncomfortable starting...now!

Sometimes it is a relief to be told what to do. We are two artists who are trying to come up with new ideas every day. But our most joyful and even profound experiences often come when we are following other people's instructions When we are making crepes from a recipe, attempting to do a handstand in yoga class, or singing someone else's song. Sometimes it feels like the moment we let go of trying to be original, we actually feel something new - which was the point of being artists in the first place.

-Harrell Fletcher and Miranda July in Learning To Love You More

There were times when my parents didn't want to cook dinner. They were exhausted; we didn't have a lot of groceries. Because there's actually very little food delivery in Texas, usually one of them would get in the car and procure delicious, paper-wrapped, predictably palatable food from somewhere else. My favorite was pizza, because that's hardwired. You are human. You like pizza.

Similarly, sometimes I don't want to blog, but I feel like I have to put something up here. I have a lot of good groceries this week, but nothing I have the energy to whip up right now. I went from the East to West side tonight in a long black skirt with lace, beading, and intricate weaving. It is not as much of a Project Runway reject as it sounds, but it cruelly has two skirt layers. I could feel sweat running down my legs in wavy streams. It was hot, strictly in a Fahrenheit and Celsius kind of way. I need a shower stat.

Here's my chance to order in pizza or pick up junky tacos - the weekly iPhone photo feast. Bon appetit. Pass the napkins.

The moon's a great accessory. This is the best looking stalled 1 train I've ever seen.

Space is tight, whether you're thinking about moving in store inventory or parking your car. This man sorted through the corner store's new batch of watermelons on the sidewalk.

Graffiti starts another important dialogue.

In case you can't read it, there are two messages. The first one reads: "SAY NO TO DRUGS YOU CAN DO ANYTHING YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO JUST BELIEVE IN YOURSELF! BE STRONG!!" The second message reads: "Yeah... Recreation, though..."


This business casual office guy sunbathes during his lunch break. He just lies flat on the grass for awhile and then goes back to his desk. There's something very subversive about the whole thing.

Every time I wear this little dress with leggings I feel like I've become a guest star on Blossom, and I like it. Whoa!

The 1 train, which could connect me to the 2/3 train and get me home, isn't running. I realize I will have to go to another train station nine blocks away or just walk home. It is almost 10 p.m., and I feel like hunger is drilling holes into my brain.

So I call my mom.

Me: I'm exhausted and starving and the 1 train isn't working, so now I'm walking home. I think I'm just gonna order a pizza...

Mama: You should do that.

Me: But what if the delivery guy gets to my apartment before I do? Maybe I should just go to the store and wait for the pizza. Maybe I could convince the guy to give me a ride to my place on his bike.

Mama: [much laughter]

Me: No, I'm serious.

A few weeks ago, a fire marshal came to my workplace. He went from floor to floor for a quick debriefing about fire safety with tips ranging from the obvious (make sure all of your co-workers know about the fire) to the absurd (always carry a flashlight with you). "Don't worry if there's a fire," he said, "Even though firefighters will have to climb a few stairs to get to you, everyone will be safe." I glanced out the 32nd floor window and wasn't so sure.

To do my part, I volunteered to check the unisex bathroom on our floor in case of emergency. I thought this added a touch of irony to the meeting, as I'm the one always talking about the bathroom, from how long I've been waiting while the current occupant seems to have fallen asleep to who is sneaking up from the 31st floor where there are two much nicer bathrooms that ours. There's enough drama over toilet paper and soap at work - I'd hate to add deadly flames and smoke to the mix.

I was walking along Broadway this morning when this man on the street gestured for me to look up. Black smoke spilled out of a window high up. The high-rise building is nicer than mine, complete with a doorman and majestic views. Oh, and the potential to completely roast to death if a neighbor falls asleep smoking or you leave the iron on all Thanksgiving weekend.

*I've actually done the latter. It was stupid and I'm glad nothing happened, besides that one spot on the floor being really warm. Thank goodness for low settings.

Fire trucks screeched down the street, followed by ambulances and more fire trucks. Passersby stood transfixed as the FDNY got to work. Though I know they perform a heroic service, I'd never seen firemen at work.


Here's the smoke from on high. TBID told me that most apartments have fireproof walls to contain fires, and this appears to be the case here.


This guy worked on the hydrant and then quickly ran to the scene.


I hope no one was hurt. At this point, I don't know. The FDNY was prepared for everything.



They lugged oxygen tanks, axes, and hoses.


Another fireman pushed everyone on the sidewalk back and then put up yellow tape. In a matter of minutes, glass and wood started raining down. Then lots of water. Some people coming out of Duane Reade were startled to see what was going on. They'd been in line a long time, as always.


I eventually crossed Broadway and saw that much more was going on at the building entrance on 106th Street. Everyone looked calm.


I started to think about other fires, and remembered that I saw one across the street from where the fire was today, in a smaller apartment building above a KFC, about two years ago. This is not a tasteless joke, I swear: Both of these buildings are close to this jazz club.

On Saturday night, I was one of thousands of people rocking out to Bon Jovi in Central Park. Never mind that I knew only two songs of his, I was close enough to see dude's still got it. My darling friend Elizabeth, who resents that my only previous mention of her by name was on a conserved conversation about anal warts, called me Friday asking if I was interested in a VIP ticket. One of the perks of her boyfriend's job at Pepsi, besides a perpetual caffeine rush, is great tickets to huge sponsored events.

Honestly, if Elizabeth had said that she had an extra VIP ticket for Yanni and Josh Groban together, I might have gone. I don't have nearly enough lanyards, plus how often do I get to cut in line anywhere? Usually I wait with all the plebeians picking their noses and not questioning the status quo. I want some free chips and a better seat, dammit!
I invited my friend Mike to live it up with us, because he's always trying to drag me to concerts by rock bands I've never heard of. Music has always been a chain between our hearts. During Mike's second week of work, I sent him a Youtube clip of Savage Garden's "I Want to Live Like Animals," one of the crappiest songs ever recorded. He watched the whole clip while bobbing his head and later agreed it sounded like they were singing "I want to live like cannibals." Work BFF criteria met, we began eating lunch together.

Mike and I met up on the Upper West Side after he pre-gamed and I ate Mexican fast food. Hours later, our intestines would be living on a prayer. Elizabeth and the rest of the Pepsi posse were waiting when we made it to Central Park. The gang quickly got VILs (very important lanyards) and walked to the VIT (very important tent) where we had endless free VICs (very important chips) and VIDs (very important drinks). How did we feel about the endeavor? Why, very important.

The canvas New York Public Library bag that I carry everywhere came in handy, as we filled it with enough snacks and bottles of water to stock a vending machine. Before the show started, Elizabeth, Mike, and I sat down in the grass and talked about such riveting topics as serially monogamous gay men, John McCain, and what those two things have to do with each other. Then a man nearly fell on my head and Elizabeth grabbed his butt to save my life...and the Doritos. It was a close call.Bon Jovi eventually came out to much whooping and hollering. First, came "Living on a Prayer," then that song that sounds like it, but with different words. After much research, I've figured out the Bon Jovi song formula. It goes like this:

mumblegrumblemumbleblahblahblahmumblegrumbleblahblahmumble... Ohhh! Ohhh! [ANTHEMIC CHORUS!] Ohhh! Ohhh! [ANTHEMIC CHORUS!] mumblegrumblemumbleblahblahmumblegrumbleblahblahmumble...

The music was moving the people, but everything stayed very PG-rated. Supposedly, some girls - obviously very moved by the idea of giving love a better name - started making out. The older Bon Jovi fans thrashed and punched the air, bosoms flying out of tanktops. And everyone else was taking photographs or texting someone to capture the moment and communicate, "I'm here right now, but I'm not even paying attention, because I want you to know I'm here right now."

I made Mike accompany me to the bathroom toward the end of the concert, as I knew if I went by myself, I'd never find the group again, and then who would eat those bags of cheesy popcorn? Once we VIpeed, Mike and I discovered more snacks. Then we sat at a table and watched the spectacle from behind. It was nice not to feel a stranger rubbing against me.

A large circle of men drank at a table near us. We hoped they were police officers slacking on the job, as one of them was wearing a gun. Out of nowhere, a little girl in a dress ran up to Mike with a lighting bug in one hand, a beer in the other. "Look!" she cried out. He did, at both. The girl quickly scampered away to the circle, where one man called out to us, "I trained her well!"

Elizabeth and company were nowhere to be found when we went back. I heard that song that played at my junior high dance when the boy I liked, who used to like me, was dancing with someone else. Someone else who actually needed to wear a bra and had shampoo commercial hair. Oh, it hurt then, but in a sing-a-long kind of way. Nothing helps one get through those uniquely unoriginal battles, like puberty and break-ups, the way Top 40 music does.

Mike pulled me through walls of strangers and I caught sight of Elizabeth. Everyone swayed a few more minutes before Bon Jovi left the stage and the masses stomped out of the park. Elizabeth and boyfriend hopped into a cab while what seemed like the rest of the city shuffled off in the middle of the street. I eventually walked over two miles back to my apartment, feeling happy, full, and important enough.

It's true.

Robert Fulghum wrote, "Be a good listener. Opportunity sometimes knocks softly." I think the issue is not that I don't listen, but that I usually can't imagine someone would actually be at my door. I've been feeling pretty ambivalent about my new role at work. It's not that I miss my old job; it's that the new expectations are so nebulous. They waver and change week by week, and there's no direct supervisor "touching base" with me. God, I hate that expression. Keep your hands off my base, thank you.

When I was told that my nimble typing fingers and wandering mind should be put to use in content production, I thought the bigwigs might have some edict that focused my work. Wrong. I was told, "Amanda, find some people at companies that are interesting and interview them." As much as we are supposed to run toward wild freedom, it's nice to have some direction. "Through that untamed forest there? Gotcha. I'll rip off my clothes and scream like a banshee now."

What was I supposed to do?

I work for a dot-com, so I knew I needed to stay within a scope. Otherwise, I'd have stalked everyone at Trader Joe's and tried to become a taste tester. I contacted companies like Pownce and Etsy to start my exciting adventure. It's cool how gracious people can be, and I really enjoy picking the brains - though some press-wary CEOs and marketing people make it difficult - of business leaders. I especially love the start-up folks. My job is pretty cool, especially once I manage to get some phone time with someone busier than thou. So far, the bigwigs seem to like the results.

This new position requires me to learn new things and meet new people. Tomorrow night, I'm going to my first event as a member of the press. I'll be rocking a lanyard, tape recorder, and business casual clothes. Yesterday, I got invited to a party in San Francisco hosted by one of the original Apple guys who is now a big venture capitalist in Silicon Valley. The thrill! I called my computer nerd dad and said the exact same thing I said that time I thought I assembled my new floor lamp correctly, thus demonstrating some fleeting mechanical ability - "Turns out, I am your daughter."

Turns out, someone might be at the door, too.

I think I want to do a weekly iPhone photo share that tells those of you who care (my parents, I think) more about my everyday life. My apologies to everyone else. Please accept my invitation to floss your teeth or feed the hungry with your word power when faced with this new installment.

Observe our straphanging clown in the far right corner, bringing levity and balloon animals to the 3 train.

This is where I tutor. It's my Jersey-facing home away from home.

"Yankee beans" makes a better innuendo than soup.

The place where I get my hair did has a unisex bathroom. Holy Allie McBeal, you guys!

Said place of the hair didding also has a great view to scope out before getting all your mane hacked off.