My weekend was awesome! Dana was here from Canada, I got to see Stu! and a whole bunch of other friends, I hung out with my younger cousins, Grandma and I went shopping and she bought me birthday presents, I got to have brunch at one of my favorite brunch places, and the weather warmed up for the first time in ages which made the entire city a buzz with happiness. The parks were full of people who were soaking up sun like they were at a methadone clinic.

But seriously? One thing topped it all for me: deep fried cupcakes.

Park Slope [my 'nabe in BK] has been itching to get its collective grubby paws on some deep fried Robeicelli’s cupcakes for months. There was Cupcake Gate 2010 – a local shop was going to have them, but then they weren’t available but people thought they would be, and everyone was disappointed and grumpy and there was internet drama. (Boooooo!)

Finally we got some. On Thursday night I actually had a dream of biting into a deep fried tre leches cupcake, and on Friday I ate salad and steamed veggies all day in anticipation.

Normally when you’re that excited about eating something it’s not nearly as wonderful as you’ve dreamed, but in this case, it was better. A deep fried tre leches cupcake is like sex. Or drugs. I got a little high. Chris said to me, “I know. Everything. I know the answer to everything now.” and I nodded because totally got what he meant. That shit was life-changing.

Also, there were really, really hot guys at the event.

Are you ever fake nice to someone?

I started thinking about this the other day when my friend Jerilyn posted on Facebook: “completely irked when strangers in the elevator tell me to ‘Smile!’. Bah!”

I hate it, too, because it’s not a strangers place to tell me what expression to have. What’s worse is that 99% of the time it’s an older man cajoling a smile out of me, the younger, pretty woman, as if to say, “You, young lady, are to beam happiness and light for my enjoyment”.

What I hate more, though, is that I automatically smile back. Before thorny indignation has a chance to prickle my expression into a grumpy harrumph! and offer up a zingy one-liner (or just a terse “Fuck off.”), Miss Nice, overgrown and bossy, comes bursting out with an obligatory smile. “Here you go. One syrupy sweet facial expression, just like you ordered. Have a nice day, sir, and thank you for keeping me in line.”

Damnit! Smiled again!

I’m not saying I want to be telling little old men in elevators to fuck off. If your last erection was during the Regan administration, I’ll forgive you for being anti-feminist and make do with an eye roll. It’s those creepy 50 and 60 year old guys need to be told to STFU.

Do I actually need to take Meanness lessons? How do I squash down this “nice girl” tendency that seems to have ingrained itself? How do we raise our daughters (and little sisters, and younger cousins, of which I have two that I love more than anything) to be strong enough to not smile-on-command, or worry about being a Good Girl at the expense of being a strong woman?

That, more than anything, is is what’s important.

Occasionally I’ll be eating something and then look down and be like, “Why the hell am I eating this? This has loads and loads of calories and zero nutrition. It isn’t even good! I do not need this!” and then I KEEP EATING IT. And I have no idea why. Do you know why I don’t know why? Because there is no scientific reason why.

I like science a lot. I like rationality, precision of speech – I don’t do “emotional” well. So it kind of sucks that my “get healthy” kick has to involve emoting and “feelings”. Bleh.

I know what a calorie is – the amount of energy it takes to raise one kilogram of water one degree Celsius. I know that it takes 7700 calories to burn one kilogram, or 3500 to burn a pound. I know we evolved to prefer fat and salt (hello, Fritos!) and that eating trees is out of the question for us because we can’t digest cellulose.

But I have no idea why I keep getting Cheesy Bread from Dominos.

Part of the beauty of blogging is opening yourself up to the world. This is what people point to as the worst of blogging, too, (“Why do you want everyone to know you made a cake?!” or “Why do you want the world to hear about your emotional issues?”) but that mentality doesn’t jive with me. I love it when someone shares about their day – even the little things like a new cake recipe – or talks about what they’re struggling with because I learn so much about my own self, even if what they’re talking about isn’t something obviously related to my life.

Sharing like this was something I used to to do better than I have been currently. I curbed it on purpose because I needed to be less heart-on-sleeve for a while, but it’s been lonely to not write my feelings. And so, these are my feelings: I am happy mountain climber. This life, if it’s a mountain, I’m in the middle of it. I can look down and see all of these unbelievable rock formations I’ve gotten over, and I look up and can see others that seem insurmountable and I keep loosing my footing, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit!” and think I can’t get through them, but then I remember those really scary rock formations I’ve already gotten through and I’m like, “Oh, yeah, I actually can totally do this.” So I’m happy, even though it’s hard, and I’m still climbing.

I had a series of incidents a few months ago that devastated me – I’m being vague because it involves other people and would be tacky to disclose telling info, ok? Someone was unbearably unkind to me, and it crushed me for a while. I’m just now starting to fluff back up again. And, you know, there’s one thing I’m really good at, and it’s not letting people who don’t matter get me down. But this person matters, because they are woven into the fabric of my life whether I like it or not, and the incidents were so troubling that I had to do something I’ve never done before: I sought medical help to get through. I lost sleep, and hair(!), and confidence in my ability to maintain the level of grace I expect of myself. I stopped eating well (although I managed to not stop exercising, which helped tremendously), and eventually emailed my doctor, a huge step for me, and asked for help. I am a big believer in “save yourself” ala Iyanla Vanzant but this time I just couldn’t do it alone, and Rob couldn’t help me by himself either (though, bless him, he tried) and so I said to an outsider, “Help me” and OH MY GOD THE WORLD DIDN’T COME TO AN END.

I know; you know that. But it shocked me.

He ended up not prescribing anything at my insistence, and that was a mistake (I’m really not good at this “ask for help” stuff). I just didn’t want to feel like “Oh, I’m one of those people who needs drugs now.” even though I read all of Heather Armstrong’s posts labeled “depression” and should, therefore, know better. But just talking to someone helped, even though it felt weird.

I’m better now. I managed to save myself with a little bit of help. It was harder than it needed to be, and I won’t make that mistake again. I’m learning. And I’m getting fluffier.

picture via flickr user Ripis

The good part:

They left my phone, which was sitting right below the GPS in the center console, in plain sight. (Never again.)

It didn’t happen somewhere else, leaving us stuck figuring out transportation home.

It didn’t happen last week when Rob wasn’t around to help me deal with it.

It was just drizzling, not pouring rain into the interior.

There were no guns pointed at my person.

A few weeks ago I heard a suggestion to change the “home” address in my GPS to the nearest intersection or gas station or whatever, so if it got stolen, thieves wouldn’t have a bee line to my front door. I did this immediately, in spite of Rob laughing at me for being paranoid.  Who’s laughing now, Blatt?!

We were able to log into our account and disable the software, so it’s pretty useless.

Even if it wasn’t useless, they forgot the power cord. The company has ceased production on all units, so they won’t be able to get another one. Ha!

They took the iPod/iPhone charger/player, probably thinking it was the charge cable to the GPS.  We debated spending so much (fifty bucks) on it, but the external buttons on it meant that changing the music was easy to do without taking our eyes off the road. That feature alone made it worth the cheddar. After a few weeks, though, the buttons stopped working, and I was really disappointed. We couldn’t chuck it because it was fifty bucks and still charged/played music, so we sucked it up.  I’m kind of excited to have to replace it.  Buttered popcorn.*

Our insurance paid for the glass, and it was fixed by ten the next morning.

The glass place meticulously vacuumed the interior of the whole car (it NEEDED it!)

NYPD showed up with not one, but two solid looking men in blue. Be still my heart.

*You know how you go to the movies with someone and they get a popcorn to share, and then while you’re getting the napkins and straws, they douse the thing in butter?  And then you’re like, “Oh no!  Well, if it’s already on there…”

I’m staying in bed today. Nothing good can happen. This week has been a comedy of errors, minus the comedy.

Here’s the scene: It’s Monday, 11:30 at night. I’m still in my workout shorts and tee shirt, cleaning the apartment before I shower. The dogs are outside and I’m mentally timing them because it’s freezing and I don’t want them to get too cold out there. I’m completely alone; Rob’s in Vegas until Tuesday.

I do a trash-dash to the front of the building, not bothering to throw on shoes because I’ll be only on the stoop, and only for a second, and it doesn’t seem worth the trouble to stuff my feet into my Chucks. I get to the porch and perform a move where one foot kicks back to heave the security door open behind me while I launch the garbage bag forward, arms extended, all while balanced on one foot in the middle.

You know the kind of move. It’s one of those things you do a hundred times, and every time, you get to feel like some sort of ninja doing “efficiency kung-fu”. (I know I’m not alone here, people. ‘Fess up!)

Anyway, the bag lands exactly where I want it to with a perfect, satisfying arc-and-thump, but my foot hits the building, not the door, and blam! just like that, I’m locked out. Cold, no shoes, in shorts, dogs outside. Ninja my ass.

Sensible things first: I bug the neighbors. After a few rings someone crackles through the speaker with a grumpy, “Who’s there?” and I say, “Sorry, it’s Amber, I’m locked out.” Then silence. I don’t know if they didn’t hear me or were asleep or just misunderstood and thought I was a random punk or I got the Spanish speaking neighbors who didn’t understand, but no one came down and I didn’t hear from them again.

I twist the door handle over and over, but I know it would take a crowbar (or, you know, a key) to get it open. So I cry. A lot. And while I’m wailing in the front, the dogs start barking to be let in in the back, and my poor legs turned this weird, red pre-frost bite color. There are bars on the windows, and the apartment is in the middle of a block of row houses, so breaking in or running around to the back isn’t an option.

Eventually I figure out how to get in, but I actually can’t tell you how because I totally broke the law doing it. But everyone was fine.

Tuesday I broke an expensive plate and cut my foot on the one shard that I missed while cleaning. I had to pull it out myself because Rob wasn’t home yet, and it was brutal.

Wednesday was the worst. You know how there are two types of pregnancy tests? One kind gives you two lines if it’s positive and one if it’s negative. Another gives you three lines if it’s positive and two if it’s negative. Confusing, right? You just had to re-read that twice, right?

So… I’m late. Like, “Noah was on that old boat less time than this” late. And I’m grumpy because being late makes my normally in-check hormones start to crackle and fizz and go haywire. The day after Rob comes home I pee on this stupid stick and holy god above I get two lines. So I’m shaking, no, I’m vibrating, and I walk into the living room waving it over my head, and I’m all “Dude, DUUUUUUDE!”

It took us a few minutes to figure out I had the “three for positive” kind. (I’m blaming the lateness on the flu a few weeks back and airheadedness on cuh-razy hormones.)

You can send your condolences to my poor husband, who is still recovering from shock. I’ll be hiding out in my room until next week.

These past few days have been long. Really long. Epic. I’ve had the flu (swine or plain, I’m not sure. “It doesn’t matter,” I was told, “the treatment is the same.” But way deep down I wanted it to be swine flu so I could be bad-ass and trendy. So since I’ll never know: I have swine flu. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

I haven’t really left the bedroom, and I haven’t left the house since New Years Eve. The end result is that the rest of the house looks like a tornado hit it. “When you stop functioning, I do, too.” Rob said. No shit.
To be fair, he’s been doing a wonderful job taking care of me, and he makes a mean cup of chamomile tea. But the house is close to being declared a disaster area.

I’ve had amazing, vivid fever-dreams about all sorts of things: there was one in which I owned a giant pumpkin farm, another where I kept a collection of exotic big cats in an old mansion, and one where I went halfsies on an eggplant parm sandwich with President Obama. I wouldn’t normally mention them, but they feel so real.

Leeloo has been my near-constant companion. I think she’s worried about me. They’ve all been in and out of bed with me for the past few days, but Leeloo especially keeps peeking at me with luminous eyes, wondering if I’m ok.

I have a friend who is an MD, and we called him pretty late Saturday night for advice. He gave me a regimen to follow, and I’m starting to come around. Horray for kind doctor friends! Joey, if you ever need to start a podcast, call me. I owe you.

I decided to move this from October to the end of the year, so this is life lessons from a year and change.

I learned to catch mice and let them go harmlessly.

There was a plane crash that happened about 20 minutes after I left the airport, and I was so happy to narrowly miss it.

I hung out in Wisconsin and watched Obama take office.

Rob and I threw amazing parties and met tons and gobs and heaps of new wonderful people. I gained an audience, gained a perspective, gained a voice, lost friends accidentally, lost friends on purpose, cried over things I shouldn’t have, toughed out things I should have cried over, and started to learn the difference. It’s a process.

I drank too much, talked too much, said too much and stumbled home too late. I made pies, donuts, pretzels, latkes and tofu.

I rode the subway in my underwear, and I screamed at the TV when the President spoke (because, when you vote for someone, you want them to be Good and you despair when they aren’t. This was new.)

I found out that TiVoing every single episode of People’s Court pays off big time when someone threatens to sue you. (The other day Rob laughed as I started watching Judge Millian litigate yet another case and said, “This People’s Court devotion thing is the LAST thing I would have guessed about you.” What can I say? I’m a woman full of surprises.)

I learned this: in New York, if you think you can’t park there, you probably can’t, and you have to check in at the Apple store when you have an appointment.

I found out that drugs really are bad. (I should have learned this years ago, of course, but this year was the first time I saw hard drug usage change a person for the worse.  Bummer.)

I helped save a good orange cat from a hard life on the streets.

We figured out how to throw a good party. I don’t think I can tell you how, but every single one of the parties we threw this year had a magical, mellow, sweet feeling to them. No one got loud, no one got (too) drunk – it was all goodness. I think the secret is curating your friends really well. There, that’s it. Curate your friends thoughtfully, and your parties will swing.

SxSW rocked my world and was worth every penny.

The emergency room visit, the first in my life, was not worth it at all. The eventual two thousand dollar conclusion was “fluids and rest”. Never in my life have I been so sick or so ripped off.

I learned to love Rob again. There was a moment there that I wasn’t so sure we’d make it.

I started a podcast and learned that 9 times out of 10 if you ask someone, “Will you come on my show so I can interview you?” they say yes. It’s gotten easier and easier to do a good interview; I’m not stellar yet, but vastly improved from this time last year when I knew absolutely NOTHING!  Listening to Terry Gross helps.

I learned this very important lesson: respecting ideas and respecting people are not the same thing, and you CAN do one without the other, but most people can’t.  Or won’t.

Peeling potatoes started giving me an allergic reaction similar to the one you would imagine rubbing the inside of your nose with oil of ragweed would, and it’s annoying not only because this hampers my mashed potato making but because it makes me sound ridiculous when I’m asked to help at family dinner and I’m all, “Yeah, I can’t, I’m allergic.” I can eat potatoes just fine, I just can’t peel them. It’s really weird.

Twitter rocked this year, and the next person who whines “Twitter is stupid!” to me is getting punched in the face. It’s been an unbelievably useful tool for me both professionally and personally this year, and I will kiss Biz and Jack on the mouth if I ever get the chance.

I got a new wallet, so I’ll be set until about 2019.

I learned not to buy the four pack of deoderant at Costco.  You might save a bit of money but you’ll be so sick of the smell by stick two that you’ll end up buying something else just to save your sanity.

If you need to feed an abandoned baby squirrel, you give them warm kitten formula in an eyedropper, and keep them on a hot water bottle.

Pay parking tickets or they’ll tow your car.

I got to go to the very first game in the new Yankee stadium, making me special forever.

A dog bit me for the first time and I bled a LOT. (It wasn’t one of my dogs.)

I changed my name! If you do, I suggest you not time it with an apartment change – my mail is still screwed up.

Speaking of which, we moved! After searching and searching for the perfect apartment, we found one using a realtor. I will never try to find another apartment without one.

I went nuts and hacked off all my hair.

We put two laundry lines up, and now that it’s too cold to use them, I miss them!

I finally got to see the Westboro Baptist Church up close! They’re so weird!

I got a tattoo.

I started working out.

I got sick about a bajillion times, and I have no idea what’s wrong with me. Something to tackle this year.

You’ve gathered from my incessant Tweeting about it that we were in Puerto Rico for Christmas this year – the annual family trip that turned out to be just me and Rob and his parents. I thought it would be awkward with just the four of us, but it wasn’t, and I thought that going for an entire week would be too long and boring since we hardly do anything outside of lay around by the pool, but it wasn’t and, aside from missing the dogs horribly, I wasn’t quite ready to leave when the day came. The weather is so good, and the Puerto Ricans are so nice, the air is clear, the fish is fresh, and, because I am a Total Nerd, the flora and fauna are so interesting. Seriously! I got all excited watching two geckos show dominance displays for territory while skinny rich girls in bikinis rolled their eyes at me.

Rob and I had a bunch of those Really Good Conversations and also some Really Hard Conversations – the kind that are easy to put off until you are literally stuck on an island together with not much else to do. If you’re married you know exactly what I’m talking about. I was grateful for the chance to relax with him, because the beginning of 2010 is going to a flurry of travel and hosting guests and parties and work and business.

Speaking of which, dudes! It’s 2010! Have we figured out what we’re calling it yet? Is it “two thousand ten” or “twenty ten”? Also, can you believe it’s been a decade since “Y2K”? On December 31, 2009 1999 I was in Jen’s parent’s basement, and we decided that if the world didn’t come screeching to a distopian halt we would drink the water they’d stored in old soda bottles for just in case.

It’s been a crazy decade.

Grandma and I went to the Messiah sing-a-long. We tried, but more often than not we sang the wrong words, the wrong notes, and even from the wrong page, but we didn’t care because it was fun. It was more half singing, half giggling, and I think we pissed off the Serious Singers around us.
We both did the alto part, but next year I’m going to sing with the tenors. Rob likes to joke that I should sing “ten or” eleven miles away. Harumph.

Rob and I had the fourth annual Hanukkah+Christmas party in our tiniest apartment yet, and it worked out just fine. It always does. For the most part, I’ve gotten over missing having a bigger place to live in, with a place to park your car, a washer and dryer IN THE HOUSE that you can use whenever you want, a machine that you put dishes into that magically makes them clean without you lifting a finger, and a room dedicated solely to watching television. And a basement for storage!
But on party days, and in the aftermath when everything is dirty and disorganized and needs to be put right again, it’s frustrating. (The trade-off is that we don’t live in the suburbs where “a night out” ends at 11 pm and involves either a dive bar, a loud bar full of skanky girls and meat-head guys, or the Olive Garden.)
To throw a party now we have to push all the furniture around to make room, but even then people ended up spilling out into the hallway. I met new folks, including the chick who writes STFU Parents. She brought me a Britney Spears ornament.

On Hanukkah night one I got a latke-making lesson from Rob’s mom (I did well!), and I recreated it for our party on night eight, along with sufganiot which are jelly donuts also traditionally served at Hanukkah. Then I made big soft pretzels, chocolate chip cookies and sugar cookies. In other words, I lost my damn mind. It was delicious.

On Christmas Eve I’ll be on a plane early in the morning and will spend Christmas on the beach in Puerto Rico. I make absolutely no promises about not coming home with a dog. We’ll be back in time to do absolutely nothing on New Years Eve. I like it that way.