The Adnostic

When my grandfather died, his collection of fine wines from the cellar (he had an actual cellar, a rarity in LA) was divided among the family. One of my Dad's cousins decided to share this rare vintage with the family on Thanksgiving.

A 1923 Bordeaux! Are you serious? How often does a girl get the opportunity to taste an eighty-year-old wine? Hardly ever and in many cases, never. This was very exciting for me and had anticipated the bottle’s opening the entire day.

Then we actually opened it.

The cork had rotted inside the bottle. Not a good sign. Dad managed to salvage most of the cork and strained the rest of the wine into a decanter, but during the pouring I noticed something disturbing: instead of a deep, rich purplish red the color had a putrid brown tint. Not unlike dried blood. Another bad sign.

My uncle tried the wine first and deemed it "drinkable." I tried a little and found it wretchedly bitter. Other members of the family continued to drink it. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm sure they had their reasons. They just kept insisting that it wasn’t terrible.

It just goes too show you - some wines are like refined ladies and just get better with age; others are like old hookers. Just because they are experienced doesn't make them good.

MommyBloggers is taking a Thanksgiving and server change break and made a few of us gals (moms and non-moms alike) featured guests on their blog. Basically we just answered a bunch of questions and they're posting them on their site. I think there's something like three days worth.

I'm sure you're dying to know what song I would choose as my theme song for a boxing match, what I would name my first child, and the most expensive thing I wished I had never bought.

So check it out. Here, here, here, here, and here. Jelly is brilliant as usual.

I'll post the rest as they are published. Happy Turkey Day people!

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Adendum 11/25/05

Here, here, here, here, and here.

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Adendum 11/27/05

The final entries. Here, here, here, here, and here.

Last night my therapist gave me my first homework assignment. I am to make an effort to be more expressive about my feelings among friends and family. Apparently I suck at expressing my emotions. He didn't say those words exactly, but he did say that I was "really bad" at it. I guess all those years of DIY emotional suppression were a little too effective.

I don't want to go back to the oversensitive sniveling crybaby I was in my youth, but I think he's right; I do need to work on this.

He also suggested that I try antidepressants. Considering my family history and the fact that I can't stop crying every time I enter his office he thinks it's something I should definitely consider. But wait, I thought I was supposed to get more in touch with my emotions? Now I should chemically alter how I think and feel when I already have a piss poor sense of that. I'm not sure this makes complete sense.

Do I suffer from depression? Probably. Does it adversely affect my daily life? Not really. I don't think I am nearly as extreme as other members of my family, but that does not make me immune. Do I think the anxiety related to my depression puts a short fuse on most of my romantic relationships? Yes, but I also think my inability to express myself emotionally has a lot to do with that as well.

Verdict - Hold off on the pills for now, do a little more therapy, start on my "homework," and see how I feel in a few months.

I know, I know, I can't get off the "I just got fired" thing. Just like I couldn't get off the "I just ruined another relationship" thing a few weeks ago. But hey, my website. You don't like what you're reading then head over to Dooce and read about babies and constipation. They are surprisingly popular topics.

Well, according to the LAist, letting people go just before or during the holidays is a very common occurrence in Hollywood and probably elsewhere, and I have to agree, it is a genuinely heartless thing to do. Yuck it up at the Christmas party you bastards, because firing a pregnant woman (not me) is a non-stop one-way ticket straight to Hell. (Yes, I know Jews do not believe in Hell, but I am willing to make an exception for pregnant women who were amazing to work with. God she was smart! What were they thinking?!)

I have an MBA. I am aware of the bottom line, shareholders, and the desire for black versus red ink. I also have to side with Nicholas. There are always choices. The right way or the wrong way. The good way or the evil way. The soft push or the hard blow. Management made a choice. Let some of their key staff who had been there for years, had long standing relationships with their coworkers, and who sacrificed many hours and attention that could have been spent with their loved ones, in a quiet and secretive manner right before the Thanksgiving holiday. I doubt that kind of play will garner the kind of top-notch work they have come to expect from their interactive "center of excellence."

Happy Holidays!

Last night I had dinner with a few of my former coworkers at the Farmers Market. I love the Farmers Market. It's probably the only place on earth where you can get together with any number of friends, eat a plate of nachos, wash it down with German beer, walk a few feet and sit down for some French food, and gently sip on a good glass of Beaujolais while talking boisterously amongst each other. If you can't love that then you have no sense of casual adventure.

I talked with Jay about a possible freelance gig I may have lined up. I asked him how much I should charge and what I could expect. I also discussed the possibility of working as his assistant on some of the freelance market research projects he takes on from time to time. He seemed to like that idea, especially after I told him that I could help him remove bunnies from hats and he could saw me in half from time to time as long as he didn't make me wear a sequined bikini or a feathered headdress. They make me itch.

I exchanged phone numbers and email addresses with some of my old colleagues whom I never got the chance to say goodbye to as I was unceremoniously hustled out of the building (btw - unnecessary and rude).

I got to kvetch to another person who was kicked out with me about the whole process and how if we were in charge we would have handled it much better. She had the brilliant idea of giving the person you are about to fire a choice:
A) Leave now and enjoy so much severance
B) Leave a week from now, say goodbye to people, finish your projects, behave, and receive an ample severance
C) Leave a week from now, do something stupid, and get paid only for the time worked. No severance.

Doesn't that sound so much better than simply kicking someone out the door without so much as a nod? I hope she runs her own company one day, because she would make it a great place to work.

Anyways, I'm really going to miss those people. I'm sure I will run into them again, either professionally or socially. Advertising is a small word and we tend to bounce around a lot.

Yesterday the brass came in from San Francisco and started letting people go left and right, including myself. I was really shocked. Everyone was. Things seemed to be going great - we had good clients who were requesting a lot of work from our office and even discussing the possibility of a retainer. But business is business and profitability is sometimes hard to come by in the advertising world, and the powers that be decided that management resources would be better handled from the San Francisco office, and I was just a little fat that could be trimmed along the way. It happens.

I'm sad about it because I really liked working there. The office had a real camaraderie and my supervisors were very nice and unusually concerned with increasing and strengthening my skill set. I am also disappointed because there was still so much I could have learned from working there. Now I have to go back into the wilds armed only with what I learned in the past 4 1/2 months. Not that that isn't a lot, but it could have been much more.

So, I'm looking again. If anyone out there is looking for someone to do market research and strategic planning on a full time or temporary basis, email me. I'll have my resume updated and posted soon.

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Adendum (11/17/05):

Here's my resume.

By special request from my friend Amanda, who could totally kick Mandy Moore's ass if she had to.

A mandatory for any Gallery of Hot Brains.

Look at him! How can I not make him the first installment of the GoHB? That studious expression, that poignant sense of humor, all those books!

Yes Ira, congratulations, you are the first inductee into my Gallery of Hot Brains. I love your radio show, and I listen to it almost nightly (another reason to love the internet). I think it's great how you elevate ordinary stories into something artistic, humorous, and meaningful. I also like how you and your show bring attention to the little known side of the stories that dominate the headlines:

The kid who went Afghanistan to help his father rebuild a country he never knew.
The town that wasn't even on the map before Katrina hit.
The number of civilian casualties from the Iraq War and how that number was found and then ignored.

Plus, you have the pre-approval of every Jewish mother in America, simply because your name is Ira Glass. Mazel tov!

One of my favorite aspects of the internet is the ability to take someone else's idea, put your own spin on it, and go nuts. Mena Trott, the Mother of All Bloggers, has an actual Wall o' Hot Brains in her office. Upon learning this, I couldn't help but think what an amazing idea that was and that I should have something like that.

Well, I don't have any walls at my office (open office layout meant to encourage collaboration, but only serves to make you that much more likely to get of your neighbor's nerves) and I am not all that thrilled about the idea of making my home look any more like a dorm room, so I decided to create a virtual version of Mena's creation.

I now present to you, Lauren's Virtual Gallery of Hot Brains, because nothing is sexier than a good-looking man with a little extra between the ears!

Growing up I never had a clear idea what I wanted to do with my life. My focus or lack thereof, ranged from doctor to lawyer to writer to veterinarian to "business person." I couldn't have been older than 9 and I wasn't sure exactly what business people did but it seemed important, there were a lot of them, and they dressed well. Advertising Executive, let alone Account Planner, was not even in my field of vision at that young and vulnerable age, but if it was, I'm sure that dream of my life's work wouldn't sound nearly as depressing (or accurate) as this:

And yes, I still like my job, thankyouverymuch, but that comment about busting ass to get a $1,500 raise is soul crushingly accurate.

I saw two shrinks today in hopes of finding one I really clicked with, and unfortunately for my decision making process, they were both good. Nice, but not too nice. Probing, but not invasive. I also didn't realize how much I needed some serious head shrinkage.

With Dr. #1, I basically sat down, tried to calmly discuss my reasons for being there, and immediately started bawling. I don't mean I cried for a few minutes, stopped, collected myself and moved forward with resolve. I mean I cried almost the entire time. I was a delirious mess. We talked about my past relationships, I sobbed. We talked about my family, more sobbing. We discussed my formative school years and early therapy, I could barely speak between honking nose blows. The only time I was able to show any serenity is when we talked about work. No unaddressed emotional issues here. Picture of health, can't you tell?

He seemed to be sympathetic to the tears, but not overwhelmed. Which is good, because I think it's going to be a while before I can get through a session without a box of tissues at my side. On an up note, he said it was good that I was bringing so much emotion to the session and that I was able to talk openly about how I was feeling and the issues at hand. It made me a good candidate for therapy.

Fabulous. I am a wreck, but at least I am not beyond repair. In insurance terms, this means I'm not totaled.

I was a lot lighter on the uncontrollable sobbing for Dr. #2, which may have been because I had gotten a lot of it out with Dr. #1, but it was still pretty much the same story:

Start talking about the break up, tears.
Talk about my family, more tears.
Discuss my early school years, still leaking.

Dr. #2 was a bit more linear than Dr. #1 and also let me know that my feelings of insecurity were normal, but that my decision to try therapy was a good one. So, the same diagnosis - Damaged, but fixable. He was also a little freer with his own thoughts.

Now I need to make a decision between the two doctors. I'll have to talk to a few friends and see what they have to say.

After Ruby suffering a brief brush with death by the hand of my mother from attempting to chew a hole through the kitchen door during a bout of extreme separation anxiety, the vet has decided to try something with her no other Isaacson dog has tried before - psychotropic drugs.

Ruby is now enjoying the benefits of Puppy Prozac and Mom is seriously considering a pet psychotherapist. We are now one of those pet owning families.

Next thing you know, Mom will be insisting that she take the dogs everywhere she goes. Sweaters and rain booties are not far behind. Gourmet pet food? Sure, why not? My parents are empty nesters they can afford the extravagance. Doggie Day Care here we come! While we're at it, we should take the dogs to a pet psychic to open up the conversation both ways. Then Mom will have to make a reservation at a dog camp for the summer and she better act quickly, the best ones fill up early. And you know doggie birthday parties are certainly on the agenda.

I wonder if Epicurious has a recipe for a MilkBone cake?

Suavier: I know somebody who likes you.

[He has been playing this game with me for weeks]

Me: Everybody likes me.

Suavier: I know somebody who likes you.

Me: Okay, fine. I'll bite. Who likes me?

Suavier: Do you really think it's going to be that easy? Do you really think I'd just tell you?

[I grab his thumb from around my waist and proceed to bend it backwards ever so slightly. Suavier quickly pulls his hand away.]

Suavier: Why don't you start with a question? Like is he a hall monitor or the captain of the football team?

Me: Alright. Hall monitor or captain of the football team?

Suavier: [pause] I know somebody who likes you.

Me: Oh God! He's a hall monitor! [I burry my head in my hands]

One of the people I work with is a fan of my blog. He reads it semi-regularly and always makes comments as to how much he enjoys my writing "style." I never put much thought into how I write beyond at trying to be grammatically correct and doing my very best to spell correctly. Really, I do try. I am just never very successful. Style? I never thought of style as something you actually make an effort to develop, it simply exists the way your personality exists. You can develop and possibly artificially change it, but it probably wouldn't help much in the long run.

Most good writers write how they speak. Their vocabulary, articulation, and diction are a matter of constant practice both on and off the page. Me? I write how I would ideally like to be able to talk. I have never been very articulate or verbose. I constantly stumble over my own words, mumble, stutter, and have to hope the other people in the room didn't catch my last mangle of the English language. A futile hope at best (especially in project status meetings at work).

I only wish I could speak like I write.

I have been craving risotto lately. Ms. Jen used to often make risotto for Pea-a-palooza and offer me a generous scoop of her buttery-ricey-brothy goodness which was always accepted and devoured without hesitation. After a few e-mails and IM chats regarding SXSW and life in general with my former roommate extraordinaire, it is not surprising that I suddenly desire a little Jen-themed comfort food.

So, tonight I made Pancetta & Butternut Squash Risotto courtesy of Epicurious (when you have a specific craving, there is no better site) with a side of steamed green beans sprinkled with dill seed, and it was buttery-ricey-brothy goodness. It was the perfect dish for the waning warmth of a California Fall.

Enjoy.

(Watch out for next week, Momiji Man is hosting a tequila tasting at his place and I promised to bring a non-chick-flick to go along with the theme. I'm thinking The Magnificent Seven.)

Vincent Gallo, musician, independent film actor/writer/producer, and all around freak, has decided to contribute to all (rich) female kind by selling his sperm for $1 million. Goody.

Mr. Gallo is 5'11" and has blue eyes. There are no known genetic deformities in his ancestry (no cripples) and no history of congenital diseases. If you have seen The Brown Bunny, you know the potential size of the genitals if it's a boy. (8 inches if he's like his father.) I don't know exactly how a well hung father can enhance the physical makeup of a female baby, but it can't hurt.

Wow, 8 inches? Can I get that on layaway? But wait, there's more! Special preference for members of the tribe!

Under the laws of the Jewish faith, a Jewish mother would qualify a baby to be deemed a member of the Jewish religion. This would be added incentive for Mr. Gallo to sell his sperm to a Jew mother, his reasoning being with the slim chance that his child moved into the profession of motion picture acting or became a musical performer, this connection to the Jewish faith would guarantee his offspring a better chance at good reviews and maybe even a prize at the Sundance Film Festival or an Oscar.

Would that mean I get the $50,000 discount AND the option of a free "natural insemination?" It's hard for a JAP like me to resist a sweet bargain like that. Now, about that layaway and hell freezing over....

A friend of mine earns money on the side "modeling" at foot fetish parties. This is something I've known about her unofficially for a while now. When I first learned about this somewhat questionable secondary occupation, my initial reaction was to call her a foot-whore (not to her face mind you). She's smart, she holds a Master's degree in business, and she has a good job. This is not a girl who needs to sell her feet to put food on the table.

She came out officially to our circle of friends a couple weeks ago at one of our get-togethers. For once I was glad I already knew because I could hold a straight face when she told me that she was going to be christening the top I gave her for her birthday at the next fetish party. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Then she started telling us that she makes anywhere between $100 and $500 for an evening of letting strange men lick her toes and pretending to like it.

Me: There's no way I could do that. I'm too ticklish.

Footsie: Actually, they pay extra for ticklish.

Me: No, you don't understand. I am kick-you-in-the-face ticklish.

I can see it now, some poor submissive vigorously sucking my toes, me trying desperately not to laugh until I just can't take it anymore and literally kick the poor john in the face and break his nose. THEN I would not be able to stop laughing because the situation would be pure comedy. This lack of remorse would inevitably lead to a law suit and my eventual financial ruin.

You may just see it as innocent foot sex, but I am looking at the big picture. Toe sucking = bankruptcy.

Let me start off by saying thanks for the last guy, he was great. Sorry I messed things up by being so insecure. I promise I'll do better next time.

Moving forward, we need to have a talk about the guys you've been sending my way recently. Men who can't stop talking about their Blackberries, think punk shows are scary, and bore me to the point that I almost fall asleep while talking on the phone are not good candidates for the open position of My Boyfriend. I require a delicate hybrid of mental and physical chemistry and that last one just didn't cut it. I know this is a tall order, but you've done it before and I have every confidence that you can do it again.

I also want to thank you for sending an ex-boyfriend out from New York specifically to cheer me up with a little retail therapy to get over the last ex. It's sweet, but it is more than a little unnerving to hear that our friendship with occasional extras over the past three years is one of the best relationships he's ever had. Here I was not even really considering it a relationship and he has me ranked up there with a girl he almost married. Does this mean I can only be taken in small doses or that we simply have vastly differing opinion of what exactly constitutes an intimate relationship? Or both?

I just hope he's not looking to get back together. It took a while, but I finally feel comfortable with the way things are between us - friends, and only friends.