I have very mixed feelings about this blog. I refuse to let it wither and die. I wish that Daniel would post--his irreverent humor and occassional insights into DC life are very readable. I wish we weren't worried about our parents reading it. I wish we were more capable web designers (that is, I wish I knew how to do anything except type into this computer like a typewriter).

But why would anyone read this?

Lately many people have told me that I need to keep notes for my memoirs. This would be the fascinating memoir of life with the uber-Homer-scholar, my boss, and life with Greeks and Classicists. Yes, I think that my boss is worth the subject of several memoirs or one of those copious biographies about an academic personality you've kind of heard of but can't remember where (the kind that gets reviewed in the NYRB). And yes I know that I can write some good stories about Greeks, and being in Greece, but I always wonder: who cares? I guess I just need to start writing and take the plunge.

Let the good stories flow.

Welcome to Cicada-ville

Another life in DC post:

As I was walking up the hill to work today, I thought I discerned the sound of Cheney-man's motorcade leaving his fortress. It seemed as if the sirens were getting closer and closer as I ascended the hill. But after a few seconds and the sirens did not pass, I realized that it was the terrifying sound of cicadas mating all around me. It is an elusive sound, which fades in and out and never seems too far from you at any moment. During the past few days, they've seemed to get bigger and more bottom-heavy with a big spiral-shaped posterior. At lunch, they dive-bombed my plate of taco salad.

Although I'm glad that Dick Cheney's motorcade isn't going after me, the eerie sound of cicadas mating continues to ring in my ears.

I've been feeling nostalgic about the good ole days here at BDA. Back when I had a partner. A partner in blogging who liked to give orders in the guise of a certain Rufus, a partner who understood the life of the "young professional" in DC. A partner who urged us to hold on for one more day and keep going.

Now, on the eve of my impending visit to Trinidad, I can think back on how much has changed in our lives since we started this blog. Yes, this is my "new years" entry, where I use terms of comparison like "now" and "next" to describe what's out for 2003 and in for 2004. Where I dismiss all the things I've been doing lately as the crazy whims of 2003 and predict the next big trends. Example:
Now: Metrosexuals Next: Ruralsexuals
Now: Greek night Next: Bulgarian Feta Night
Now: Jim Beam Next: even more Jim Beam

And you know what's really now and next? My hot new
Sony Ericsson T616
How I love it so.

I'm off to Trini for the holidays, to be reunited with my partner in BDA fun, to find out where my blogs really been at.

I know I have been silent for a long time! I'm coming back soon, though, I promise. This just had to be on my blog:creative panties with a Greek flag.

Hey! I am published somewhere else on the web besides this pathetic blog! Everybody click here to read my distinguished remarks. You'll have to scroll down to my name, but man is it worth it. Trust me. And while you're there, don't forget to read about the first Greek satellite, Hellas Sat 2. Greece joins the "space club." I think I went there, it's a dive bar on Poseidonos Avenue...ha ha.

How I Love New Jersey

I've never really had any face-to-face contact with New Jersey before. It was always a mythical place of big hair, Bon Jovi, and Bruce Springsteen (for those of you who know me, you know that I am NOT one of the millions who worship him). But this weekend I had ample time to ply its leafy boulevards, make lots of u-turns, and really get to know the garden state.

I got REALLY BIG HAIR, courtesy of Dominic Matthew Salon, formerly Hair Visions on Route 46 East in Parsippany. My hair was so big, it stood on its own for a full two days.

I drank champagne in a pool at the Benedict-Livingston Historic Home with girls in bikinis and studs in Greek fisherman hats (okay, so must of the girls were my friends from high school and the guys their boyfriends/husbands).

I hung out in Hoboken. And let me proclaim from the rooftops how cool Hoboken is. I am in love with this place, where I ate a frosted cupcake with my chai and drooled over the 50s-formica bar counter.

Oh yes, I love New Jersey. It is no longer the "dirtyjers" to me. And that's a big complement coming from someone who grew up in the "eastaroch."

Minga.

The Art of Sizing Up

I know we said here at Blog Day Afternoon that we would have a "no politics, no romance" forum, but this blog is my forum to bitch about life to an infinite internet audience, and for pete's sake I'm as single as it gets. And besides, this post isn't about romance, it's about dating. "Dating" ain't romantic.

Since I've been dating for...oh, about eons now, I've had my share of bad and some good dates. Dating is about the art of sizing someone up, and it's far from romantic or charming (unless your date tries to be). American dating has a bad tendency to be all about consumerism, since we're all rugged individualists looking for our ideal mate, disconnected from familial and social networks of the past (I'm sure I can be more articulate about this once I read that "bowling alone" book). We size people up on the first date to see if they meet our personal checklists for happiness. Higher education? Check. Loves dogs? Check. Drinks soy milk? Check. Now don't get me wrong, chemistry is everything, but sometimes chemistry doesn't get a chance to come through when you're too busy sizing someone up. Of course everyone wants to know whether the other person is looking for the same things they are, like a serious relationship or an extramarital fling, depending on the circumstances. But here comes my big complaint: men really aren't subtle about it, and it drives me crazy. I've gotten so frustrated about dating, not just because it's depressing, but because you feel like you're a kilo of potatoes at the Greek farmer's market that some old giagia is haggling over. Today's lunch date (otherwise favorable except for the following comments) was just a perfect example of that: on the first date he asks: are you ready to settle down? With that look in his eyes that says, "I know you're a wild and free single-twenty-something who couldn't possibly want to settle down ." When I say I'm ready for a relationship he asks whether I want children. But the subtext is: Are you the one to bear my children?

When I was in college , I wasn't one of those "feminists" chalking "subvert the patriarchy" on the sidewalk in front of the fraternities, but I did feel a little twinge of the partriarchy today at lunch: Could you be the one to carry one my bloodline?