Amines Are My Enemy

At least, I think they must be. The only times I've ever had anything like a hangover were once when I had an absolutely terrible reaction to a Rioja (never, ever again) and once when I drank sake.

Well, God bless NASA. Not only do they constantly espouse sound project management tools, they've now come up with a device that measures chemicals called amines, which they think cause red wine headaches. Guess what alcoholic beverages are highest in amines? Red wine and sake.

Of course, at the moment the device is the size of a briefcase and probably costs almost as much as the space shuttle. But one of these days, I'll be able to order wines from Spain again. One of these days maybe I'll even be able to face a turbulent reunion with unflitered sake. Then again, maybe not.

Can I get an "Amen"?

Belinda Luscombe pleads with Warren Buffet to pony up for a worthy cause. It is hysterical.

I often wish that structural engineers would make themselves useful. I mean, if they can build a suspension bridge or the Sydney Opera House, surely they should be able to advance us beyond the Jane Russell era. (And would it kill them to make it pretty? I know that form follows function, but I don't think that's supposed to actively preclude a little lace.) The pain and suffering of bra shopping have eased slightly in recent years. I have learned to pay more than $50 for a good bra. I cry a little when I pay my credit card bill, but it's better than crying in the fitting room. And still I say that when a corset feels like a vacation, something is wrong. (You know what the British say. A change is as good as a holiday.)

I suppose that at the moment, the structural engineers are legitimately occupied making sure our bridges don't fall down. And as a person who is scared to drive over a long bridge, I'm all for that. Good for them, I say. I just hope they take notes while they're doing it so that their knowledge can eventually benefit the lingerie industry. I'd like some support while I can still walk upright.

You've been nominated for Who's Who in America

Anyone ever get an email with that title? I've gotten one once or twice. The email looks like this.

Dear ,

It is my pleasure to inform you that you are being considered for inclusion in the upcoming 2009 Edition of Who's Who in America^®, which is scheduled for publication in October 2008.

Since 1899, when A.N. Marquis published the First Edition of Who's Who in America, business people, researchers, educators, students and others have relied upon its accuracy and currency of information. As we look forward to the publication of our 63rd Edition BLA BLA BLA BORING BORING BLA BLA

To be considered for inclusion in this prestigious publication, you need only provide the requested information by completing our secure and easy-to-use online BLA BLA BORING BLA

The information you provide will be evaluated according to the selection standards Marquis Who's Who has developed over 100 years as the world's premier biographical publisher. If your data passes our initial screening, we will prepare your biography in Marquis Who's Who format and send you a pre-publication proof for your verification and approval.

I congratulate you on the achievements that have brought your name to the attention of our editorial committee. We look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Yadda Yadda.

(I did edit it a little bit, I bet you couldn't tell). When you get it, you get this little hiccup inside. It's like "They like me, they really like me!" Until you realize that they don't even know who you are.

In my case, it's like this. I'm not a somebody, and I'm not a Who's who. I'm a Who's That. As in "who's that over there at our exclusive party and how did he get in here and how do we get him out." Or something. So you get this email and you figure, how much are they going to charge you. And it says they don't (in a post script I didn't bother to paste here). So then you figure, do I have some old high school buddy working for WW that would put my name in as a joke? And then you realize, you only have one old high school buddy, and she writes a brilliant blog and works in a different industry and would tell you if she was working for WW (right, Katy, right???).

So what I figure they do is go through and pick out everyone, say, who has a PhD, or everyone who has published anything just about anywhere. And if they do that, they'd come up with me, just barely. I mean if someone from WW read something I published that pushes the numbers of people who have read my work up to, oh, about one reader. I am definitely among those who is "published" but not at all "read." Even a little. So I should probably be thankful some poor bastard at WW is paid to see if I've published anything. But that doesn't make me a Who's Who. Still pretty much a Who's That.

Not that there's anything wrong with being a Who's That, mind you. Most of us are, right? Let's hear a big rousing cheer from all the Who's Thats out there reading this (thank you both, loyal readers). The tricky thing is sometimes you get this feeling like you're a Who's Who, and that's a dangerous feeling. You start to feel like you're joining the elite club of people who have Made It. Don't ask me where they've Made It to. I really don't know, cause I haven't Made It there. I mean I've made it, if you know what I mean (nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more) but not in the capitalized sense. It feels a little bit like being invited to sit at the cool kids table in mid school. I imagine. And when you think of it that way, there's really only one thing for someone like me to do with an email like this.
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Delete.

Isn't It Supposed to Be Fall?

What the heck is up with this weather forecast? 79 today? 83 tomorrow? Where is this "fall" that I was promised? Are the trees even going to know to change their leaves?

Not that I'm complaining about it today. I woke up at 8 this morning, which was Wrong. It was Wrong because first, I've been having some trouble sleeping again (no surprise there--I have fallen off of every wagon I was on, including taking fish oil, which I suppose proves that we would still have obese people if they invented a real "fat pill"). And second, 8 is Too Late to get the washing machine downstairs. I am drowning in piles of dirty laundry.

Still, fall I was promised, and fall I shall have. This is just a slightly schizophrenic Indian summer--kids are going to be all hot and sweaty in their Halloween costumes.

Life in the Big City

Tonight I had my hair cut by a Russian woman named Svetlana who did all kinds of astonishing things with it (razor cutting and then that thing they do where they pull it in apparently random directions and cut it all straight so that when you run your hands through it it miraculously makes you look like Jane Russell straight from the hayloft). She cut very fast to the beat of dated pop music on the radio and confided to me that she hasn't liked anything since they stopped making disco. She told me 8 million times that I was beautiful, and when she was ready to dry my hair she looked at me and said words that no hairdresser has ever said to me before: "No product, right?" Oh my god. I don't know if she stole my other hairdresser's notes or what (I practically had to threaten him with a gun to restrain him from spraying me with smelly Aveda aquanet), I could have kissed her.

She also did the impossible. She tamed my hair's tendency toward the librarian. I tuck my hair behind my ears a lot. It tends to make me look like I'm auditioning for Marian the Librarian in "The Music Man." Except that the casting director would sniff at me like Michael Kors judging Project Runway and say "There's librarian, and then there's dowdy." I know that the right hairdresser can sabotage my unfortunate habit, but it's almost impossible for most of them to believe that anyone would deliberately engage in compulsive behavior that makes them less attractive. There is almost no way I can tuck my hair behind my ears. First of all it's so fluffy that it just won't stay anywhere. And secondly these windblown-looking little tendrils escape and fall over my face. It's very exciting.

And then I came home and ordered a monstrous amount of Thai food, which came to my doorstep. There are at least four meals here, and it was $20. I want to cry, I'm so happy.