Holiday Countdown

12. I’m being visited by the ghost of Beastie Boys past.

First, I meet Mike D’s nanny at a party. Then, a couple of days later, I see MCA in a Dunkin Donuts. How did I recognize MCA, you ask? Well, if you had a teenager-of-the-80s/hip-hop tape sneaking/breakdance wannabe big brother that you worshiped, you would be able to pick a Beastie Boy out of a crowd too.

11. Blizzard ’08 hit Hoboken.

I imagine it looks like this throughout the rest of the city, but I haven’t left a five-block radius in the last three days. (why? See #10)



10. I’m sick.

I think I’m up to day 10. I took Friday off of work hoping that a day in bed would help, but I still have a nasty cough.

9. I may be sick, but I can fake well with the best of them.

Because it's not a New York Christmas party, without a gaggle of Clements grads:


Alamo Drafthouse Christmas Sing-Along. (This may be the cheesiest photo ever taken):



8. My agency forewent the traditional holiday bonus for a socially conscious t-shirt.

They also asked us to flush every third time, so it's my fault for having high expectations.

7. The annual apartment holiday party went off without any angry neighbors, broken dishes, or hurt feelings.

6. Villanova? Boo.

Sarah, Shannon, Keri and I went to the UT vs. Villanova game at Madison Square Garden. Apparently, Villanova fans feel a lot of animosity toward Texas. They picked fights. They drank too much. We won (the game and life).

5. I passed Sam Mendes and Kate Winslet on the street.

4. Chuck Nice gave me a bear hug.

We did a shoot last week for an upcoming Cheerios promotion. Watch WE tv on February 3rd to see the masterpiece.

3. Richard’s Group successfully defended The Home Depot business and won Farmers Insurance. Congrats!

2. J&J pulled its Centocor account from DDB.

The entire account team has been let go. Eek. Either my gut feelings are very, very accurate or I am very, very lucky.

1. Only two more days until vacation!

Merry Christmas, Mr. Van der Jerk

Dear T-bone Van der Jerk,

I was thinking. Have you ever seen A Christmas Carol? It’s the story of Ebenezer Scrooge who is so consumed by greed that he's visited by three spirits. Yadda yadda -- he throws money in the streets.

How about Frosty the Snowman? A discarded top hat brings a snowman to life, then becomes the focus of a struggle between a greedy magician and a group of schoolchildren. Yadda yadda -- Santa Claus saves the day.

And, my personal favorite, A Charlie Brown Christmas? It’s the story of the reliably depressed Charlie Brown who complains about the commercial corruption of Christmas. Yadda yadda -- Snoopy sings a Christmas carol.

This leads me to my holiday spirit-filled point.

You’re a boob.

And, because you’re a boob (repetitive use of the word “boob” is my new SEO strategy), I kindly request that you refrain from operating a motor vehicle in the vicinity of my family. It’s time to trade in your child molester van for a bicycle, a Flying Turtle, or maybe those fancy wheel-y shoes all the kids are wearing these days. Vehicles driven by government employees are acceptable too.

Your actions this week have landed you on two official lists:

1 The Official List of Unfit Drivers
This list includes but is not limited to Canadians, NYC taxi drivers, and toddlers.

2. The Official List of Idiots
Your lack of proper insurance coverage makes you a certified idiot. Congrats, you’ve joined the ranks of that guy from CSI, Elliot Spitzer, and IKEA.

Plus, I’m pretty sure my dad can beat up your dad.

Merry Christmas.

My Chaos Theory

I blame it on college. And, also on graduate school and a wedding that followed. I blame it on the next two years of my life that demanded moving to a new city and starting a new job and then starting another new job and then cleaning up the mess of a broken relationship. The next year was a cross-country move and two more jobs and learning to appreciate crowds, public laundromats, bodegas, and walking.

The dust cleared about six months ago. Life has become efficient. I have a routine. I even bought a set of pots and pans. This is a serious purchase for a couple of reasons, 1. Having stuff makes moving harder and the less I resist buying things the more I let go of the constant urge to pick up and move on, 2. The only thing Z wanted when I left Dallas was our pots and pans. It sounds silly, but replacing these felt, well, weird. So, now that I have a nice apartment and a stable and engaging job and a set of pots and pans, I’m... bored.

In this boredom-induced haze, I’ve found myself looking up post-graduate programs at Columbia, real estate in Texas and international volunteer opportunities. I’ve signed up for weekend classes at the gym, went to New York Cares orientation, downloaded Spanish podcasts and even applied for a library card.

I make plans with friends and go running and cook and travel and write all about it on this blog. But, I’m not busy. Not the kind of busy I was a few years ago -- the kind of edge-of-the-cliff-there’s-not-nearly-enough-time-for-that-sorry-I-can’t-talk-right-now kind of busy. I suppose this is the time in people’s lives when they manufacture busyness with marriage and home ownership and puppies and babies (in that order, of course). But, I don’t particularly want any of those things. So, where does that leave me?

Writing blogs about boredom -- that’s where.

Let It Snow

Brr, I’m cold.

I'm not built for this arctic nonsense. I spent 25 years (minus a short stint in Chicago and a series of ski vacations) training for hot weather. Now, I’m stuck with occasionally inadequate steam heat, a constantly runny nose, and a need to apologize for all my disparaging comments related to panty hose.

The cold weather is starting to sink into my bones and the urge to retreat to the warmth of my apartment all non-working hours of the day is quite persuasive. The invites always start out motivational -- a premier of Four Christmases (eh, not that great), a Dash gig (the scary soap fans were back), and a tour of holiday window displays (way more fun than it sounds). But, they all end with icicle fingers and numb earlobes. Taxi fare and coat check and 27 winter accessories make this time of year such a hassle.

Bah humbug, right?

OK, I admit that there is something magical about winter. Snow-heavy branches and flannel sheets and maple syrup and elaborate light displays and lattes and 24-hour Christmas music stations.

Luckily, December is the month that makes putting up with NYC all the other months of the year worth it. It’s sorta like Black Friday. Well, Black Friday circa 2004. And, because my brain and fingers and toes are frozen, I'll leave you to ponder that analogy. Until next time -- stay warm!

Gobble, Gobble

Despite the relatively recent evolution in Norris family Thanksgiving celebrations, I still count it among one of my favorite days of the year. I suspect that it’s my grandmother’s doing -- teaching us from a very young age to embrace the sappy, sentimental side and appreciate that Thanksgiving is a time to give—wait for it—thanks. And so Thanksgiving has maintained its position in the pantheon of holidays above St. Patrick's and Halloween, a little below my birthday and Christmas, and right in line with Talk Like A Pirate Day. Now, if there were a way to combine all of these into one mega-holiday with snickerdoodles, I’d be a happy girl.

Even without presents and telling jokes that end with "Arr,” it was a lovely, lovely weekend. There was a half-day on Wednesday. Work continued remotely through the afternoon, but it always seems much more tolerable when I’m wearing sweatpants. After sending the final email, Roxanne, Shannon, Sarah and I went uptown to see the ceremonial inflation of the parade balloons.

The next day I avoided the crowds and watched the parade from the treadmill attempting not to laugh out loud at the awkwardly scripted float commentary. I stopped by the store on the way home to get the ingredients for sweet potato casserole -- my contribution to dinner. Then showering, cooking, and a night of all the food and all the wine and all the lying around groaning about being full necessary for a proper Thanksgiving. Once recovered from our food coma, a subway ride to Herald Square, some Longhorn football, a whole lot of cell phone minutes, and crawling into bed full and happy. And that was Thanksgiving.

The rest of the weekend was shopping and running and finishing my book and trying to stay warm and trimming the tree and planning our upcoming holiday party. I miss our Arkansas Thanksgivings. But, I’m thankful I had four days of friends and rest and sloth and food and happiness.

Happy Thanksgiving!

On Friendship

I try to limit talking about other people on the blog. The parental units are an exception to this rule, but they aren’t shy about using their editorial powers. Friends are a different story. It’s not like Twitter doesn’t reveal our every nano-activity, but that doesn’t involve my droning commentary and an uncertain audience.

Today I’m going to make an exception.

When I moved to Hoboken, I landed in the middle of a group of six friends that do all of the annoying, movie-like girly stuff including but not limited to shopping, yoga, and even frequent dinner parties. We share clothes and wine and ambitions, but never boyfriends. Barf, I know.

Something terrible happened to one of us last week. Something that shook us all to the core and made us reevaluate what’s important and pray and cry and talk, A LOT. I’m so thankful to have friends like these -- the kind that show up when you need to move furniture; that let you sleep on their couch for a month; that score you free event tickets and make fun of you and let you use their building’s free washing machines and watch bad wedding shows with you and offer up their brother’s mob connections whenever you need them.

These girls are the best. And, I know we’ll come out of this stronger, smarter and forever closer.

One Year

I had this unvoiced, ever-so-cliche plan to become a better Leslie in New York. And, I got here and I was pretty much the same Leslie. It’s hard to change. And, maybe deep down, I didn’t really want to. I think what I wanted was for certain other people in my life to change and I’ve come to learn that doesn’t happen easily either.

I thought I would shed my tendency toward homebodiness, pseudo-shyness, and occasional awkwardness. But, my plans to become un-lame-o weren’t so much fulfilled. My clothes still mostly come from chain stores. I still really like reality television. I still look like I’m playing dress up when I wear lipstick. I still worry every time I’m in a public bathroom stall that I accidentally walked into the men’s room.

I suppose I’m not exaaaccctly the same as I was a year ago. I’ve come to appreciate public transportation, started writing and drawing again, and learned a lot about cereal. I’ve also accomplished a few things like getting promoted, running a half-marathon, and surviving a traumatic vegetarian duck experience in Chinatown.

I’m glad I gave up elbow room for a little adventure. I can’t believe it’s been a year. Happy anniversary, New York. Here’s to another year of a lot more of the same.

Ch*nge

It’s the day after the election and half of the country is calling in sick or threatening international relocation. The other half is dancing on their desks or buying drinks for strangers in bars.

I think collectively we are all spent. Actually, most of us were maxed out by the end of the summer.

Then, the economy crashed.

And, I held my breath through the debates and the ups and downs of my (teeny) stock portfolio. I dutifully recycled the endless campaign mailings and read A LOT of Huffington Post.

Then, I voted.

And, by yesterday at 11PM, it was all over. It was (depending on what commentator you were watching) either "an" historic event, or "a" historic event. And, I feel like we can breathe again.

Well, most are breathing. Today my roommate said that she is awaiting the arrival of locusts, pestilence, and blood red rivers. That’s a quote. I think she forgot to take her anti-drama pill this morning. And, if you’re not breathing, at least you’re feeling something.

So, in celebration of the end of election season, I’m…

- Banning “change” from the blog
- Taking a two week break from CNN.com
- Avoiding my cranky roommate

God bless America and all that stuff.

Going West

I'm going West. I leave in the morning to reunite with my bestie, drink anything in a wine glass, revel in the warmth, forget that I need to find a new roommate, breathe non-New York City air, allow the stress knot in my left shoulder to subside, and add a few embarrassing nuggets to the parental files...

I'll tell you all about it when I get back.

Bienvenido a Miami

I live in a pro-sports mecca -- a delicate balance of die hard fans that are divided only by a few city blocks. And, despite the admittedly edge-of-your-seat Red Socks game on Thursday, pro-sports just don’t inspire me to flip the channel from Law & Order reruns.

Longhorn sports are a completely different story.

Football season in the city is equal parts annoying and awesome. Annoying because only a handful of bars show the games and there are ALOT of alumni here. Awesome because it is mandatory to watch the game among a crowd of Texas transplants and you’re guaranteed to run into someone you haven’t seen since you ate your meals at Jester.

This week I watched the game with a crowd of Clements/UT grads. The usual group -- Sarah, Shannon, Mikey (he’s back!) -- plus a few extras -- Brian (in from Chicago), Hayley (B’s NYC co-worker), Jonathan (not a UT alum, but pretended well), Doug (a St. Laurence friend). After the game, we went to a classic Lower East Side dive bar called Mar’s Bar. I’m a little confused by the apostrophe usage, but I let it go because it was clearly not the type of establishment concerned with AP Style rules. Geography on the other hand is apparently the subject of choice because I definitely was quizzed on the state capitals at one point in the night. The best part of the evening was when Johnny Drunk Face tried to run out on his bar tab. The lady bartender hurdled over the bar and successfully chased him down the street. I gave her double tip for that one. Anyway -- back to football…

We all thought we were a year away from competing for a National Championship. Then, we embarrassed the Sooners and thrashed the Tigers. Now we’re a unanimous No. 1 selection in the AP poll. No jinxing intended, but the top team in the first BCS standings has earned a spot in the national championship game for the past five years. Don't get me wrong -- we still have a few tough weeks ahead of us. But, I’m going to bet that as I type this blog there are a lot of Texas fans surfing for flights to Miami.

early Longhorn socialization:

Birthday Recap

Now that I'm officially 26.02 (and sobered up), it's time I recap the birthday festivities...

Twenty-six really rolled out the welcome mat. This was the first birthday I've spent in Sugar Land since high school. And, although I missed the traditional parental speaker phone Happy Birthday song, I did get gifts and hugs and a pedicure and a homemade cake. I think that was a pretty good trade-off.

Back in New York, the second round of birthday celebrating started on Friday. My co-worker, Jeanne and I snuck out of the office early to enjoy the unbelievably beautiful weather. We settled at an outdoor bar in the Meat Packing District, sipped embarrassingly expensive martinis and looked for celebrities at Pastis next door. Unfortunately, instead of Mary Kate, we mostly saw aging, round-bellied Europeans. Oh well.

The next morning was spent choosing my favorite burnt orange t-shirt, annoying my roommate with my Longhorn pride and contemplating my most clever Sooner smack talk to send via text message to Chelsea.



In a VERY good mood, we headed out to the Lower East Side. To officially ring in 26, Sarah and I had reserved tables at The Delancy and invited everyone we knew in NYC (let's be honest -- we don't know that many people).

The birthday girls:


The bar was loud and the lines were long but the drinks were good and friends started coming in in twos and threes. It was a glorious mishmash of old and current roommates, co-workers, displaced Sugar Land'ers, The Dash+entourage, and even my 12th grade oral interpretation partner (wow, I'm a geek). She has since moved on from oral interpretation to professional theater. Clearly, she was the better performer of the pair.

Then sun up, a cab to the edge of the world (NYC), early morning PATH fun, another taxi, a tip-toe across the apartment's squeaky floors, my pillow, nearly 24 hours of nothingness and a return to normalness. Happiness.

Ice Cream Alley

I've been spending an abnormal amount of time thinking about adulthood. Maybe I have too much time on my hands. Most likely it's because my 26th birthday is around the corner.

Take today for example. I wanted a Diet Coke and a black and white cookie for breakfast. Instead, I had some fiber-enhanced, reduced-fat granola bar. (And a Diet Coke, because I am not made of stone. Though I am made of caffeine, and need to keep my levels up.) And as I was sitting at my desk checking email and eating my over-processed, neatly packaged breakfast, I remembered that when I grew up I was going to have ice cream at every meal. I'd have ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My entire life, when I was an adult, would be perfect because it would be all about ice cream (manicures and R-rated movies, too).

This is pretty standard for kids, right? The "just-you-wait-until-I-am-grown-up-and-can-do-anything-I-want" attitude. Being an adult is going to rule! And for the most part, being an adult pretty much does rule.

It turns out having ice cream every day all day for the rest of my life is much more complicated than I anticipated, however. It seemed that once I moved out and started paying my own bills, I would step right inside the free-for-all arena that is adulthood where everything goes around and then comes back around again.

What a shock to learn that there are restrictions, and they're not all external. It's not just the rules of adult society -- the ones that say you have to get up and go to work every morning and stand in line at the post office and drive at a reasonable speed. It seems the majority of the restrictions are internal. Mostly what keeps me out of ice cream alley is the way that being an adult means you... act like an adult. You take responsibility for your health and your well-being. You iron your clothes and buy antibacterial soap. I know that endless ice cream is no way to live; staying up all night is totally awesome except for when you have to go to work the next day; and folding the laundry as soon as it comes out of the dryer is always the better decision.

This isn't the way adulthood should be run. I saw grown-ups doing the boring adult things, and I thought they were doing it wrong. They weren't taking advantage of their advantages. And then you grow up, and it is, unexpectedly, the best thing in the world, when you are responsible and make the right decisions. When you take care of yourself, when you exercise and floss and recycle and donate to NPR.

So, annnnnnnyyways. I was planning to say something about being ready for my birthday, but every way I phrased it seemed silly (kind of like this entire post). But, I've already written it and don't plan to look back. I'll conclude the rambling with my four goals for 26... 1. become more like Mom and Dad (like telling others what I plan to eat -- see breakfast story above. I tease, I tease :)), 2. figure out what I want to be when I grow up, 3. try a little harder, 4. and eat alot more ice cream.

Oogley Googley

Periodic Googling is a very necessary slacker activity. Don't worry, I’ve saved you the trouble and Googled you myself...

Uncle Dave is off making LGBT headway in Irish politics. Oh, and he's rockin’ a sweet bluegrass mullet.

Mom gave $50 to the Republican Party in 2004 and she blogs about my second favorite uncle, Chuck. (for 1st, see above)

Greg assesses life cycles (nerd) and promotes his reggae music with Glamour Shots taken circa 1992.

Buster reincarnated into an industrial brush rotor salesman.

Oliver is staying busy between feedings as a figure in the British Libertarian party. Johnny Fancy Pants, er diaper.

Yours truly has questionable poetry skillz (and mastery of the English language -- note all of the “yours” and “its”). I also have a Welsh accent and starred in the 1984 movie “Party Games for Adults Only.” Classy.

Because Countdowns Are Cool

20. I saw my favorite Home Depot paint lady at the gym.

19. I slept in ‘til 7 this morning. Awesomeness.

18. A Blackberry showed up on my desk earlier this week. I’ve officially joined the ranks of corporate tools.

17. Tuesday, my J&J client sent a note (via an old coworker) that included, and I quote – “Leslie Norris was the best account person we’ve had on this business.” Take that Kathy.

16. I’ve decided that I want wallpaper in my room.

15. Houston needs to strap its electricity boots on because Mom and Dad are missing Mad Men.

14. Let the 6 week vacay countdown begin.

13. I’m pretty sure I saw Alec Baldwin with a mullet doing road construction in the Greenwich Village.

12. It’s starting to get cold again and I’m not very happy about it.

11. Saatchi was cut from the Home Depot pitch. Everyone can calm down.

10. The guy behind me has been on a four hour conference call about poop. Literally. What happens in Pampers, stays in Pampers.

9. The Construction Workers’ Union offered me a donut yesterday morning.

8. I accidentally took a gypsy cab home from the airport.

7. I’m inadvertently wearing a blue shirt and black pants today. This is better than the mismatched shoes that happened a few months ago. Maybe one day I’ll be a graceful, put-together person.

6. After looking at my 401K, I’m considering stuffing all of my money in my mattress.

5. Chuck Norris for president!

4. My brother writes really good wedding speeches.

3. I read an article in SELF and was inspired to cut my own bangs. Never trust articles in SELF.

2. My sore throat went away! Yay!!

1. I miss having a dog.

Four More Reasons

Four more reasons I have a great job...

1. We let our clients pretend to be cool.
Every month or so Saatchi distributes a CD of what’s new/cool/approachable/usable in music to its clients. We get them for free and my iPod is always very thankful.

2. We started with art.
Charles Saatchi is a renowned art collector. Amidst the giant posters of Count Chocula and Trix the Rabbit, there is a lot of modern art hung around the agency. Side note -- I noticed last week that the fairly innocuous print in the hallway across from my desk has a naughty signature in the lower right corner. I hope my VERY conservative Midwestern clients don’t notice.

3. We encourage creativity in creative ways.
Musicians are brought in for lunchtime performances. There was a Magnum Photography exhibit in our hallways. Currently there is a Mary Ping pop-up store in our atrium.

4. We are rethinking the environmental movement.
Saatchi Blue

9 to 5 (er 8:30 to 7)

Most of my work-related posts involve me complaining about the long hours or my annoying co-workers. I thought it was time that I bragged a bit about my super cool job. I can’t tell you everything (stinkin’ confidentiality agreement) over the blog, but since this is a private site, I think I’m safe sharing a lil’.

For my portion of the business (Yellow Box, Multigrain, and New Products), we have eight new TV spots in various stages of production:

- Our “Nations Challenge” spot just came off air and was hugely successful. 500,000 people have visited the Web site and more than half of those have signed up. It was even ranked by Neilson as one of the most liked spots of the month.

- Two Yellow Box spots are in consumer testing right now. This is an uber-painful process where we let Joe America tell us if we’ve made a good commercial or not. Results are due back in two weeks. Then we jump into what we call full-up production –- think directors, craft service, SAG, Los Angeles. One of these spots includes a 2-year-old. How we expect to get a toddler to deliver lines, I’m not sure. The other is this rad mix of live action and animation. The latter will take a lot less time up-front, but post-production will be strenuous. General Mills legal has "expressed concern" with this concept, so I anticipate a lot of fun lawyer meetings in my near future.

- We just wrapped production on an election-themed spot that is going on air in November –- wahoo! And, we have three more in that campaign that will run as part of promotional deal we signed with The Biggest Loser. I had a conference call with one of the show’s producers last week and got a little insider info on the upcoming season. I was in reality TV heaven.

- We are in the middle of production for a :05 spot (we call these tags) for a November promotion. This spot is a mix of illustration and CGI – expensive, but hopefully worth it.

- The newest project on the radar is a social marketing spot that will run in February. I saw the creative for the first time last night. This project had a rocky start (all first round creative was killed), but I think the new stuff is really strong. The accelerated timeline is giving me heart palpitations, but these things always have a way of working themselves out.

- We have two new Multigrain TV concept spots that just came out of testing with very few battle scars. We are making a few tweaks and then sending them off for a round of quant research. If only they spent all this research money on production!

- Finally, we sold through two potential ideas for a new product launch in February. I’m flying to Minneapolis next week to sit in on the first round of testing. Wish us luck!

So, that’s what takes up most of my day. The other part is filled with editing Johnny Wordy (AKA the Cheerios assistant account executive), IM’ing my brother, listening to French techno music in my neighbor's cubical, and planning the 2009 Costa Rica adventure. While I’m constantly considering what my life would have been if I had pursued another profession, I know I have it pretty good.

Happy Friday!

How to Succeed in Advertising

To: Sally Slacker
From: Your 17th floor Hallmate
Date: September 4, 2008
Re: Getting on Leslie’s Nerves

The purpose of this memo is to bring to your attention my concerns with your blatant office inappropriateness. It is my sincere hope that by implementing the changes requested below, you will cease annoying me quite so badly.

1. Seeing as my cubicle has been conveniently positioned directly outside your fancy window office for the last three months, I would appreciate you taking a moment to introduce yourself, say good morning, or simply acknowledge my lowly AE presence.

2. Please restrict your tireless search for the snobbiest, overpriced private school in New York City to your lunch hour. Between your endless conversations with preschool recruitment offices and your office neighbor who chooses to watch YouTube videos at full volume, it is very difficult to do my job with any effectiveness.

3. I’ve noticed you leaving everyday at 3:30PM despite your transparent efforts to make it seem like you are just away from your desk –- not shutting down your computer, keeping a sweater thrown over your chair, keeping your office door open and a coffee cup out on your desk. Cheaters never win. Well, sometimes they do. But, then they eventually lose. Most of the time.

4. Simply because you have a normal named spelled totally weird does not excuse your poor office behavior.

5. Banning interns from speaking to you is not generally the best way to cultivate talent in this industry. Forcing your subordinates to listen to your political word vomit does not make you a good manager either.

6. I would appreciate if you would resist having your afternoon phone calls with your boyfriend on speaker phone. I’m not particularly concerned about your weekend plans in Montauk.

7. Eat a sandwich.

Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to these requests. Further questions or comments should be directed to graham_babin@hotmail.com.

Sincerely,
Cubicle 17.254

Bye Bye Summer

I had four glorious days free of my natural light-less, stress headache-inducing office. The days were busy, but mostly unproductive. And in the spirit of unproductivity, I’m going to tell you all about it:

Friday
When I was moving to Austin, Amanda imparted one of the most useful big sister tips of my college career: go to the mall in the middle of the day. There are many reasons that I came to love mid-week, daytime mall visits –- for example, you exponentially increase your chances of encountering mall walkers and helpful employees. Mall walkers rock my world.

I public-transportationed-it to the very unremarkable mall in Jersey City. I perused the Macy’s shoe department with a slowness known only to the first day of a four day weekend. The salesperson watched me in semi-disgust as I heaped an obnoxious number of display shoes into my arms. My final selection was an overpriced, uber-cool pair of peep toe wedges that I rationalized trying on just for fun. As expected, “just for fun” turned into “put it on my card.” Don’t get me wrong –- they weren’t THAT expensive. It’s just that my footwear purchases are generally limited to the sales rack at DSW. Did I mention how much I love these shoes?

One quick NJ-light rail ride back to Hoboken brought me back to my frugal reality. I spent my afternoon doing everything one should avoid on a day off from work –- grocery shopping, laundry, cooking, and a trip to the gym. Sarah interrupted my state of domestic goddessness to see if I wanted to meet her and her sister Corey for dinner. I got sufficiently un-smelly and ended the night reminiscing about how nice Corey was to me when I was a lowly high school freshman.

Saturday
Football. Football. Football. Class at the gym. Shower. Football. Train into the City. Football. Football. Train home. Football overload.

Sunday
Corey, Sarah, Andrea and I celebrated the official end of summer with a finale trip to the Jersey shore. It was a bit packed with over-tattooed, hyper-tanned meatheads for my taste, but the weather was gorgeous and the water was warm-ish. I think I finally mastered the art of sunscreen application because I escaped without any weird red blotches. Hopefully I will retain that skill for summer ’09. The beach was followed by church, Mad Men, and the pure glee of it being the eve of another day off work.

Monday
I felt victorious that I had mostly avoided real clothes all weekend. I thought I would continue the streak and agreed to go with Jesse to her family’s swim club. Swim clubs are a totally weird northerner thing. They are kind of like joining a country club, but all you get is a neighborhood pool. Andrea drove us to Jesse’s hometown about 30 minutes from Hoboken. While Jesse and Andrea debated the superiority of North vs. South Jersey, I daydreamed of Sugar Land (which I am certain would win over the entire state of NJ any day of the week). I read most of a book, witnessed Jesse’s famous back dive, and lounged around the pool with a least 20 potbellied old guys that I swear were straight off a Sopranos' set.

Now it's back to the reality of 5:30AM alarms and pants without elastic waists. My holiday is officially over.

Top of the Morning to You*

Things that make me a happier person:

- Returning to my desk and not seeing the evil little red voicemail light blinking at me
- Having a work week that doesn't involve 50+ hours
- Working out in the morning

I’ve been a morning worker outer for several years now. Yes, I’m the obnoxious, uncaffeinated employee that is the first to flip the office lights on in the morning because frankly I’ve been awake for 3 1/2 hours before the work day even started and I derive some unnatural pleasure from being the first one in. Now, I may be fighting heavy eyelids at our 4pm meeting, but one can only do so much.

For me, the pros outweigh the cons in AM exercising:

Cons:
- Forced use of public showers and the accompanying risk of foot fungus
- Carrying your sweaty gym clothes with you the rest of the day
- Being woken up by yesterday’s NPR stories because the morning programming hasn’t started yet

Pros:
- It’s over with by 8
- I buy approximately 71.5% less shampoo/conditioner/soap
- Lots of good stories are inspired by events pre-8AM

Case in point:

- It’s never an uninteresting crowd in the West Village – especially in the morning. In one day I saw a gaggle of Norwegian rhythmic gymnasts, a tranny in scrubs, and a sad French Bulldog with a cone on its head.

- I was walking toward the Hoboken PATH station. It’s dawn. I noticed a man in his underwear pacing outside his apartment. I think, “If I promise to be helpful/kind/generous for the rest of the day, pleeeeeease keep the guy in his skivvies from talking to me.” My silent pleas were ignored and I was forced to stop and help Captain BVD. I felt sorry for him -- he had stepped outside to pick up the Wall Street Journal and the door had locked behind him. Classic, right? I let him use my cell phone to call the local locksmith. About a week later, I saw Joe Tightie Whities on the train. I smiled and gave him the universal look for “I don’t know anything about you, but I saw you in your underwear last week so it probably would be weird if we talked.” I guess everything worked out for him.

- I had just walked out of the Christopher Street station and was headed toward the gym. I was totally zoned out listening to my iPOD, but I could feel someone walking closer behind me. I turned and this VERY nice looking guy flashes a huge smile. I had the always gorgeous I-slept-in-my-workout-clothes-and-forgot-to-wash-my-face-before-I-left-the-apartment look going on and could only think, “plllllllllease be smiling at some model/actress/beauty in front of me.” Sigh, my silent wishing failed again. The guy said to me, “Will you hold my hand?” I hesitated – Mom said never to talk to strangers and especially not to touch them. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but I ignore it because he’s, well, quite nice to look at. He tells me his entire story –- prep-school graduate, Columbia law student, part-time model, Connecticut-native. He walks me the four blocks to the gym, drunkenly tells me I’m his new best friend, and walks off. Uh, what?!

So, if you didn't feel like reading the run-on sentences above, here are the key takeaways:
- Voicemails are my frienemies
- Foot fungus is bad
- Dogs with cones make me laugh
- Always put pants on before you leave the house
- It’s OK to talk to strangers as long as they are good looking

*Monty, the AE that sits behind me, greets me this way every morning. He also plays alot of Dr. Dre and is planning a summer trip to Iceland. Love it.

The Juggernaut of Awesome

Occasionally this city taps you on the shoulder to remind you of why you put up with the endless crowds, overpriced everything, and sexual harassment in the subways. This weekend was one of those reminders.

I met Sarah and Shannon in Union Square for lunch. I was rocking an obnoxiously burnt orange t-shirt and excited to partake in some Big-12 mingling. The NYC alumni associations of the Big 12 schools had organized a flag football tournament. Our plan was to eat some falafel, take the subway to Harlem, buy necessary rations (beer) and catch the bus to Randall’s Island.

Needless to say, three white girls with a cooler on a bus in Harlem attract a lot of attention. Fortunately, a crazy old guy in a wheel chair began singing some traditional Italian ballad at the top of his lungs and diverted some of the staring. Once on Randall’s Island, we realize – there’s not much on Randall’s Island. In fact, the island is the home to three notable things: a firefighting academy, a psychiatric ward, and a sports complex.

With no other Longhorns in sight, I make an SOS call to my brother. Two kids under the age of three guarantees that he will be home on a Saturday afternoon. After successfully hacking into my Facebook page, he informs me that the event is in fact on Roosevelt Island -- not Randall’s. Oops. With only two hours left of the event, 12 beers in tote, and little enthusiasm to be on a bus for another hour, we settled into the empty dugout by one of the softball fields. We watched the Brooklyn Dominican Cultural Society compete against the Queens Puerto Rican Pride Association in the neighboring field and played a drinking game with the passing cars. Within thirty minutes, all three of us were sufficiently silly and discussing everything from the cyclical trendiness of skylights to whether or not Shannon could fake liking kids enough to make it to the finals of the Bachelor.

With only a couple beers left and plenty of daylight, we decide to go to PS-1. PS-1 is an old school in Long Island City that was taken over by the MoMA ten or so years ago. During the summer, they showcase young artists, architects, and musicians in a series of block party-style events.



As modern art tends to do (in my humble opinion, of course), the exhibits ranged from breathtaking (the James Turrell room) to a bit pretentious (the photo of President Bush hung upside down). Here’s one of the most memorable installations (you could walk in and out of it):



After exploring all of the exhibits, we went outside to see some surprisingly entertaining Icelandic DJ (hey, house music can be sorta cool) and danced with more hipsters wearing fedoras than I’ve ever seen at one place at one time. Here’s a photo of the courtyard from the school window:



After sweating out all of the beer we drank on Randall’s Island, Sarah and I bid Shannon farewell and headed back to Hoboken. On the walk back from the bus stop, we ran into Jesse and Keri. They convinced us to join them for a (-nother) drink. Jesse went to art school so she didn’t mind listening to Sarah and I go on and on about how incredible the backward waterfalls were and the uncertain meaning of the disco-decorated cop car. Not long after debating the artistic value of this exhibit...



...I begin to realize I was about to fall asleep at the bar -- generally not a good idea. So, I walked home, washed the incredibly long day off my face, and fell asleep on top of my covers.

What felt like only minutes after that, my phone buzzed with a text from my roommate Pauline asking me if I was ready to leave for Watchung Reservation. Watchung sounded like a much better plan earlier in the week when Keri, Pauline and I had discussed going hiking. But, I pulled myself together, chugged a few glasses of water, and slathered myself in sunscreen. We met up with two of Pauline’s friends and drove out to the reservation. It’s only a 30-minute drive, but I felt every minute of it being smashed in the middle seat of her Honda Civic. The weather was as beautiful as the trails however. We hiked for nearly three hours, making Sam move to the back of the pack when he felt like smoking (only the French would smoke and hike at the same time). We saw a couch along the way and decided to a take a group photo:



Whoa, long entry. Congrats to those that made it all the way through. Time for me to call it a night. I'm exhausted (see above)! Smell...you...later.

Green is the New Black

Green bananas are gross. But, green grapes are a totally different story. Green tomatoes (fried and dipped in ranch dressing) certainly reside on my list of perfect foods. What else is on the list, you ask? Cellar temperature wine, Frito Lay bean dip, nearly rare tuna, Harry & David pears, and Heinz ketchup. I'm clearly too sophisticated for my own good.

One time a former boss described me as green. I'm going to assume he didn't mean it as an insult because Leonardo DiCaprio brags about being green, Bill Gates is made of green, and Ralph Nader parties with it. Perhaps it was a dig -- who knows? He used to also comment on my inability to tan and librarian-like personality. *air high-5 to all my fellow nerds*

But, life's one fat mixed message, right? Green means go to a driver and stop to a polluter. If your thumb is green -- good. If your big toe is green -- not so good. I'm not convinced green tea is all it's cracked up to be. Green blog entries on the other hand...

False Alarm

The fire alarm went off in my building last night...again. It's the fourth night in a month that the alarms have sounded for no apparent reason. (One of them I slept through, so I'm not sure if that counts.)

It was 2AM the last time it happened. I stumbled out of my room with an unmistakable you-just-interrupted-my-perfect-REM-sleep wobble. The alarms had only encouraged one of my roommates out of bed. No words were spoken between us –- just a shared look of annoyance. I opened our front door to the sight of a Brawny Man-size fireman holding a Jolly Green Giant-size axe. The words, "is everything OK?" came falling out of my mouth. I admit -- probably not the most intelligent thing I could have said to a fireman while the fire alarm is thundering through the hallway. He responded to my stupid question by giving me a stupid look and saying, "Well, ma'am we're trying to figure that out."

I shut the door in his face. (What? I’m allowed to be grumpy at 2AM.)

The whole cry-wolf-fire-alarm-thing is starting to get on my nerves. I'm sure the Hoboken Fire Department agrees with me. So, if you're reading this blog and you're the little twirp that keeps pulling the fire alarm because you think you're being delightfully rebellious, I beg you -- pleeeeease find another outlet for your defiance! T-P'ing? Turnstile jumping? Graffiti, perhaps?

While I love surprise visits from Hoboken’s finest, I'm going to assume they have much more important things to do than carry sharp objects through my hallway in the middle of the night. In fact, I'm certain their time would be much better spent helping the guy I saw stuck in a tree yesterday trying to save his cat (true story).

Cheese

Every picture of these kids makes me smile, but these made me laugh out loud.

When at first you don't succeed...



Try, try again.

Perfect Timing

I’m not certain what the secret to life is, but I think it has something to do with timing. Miss a beat, and a joke is ruined. Miss a bus, and you might never meet the love of your life. Ok, I don’t really believe that. But, I do dream of solving the time puzzle. Just think how much closer I would be to checking off professional photographer, famous comedian, and successful investor from my to-do list.

Up until this point, I attribute most of the good timing in my life to serendipity. I decided recently, however, that I should focus more of my energy on cracking the time code. Be a better time manager, more efficient, organized. When O Magazine landed on my desk this morning, I noticed the leading headline, “Too busy to live?” I thought, perhaps, this would be a good place to start.

BTW, Oprah -- What is being "too busy to live" supposed to mean?

(If you're wondering -- no, I don’t typically read O Magazine. It’s a perk of the job. Comp’ed magazine subscriptions. It’s one way they get away with working us like crazy and paying us dirt.)

For all O Magazine subscribers, I don't mean to spoil the article for you. But, in the end, Oprah's suggestions turned out to be some Zen Buddhist mumbo-jumbo. I guess I'll have to spend more time searching.

(Just kidding about Buddhism being mumbo-jumbo. I indeed hold the ancient religion in very high regard. I was trying to be clever, but combined with comments about China in the previous post it may suggest otherwise. Clearly, poor timing.)

Confessions of a Guilty Blogger

There are a few things I need to get off my chest...

I consume way too much Diet Coke.
I step over sidewalk cracks.
I sometimes sleep across-ways.
I prefer to watch TV with the volume at an even number.
I buy things because I like the packaging.
I like sweet potatoes and ketchup.
I don't like massages.
I'm homesick way more than I admit.
I watch the Bachelor when no one's around.
I'm judgemental of bad parenting and weird outfits.
I go up and down every grocery store aisle no matter what.
I skip mass sometimes.
I rarely stretch after I run.
Sometimes I go to the movies by myself.
I still think about joining the Peace Corps.
When asked to give my phone number at a store, I give Zach's.
I prefer eating with plasticware.

Olympic Fever

I've kicked off Olympic training camp week with some serious preparation -- carbo-loading for the marathon TV watching sessions of obscure sports like trampoline gymnastics and synchronized swimming; tissue stock-piling for the tear-jerking player profiles and medal ceremonies; and DVR-clearing because the Judo finals are probably not a legitimate reason to miss work.

I love the Olympics.



It brings out a sense of patriotism and optimism and enthusiasm in all of us. My favorite part of the Olympics are the opening ceremonies. I found this photo from a rehearsal in Beijing earlier this week:



China: Props on designing the coolest steel birthday cake on the planet. It's too bad that you're an idea-smothering, environment-ruining sham. I find it a bit concerning that the IOC chose a host country where international journalists have limited Internet access and athletes may be required to wear specially designed masks when they compete outdoors. Is this really the world we live in?

I won't let a state engineered propaganda pageant ruin my Olympic spirit though. If you're reading this, live in the vicinity of 07030, and want to join, I plan to spend Friday evening celebrating the commencement of three of the best weeks in sports... and reminicing about my first frat party.

Mom -- not my fault, ask Greg.

Go Team USA!

The D-Word

This month marks one year of the d-word. This week marks what would have been four years of the m-word. My divorce has punctuated many unknowns in my life: Where do I belong? What makes me happy? Am I a Mets or Yankees fan? (Who am I kidding? I could care less. Go Longhorns!) On the other hand, it has brought unbelievable clarity to other parts of my life. It's like a spotlight that's flipped on just as the house lights go down.

Family.

It's not that a year ago I didn't know or appreciate the fantastic family I have. I don't think I quite understood it though. Oddly enough, as I was legally losing a family, I came to better comprehend what it is to be part of one.

Four quick stories that I've most likely already told (hey, I'm a Norris -- this is what we do):

Love Notes
Last Spring was a really lonely time. Becca and Graham did their very best to keep me busy post-work hours, but going home to my empty apartment was always a reality at the end of the day. Like clockwork, I would stop by the mailbox on the way in to gather what was generally a pile of junk. About once a week or so there would be a gem in the mail from my Aunt Jan. These simple, short, hand written love notes always had a way of saying exactly the right thing and arriving at exactly the right time. I'm not sure if I've ever told her how much those meant to me. I think I'll mail her a note.

Thirty-one Flavors
Graham and Rebecca invited me over for dinner the day the judge signed my divorce. When I arrived, Graham opened the freezer door to reveal an enormous number of ice cream pints. He wanted to be sure he was prepared with girl-feel-good food in case it was a rough night. It was one of the sweetest gestures I've ever received. Oh, and, Blue Bell was on sale. The Babins are always up for a deal.

Moving Van Madness
Dad has a sketchy history of driving Uhaul vans -- 1996. Hwy 35 and Riverside. Very close call. Everybody deserves a second chance though. Two weekends in a row, Dad made the trek from Houston to help me wrap up the final details of my move. He is the master packer, after all. He put up with my moving day crankiness, helped clean my apartment top to bottom, and even navigated the Uhaul down Hwy 45 (without incident, I should add). All for me to move half-way across the country from him. No daughter of year trophies for me anytime soon!

TRG TLC
I was really dreading my birthday last year. It fell in the middle of the week, so I was stuck in Dallas away from my family and frankly, had no plans beyond Pilates that morning. When I walked around the corner to my cubicle, I saw a trail of confetti down the hallway. A few steps further revealed what looked like Party City had vomited all over my desk. I was sung to, brought breakfast, taken out to lunch, and allowed to be gloriously unproductive. On a day that I was convinced would pass without notice, my co-workers made me feel enormously special. Only a couple of months later, they topped themselves with the best going-away party ever. They will always be the best in my book -- whether or not THD agrees.

I apologize for the handful of obscure references in this overly sentimental post. Please send all complaints to graham_babin@hotmail.com.

Looooove,
Les

Home Sweet Home

In between complaining about the sketchy construction site down the block and lack of adequate temperature control, I really did try to love Brooklyn. I did my best to make my apartment feel like home and take advantage of everything the borough has to offer. But I didn’t realize until I left, how uncomfortable I was there. It's kind of shocking to me. I thought I was settled and relaxed and happy to be there.

Then I moved to this new apartment. The difference between thinking you’re settled, and relaxed, and actually feeling that way -- will make you wonder what you were thinking! There’s a difference, it turns out, between everything you need being within walking distance and spending half your life on the F train; between your windows facing a slab of broken concrete and ones that overlook the Hudson River. There’s a difference between having your best friends two blocks away and having to carry your belongings Friday through Sunday because your weekend plans never include Brooklyn.

I feel safe here and at ease. I feel like this was exactly the right move to have made. Every time I come up the stairs and open the door to our roomy, charming apartment, I realize that I’m so much happier in Hoboken than I ever was in Brooklyn. It’s not just the relief, or the air conditioning talking. This place feels right.

I waffled about taking the apartment -- about the stress and cost of moving again, how long I was really going to be living here anyway, and whether it was just plain stupid to pack up and move only four months after I had just packed up and moved. For weeks Andrea listened to me say -- "I don't know. I don't know if I'm going to do it. I want to. I do. But, I mean, it doesn't make sense." Tired of my indecision, she said to me -- "No, it doesn't. But it makes the most sense for your happiness."

I paused a long moment and I nodded because I didn’t have a response to such an obvious statement. I called Keri the next day. You might have noticed that I am so very glad that I did.

Race Day

I can check one more thing off my New York City list – today I ran in the Nike NYC Half-Marathon. It was two and half hours of self-inflicted torture that I can’t wait to do again. Here’s the short version:

5 AM Pop out of bed (honestly, I’d been up for about 30 minutes nervous that I would miss the alarm)

5:30 AM Walk to the PATH huddled under my umbrella praying that I don’t get struck by lightening

6 AM Join the crowd of runners, homeless, and left over Saturday night club goers on the train to the City

6:20 AM Score a free cab ride with two other runners to Central Park

6:45 AM Homesickness and serious nerves cause a mini-emotional moment that ends quickly when I realize we’re on the news

7:15 AM Cross start line. Here we go!

7:45 AM 5K complete -- pacing well

8:15 AM 10K complete. Made full lap around Central Park at this point. Made it through the hilliest part of the course and my legs are feeling it

8:30 AM Run out of the Park onto 7th Ave. The feeling of running through Times Square is surreal. Wish Dad was here –- he would love this! All of the tourists have come out of their hotels to cheer on the runners. Catch my second wind

9 AM Course takes us toward the Westside Hwy around mile 9. The weather is still overcast, breezy, and cool

9:15 AM Hit second wall. Look to my left and see my co-worker Michelle and her sister. Perfect moment for a running buddy. Only a 5K left

9:30 AM Try not to look miserable as I pass the camera crews. Cheese!

9:45 AM Cross finish line and vow not to run again for a long while

The weirdest part of the whole experience is that it’s over. I’ve been thinking about, planning and training for today for several months... the excitement of being drawn in the lottery, one limp-tastic training injury, and a lot of lame Friday nights in prep for my Saturday morning long runs. It’s that day after Christmas feeling of let down wrapped in relief. I think I just need to come up with my next race goal. In the meantime, I’m going to happily enjoy a week sans running shoes.

Michelle and I crossing the finish line (she's in the gray tank and white hat)...

Stuff I Like

What’s with popular bloggers turning their work into conventionally published books? I’m not sure I quite understand the whole concept. As a reader, I find it a bit presumptuous to ask me to pay for static content when I used to enjoy free daily entries.

One of my blog standbys -– stuffwhitepeoplelike.com –- released a book earlier this month. I wonder every time I open its homepage if today’s the day the author will run out of things white people like. But, alas… we apparently like a lot of stuff.

I read a commentary on the blog (and the new book) in the NY Times today that made me laugh. I’ve had major (blog) writers block recently, so I thought this might be a nice shake up from my regular, riveting poetry and list writing.

In case you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, check this out: stuffwhitepeoplelike.com

Stuff NJ-Natives Like:
Hair gel
Yager bombs
Skin cancer
Exercises that allow for easy mirror admiration
VERY crowded beaches
The f-word

Stuff Maddie Likes:
Mickey
Watermelon
Mirrors (not unlike the guitos referenced above -- minus the muscles)
Swimming pools
Gree-pa

Stuff Norris’ Like:
Lamenting over our oversized heads
Working in “crap” into greeting card messages
The display shelf
Repeating jokes
Excessive car care
Punctuality

Stuff Advertising People Like:
Pretending people like advertising
Trying to be cool
Complaining
Free stuff
Acronyms

Stuff Dallas People Like: (Greg, this one’s for you)
Bar covers
Obnoxious sports teams
Pretending to be a major city
Luxury cars (probably leased)
Claiming to be better than Houston

Stuff Chelsea Likes:
Joey Greco
Christmas music
Guys in fruit costumes
Encouraging Becca to have a second martini
Complaining about foreign cable companies
Making Leslie feel bad

High Times

After a week of my mom’s food, babies galore, and some air-conditioned rest, I’m back to the ol’ NYC grind. My time home went entirely too fast. I feel odd writing about my trip when I was hanging out with most of the blog’s readership. However, Graham insisted. He likes the “shout outs.” Check.

I did learn an important lesson on the trip – the cheapest flight is not always the best flight. The cheapest flight does, however, always guarantee a cast of characters on board. On the flight to Atlanta, I sat next to a real winner. While already in the air, the Atlanta airport was shut down due to bad weather. We took a few laps around Georgia waiting for it to reopen, but low fuel forced us to land in Columbus. Once on the ground, my row-mate proceeded to throw a genuine hissy fit on the phone with his family that included one too many f-words for my taste. Trying not to make eye contact, but unable not to look in his direction, I saw that he had a High Times in his lap with a joint sandwiched between two pages. For him, it marked the article he didn't quite finish about the best artificial heat lamps. For me, it marked my loss of faith in airport security.

Somewhere between Columbus and New York, I remembered that I had concert tickets for the next day. The plan seemed a lot more reasonable before I spent a long evening with the president of Snoop Dogg’s fan club. But, I sucked it up and Whitney, Jennifer, Sarah, and I joined the throngs of lesbians and hippies at the band shell in Prospect Park. Minutes after staking our place in the crowd, it began pouring rain. So here’s the scene – I’m running on four hours sleep, still in my work clothes, cold and wet, anticipating having to soon use a porta-potty, and well, a little cranky. As it turns out, the skies cleared, the plastic/non-flushing toilet was not so bad, and Feist was quite charming. Perhaps not $35 I would spend again, but well worth it.

I’m reaching my four paragraph blog limit, so I must bid you adieu. If I wasn’t so tired (and a bit homesick), I would have some Full House-style ending to wrap this up for you. If one comes to me today while I’m solving the world’s cereal advertising problems, I promise to add it later.

Jersey Girl

My shins are bruised, I have two broken finger nails, and every piece of clothing hanging in my closet is wrinkled. But, I’m not worried because I am finished moving for the rest of my life!! (This is a humongous lie; however, it’s the only thing keeping me sane at the moment.)

The movers showed up on Sunday with an enormous moving truck that they then packed with my embarrassingly sparse number of possessions. I did a bit of begging to ride along so that I wouldn’t have to take the subway. They eventually acquiesced, so I climbed into the middle seat, waved goodbye to the three-legged cat and the drunk guy who apparently got tired riding his bike and was taking a nap in the median, and said a few Hail Marys under my breath hoping to get to New Jersey in one piece.

Along the way I saw all four of the new waterfall installations and the remnants of that morning’s Gay Pride Parade. I rambled along in my best Spanglish about my NYC experience and the movers bragged about their kids and their record number of parking tickets. Driving an enormous moving van through Manhattan, we ate ice cream (funny story), cursed at a few bad drivers, pretended to pick up people hailing taxis, and successfully didn’t take out any side mirrors.

When I arrived in Hoboken, we had to play an amusing game of musical rooms that concluded with me sleeping on the couch. However, I was able to finally move everything into my new room last night. Sarah came over with her (pink) tool kit and a Diet Coke (she’s my hero) to lend a hand. She even fixed all the scratches on my cursed IKEA dresser with a furniture pen. With longer hair, more Emo music, and a bunk bed, it would have been just like move in day at the dorm. Sarah’s the best. I couldn’t survive this city without her.

With the move complete, I’m now less than 24 hours away from my Texas trip. Between now and then, I must stay awake through three meetings (Zzz), finish my first major presentation for my new client (eek), pick up my broken sandal from a guy who fixes shoes, TVs and blenders all in the same shop, make sure that my nunchucks and brass knuckles didn’t make their way into my suitcase, and trek to Astoria to sleep on my friend Jen’s couch (because I L-O-V-E couches) so that I don’t miss my flight in the AM.

When will life be normal again?!?

My street...



My building...



Elysian Park (This is right outside my window. The Hudson River is on the other side of the park.)...



The entry way (that's my room in the back)...



The living room...



The living room from the other direction:



The "everything" room...

Hidden

I hate the laundromat. A couple times a month I race through the chore with an intense, “don’t talk to me, I’m busy” concentration. Today was no different.

To avoid getting in the way of the guy hogging five driers or inadvertently knocking into the gaggle of toddlers stumbling around the ‘mat, I pushed my laundry cart into a small hallway that leads to the bathroom. As I did, I looked up and noticed that I had rolled my cart into the shins of a woman dressed in a shuttlecock burqa. Her robes covered her head-to-toe except for a small opening for her eyes that must have limited her vision to only one step ahead of her.

She was totally invisible.

It saddened me that I was completely oblivious to the presence of another human being standing close enough for me to put my arms around her. I see Muslim women frequently in my neighborhood, but their hijab seems as much of a fashion accessory as a religious statement. Certainly full veils are not the ordinary. I had actually googled burqas earlier this week when I saw a baby girl on the subway dressed in a head scarf. Frankly, my quick Internet research was so muddled with pro-Burqa propaganda and some weird sexual fetish movement, that I didn’t learn much.

I don’t want to question a person’s religious choices. Some groups of conservative Christians and even traditional nuns wear clothing that is arguably similar. But, this woman really moved me today. I know nothing about her except for the black and brown tent that covered her entire being with exception of her red and white Snoopy socks. Given that this encounter happened in a laundromat, I’m going to assume that those were her only clean pair left.

Catching Up

I apologize for the recent lack of blogging. An update of the last two weeks seems most appropriate, so here you go...

Goodbye DDB
Although the goodbye was not quite as sentimental as my TRG departure, the team was really sweet to take me out to celebrate my exit. A few bottles of wine on the company, a cereal joke or two, and general well wishes. Then, the most senior account person proceeded to steal my thunder by announcing his resignation (after only 9 months). I’m SO glad I’m out of there.

Brooklyn Renegade Craft Fair
The perfect storm of hundreds of local artists, a very cool venue (McCarren Park Pool), a mass of Williamsburg hippies (we’re talking pet rabbits and toddlers named “China”), vegan street vendors (sweet potato ice cream, yum), and scorching hot weather.

http://www.renegadecraft.com/

Hello Saatchi
With so many names to learn, projects to get up to speed with, and agency processes to master, I’ve been exhausted all week without doing any real work. However, I now have a smart/friendly/engaged team and a client that seems to trust the agency strategically and creatively. Oh, and a lifetime supply of cereal. I already love it here!

Mustache Party at the Elysian
Only pictures will do for this one...

My girls:


My 'stache:


I’ve always dreamed of living in New Jersey.
The move is officially scheduled for next Sunday afternoon. Great roommates, air conditioning, a fun neighborhood, stumbling distance from the Elysian. It couldn't come soon enough!

Hip Woes
My left hip is still being a jerk. My running shoes have been ignored for approximately the length of time that this blog has. I suppose a continuous state of Tylenol numbness and my new favorite ad will have to suffice for now:



So, that's my world the last two weeks -- plus a few highlights like catching up with Lauren over a salad martini, the nail-biting Top Chef finale, and a cereal haiku in my inbox.

Happy Friday!

Oliver Cooper Norris

The newest Norris arrived this morning. O is healthy, Amanda is resting, Greg is perpetually even-tempered, Mom is beaming, and Maddie doesn't know what hit her.

This is when I hate living so far away!

Slacktivism

Caught up in the excitement of this week's political events, I started an entry that frankly no one would be interested in reading. There's currently enough long winded, opinionated political dissertations, diatribes, and drivel in the blogosphere. I'll leave the bafflegab to the doubledomes and bogsats.

(http://www.nytimes.com/2004/10/03/weekinreview/03word.html?partner=rssnyt&emc=rss)

So, without any unnecessary political commentary, two of my favorite things -- Anderson Cooper (dreamy) and the Longhorns (double dreamy).

The Girls Are Back in Town

Unless you live under a rock or you’re a male over 40, you know that the Sex and the City movie premiered this weekend. NYC is crawling with groups of girlfriends with three things listed on their vacation itinerary: 1. Drink cosmos, 2. Buy shoes, 3. See movie.

I met Jenn and her friend Nicole at her apartment after work. After successfully raiding Billy's vino stash (don't feel sorry for him -- his soap star status earns him tons of free booze from journalists and party promoters), we braved the sea of semi-sloshed, knock-off glad, overly-giddy women gathered to see a movie about other frequently-sloshed, over-privileged, self-indulgent women.

OK, I shouldn’t judge. The three of us were a bit juiced too. And, I have to admit the seductive, bubble-world of SATC with its over-the-top froufrou has a charm that sucks me into its syndicated re-runs many a late night.

I think the anticipation layered with the pain of girdles and 4-inch heals was pushing the crowd over the edge. It was row-dy! There was an attempt to start the wave, clapping, shushing, a near-girl fight over saved seats, and even a throwing up incident in the aisles. It was Carrie Bradshaw-chaos!

The movie was all the things you’d expect -- talking dirty and sleeping around and overanalyzing male emotional insufficiency. (It wouldn't be SATC if it weren't a little annoying.) I thought SJP was spectacularly good and beautiful as a brunette. There were plenty of fashion montages coupled with gasps of pleasure and (occasionally) horror from the crowd. It’s campy in parts and gut-wrenchingly serious in others. Overall, it’s 2 hours and 22 minutes of joyful wallow. In deference to pop culture history, go see this movie. My recommendation -- substitute your pumps for your Pumas. The movie has enough haute couture for us all.

Spoiler Alert*

*If you want Oliver's "welcome to the world" gift to be a surprise, do not read any further.

About a month ago, I bragged about my mom on this blog. Afterward, she debated the size of her pants collection and claimed that her darts game was misrepresented. For this libel, I sincerely apologize.

I thought I would give it the ol' college try and attempt another blog of gushing admiration. This time – my Grandma Norris.**

**Now, it could get confusing because Mom is also Grandma Norris. However, this time we're going back a generation. It would be a lot easier if my brother would just give in and let his children refer to their grandparents with cutesy monikers.

Anywho.

It's difficult to put labels on a woman like my grandma. But, if I had to, I would say...

Grandma had a formidable gift for bringing people together. She was tough. She was generous and loyal and sentimental. She cried over beautiful things. She worked relentlessly.

Her kindness softened people (especially my grandpa). Her energy animated people. Her faith inspired people. Her quirks endeared her to others. Her snickerdoodles could cause riots.

When I was a kid, I was always having to share my grandma with my cousins, my uncles, her friends, the kitchen. When she neared the end of her life and moved in with my parents, I got a chance to spend more one-on-one time with her. During this period, I got to know my grandma as this honest, interesting, and always hungry (figuratively and literally) person.

Grandma proved her endless well of patience during this time when she taught me to crochet. She had tried to teach me before, but we had always gotten distracted. This time around, we had the time and quiet necessary for such an intricate task. Since then, it’s a skill that’s stuck with me and something that will always make me feel close to her.

It takes me FOREVER to finish a project, but Greg and Amanda gave me nearly 9 months notice for my latest crochet endeavor. I finished it on Saturday when I was waiting for Whitney in the hospital. I’m pretty proud of how it turned out, so therefore you must pretend to like it too. It's my blog -- I make the rules.

Here's your sneak peak:



And, because I can't resist, here's one of my favorite photos of all time (for non-Norris' -- Grandma's in the wedding dress):

Living the Dream

I don't work in a highly regarded profession. In fact, I read somewhere that advertising ranks just above used-car sales. But, frankly, we deserve the tomatoes. Most ads are condescending, unimaginative, or obnoxious.

The problem is that most ads reflect a make-believe client world where customers go crazy over everyday products like mascara and instant rice. It's just not true. Life is way too complicated and busy to care that much about every purchase. We (addies) also ignore the fact that consumers can sniff a fake a mile away. Nobody really believes that buying new-and-improved laundry detergent will change their life. We exaggerate, embelish, and fluff. We hide the truth in miniscule type and auctioneer voice overs. The worst (and most arrogant) part is that we think no one's noticing.

I think the reality is that people understand the necessary evil of advertising and in turn truly appreciate (shown through passionate brand loyalty and advocation) clever, well-placed ads.

In my short career, I've been a part of great campaigns...





...and not so great ones (no need to share). When the stars align and the client approves creative that is funny or ground breaking or moving, it makes me proud of what I do. I'm not so proud of the account I'm currently assigned to. I'm mostly disappointed with the agency process and values, although the ads are pretty lame too.

So, four paragraphs in (I clearly wasn't paying attention to my journalism professors' inverted triangle lectures), I'll break the happy news:

I've officially resigned from AndersonDDB and accepted a position with Saatchi & Saatchi. I'm escaping the tortuous world of pharma advertising and taking a stab at CPG (consumer packaged goods). My new assignment... Cheerios! -- specifically Yellow Box (the regular kind), Multi-Grain, and a new unnamed Cheerios product (be certain that as soon as I find out what it is I will tell everyone I know).

In case you don't feel like googling Saatchi, here are some of my favourite (it's a UK agency) ads they've recently produced:







Cheerios is why I wanted to work in advertising. Ok, that's not true. But, the idea of Cheerios is why I put up with getting yelled at and working like a dog. I can only hope that this move will open more doors for the future and maybe bring a little more sanity/happiness to the present.

Like Brother said, "living the dream."

Tales from the ER

There's nothing like a Saturday afternoon in the emergency room:

The quality television programming. Today's choices -- Groundhog's Day or The Backyardigans.

The cast of lovely individuals in the waiting room. The mother who used more four letter words with her child than a taxi driver in rush hour. (I'm adding her to my list that includes IKEA, Kathy, and that rude woman who cut in front of me in the grocery store the other morning.) The hipster that sliced his wrist with a cake knife on his birthday. (And, who proceeded to make out with his girlfriend while she kept his bloody hand elevated.) The Russian that almost started an ER brawl after making a derogatory comment to an elderly Jewish man in a wheel chair. The woman who in reaction to her son telling her she was going to be a grandmother threw her fists in the air and yelled "YESSSSSS!" (I kind of imagine Graham's reaction to be similar when Becca tells him the good news.)

The fresh scent of disinfectant and stale coffee.

The ample time to consider important life issues. Including, but not limited to my favorite type of cereal, the title of my first novel, how realistic Grey's Anatomy is and the weird scar I have on leg from an unfortunate flat iron incident a few weeks ago.

But, in all seriousness, Whitney is still alive. Her right kidney is being a big, fat jerk, but it's nothing a little time and some really strong pain meds won't fix. I'm not sure how much help I was today, but I was happy to be there for moral support. Plus, I'm pretty sure I earned some roommate karma. And, frankly, you can never have enough of that.