the new view - near the cube, not from the cube (i should be so lucky). if you squint, you can see the guy at columbus circle who always, always asks me to take his tour, though i've passed him once every few days for the past two years.

ze new view


don't want to move it move it

it's the end of an era here at casa de ladymag. as of 4pm this afternoon, i'm out of my very own office and on my way to the new megabuilding. the loss is incalculable: no more reckless book-hoarding,* no more AC/DC at top volume as i pick through medical studies, no more lounging behind my big desk sans pants. just look at those stacks of dollies, waiting to rip my stuff apart and carry it across the city like so many malevolent fuzzy rainbow ants. "my stuff" is a misnomer, though - we aren't allowed to have plants, candles, bulletin boards, or "large personal items" in our new digs, so i'll be lucky if i squeak in with my shiny, shiny pen cup and a few photos of joe and the cats.

then, o then, there's the likely new dress code. since i'm rarely needed at meetings and never have to meet clients, i roll into the office in tees and jeans - never together, mind you, but we define our 'office casual' rather liberally. now that we're to share escalators and elevators with the folks in corporate, i fear that nylons and i are going to get reacquainted.

goodbye, sweet privacy. hello, um, pants.

*this is probably a good thing - i don't really need a copy of barbara boxer's first novel or fifteen vegan cookbooks - but the apartment is looking pretty crowded now that my lovely auxiliary library is taking a dirt nap and its contents have been repatriated. i had twelve huge shelves, people.


we all knew it could end this way.
come here, go away: the wedding edition

come here, godawful wedding crap. without you, i might never have known the cake topper joy that is mermice.

go away, get axl for our wedding guy. i get that brian herzlinger's my date with drew made it seem cool to solicit celebrities via the internet, but dude? that ship has sailed.

come here, indiebride, for sheltering me from the wedding-industrial complex and offering solid tips on everything from enlightened invitation language to a competent local seamstress. speaking of,

go away, special occasion lingerie makers. sure it's tough to build underthings that are strapless AND backless AND unhideous, but it ain't impossible. i don't want to wear nasty-ass stick-on...things any more than you want a quick punch in the kidney. see where this is going?

come here, veiled conceit ("A glimpse into that haven of superficial, pretentious, pseudo-aristocratic vanity: The NY Times's Weddings & Celebrations Announcements"). you soothe the sting of feeling too low-born for the times - and keep me honest when i feel like trying for it anyway.

go away, running of the bridezillas. no brides-to-be should have to trot through times square with steer horns on their heads, even if they're voluntarily whoring themselves for $25K from a reality show. would you sponsor something like that for, say, new moms? they're vulnerable too, and all.

happy june, all! time for another installment of come here, go away (still tm tomato nation).

come here, the descent, you crazy foreign horror flick. you've got an all-female cast, you're the scariest thing i've seen in years, and your advance screening was free. you could have chipped in for the stiff drinks we needed afterward, but hey.

go away, cesar dog food commercial featuring the magnetic fields' "i think i need a new heart." i've gotten past the idea that indie bands should hide in my CD pile and refuse to shill for corporations - hell, i actually enjoy the jaguar commercial with spoon's "i turn my camera on" - but cheap dog food? joe supposed that stephin merritt feeds the stuff to his dog, to which i say two wrongs don't make a right. then i think of the culinary implications of the title and - ew. that's like "judy and the dream of horses" in an elmer's glue ad.

come here, replacement wedding florist - no, really. sure, my mom is the queen of last-minute event planning and could pinch hit if you continue to flake on me, but i've given you money, and we're way past the point where you could tell me for three weeks in a row that the estimate would be ready "tomorrow." i will cut you.

go away, crappy american economy. a bride-to-be shouldn't be worrying about the federal reserve, but my ignorance of projected exchange rates is killing me as i plan this wedding. the british pound is kicking ass and taking names: if i'd made today's reception payment six months ago, i'd have saved a cool $200.

come here, knitta, please! - i wish i'd thought of tagging car antennae and telephone poles with fuzzy scarflings and half-socks. much like the leekspin girl (via douglas), your crew takes me to a happy place where i don't want to beat florists to death with ben bernanke.