Staci and I met in new employee orientation. She was about to start work as a marketing assistant for the magazine. I would be the newest advertising sales assistant, joining a team of twelve. In the beginning, I envied Staci–the other women (and they were all women) in my position were a few years older than me and I found their existing friendships intimidating.
Plus I looked goofy like this:
Staci and I were the low women on the totem pole, just weeks removed from college graduation.
I didn’t want to like this NYT video because it struck me as a blatant rip off of The Bold Italic‘s recent post about a four-year old’s reaction to The French Laundry.
Property of TheBoldItalic.com
For more than a year, The Bold Italic has been featuring cute little kids dining at San Francisco dining establishments that are all the rage among adults. Click here to read more of the cherubs’ opinions. Continue reading →
As you head off to start your weekend, consider these words:
I read the words “you are not your worst thing” in a recent New York Times Social Qs answer by Philip Galanes – in which he paraphrased the terrific show, Masters of Sex – and I thought that was a lovely sentiment to keep in mind.
Would you ever be the Bachelor?
Now that I’m divorced, it’s feasible.
Alas, he continued:
But there needs to be a level of innocence and naïveté when you come in to be the Bachelor, and I have none. I have seen how the sausage has been made for 12 years now, and I helped make that sausage and so it just wouldn’t work.
This Modern Love column Carolyn S. Briggs really held my attention and brought back some old feelings about family, holidays and expectations.
Consider the opening:
MY three vegetarian, activist, urban, multi-degreed, agnostic, adult children have rejected Christmas as a consumerist sham of a holiday, one in which they will not be participating. Oh, they’ll take the day off and drink organic wine, but they won’t be buying presents, putting up a tree, baking cookies, lighting candles or decking any halls. There will be no taking of a family picture for their card and no sending of that card or any other.
My parents didn’t have a Christmas tree this year. When I visited for Thanksgiving, my mother gingerly broached the subject.
When I was a little girl, I told my father “Daddy, I’ll never change my name.” I felt bad about him not having a son to carry on our awesome, made-up-at-Ellis-Island last name. Dad hugged me, I remember. I think he remained silent or said something like “Oh, honey.”
By the time I was a teenager, I panicked. Changing one’s name was what women did when one got married, right? Could I break my promise to Dad? Would he care?
Some do. At least it’s a choice now. But some people are making other choices that make me strain my side-eye muscles.
I proclaim this woman, whose essay appeared in the New York Times, to be one part brave and two parts absolutely insanely foolhardy.
I decided to do my prenatal appointments and delivery at the French military hospital, Bouffard. The anesthesiologist did little to reassure me.
“Sign this,” he said in French, sliding a piece of paper across the desk. “It says you have considered the risks of giving birth in Djibouti, that we can’t medevac you out, and that you understand there are no proper neonatal pediatricians and no neonatal care in the country.”
I gulped and skimmed the paper, which also explained that, should I need a Caesarean, he would perform it.
“I recommend you go to France,” he said. “Or Dubai.”
I shook my head. “My husband is an English professor, and the university will already be in session. I can’t do it alone.”