The Grass Is Always Greener

Growing up, you could safely call me an “indoor girl.” I had no interest in planting, gardening, flowers, etc… I happily traded all my outdoor chores with my sister. In other words, I spent many a summer day making beds, setting tables and washing dishes.

My general disdain for all things green continued as an adult. I relished apartment living. I didn’t even want a terrace, for that might require a potted plant. After a recent move, a new neighbor gave me several pots seeded with herbs. Yeah, they died.

When I arrived in Michigan (a year ago this week!) I noticed a huge flowerbed in front of our house. I eyed it warily. Jeremy insisted it was landscaped. He may have even used the words “lush foliage” to describe the garden. It looked like a whole bunch of weeds to me. And that made me nervous.

Last summer I was inundated with new experiences. I met new friends, began driving again and found a new job. The garden, and all its overgrown splendor, slipped my mind. It got to the point where I almost didn’t notice the giant weed that began to sprout tree branches.

Alas, such ignorant blindness was not going to cut it in ’07. I began weeding a month ago. Weeding is backbreaking work. You’re down on your hands and knees, pawing at dirt, while wrenching heavily rooted plants out of the ground. And that dirt is filled with worms, bugs, night crawlers, weird beetle things… ok, I’ll stop. I’m getting the shivers all over again.

The first round of weeding went well, despite the pain in my fingertips, back and legs. Beautiful tulips blossomed in the garden. They were a hold over from the previous owner’s landscaping which managed to survive my weed-happy apocalypse. Being the novice gardener I am, I had no idea tulips only bloom for five minutes. Driving rains came through the region, and thus ended the lives of my tulips.

When the last tulip flower fell, I realized all my hard work was for naught. My garden still looked like total crap. That’s when I knew it was time – time to go to Home Depot.

Living in the suburbs and owning a home means you go to Home Depot. A lot. While I had spent countless hours in Tiling, Cabinetry, Flooring, Lumber, etc… I had never stepped foot in the Nursery. I went into the Nursery with a game plan, namely, I was not doing this gardening thing again next year. I limited my search to perennials and winter-lovin’ shrubs. Four trips later (there’s just so many shrubs you can fit in a Camry) I had all the elements of a no-muss, no fuss garden. Now I just had to plant it.

The planting was fun, as compared to the weeding, which means, in actuality, it was no fun at all. My good friends the worms, bugs, night crawlers and weird beetle things were all back. They watched as I planted my Plantation Lilies, Asiatic Lilies and other assorted perennials. I moved over and planted my shrubs (which as I lack all knowledge of floral naming conventions, I refer to as “fluffy heads.”) After the last shrub was planted, I doused the whole flowerbed in cedar chips, cause there’s no way I’m weeding again this season.

After I finished, I stood back and admired my work. The garden is clean, neat, and requires minimal upkeep - my dream garden. While I appreciate how it looks and I’m proud of myself for stepping way outside of my comfort zone, I was thoroughly miserable the entire time I was planting.

I spent all winter cooped inside my house, waiting for the sun’s warmth to return. Now that its summer, the new season has brought with it new chores. Everyone here claims it’s so great to get outside, but every time I go outside I have to weed something, plant something, paint something or move something. It’s the warm weather that reminds you how exhausting it is to own a home.

While in NY, I owned no land. Sure, I had to walk 15 blocks north to get to Central Park, but when I got there, I didn’t need to weed it. I could just enjoy being outdoors.

I love my new garden. And I’m darn proud that I did it with my bare hands. And deep down, I know I'll appreciate it more than any perfectly landscaped NYC park because its my own. Now I just hope I can find some time to enjoy it.

P.S. In all fairness, the “Before” pic was taken mid-winter.
P.P.S. But, in all fairness, the garden didn’t look much better mid-summer.
P.P.P.S. I really need a manicure.

Don't Mock It Till You Try It

Last weekend I entered unchartered territory, and I don’t mean my first trip “up north” to Charlevoix, MI. On Saturday, I attended my first Renaissance wedding.

I can’t lie. Leading up to the wedding, I was all mock-y. I snickered as I imagined, lords, ladies, jesters, and large legs of mutton and grog. I pictured duels and jousting, elaborate line dances and fanciful music.

I was not disappointed. Except for the mutton and grog. Does anyone even know what grog is?

But, while I fully intended to snarkily highlight one faux pas after the next, I found myself beguiled by the charm of the wedding, and the bride and groom. The bride, a novice seamstress, made her dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the groomsmens’ tunics (yes, they wore tunics and carried swords…) AND her mother’s dress. Not one of the outfits looked costume-y (and that’s a hard feat when you’re a dude sporting a tunic.)

I asked the bride what inspired the wedding’s theme and she replied the desire for good times and celebrations. Perhaps the costumes added the merriment to the feasting, because everyone sporting a hair garland, chain mail, or (gulp) a ball sac, all appeared to be having an amazing time. The silliness of the costumes provided a giddy atmosphere to the wedding, which accurately captured the rush you first feel when you fall in love with the person you’re destined to marry.

While I had a great time this weekend, I’m not entirely sold on the idea of “theme weddings.” In other words, don’t rush into an ebay search for an authentic can-can dress for my Moulin Rouge! theme wedding. But what I did learn was humbling. I was too quick to judge. And perhaps we place too much emphasis on planning the perfect wedding, rather than one that feels fun and spontaneous - with or without the melon jousting.

The New American Dream

Generations ago our ancestors arrived in this country to pursue a better life. They came to America to live a life of prosperity, religious freedom, and if you believe the clients I work with, the right to drive a Chevrolet. They worked hard, hoping to earn enough money to provide their children with a better life.

Over the last decade the dream has changed. Complete with dramatic lighting, jazzy sound effects, ousted participants and an annoying D-list host, the American Dream is now… to win a million dollars on a game show.

So, last Saturday morning, I excitedly dressed to attend the Open Casting Call for Deal or No Deal, held at the Millennium Center in Southfield, Michigan. For those of you who have never seen Deal or No Deal, here’s a quick summation: An overly excited, borderline insane contestant is selected to participate in the challenge: Find the one briefcase out of 26 that holds $1,000,000. The drama is heightened by offers meant to sway you from your quest by the insidious Banker, who sits on high like a modern day Dr. Claw, sans cat. Models in sparkly dresses hold the briefcases in perfect formation and appear to cheer you on when you select their case, but are really just relieved because their 4-inch heels hurt their feet and they can finally sit down. And the ringleader of the madness is Howie Mandel, formally known for harassing strangers on the street with his hidden camera pyrotechnics. I freaking love this show.

Its probably the only show in the history of American television that offers contestants with no discernable skills, save for the ability to read a number on a briefcase and point, the chance to win a million dollars. Have I mentioned I love this show?

My friend Nikki first alerted me to the open call auditions. We decided that we had to go. The gates opened at 10am so we met at 9:30. Unfortunately, roughly 7,000 people got there before us. The first couple of hours on line were fun. We chatted, we made friends with the other would be contestants around us. The sun was shining and the temperature was cool. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my day. By 1pm we had moved far enough in the line and were convinced we were “half way there.” By 2pm we crested the turn in the parking lot and realized there were a helluva lot more people there than we originally thought. By 3pm the pain had settled in our feet. My shins hurt, my back hurt and the bag I carried on my shoulder weighed at least 100 pounds.

3pm was our breaking point. Nikki and I looked at each other. I could tell both of us wanted to go home. Nikki said, “I’ll go home if you want to.” I replied, “I won’t ask you to leave.” The problem is we couldn’t leave. We had already been there for five hours. To leave would be a waste, but to stay – well, that couldn’t be a waste, could it?

We persevered. We inched forward on the line. The sun settled low behind the trees and we realized we were sun burnt to a crisp. Dirt and debris began to blow on the ground. Not enough trashcans were provided and pizza boxes, water bottles and I swear I saw this, a whole fried chicken carcass, littered the ground. And we still inched closer. By 5pm, irony settled over us like the swirling cloud of parking lot dust that caked our skin; because so many people had become discouraged and left behind us, we were still only “half way there.” I think it was at this point I began to laugh like a hyena.

By 7pm we arrived at the door to the Millennium Center. Shaded from the sun, we began to shiver. We waited. At 7:45 we were allowed inside. We were led into an auditorium filled with even more people. We waited again. At least now we were seated and warm and not surrounded by filth.

At 8:30 a casting dude arrived on stage to inform us of what was to come next. We would be divided into groups of 10. We would approach a casting associate and have 20 seconds to reveal something about ourselves. I waited nervously. 20 seconds? What could I say in 20 seconds about myself that would be both interesting and unique enough to set me apart from all 7,000 people that came before me?

And then it was time. My waiting had finally come to an end. Nikki and I were shuttled into line and we ran up the steps. We entered the stage. As I waited in line for 11 hours I imagined what this moment would bring. I kept picturing the final scene in Flashdance. I would arrive in a sun-dappled room (forget that it was 9:30pm) and approach a table that separated me from several stern looking men in suits. I would smile and being my audition.

Instead, my group of ten ran onto stage and saw one, lone, 24 year old casting assistant who’s only claim to authenticity was the white cotton “Deal or No Deal” shirt she wore. One by one we went and one by one we choked. And then it was my turn. I racked my brain. I said: “Hello. My name is Rachel Sterling. I’m 30 years old and I’m from New York City. I used to live in Times Square over a porn shop next to a strip club with my sister and her girlfriend. I’ve lived in Detroit for a year. I work as a video editor and I cut Chevy spots all day.” Fin.

I looked at the casting assistant. I yearned for some recognition. Some sign that would tell me whether I’d made the cut. She smiled and then turned to Nikki. That was it. 11 hours and 30 minutes and all I got was a polite nod.

Nikki did well and she too received a non-response. In fact no one in my group yielded any sort of positive feedback, even the woman who claimed she would propose to her boyfriend on the show, or another woman who insisted that every time the Banker made her an offer she would shave a row of her hair off.

My band of ten left dejected. We were only slightly encouraged to learn that barely anyone had received a callback that day. Instead, they hold your information on file and can call you anytime between now and a year to cast you on the show.

You may think we were crazy to have waited out the day. Perhaps you’re right. But Nikki and I left the Millennium Center and we were filled with joy. We had done it. And who knows? Maybe one day in the not so distant future, I may get that phone call. I may get my shot at the New American Dream.

Unseasonably Depressed

I noticed it several months ago. I just couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Sure, it was dark out, and the bedroom was cold, but I mean I REALLY couldn’t get out of bed. I’m a notorious snoozer. I can hit that snooze button two… three times before I finally get up. But one morning, not too long ago, I went five times before finally extracting myself from bed.

Five incessant bursts of alarm clock buzzing is a whole lotta snoozin’, people.

I didn’t make the connection between my omnipresent lethargy and the weather until two weeks ago. We had a brief reprieve from winter. The sun returned, the temperature rose, and the damn snow finally stopped falling, blowing, sleeting, collecting and whatever else it does all winter in Michigan.

So on that bright sunny afternoon, we opened the office doors and pushed our ergonomically correct desk chairs into the scenic Southfield Commons parking lot. We poured tall glasses of Bloody Mary’s, left our fleeces, scarves, sweaters and gloves inside and turned our faces to the warm sky,

This being Michigan, spring’s stay of execution was short. Dark clouds rolled in, the wind picked up and the rain came down. We reluctantly moved our chairs back inside, drained the remainder of our drinks and went back to work.

It has come as quite a shock to me how much the weather here has affected my moods. New York isn’t exactly balmy mid February. The difference, however, is the sun. On the coldest days in NY, the sun burns bright, reflecting off the streets and the buildings. Even inside, rooms feel warmer when the sun is out.

Michigan is sandwiched between the Great Lakes, so while Detroit doesn’t see a great deal of lake effect snow (most of that is dumped on the west coasts of both Michigan and New York) we get all the cloudy, damp, generally miserable weather. Day after day passes without a break in the clouds.

People here handle it in different ways. Some go tanning, accepting the sun’s false substitute. , Others book vacations to southern destinations. And others just hunker down, buried under warm blankets, and wait it out.

Its early April now and each false start of spring gives me new hope that winter is almost behind us. Of course, it’s hard to be optimistic when the forecast calls for a chance of snow everyday through April 20. (Oh, how I wish I were kidding. Check it out. I dare ya.) So for now I’ll continue to stay inside, snuggled and warm, snooze button at the ready.

Where are you from?

That’s the first question we heard last week.

We had just arrived. We were in the lush tropical courtyard of the Key West Harbor Inn. It was happy hour. Several of our inn-mates had already taken up residence by the pool, drinks in hand. Jeremy and I looked at each other uneasily. For two New Yorkers living in the Midwest, this is a loaded question. I piped up. “We’re from Michigan.”

I caught Jeremy’s look of surprise. Its not everyday I admit I’m a Michigander. Normally I can’t wait to tell people I’m a New Yorker. I’ll even provide cross streets of my last known address if necessary. But this time I wasn’t having it. You see I’ve vacationed as a New Yorker before, and it's not fun.

On vacation you meet people from all over the country. Invariably the first question asked is “where are you from?” Responding “New York” yields one of two responses: absolute love or intense hatred. The person who loves New York asks a million questions. They want to know where you shop, eat, live. They gush about the one time they visited New York and saw Times Square or they bemoan the fact that they’ve never been there.

On the other end of the spectrum is the person who loathes New York. They mention the dirt, the crime, the pollution, the expense. Most of their information is accurate circa Summer of Sam, but they insist they know the truth, regardless of the fact they’ve never stepped foot on the island of Manhattan. I like to think most of those people are jealous

For a short time after 2001, we became 9/11 New Yorkers. Every question asked, while empathetic, was morbidly curious. No, I didn’t see the Towers collapse, No, I didn’t know anyone that died and No, I’m not afraid to continue living in New York.

The problem with all of these questions is they’re not personal. Once you tell someone you’re a New Yorker, you cease to become an individual. You become an ambassador for your city and are expected to provide restaurant and Broadway show recommendations on demand.

So on that sunny, humid day, mere steps from the Southernmost point in the United States, I grabbed a beer, smiled and said “I’m from Michigan.”

SHAME ON YOU!

You know who you are. You’re the people that bitterly complain that nothing’s happened all season on LOST. And now you don’t watch. You, the fair weather fan, are jeopardizing the one show that’s managed to fill the void in my heart left by the untimely death of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2003.

And now another show has bit the dust. Last night we saw the season finale of The OC. I hear you laughing. The OC? Are you serious? That show was lame. No it wasn’t. It was funny, irreverent and utterly ridiculous and I loved it.

To examine why The OC died is to study the evolutionary course of episodic drama. Many a comparison has been made between The OC and its predecessor, Beverly Hills 90210 (hence forth referred to simply as Niners.) Niners lasted for ten years while The OC burnt out in under four. Sure, those final three seasons of Niners were atrocious (Vanessa Marcil as Tori Spelling’s illegitimate half sister/competitive ice skater? Blech) but the story telling was [relatively] strong until the seventh season.

I recently caught several episodes of Niners on the Soap Network and the show doesn’t hold a candle to The OC. The writing is dismal, the outfits, even by early 90’s standards, are comical, and the soundtrack (cheesy guitar riffs, anyone?) is obnoxious. But what Niners had that The OC so tragically lacked was pacing. Those writers managed to drag out the Brenda-Dylan-Kelly love triangle for nearly three seasons. Dylan’s father’s mysterious death in Season 4 was revisited again in Seasons 5 and he was brought back to life in Season 10. On The OC, a love triangle arc could be resolved in under four episodes. Marriages, career changes, arrests, etc… never lasted more than half a season. New characters were introduced and then removed in record time. All of this made for exciting, albeit unrealistic programming, but it didn’t encourage the show’s longevity.

So, what does this have to do with LOST? Many people argue that the writers haven't resolved any of the mysteries central to the show's core. They are frustrated that none of the storylines have yielded new information. That’s called pacing, people. I’ll remind you of another Fox episodic drama, and personal fave of mine, The X-Files. Oh, poor, sweet X-Files. For six, blissful seasons we were teased with black goop, alien-human hybrids and the omnipresent but mysterious Cigarette Smoking Man. Then the movie came out and explained everything. Now all they had to do was prove it. But the magic was gone. We, the viewers, knew too much, and the only thing left to do was change the channel.

Its my belief that LOST’s success is based on its ability to keep the viewer guessing. When a mystery is resolved (i.e. the identity of The Others – Scruffy, Walt-stealing “Zeke” was way scarier than poor, bumbling, possibly gay “Tom”) the balance of power shifts from the writer to the viewer. We now have the information, and if we like the way the narrative is headed, we’ll continue watching. If this new development displeases us, perhaps we’ll stop. But not having any information at all, keeps us intrigued, and that keeps us tuned in on Wednesday nights.

Perhaps the demise of The OC, and the pacing backlash that’s assaulted LOST this season stems from the changing pace of today’s society. We’re no longer content to watch our dramas unfold slowly and thoughtfully. We’ve become fixated on resolution with little regard to how that resolution is achieved. So, my dear, sweet readers: Use those DVRs wisely. Slow down and savor the LOST magic. Because its not always about how the story ends – its about what happened along the way.

Long Time No Blog...

I originally started this blog to examine my observed differences between life in Michigan vs. New York City. For a couple of weeks, I was on a roll. Then I stopped writing. Why, you ask? My official answer is I became engaged and singularly obsessed with reception sites, calla lilies and tulle. But that’s not the truth. In actuality, it got too damn cold.

With the exception of traveling to and from work I have not left the house in weeks. WEEKS. The temperature hovers at 10 degrees. It’s icy, snowy, sleety, slippery. At night wind chills dip dangerously low. As I’ve struggled to come up with a topic to write about, I realized I haven’t done anything blogworthy since the Great Kitchen Reconstruction Project. And I’m certainly not going to blog about the pivotal decision of straps vs. strapless wedding dresses.

I did, however, manage a dinner date with a girlfriend last week. I bundled up in my big, fluffy, purple coat and headed out into the cold. We met at Outback Steakhouse (which, you snooty New Yorkers, is actually quite scrumptious – I recommend the coconut shrimp, but I digress.) We exchanged pleasantries, chatted about work, discussed the aforementioned strapped/strapless conundrum and then we got into the (pardon the Outback pun) meat of the conversation.

My friend went on a first date with a guy she really likes. He took her out to dinner on a Saturday night and they really hit it off. She continued to talk to me about their blooming relationship, but I couldn’t focus. First Date on a Saturday night? A whole dinner? What is he, crazy?

Back in my pre-betrothed dating days in NY, Saturday nights were precious. They were reserved for my good friends. We went to nice restaurants (not Outback), saw plays, had birthday parties, and generally had a grand old time. First Dates are random. They are in fact, not a guaranteed good time and no Saturday night would ever be granted for a first date.

First Dates occur on Tuesday, usually over one drink in a heavily populated bar, where escape from both physical harm or social atrocity is easily accessed. If things went well, a second or third date would occur on a Saturday night. The First Date thus became the pre-Saturday night screening process.

But what if the New Yorkers are the crazy ones? During the work week, we’re distracted and short on time. Are we really giving the nice, sweet man who’s paying for the martini a real chance if we squeeze him in on Wednesday in between the gym and LOST? And, as much as we don’t like to admit it, when us girls go out on Saturday night, looking our finest, aren’t we really looking for someone new and interesting? Wouldn’t that time be better served sitting across a dinner table from someone whose attention is focused wholly on us, rather than the scantily clad chick at the bar?

New Yorkers are risk averse daters. They return emails after a several hour delay regardless of the beeping Blackberry on their desk. They impose 2-day moratoriums on returned phone calls. They withhold Saturday nights from first time suitors. Some people might call this “playing games.” I call it dating protection. However the real risk for New Yorkers is not taking any risk at all. As someone who has taken the biggest risk of all – I left New York and followed my heart to Detroit – I know that the net only appears once you jump.