the revolution got me pregnant.

Gordon Wood tells me, in The Radicalism of the American Revolution (which is excellent, btw), that "in the last part of the eighteenth century, one-quarter to one-third of all brides in some areas of America (and England too) were pregnant before marriage."

How, pray tell, was this particularly juicy statistic determined? The information comes from an essay published in the Journal of Interdisciplinary History, so I assume it wasn't pulled out of thin air. I'm picturing a few haggard graduate students poring over the marriage and birth records of England and colonial America, endlessly counting the months between matrimony and arrival of progeny. Or endlessly imputing data into spreadsheets. I hope they were paid extremely well. I bet they weren't.

Fun fact, though, right? And I thought 6th graders were bad. But what do you think got those colonials preggers? Lack of birth control, raging horniness, or the revolutionary spirit? Gordon Wood thinks it's the revolutionary spirit, and I think he might be right. (Changing social mores, rebellion against paternal power, etc, etc...read the book.)

I still feel bad about the grad students, though. I wonder if they're all ABD.

fake trees and plastic people.

Traditionally, I loathe New Years. Too much expectation, never any fun. This year, though, Christmas is coming up as my least favorite holiday. Not only has my family bought a fake (fake! ahhhh!) Christmas tree, but the hoards of holiday shoppers flooding New York has made this years consumption-fest incredibly unpleasant. I know the dollar is weak, and New York is awesome, but can you please, please learn to walk faster? I kind of, like, have places to be. Kthnx.

Or maybe my lack of holiday cheer has something to do with the insipid diamond commercials that play every commercial break. Really, can they be any more saccharine? ("Show you really care...buy your wife some conflict diamonds!") My fervent Christmas wish is that Zales and Kay Jewelers annihilate each other in some freak diamond competition.

To top it all off - you thought I couldn't possibly keep whining, but think again - my cousin (who has a lot in common with Barbie) is getting married the Friday before Christmas. So in addition to presents, I had to buy a dress and shoes and a bag; I'm getting my hair cut, my eyebrows threaded, my nails done, etc, etc. I plan make all the effort worthwhile, btw, by drinking an obscene amount of alcohol at the open bar. The only blessing: I am re-gifting something for the wedding present.

I know, I sound like Scrooge. Well, bahfuckinhumbug. Dickens can bite me.

On the other hand, as much as Christmas is shaping up to suck, I'm excited about New Years. I have plans with awesome people, dinner reservations at a nice restaurant, and I even have a dress to wear (cause, you know, I just wore it to a wedding). So, in the long run, the holiday season will probably end up being just as shitty and just as fun as any other year. Three cheers for balance.

life is hard, #121

I used to spend December on my couch, watching tv and eating cheese. That was good. I enjoyed that. Now, it's December 4th, and I feel like Thanksgiving was a year ago. How can five weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas stretch on for a year? There's just so much work to do, and it's so assface cold outside, and there are so many shiny ornaments and pretty shoes everywhere. It's so tempting to take a two hour lunch, and to just keep pressing the snooze button. How can five more minutes snuggling with my pillows really make a difference, after all?

I've got news for myself: it makes a difference. It's like that month I spent listening to Elliott Smith. I told myself it didn't matter how depressing the songs were, or that he stabbed himself in the chest with a kitchen knife. That wouldn't make me want to kill myself. I was kind of wrong. And if you're looking for a less dramatic example: it's like finishing that whole carton of ice cream. You figure it doesn't actually make you fat. It's only the one time, after all. But then you realize what you just did, and that you are gross.

Either way, I can't help myself. Yes, I finished that carton of ice cream, and yes, I listened to King's Crossing so many times Elliott Smith started to make sense. And this morning, I hit the snooze button five times. That's 30 minutes of snuggling. My pillows don't need that much love, and I needed three cups of coffee this morning before I could look at the computer screen without squinting. That doesn't mean I won't be doing it again tomorrow, though. Apparently, I have no self-control.

And, so what? As with all things, I think to myself, "What would Machiavelli say?" In this case, I think he would tell me to get over myself. Hannah Arendt, on the other hand, she would take a drag on her cigarette, give me a withering glare, and say, "while it is true that freedom can only come to those whose needs have been fulfilled, it is equally true that it will escape those who are bent upon living for their desires."

So maybe I should try to get to work on time? And reconsider buying those $300 boots? Yeah? OK. Thanks, Hannah.

victory is mine.

Google finally, finally implemented my brilliant idea: gmail group chat.

But now when will I do work?

never is a not promise.

Since the last time I whined about how little time I have to read, I've made a concerted effort to do better. Reading is my only hobby, after all. I can't neglect it, otherwise I'll be even more boring than I am now. I managed to finish a few books (see my new goodreads thingy if you actually care) and I feel better about myself now. Go me.

Anyway, as promised, I read the The Scarlet Letter over Thanksgiving. I said I'd never, ever read it, but alas, I'm happy to say I broke that promise. I'll never be a huge fan of gothic romances, but I did enjoy the book. (It was certainly better than the movie, but what book isn't?) I also sufficiently conquered my fear of Puritans that I'm now reading a history of colonial America. I now know that Pilgrims aren't the same thing as Puritans, and that Benjamin Franklin is distantly related to the founder of Folger's coffee (through his mother, Abiah Folger).

Really, the whole story is new to me. I was never taught American history in school. All I remember from elementary school is that the Native Americans invented lacrosse and the Dutch were the original settlers in Manhattan. I studied US history for a brief moment in 9th grade, but my teacher had lipstick covering half her face and that made it difficult to pay attention. Later on, we covered 20th century American history, but I pretty much missed out on everything that came before the First World War. I studied the Mexican Revolution for about six months, but no one ever mentioned the American Revolution.

And up until recently, I wasn't so interested. Pre-20th century American history always seemed like a boring subplot to whatever was happening in Europe. In college I read some Jefferson and learned a little about Constitutional history, but that's about it. It's tempting to blame my lack of curiosity on the fact that I'm the grandchild of immigrants, but really, isn't everyone? And it's not like I know anything about my actual ancestors, who did absolutely nothing of note in the shtetls of Europe and the potato fields of Ireland.

Being something of a half-breed, and the child of transient parents, I really have very little allegiance to anything. I have no religious affiliation, no hometown, dual citizenship and less than a century of accurate family history. The only thing I know for sure is that I'm an American. It might be good to know something about that.

Now, who wants to draw up a syllabus for me?

i love firefighters.

Here’s a rough breakdown of my Sunday night:

4:35-ish: I arrive back home from a nice day out and about in the city.

4:40-ish: I realize that there is water dripping from my ceiling and onto my living room floor.

4:46: I call my landlord. No one answers, I leave a message.

4:47: I call my Mommy. She tells me to go talk to the neighbors upstairs.

4:50-5:02: Rose, my upstairs neighbor, shows me the insane water damage on her ceiling and tells me that she has been calling the management company (they are supposed to fix this sort of thing) since Wednesday night. She also tells me that there is also extensive water damage in the apartments on the 3rd and 4th floors.

5:04: I call my landlord again. He picks up. I give him the low-down, and he tells me that he will call the management company.

From about 5:15 until 8:00, I just putz around. I make myself some dinner, read the rest of the Sunday New York Times, do my laundry, and watch some Grey’s Anatomy. The whole time, the small bubble of water gathering under the plaster of my ceiling is expanding, and the amount of water collecting in a pot on my floor is growing.

8:00-ish: My roommate, Julia, returns. She views ceiling with horror, supplies towels to cover floor with.

9:00-ish: The plaster groans. Daryl and her sister return, the situation is explained. No one is pleased.

9:15-ish: A large chunk of plaster falls off the ceiling. All roommates freak out. Julia calls this "our very own Katrina."

9:25: I call my landlord again. He comes over to see what’s going on. He does basically everything we’ve already done – goes to talk to the neighbors, calls the management company again. By the time he leaves, water has started to seep into the kitchen ceiling, and is now dripping onto our refrigerator and stove.

10:35: A whole horde of firefighters show up at my door.

10:37: My landlord appears, and explains that he called them. He was worried about the electrical system shorting out due to water damage.

10:40-11:00: I discover I love firemen. They are so attractive in their flame retardant suits. They also break down a door in my basement and debate whether or not to turn off the water in the building. After a while they decide not to, and instead issue a violation order for my landlord to deliver to the management company. The firemen explain that if someone doesn’t come in 24 hours to fix the problem, we can issue a summons and sue the bastards. I am silently very grateful for the fact that both my landlord and my father are lawyers.

12:15 am: The head of the condo board shows up at my door. He wants to see the ceiling. He rants for five minutes about the incompetence of various incompetent people. I want to point out to him that I am in pajamas, and would like to go to bed. I don’t.

As of right now, I have no idea what the condition of my ceiling is, but I'm sleeping at my parents apartment tonight, and wrapping all my valuables in plastic bags.

gobble, gobble.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, by far. I love fall, and pumpkin pie, and mashed potatoes. I love Thanksgiving. For years my family would go to Philadelphia to see my relatives there, and that was fine, but since I started college we've stayed in New York, and Thanksgiving has gotten even better.

This year, after going to see the Macy's Day Parade, I spent the day alternating between the kitchen and the living room couch, where my cousin, who came down from Boston, patiently explained the rules of football to me and my sister, yet again. (I still don't understand the scoring.) Then we all pigged out, on squash soup, turkey, mashed potatoes, carmelized onions, salad with pear and gorgonzola, cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce. After all that, we normally go for a walk to digest and come back for the grand finale: pie. After pie, as per tradition of the last couple years, we went out to a jazz club. My cousin is a jazz musician, so he picks the best show in town, and it's always fantastic. Last night was no exception.

I'm sad Thanksgiving is over. But, for posterity, here is a picture of this years pie, baked with my own loving hands: