In 2008, I gained TBID, a one-bedroom apartment, professional writing experience, confidence, and hope for the future.
I lost touch, a boyfriend, a beloved pet, and my temper.
I stopped trying to change others.
I started trying more new foods.
I was hugely satisfied by my promotion at work to being a full-time writer, Obama's victory, and finding someone to love who loves me in an incredibly empowering and stimulating way.
And frustrated by my inability at times to let things go.
I am so embarrassed that I was misrepresented in New York's most popular free daily newspaper. But that's not that bad.
Once again, I compared myself too much to others.
Once again, I did not act brashly enough.
The biggest physical difference between me last December and this December is I have red hair now.
The biggest psychological difference between me last December and this December is I'm more positive.
I loved spending time laughing with the people I love.
Why did I spend even two minutes precariously perched on regret?
I should have spent more time developing friendships and working on my writing.
I regret buying some of my lunchtime purchases at local retailers. My closets aren't that big.
I will never regret buying a plane ticket home even though with that money I could have bought a vacation somewhere much more glamorous.
I procrastinated way too much.
I didn’t go to yoga class nearly enough.
The constant limitation of time nearly drove me crazy.
The most relaxing place I went was home to Texas.
Why did I keep my mouth shut when I should have just been honest?
The best thing I did for someone else was helping kids I tutor get into new schools and academic programs that will give them chances for a better future.
The best thing I did for myself was finding a new apartment on my own and starting over.
The best thing someone did for me was believe in me.
The one thing I’d like to do again, but do it better, is invent the best version of me possible.

*Fill-in-the-blank template from Mary Schmich at The Chicago Tribune

It's now 23 degrees out, whereas two days ago I took these pictures:

I can't bring myself to leave this apartment. I really need to get out now.

But first behold my submission to FAIL Blog, which I love unrequitedly. It didn't choose my picture, but I'll get over it:

What's your most interesting New Year's resolution?

Mine is "Wear sunglasses."

My mom crocheted two scarves for me for Christmas and is working on one now for TBID. Meanwhile, I cannot sew on a button.

Anytime I'm home, my mom asks me to go through the boxes upon boxes I've filled in fits of nostalgic packrattery. Hindsight doesn't always help, because even when I know I didn't miss having that note my best friend in sixth grade wrote me, complete with Cheetos smudges, I get all gooey (though less so when the item is literally gooey). "I can't throw this out," I think. "Someday, my kids or biographers might want to see this."

Uh, yeah. I know that won't really happen, and I aspire to act accordingly. Someday.

But there are some gems I kept. I found an old Time article about angry female music of the nineties. I still have every cd mentioned in that piece, I think. There was also a copy of Anna Quindlen's May 1999 commencement speech at Mount Holyoke College. I was trying to figure out what resonated with me then. This might be it - it certainly does now:

Think back. Think back to first or second grade, when you could still hear the sound of your own voice in your head, when you were too young, too unformed, too fantastic to understand that you were supposed to take on the protective coloration of the expectations of those around you. Think of what the writer Catherine Drinker Bowen once wrote, more than half a century ago: "Many a man who has known himself at ten forgets himself utterly between ten and thirty." Many a woman, too.

You are not alone in this. We parents have forgotten our way sometimes, too. I say this as the deeply committed, often flawed mother of three. When you were first born, each of you, our great glory was in thinking you absolutely distinct from every baby who had ever been born before. You were a miracle of singularity, and we knew it in every fiber of our being.

But we are only human, and being a parent is a very difficult job, more difficult than any other, because it requires the shaping of other people, which is an act of extraordinary hubris. Over the years we learned to want for you things that you did not want for yourself. We learned to want the lead in the play, the acceptance to our own college, the straight and narrow path that often leads absolutely nowhere. Sometimes we wanted those things because we were convinced it would make life better, or at least easier for you. Sometimes we had a hard time distinguishing between where you ended and we began.

So that another reason that you must give up on being perfect and take hold of being yourself is because sometime, in the distant future, you may want to be parents, too. If you can bring to your children the self that you truly are, as opposed to some amalgam of manners and mannerisms, expectations and fears that you have acquired as a carapace along the way, you will give them, too, a great gift. You will teach them by example not to be terrorized by the narrow and parsimonious expectations of the world, a world that often likes to color within the lines when a spray of paint, a scrawl of crayon, is what is truly wanted.

It's freezing today with some light snow earlier. Instead of going downtown for a few hours of work, I'm working in my pajamas. TBID flies in from San Antonio this afternoon, and I'm hoping that there won't be any weather-related delays.

This picture was taken the night before I left for Texas. I am hopeful for many more moments like this in 2009:

There's no greater relief than unlocking your door and setting down your bags after a long day of travel. I'm back in New York with lots of mail (Christmas cards - yay!) and some unpacking to do.

My trip home was short and sweet. The weather didn't exactly cooperate, and I didn't do everything I'd hoped to. But I slept late and ate heartily and laughed a lot.

Now I'm ready for 2009, I think.

Eek! Visiting Texas isn't conducive to writing. I hope everyone has had a happy holiday. I'll be back with the words upon returning to New York.

In the meantime, I'll be binging on Bravo, ice cream, and time with loved ones.

Today my dad recruited two of my little boy cousins to help pick our orange trees. The three full laundry baskets of citrus paled in comparison to previous years.

TBID is coming to Texas to meet my family in three days. I'm anticipating all the usual questions and lags in conversation and such. It's been at least three guys since I brought a romantic interest home to eat my mom's cooking and awkwardly talk about the economy.

Meanwhile, I've already opened my Christmas presents and am stuck at home. Everything is closed, and I'm lapsing into the post-Christmas Eve dinner coma. It's hard being this relaxed. I daresay my back craves a desk chair and a nice 9-5 slouch.

Below are some ads I found in Corpus Christi's local classifieds publication. They should tell you all you need to know about the town where I grew up.

MILITARY MACAW with cage and gym, 1-1/2 years old, talks. Call for details. ###-###-####.

WELL-ESTABLISHED GIFT and Engraving Business (illness forces sale). All equipment/inventory. Will train. Only $98,000 for everything. ###-###-####.

BIRDS MAKE great Christmas gifts! Call for types and prices. ###-###-####.

BEST TAMALES! We deliver! $7.50 per dozen. Just call ###-###-####.

INTERESTED IN soul travel? FMI contact Echankar at ###-###-####.

I MAKE 1000s of dollars each month drinking Tea. Let me show you how. #-###-###-####.

Howdy.

I made it back to Texas in one piece and two carry-ons. My rescheduled Saturday flight to North Carolina allowed me to fly stand-by on two others to Dallas and Corpus Christi. There were no long layovers after all. But I did hang out in Texas in a wool sweater that reads "I Heart Your Rosy Cheeks." (I also heart air conditioning and sought it out, as my cheeks were beyond rosy and just about desiccated).

The short-sleeved tops were all in my checked luggage. Unfortunately, a cold front with excessive wind and misty rain hit the night I flew in. My down coat needed to get from my apartment to a cab early Saturday morning is now getting play here on the Gulf Coast. Sigh.

I hope all of you are having a merry time wherever you hang your hat, coat, or if you're lucky, flip flops.

Me on being sick in the city:

If you think the city is lonely or brutal, wait until you’re sick. You know the infamous sick passenger who delays subway service? Everybody hates him or her. Mind you, I’ve never been on the train with this person. But something about being delayed twenty minutes before my express train is taken out of service entirely makes me blame the victim.

“Maybe if someone would stop eating food off the floor of the Grand Central Station bathroom, this wouldn’t happen,” I think. Not to mention staying in bed when feeling ill or particularly seizure-prone.

Read the rest here.

Beautiful yet aggravating, like a lot of people in Hollywood.

Horrible news, guys.

After hearing about the snowstorm headed to New York today, I tried to leave early yesterday morning. My airline said nothing was available. Meteorologists didn't expect the first snowflakes until around the time my flight took off, so I hoped I'd be safe in Texas without seeing any of the storm.

Last night, my flight - and every other flight I could've taken to Texas today - was cancelled. I was told to try again Sunday and then Monday.

After hours on the phone while simultaneously researching other options that would force me to lose money (I paid a whopping $547 for the round trip), I got a flight for tomorrow. I will be leaving New York at 8:15 a.m. and arriving in Texas at 11:45 p.m. On top of that, there may be further delays if it continues to snow.

Please use any belief system or clout with deities you have to keep snow from further delaying my travel plans. It's kind of like me saying, "Pray nothing else interferes with my right to abuse myself." Tomorrow is already going to suck if it goes according to schedule. If it doesn't, it will somehow unfathomably suck even more. I may have to freak out up in some piece in New York, North Carolina, or Dallas.

Also, if you have anything wonderful I might like to read during a layover, I'd love you to pass it along today. Maybe there are some great articles you found or a short story you'd like me to critique or even another blog you recommend I check out. I am a captive audience. You can email me or send a link through the comments.

P.S. To the Amanda who asked me for travel advice via comments: I'll be getting back to you tomorrow.

I did some quick reviews of Domino: The Book of Decorating and Todd Oldham's Handmade Modern for my guest blogging gig.

True story: I got the Domino book from the library and accidentally dropped it into the bathtub as I was reading. Bad. Very bad.

Today I finished Fara Warner's The Power of the Purse: How Smart Businesses Are Adapting to the World's Most Important Consumers - Women. The title is a mouthful, but boy, is it saying something that needs to be said.

Writing about online marketing in the past few months, especially pertaining to demographics and targeting, is really stimulating. As a kid, I was very intrigued by advertisements. I saw through many of them, though I wasn't impervious to the campaigns of certain beauty products. Damn them - they're some of the worst.

I'm savvier now and am looking for ways to become a self-taught "expert" on marketing to women. That's the short-term goal anyway. Stuff like this makes me tick, and I don't mean in some biological clock sort of way.

So that's work talk, I guess. But let me share an excerpt that took me by surprise. It's about how America worked as recently as the sixties. It gave me one of those moments I had when recently watching Milk - the realization that we've come so far, but must keep working to advance. (Milk, by the way, is wonderful. Sean Penn amazes me).

"Over time, barriers that held women back from controlling their own money were also breaking down. In the 1960s, women couldn't open a bank account alone or sign for a home mortgage without a man to cosign for them. Just 20 years later, such restrictions had become unthinkable. By the 21st century, single women had become the second-biggest purchasers of homes."

I wrote another guest post about why I like to sneak into movies.

Also, I'm writing now about design. I started from the bottom.

I stumbled upon this photo tonight when I was working with my external hard drive.

Christmas back home will not be the same without Abby. I still miss her.

Remember how I'm on vacation now?

Last night, I lost my voice.

Tonight, my throat is starting to get sore.

WHYYYYYY?

I'd like to think someone left this balloon on the subway in case someone else was having a bad day.

My dear Life Coach wrote this beautiful, thoughtful post over the weekend. I got to play editor before it went live and was really impressed. He's taught me a few things about relationships. Here are some Life Coach pearls of wisdom:

1) Don't be the girl who always has a boyfriend. (This is one I have to work on, as I've been pretty steadily dating since I was 15. Nonetheless, I always have independent pursuits outside of my relationships and am currently dating someone who does the same. We never get bored, because we just don't have time to get on each other's nerves).

2) For a relationship to work, the guy has to be much more into the girl. (Readers, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Reciprocation, schmreciprocation. I tend to agree).

3) Don't be jealous. It will only make a guy resent you. (The green-eyed monster is easier said to be slain than actually slain).

4) The guy should pay for dinner, drinks, etc. That's how real men roll. (Readers, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, as well).

5) Do not be overly available to a guy. (Or girl!)

Since seeing the CEO of my company shimmy and thrust his pelvis to "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"(which did indeed invigorate me before I left the holiday party), I am officially on vacation. I had to take a lot of time off, because I kind of forgot to use my days and had no desire to spend a lot of money on trips. That is what 2009 must be about - I want to go on trips. Not the guilt or head or power kind.

Well, those are okay, I guess. But I also want the kind with currency exchanges and sleeping in a bed with itchy sheets and bad wallpaper.

This week, I'll tell you about my resolutions for next year and my year in review, which I'm already looking forward to researching, as I remember nothing. How is it December 14th today? I feel that I should be recovering from studying for my Gender, Class, and Ethnicity in American Literature and Film final or eating leftover Christmas school party cookies or something. Not sitting in my pajamas planning a wild night of cleaning my juicer and uploading cds from the library on my iTunes while thinking about the economy.

When did I grow up, and how do I make it stop?

I just read Philip Galanes's Social Q's column from yesterday. All the questions and answers were good. But as a gender-neutral blogger, I really liked this:

I recently graduated from college and started working in the real world. My problem is that my name is gender-neutral, which my parents tell me was intentional. Many new business acquaintances, whom I meet through e-mail, mistake me for a man. I am often addressed as Mr. and, worse, taken for my own secretary when they call. (“Could you please connect me with Mr. Smith?”)

It’s awkward to explain and then embarrassing for the person calling. Is there a polite way to let people know my gender?

C.F.B., New York


The Response:

Look on the bright side, Miss Jordan/Casey/Riley: Now you have one more thing to hold against your parents. If they had only stopped to think about it 20-some-odd years ago, I’m sure they could have predicted the advent of the Internet, and that your name might cause some e-mail correspondents to mistake your gender. I call that irresponsible parenting.

You’ll be taken for a freak if you advertise your gender in e-mail messages to pre-empt the error: “As a woman, I’d prefer meeting at 4.”

I suppose you could answer your phone with the officious: “This is Pat.” But that won’t solve the problem, either. If callers have already decided you’re a man, they’ll just assume your voice is the product of a hormone deficiency.

Try not to be so nervous about entering the “real world.” I think you’ll find it’s a lot like college — only with fewer interesting conversations and much less booze. The more offhand you are about correcting your colleagues, the less awkward they’ll feel.

Next time you’re mistaken for a man, try a friendly: “This is Terry. But the last time I checked, I was a woman.” If anything, it will help people remember you; and in business, that’s a good thing.

The best thing you could possibly fit on one of those small Post-It notes.

Bettie Page died tonight, and I'm already dreading all the crap in the blogosphere about how much of an inspiration she was.

I'm now guest blogging here.

I'll still be blogging here, too.

Click on over to my first post. Please leave nice comments. I really want more of those from you guys. I promise I will like them.

"This Christmas"

This is TBID's sole holiday jam. It beats anything about front teeth and philandering moms.

Does anyone know that horrible song called something like "Christmas, Where Are You?" It's probably playing at your local slow-paced pharmacy right now. Basically, it's about this woman with exactly four brain cells who is looking for Christmas, but can't seem to find it. She starts just outright asking the holiday where it is, hence the title.

I listen to it while I eat lunch at the deli sometimes, rolling my eyes and thinking, "It's December 25th. Always. Damn girl, get a calendar."

Also, It's got vocal acrobatics so bad Celine Dion would think it sucks.

I was trying to explain to TBID the extent of the song's awfulness, and he tried to say that all Christmas music is terrible.

Not so! I like Alvin and the Chipmunks songs, "Silver Bells," and I guess that's it for now. Maybe you have suggestions. I'd shake my booty to anything that sounds Motown enough.

TBID finally admitted that there is one awesomely salvageable Christmas song. I hadn't even heard it until recently. Maybe because I've been busy trying to get "Christmas, Where Are You?" out of my head by boxing my ears and shrieking.

Advil, where are you?

These have to be the gayest cleansing wipes on the market (and I do mean that in a fabulously loving way):

FAIL Blog, have I got a submission for you.

Yesterday, TBID emailed me excitedly about an amazing new product targeted to people who are both lazy and health-conscious. Batter Blaster, is a pressurized can of pancake/waffle batter that you simply spray onto a griddle or pan.

Forget the name that's at the very least, hard to say, and at the very worst, kind of pornographic. TBID and I occasionally like pancakes, and it just sounded fun and easy to use.

He went to Whole Foods to apprehend some Batter Blaster; I got my pan and spatula out. We even pondered getting some fruit to add to the batter, but decided to make traditional flapjacks.

Well, traditional in someone else's household maybe. Not mine, where pancakes are edible. The batter sprayed out of the can easily and cooked very quickly, but the pancakes ended up well done in a very bad way.

Observe:

TBID blamed my cheap pan first. Then he blamed a dearth of cooking oil. Finally, fingers were pointed at the plastic spatula, which he said made it too difficult to flip the pancakes. "Is this your only spatula?" he asked. "No," I said. "But the nice one's for company. Of course this is my one spatula!"

Four unsuccessful blackened-pieces-of-bread-we-called-pancakes later, brunch was served. I ate a few bites of the one pancake that turned out light enough. It had this odd lemony flavor. TBID ate the dark ones and tried to say they were good before admitting the experiment was a bust.

I told him he should've just let me squirt a batter bra on his chest and then leaned over the stovetop. Maybe next time he'll listen.

I'm spending the night unwinding after attempting to do all my Christmas shopping in one day. Caveat: I'm only buying for my family and the kids I tutor - fewer than 10 people.

But I'm exhausted! The streets are overrun with slow-moving tourists weighed down with shopping bags and universal American excess. And the strollers! Since when do babies enjoy shopping? You'd think there'd be an abundance of babysitters now, given that our economy has officially started shopping the dollar zone at Target and entering the contests on the back of the Quizno's receipt. I had to keep headphones in all day, so I wouldn't get stabby.

My most tedious endeavor today was shopping at a bead store. My mom has taken up bracelet making and asked for some beads and semi-precious stones. I ended up at this place filled with tiny tray after tiny tray of beads of all colors and consistencies. I was looking around so much that I think employees thought I was a shoplifter. I tried to be thrifty with my bead purchasing decisions, staying within my budget and my mom's palette. Did you know some of the tiniest beads you could ever put on a string sell for a dollar each? That's a song on iTunes. Or a small hamburger. I'll never look at accessories on Etsy the same way again.

I'm happy with the gifts I purchased, but I still have my tutees left. I'll probably lazy out and get gift cards from Barnes & Noble. Is it too controlling of me to write book suggestions on the card? I worry that Jing might get something too easy or Borun won't find anything he wants to read.

Another thing that delights me this fatigued evening? That TBID did not need a present. I'd been trying to talk him into this interesting non-denominational way to show each other how much we care by getting small, yet valuable items and putting them in a large, felt sock-like item that has the option of being hung somewhere. (Not to be confused with a Christmas stocking. This is a Non-Christmas Amanda and TBID Winter Celebration Sock-like Item).

TBID saw right through that, of course.

So no presents for him, and no presents for me from him. How quickly my materialism dissolves. Dating a Nice Jewish Guy is one of my handy Recession Survival Tools. Hell, it's a Holiday Survival Tool. One less present is so much more.

Has anyone found themselves calendar shopping already? I went to Staples last night to pick up the At-A-Glance kind I mount on the wall by my desk at home. TBID helped me find another I will use elsewhere - Nice Jewish Guys 2009.

Here's one Mensch of the Month:

Okay, this is my last short entry tonight. I'm procrastinating taking a shower, which no one should do past the age of 10.

Here are some interesting searches that brought people to my blog today:

dante's maxim symbolic retribution
what does a parasite look like in poop
"shaggy steve" photographer
"i dropped out of teach for america"

If this doesn't summarize my life in New York, I don't know what does.

Wowie. This blog is featured on a poop joke blog aggregator.

That's been a number two priority of mine for awhile.

My pal Jeremy did some investigating at GenderAnalyzer and reported back:

We guess http://www.noisiestpassenger.blogspot.com/ is written by a man (53%), however it's quite gender neutral.

Interestingly, these are the results for my own domain, which will be put to use in early 2009:

We think http://www.noisiestpassenger.com/ is written by a man (86%).

Hear that? This blog's da man!

"I'm Gonna Make You Love Me" - Stevie Wonder and Diana Ross

One of my favorite YouTube videos ever. I think Stevie needs to cut his hair again.

Every six months or so, I see some story about a professional of some kind who fooled everybody into thinking he or she was perfectly qualified for his or her position while actually illiterate.

Ever hear the one about the seasoned attorney who couldn't read and relied on the diligence of his underlings to get through each case, but somehow passed the Bar? Are these stories even plausible?

Today I heard about this retired teacher, John Corcoran, who taught 17 years (what I do not know - I hope not Language Arts) and couldn't read. What the hell?

I mentioned my bafflement at these stories to my officemate and he seemed to feel the same way I do. Why are these newsworthy? The last thing I'd want to know if Mr. Corcoran gave me a B was that the guy couldn't even read. It's probably also the last thing I'd want to know if he'd given me an A. (Was his class the easy class? Maybe he taught gym).

I also don't know what these stories are supposed to make me feel. Impressed that an illiterate person could so deftly keep from getting found out? Sad that he or she got away with it so long and was illiterate in the first place? Suspicious of the organization he was part of? Really glad that homeboy can now read Eat, Pray, Love like every other person on the planet?

But maybe I'm reading too much into it.

"American Airlines Now Charging Fees to Non-Passengers"

"Tough times unfortunately mean tough measures," American Airlines president Gerard Arpey said. "It's never an easy decision to ask our loyal customers, as well as thousands of people chosen at random out of a telephone book, to pay a little extra, but that's just the reality of today's economic climate. We hope all Americans will understand this when receiving one of our new bills in the mail."

Today I was at the deli where I eat lunch almost everyday in the winter with no cash. I rarely use my debit card for small daily purchases, as I experienced debit card fraud last year and like to limit how many people have access to my card number.

Also, the picture on the card is from when I was 18, an age at which I hadn't mastered eyebrow plucking.

I took my food to the counter. I piled it on, because the food is charged by the pound and I anticipated a $5 debit card minimum. The total rang up to just over $5 and I got out my debit card.

"We have $10 minimum," the cashier said.

Who buys a $10 lunch at the deli, especially now?

"That's crazy," I told her. I was not adding on exorbitantly priced pack of gum or beverages to my order. Even then, I wouldn't be at the $10 mark. I asked the woman to hold my food, so I could go to the bank.

I walked outside, shaking my head. I thought it would be nice to abandon the food with her, but that would throw a wrench in my future lunchtime plans. Where else can I get spaghetti with egg whites?

The line at the bank was long. I took my place and silently urged everyone to hurry up. Those people who take forever to step aside drive me nuts. They're the exact same people who buy something small, like a coffee at a street cart, and then take five minutes to rearrange their wallets. The same people who stop in the middle of the sidewalk to massage their bunioned feet and then text someone about said bunioned feet.

The guy in front of me in line was like that. He couldn't get enough of the ATM, stroking its buttons and wiping the screen. I was getting really frustrated until he said the machine wasn't allowing him to withdraw money.

So I waited for the next available ATM. Then this other guy in line asked if I was going to use the available machine, to which I responded, "This guy said it's not allowing withdrawals." I'm so glad he checked, though, because it's totally normal for someone in line to forget he or she is in a line and to get confused and think he or she is actually watching a glorious sunset from a yacht in the Caribbean.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so trusting, but I didn't feel like trying it out for myself. What if it didn't work, and then the person behind me accomplished a task first?

When I got to another machine, it wouldn't read my card. Then it started to beep. And then it gave me some money. It may not have even been from my account. Who knows? It was all very dysfunctional.

I went to the deli and paid for my food, which was lukewarm by then. I sat down with a sigh, glad to finally be eating lunch. The guy across the table from me, two seats over, was moving his lips as he silently read some cheesy mystery book. He'd spilled large brown streams of something on his shirt. Then he started coughing really loudly and wiping his expectoration on his pants.

Tomorrow, I think I might bring lunch from home.