I know I tend to write about my workout habits too much (when I actually work out) but we need some information/suggestions.

After a run we had last night, it seems that my lovely husband went and discovered himself a rash. It’s a rash one might find in between the legs. And it hurts. And it’s red. Poor Beaner.

In between my beautiful renditions of, “It rubs the lotion on the skin or it gets the hose again.” are his google searches for “ways to relieve the redness and all the ball-chafing.” That said, any or all information regarding what a boy is to do when faced with such a problem is greatly appreciated—consider it my 31st birthday present. And besides, you were all so helpful in the past.

Lately, Toby and I have been meeting after work at the New York Sports Club on 14th street and 6th avenue. Justifying the cost of the NYSC membership means having to attend often. And today, I can barely move.

I feel as though someone beat me with a sack of oranges. Twice. My ass hurts, my legs hurt, the top of my feet hurt, my shoulders hurt, my arms hurt, even my nipples hurt. I can’t even begin to explain the amount of pain I am in today.

But that’s not why I’m writing.

I have always found that the experiences one has while at the gym are rather fascinating. While I’m there, I can’t help but watch everyone around me as I have conversations with myself. What else is there to do but listen to an iPod and watch everyone (including yourself) act weird? Nothing. Even TV can’t keep my interest for long. Basically, I’ll do whatever I can to make the mere split seconds I am beating myself with go by a bit faster. If that means pretending everyone is watching me and if I stop running they will all laugh? Then, so be it. Keep running, bitch. If that means saying I can’t stop until the calories I ingested for lunch are blinking GONE! Across the red beaming lights below. Then, so be it. Keep running, bitch.

Basically, I create little milestones just to so I can push myself a bit further.

I’ll go until I reach my age in minutes.

(Hit that.)

I’ll go until my perogies are digested and gone.

(They’re gone.)

I’ll run until this guy either gets rid of PJ Harvey or he licks her injuries.

(Done.)

If you stop the guards will shoot you.

Whatever works.

The other day while I’m talking myself into beating myself with a sack of invisible oranges, a young lady hopped onto the treadmill next to me. She was a wee bit shorter than me, probably 5”4’. She was of an average build. Her extra weight resided around her hips and on her thighs, while mine surrounds my belly like an inner tube. (Not that I make it a habit to compare myself to others, I’m just trying to paint a picture without giving anyone the impression that I am MISS FIT USA.)

She stood there punching in numbers. It did not appear she knew what she was doing. (We’ve all been there). Her hair was brown and long. It was pulled back in a ponytail. She was pretty in that sorority sort of way. Finally, her treadmill kicked on. She put her headphones on then placed a magazine down on the rack in front of her. It was the thickest, pinkest magazine I have ever seen.

BRIDES

And then I saw it. On her left hand was the BIGGEST rock I have ever seen in person. It was sittin’ pretty and perfectly. It stared back at me as if to say, “You are merely coal.”

She opened the magazine to a page that had been previously dog-eared. Lying before her was a spread. On one page was a close up of a woman in a veil. She was perfectly done up. She looked like a doll, a porcelain doll.

“Photoshop.” I cynically thought to myself.

On the other page, the same model was wearing a wedding gown—a perfectly fitted, most elegant, probably 10 thousand dollar wedding gown. This woman was a model. She was born into this world solely to wear long, elegant wedding gowns. And I have to admit, the gown was really beautiful. And there would be no way in hell I could ever fit into it, let alone look good in it.

“Hussy.” I cynically thought to myself.

The girl next to me began to jog. She was running towards something. Her goal was much clearer than any of mine have ever been. I knew at that very moment that she will eventually fit into that gown and look even better than the phony woman in the spread before her. But I had no way of telling her that.

But by God, if didn’t witness the most perfect display of an incentive to keep on running.

Tonight, I am bringing the bikini I wore at age 20. I will place it before me, and I will run backwards for 10 years.

My meeting went well. The highlight of the time I spent there was when I was lying belly-down on the oily floor of a bowling lane, inches from the pins, with my asscrack peering out above my pants because all I cared about was my camera and getting the shot.

Yesterday, I had a meeting with a client at the Port Authority on 42 Street.

While wandering around feeling confused and totally disoriented about which way was north, desperately trying to avoid staring directly into any and all neon, my eyes fixed upon this sign:

Talk about feeling nervous at a meeting. Yeesh. That’s quite the request. Anyway, the sign reminded me of one of my favorite movies and then I remembered the following joke.

How do you make God laugh?

Make a plan.

I have more client meetings today and tomorrow and on Friday. That said, my writing might be somewhat sporadic over the next few days. Maybe not. We’ll see.

I am turning 31 on Saturday. I might have to go Whack-A-Mole. Surely that will at least make God smile.

Good day, sweet people.

P.S. I’ll write more about my trip to the 6th Avenue/14th NYSC later on today.

Let me get this straight, the fetuses are human while in the womb but once aborted (or miscarried) they then become medical waste? (Here is Another link.) I realize that this is the church’s way of working the legal system to justify and perpetuate their cause, I’m just not sure God would approve of all the flip-flopping to perpetuate their cause.

(From the Times.)

Was the material that the parishioners interred on Sunday in blue cloth bags mere medical waste? Or human remains? Colorado law has very different things to say about burial depending upon the answer, said State Representative Debbie Stafford, who has been involved in writing funeral law legislation and who went to the ceremony to support the church. A party seeking to bury cremated unclaimed human remains, for example, is bound by numerous legal requirements, including a year’s waiting period after death, Ms. Stafford said. She said she believes the church members violated no laws if all they did was bury human medical waste, which is subject to different rules.

Later, an entrepreneur might step in, buy the land, and build a Wal-Mart. After all, they’d only be removing medical waste, right?

There is something entirely too cyclical and weird about all of this.

I forgot to mention one important thing. Last night, we made our second round of homemade pasta together. This time, we used the Imperia Pasta Machine. It RULES. That’s about all I have to say about that. I am in love with this machine.

For Christmas this year, Melissa and my brother got us a gift certificate to Williams-Sonoma. I love Williams-Sonoma. Every year, they make hundreds of dollars off of me. Last year, I got Toby four Henckel knives. This year, we got my parents a Waffle Iron. For Toby’s birthday this year I got him an All-Clad slow cooker. One might say we’re hot for appliances.

For weeks now we have had this gift-card burning a hole in our pocket. On Saturday, during the blizzard, we did what any New Yorker might do during a blizzard; we went shopping in Chelsea.

(click images to enlarge.)

(Toby standing outside the liquor store waiting for me to finish up the picture-taking already.)

(Shovel-man and balloon-man.)

About a week ago, I made whole wheat ravioli which I hand-rolled with a rolling-pin. While the quest was rewarding and the pasta was pretty tasty, they were way too thick and my arms hurt. But here they are, uncooked.

On Saturday, we introduced another appliance into our household: The Imperia Pasta Machine.

We also purchased some hand-towels, some pie pans, and a new colander but nothing is more exciting than The Imperia Pasta Machine. After we finished up at Williams-Sonoma, we stopped by Bed, Bath and Beyond and purchased a few other necessities. Shopping is always fun. It’s even more fun during a blizzard when people are running around confused and cold and wet. And it’s even better when the wind is wreaking havoc on your face, armed with thousands of pieces of ice that feel like cold needles when they hit you. Regardless of the wind, the snow, the grumpy people and the ice, we managed to have fun and spend money. And the stores were relatively empty for a Saturday night.

Here are some more images I took as we were stumbling home.

(TobyJoe going downstairs to the L Train.)

Once home, we stayed there until Sunday morning. Missy was visiting, so we ordered Thai food and sat around and watched T.V. The snow fell throughout the night, leaving New York City beneath a blanket of snow 15 – 18 inches deep. And I loved every minute of it.

Here is a photo I took while walking to have brunch at Lola’s on Sunday morning.

This weekend was great. And for the past three days, I have received my NYT.

A few days ago I wrote a long post about how much I love my New York Times. On the same day I compared the New York Times to being my nighttime mistress, someone began to steal the bloody newspaper from our front porch.

Yesterday, I got up early and crept downstairs in my pajamas. My hair was all over the place. It looked as if someone had spent the night electrocuting me. Balls of sleep were dropping to the floor from the corners of my eyes like yellow snowflakes. My teeth were untouched and therefore fuzzy and my breath could have taken down an elephant. One might say that this newspaper is important to me. Yesterday, I got down there before the kidnapping took place. There it was wrapped in blue lying below me on my front stoop. And I can’t be certain, but as I bent down to pick it up I think I heard the word “Mama.”

Today, I got up and walked Toby out. Barefoot and cold, I waddled down the three flights of stairs behind a bundled up Toby. He opened the inside door and then the door leading to the street.

I don’t believe it. It’s gone.

Gone? What do mean, gone? It can’t be GONE. That can’t be true.

It’s gone. It’s not here. Some asshole took it again.

My head turned hot.

I am so angry right now. Who would steal a newspaper? Why would someone steal my newspaper? I want my stupid newspaper. IT’S YOUR NEWSPAPER. I WANT YOUR NEWSPAPER.

I know, hon. I’m sorry. I know you’re upset. You need to make a sign like Noel said. Just make a sign that reads, ‘Hey asshole, stop stealing my newspaper.’ Now give me a kiss. I have to go.

I am going to put up surveillance cameras. This has got to stop. I hate them.

I gave him a kiss and he was off.

Once inside, I my anger became more and more real. I started to wonder what it is I should do. After some time, I figured I had no other choice.

If I can’t have her, no one can.

There was nothing left to do. I had to call the New York Times and cancel my subscription.

I’d like to report a robbery. My paper is being stolen.

She went on to tell me that this happens all the time. And while this might not come as much of a surprise to some, it damn near shocks the hell out of me.

Newspapers all over the city are taken on Sundays because you can get more for a Sunday paper. I think they sell for 5 dollars. So people steal them and then resell them. Nuts, isn’t it?

Absolutely! What do you do when this happens?

Well, we usually open your account up for an investigation. First, we find out of it the delivery guy is forgetting about you. Once we realize that this isn’t the case and it is actually being stolen, we start to hide the newspaper.

Hide the paper?

Sadly, yes. We have been forced to put them in trash cans, stuff them in bushes, put them under benches, you name it, we’ve done it.

That’s crazy talk.

Rest assured, you’re not alone.

I guess I could see it as a little daily scavenger hunt.

That’s a good way to look at it.

I never saw an episode of Law and Order where a menstruating woman sat outside and waited to kill her newspaper thief. Maybe on the day the headline ran, someone stole the newspaper leaving them nothing to rip from.

Given the number of thoughtful email I have received today regarding what I not so thoughtfully wrote about above, I wish I had opened comments. I think people would have enjoyed it.

I’m sorry.

P.S. Yes, I had heard of Al Jazeer. No, I didn’t know much about them outside of the media telling me how evil they are.

Tho, if people keep stealing my New York Times, I might soon become a more ignorant fool.

(Thieving bastard.)

Incidentally, is there any way one can watch Al Jazeer in America? I imagine it’s not carried here at all. I do not know this. Feel free to shoot me an email to michele at this domain dot com.

Yesterday, after I realized that someone actually stole my NYT I decided to watch the documentary we’ve been sitting on for a while called Control Room. While their tagline “Different Channels. Different Truths.” does an excellent job summarizing what one will discover, I’m going to go ahead and ramble about it anyway.

After having watched the movie and followed it up with an hour long discussion with Toby Joe, I felt a bit conflicted. I was also sort of pissed off. I was so pissed off last night, that today I researched classes to learn Arabic.

During most of my adult life, I have felt rather anti-media. I have always believed that there are certain aspects of what happens throughout the world that the public doesn’t need to know about. The media coverage that followed September 11th, (the false reporting, the blatant lying, the misconceptions we had to endure) pretty much marked the final straw for me. I have never been so confused and angry about something intangible before. I had had enough. From that point on I put on my bullshit goggles every time I watched the news. And I find it ironic that the only reporting I wholeheartedly believe anymore comes from a satirical broadcast called The Daily Show. I take most of what I see on TV at night with a grain of salt. Still, up until last night I had no idea how misleading (if not blatantly false) the coverage surrounding the war in Iraq has been for the American public.

Control Room takes place in Iraq. It’s set at the Islamic and Muslim news station known as Al Jazeera. It also shows us the main artery for the media; a place called “Central Command”. Every major network has a presence at Central Command. And as one might imagine a lot of hemorrhaging goes on there as well.

Before last night, whenever someone mentioned the words “Al Jazeera” I pictured beheaded Americans and a slew of other gruesome images. I pictured Osama Bin Laden talking into some microphone telling us he wants to kill us all. I pictured Nationalism. I pictured extremism. I pictured raw hatred.

I did not picture cubicles and coffee mugs.

I did not picture this guy.

Who has children he wishes to one day send to America. Who, by the end of the documentary, you want to take out for a cup of coffee.

And I certainly didn’t picture this woman.

Who is so eloquent and intelligent, every time she spoke she gained my full attention as well as my respect.

I certainly wasn’t aware of the fact that our military bombed Al Jazeera killing one of their most beloved reporters. And while our press spokesperson said that he didn’t believe that this was planned, days following the bombing, Al Jazeera couldn’t get a broadcast for the life of them because the people of Iraq saw them as a target and therefore refused interviews. (Brilliant? Oh absolutely.)

When you said the words “Al Jazeera”, I never pictured a group of intelligent, middle eastern journalists who, like many of american journalists, are merely doing their job and reporting the news. And I have to assume that I’m not alone.

This movie made me angry and not in a negative, slanderous way. Instead, I felt insulted. I also felt a little embarrassed for having believed so many misconceptions for so long and so blindly. Are Americans that numb to the facts? Are we that easily able to go about our business and believe whatever it is the tube in front of us would like us to believe? Do we really want to live like this? Is ignorance really that blissful?

Because I’m not so sure anymore.

While I have no desire to ever witness a beheading on television. Nor do I wish to ever see children with their limbs blown off, I also don’t want the american media telling me that Al Jazeera is nothing but nationalistic propaganda. And this is where my conflict begins.

Our broadcasts haven’t shown us what’s really going on. So, I ask why have them at all? And I know what I’m writing is news to no one. Hell, it’s not even news to me. However, I had no idea that we’ve actually been lied to in hopes of building up some more ignorant patriotism. Sometimes, the news we were being shown was totally fabricated—Hollywood style.

I think we need to find a happy medium between what the media would like us to believe and what we can actually stomach about the truth. I don’t yearn for X-rated programming. I know some folks have the desire to witness such imagery, but it’s not my thing. But I don’t want to be pampered or lied to either. I know it’s impossible to have an absolutely objective journalist, but is it possible for someone to just SHOW it to us? I think we can connect the dots on our own. Can we, at the very least, get away from having to sit through made for TV movies they call “The News” as we sit down to our TV dinners each and every night?

We’re all adults here, aren’t we? Give us our diplomas already.

SOME ASSCLOWN STOLE THE GOD DAMN NEW YORK TIMES OFF OF OUR GOD DAMN FRONT PORCH. HOW TOTALLY HUMOROUS OF THIS ASSHOLE; STEALING MY NEWSPAPER THE SAME DAY I WROTE ABOUT HOW MUCH I LOVE THE BLOODY THING.

TO THE ASSHOLE: MAY THE INK FROM ITS PERFECT PAGES FOREVER STAIN YOUR HANDS. MAY YOU SUFFER PAPER CUTS. MAY IT CATCH FIRE AND BURN OFF YOUR EYEBROWS.

HOW DARE YOU STEAL FROM A MENSTRUATING WOMAN.

I HATE YOU.

I would like to take a moment to thank a kind woman named Anne for correcting me about an error I had written above. I meant to write “self-deprecating” and not “self-defecating.”

I did not poop on myself.

(If a woman keeps a mistress is it then called a “Mister” because I’m not keeping a lady. Come to think of it, I’m not even keeping a man.)

The New York Times has become my evening lover. After Toby gets home and we settle in beneath our blankets on our couches, I read the rest of the paper. Usually, I begin reading it sometime in late afternoon after having finished my work for the day and before I begin making our dinner. The paper has become something I enjoy every single day. It’s the little things in life and this “little thing” makes me feel spectacular.

Since we moved from New York City to Washington, D.C. And then from D.C. all the way to San Francisco, I haven’t read much of the New York Times. While we were in San Francisco, I was buying The New Yorker and the Sunday Times. However, for reasons I am not proud of, I didn’t do it very often as occasionally I would become too homesick. On worse days, I’d become bitterly resentful for having left. I’m not proud of either emotion, but it’s the truth.

And I guess that the clich� is true as well; one never really shakes this city after having lived with it. Then again, I guess you could say that about any city, really. It’s not that it’s the greatest city on earth, on the contrary. But it does have it’s way of sinking in. I liken it to a first love; not always the best one for you, but definitely the one you can’t and never will let go of.

For a while I was keeping (what I’ve deemed as) a bad habit. I was spending too much time reading only a circle of blogs and forums. And while this medium has its place and is often times a hoot, it’s not really good for my head—I mean, ALL the time. I started to feel sort of stagnant. I was sitting around clicking through the same old circle of bookmarks, reading through the same topics, seeing the same old arguments. All the while I was reading about someone else’s life, I was retreating more and more into my own (and very small) head. This routine was making me very anxious. (Does anyone else go through this? Sometimes I believe that it’s just me and I succumb to my weaknesses too easily.) Anyway, after one long night lying in bed beneath the self-deprecating chorus of an old hit called “You’re such a loser, Michele” I made a deal with myself that I’d change a few things.

• 1) Lessen times spent reading Web sites.
• 2). Don’t spend time getting into lengthy internet discussions about topics with no definitive answers. (Save these topics for face-to-face conversations.)
• 3). Read the news.
• 4). Turn the people in your life into real people and not HTML and AIM conversations.
• 5). Get out and discover more.

I have veered off track again. I do apologize. One of the changes I made was geared toward my reading habit(s) and so I ordered The New York Times for our Paper Anniversary. It’s now delivered every single day. And every day I look forward to the thousands and thousands of words thrown onto my doorstep. (What a smart and worldly lover!) I get excited about the blue wrapping they use during the wetter months (i.e. now). The crossword puzzle makes me giddy (except for Sundays and sometimes Saturdays. Then, I just shrug it off). I get excited over the Arts section, the Metro section, stories about our nation, stories about the world. Like I said, it’s the little things. (Commence with the dork comments, please.)

I learn things, too. In an annoying way as I wish to share the information sometimes with others. (For an example, see today’s post.)

Did you read about the Submarine traveling 30 knots that hit an underground mountain 400 feet beneath sea level becuase it didn’t show up on their map?

Toby will be going about his business, his PHP business, and I’ll break his train of thought.

I didn’t know it was legal to drop off an unwanted baby within five days of its birth at a church, a hospital, or firestation in the state of New York.

The other night I was reading The Arts section and there was a story about a woman named Ruth Gerson. The article was called A Star Isn’t Born. She’s a singer/song-writer who, like many others, has had a rough life. She’s turned down record deals with big labels and instead releases music and tours on her own. Even Bob Dylan asked her to perform for him specially one evening. Apparently, she’s amazing. (But don’t take my word for it, it’s all in the article.)

Tomorrow night she’s at Bowery Ballroom (whose site, in my humble opinion, especially the calendar section, could use some help). And I want to go. The way the New York Times article made her out to sound, we’d be insane to miss the show. If all goes well and our visitor from D.C. cares to join us, I think we might head out on Thursday evening to see Ruth belt out some tunes.

Like I said, it’s the little things. But no one ever said that the little things can’t totally change your life?

There should be some healthcare provider rating guide (sort of like folks do with restaurants.) While I like to enjoy great food for a low price, or find the perfect ambiance to enjoy a glass of wine, I also like to know I’m not going to be visiting the Dead Ringer’s version of a Gynecologist.

I just wish there were a way to know I won’t be totally grossed out by any given networked doctor in my health plan.

(P.S. Toby, get started on building this site right away. I have already purchased the URL.)

Edited to add: I thought it’d be a good idea to link to Rate MDs after having received several email suggesting that the request written above already exists.

Yesterday, while Toby was diligently finishing up his PHP 5 book (which, as of today should be complete and we can now move on with our lives) I decided to leave him alone for a few hours and see a movie. I decided on Sideways.

Let me first start by saying that going to see a movie at the Union Square movie theater the day after the Golden Globes deemed it “Best Motion Picture of the Year” is probably up there with one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. The theater was jammed packed with people who, individually, seemed to believe that they had more of a reason to be there than the person next to them. This mentality, once “groupified”, turned into a moving blob of negativity.

While waiting to purchase a $3.50 bottle of water from a Lowes employee I had to tell an uppity hyper woman to “Chill out” I don’t know where the words “Chill out” came from. I don’t use these two words. But I said it. And she responded with something like, “Well. I mean. The line. It’s not. Fast. Enough. There. No line. See? None.”

What a grumpy parade.

I was the sixth person in the theater. Which basically meant I got to listen to 45 minutes worth of commercials and watch people trickle in in search of a seat much like a dog does a missing chew toy after they know it’s been thrown. Finally, the movie began.

I generally don’t like to “review” movies on here or in person for that matter. I have always sort of likened it to that of telling someone about a dream I had; who the hell really cares? I don’t do this for a living. Nor do I understand (really) what goes into great movie-making so it makes it a hard thing for me to justify.

This time, I will make a bit of an exception. Because Sideways was probably one of the best films I have ever seen.

Rewind.

Years ago, I went on a camping trip with an ex boyfriend. We had to hike several miles to get to the spot he wished stay for the night. This wasn’t a planned spot. Instead, it was based entirely on a feeling he’d get when he felt that we were far enough away from civilization and one could no longer hear the cars from the highway, or the sound of trees being destroyed for lumber. We always ended up in the middle of nowhere.

This time, his friend decided we should bring some wine along for the trip to have alongside our campfire-cooked meal. This is the sort of situation one finds themselves in while on a camping trip with two aspiring chefs on their day off. He decided that bottles were a bad idea. They might break along the way. Plus, they are heavy and hard to pack. Beer was annoying and bulky as well. After some thought, he picked up a box of wine instead.

Have you ever removed the box from the box of wine? The box peels away introducing you to a metallic balloon. It looks like an old-fashioned ice-pack. Or, should one find themselves a cartoon character, something one might wear on a bump after suffering from a head injury.

Basically, it made for a perfect traveling companion. It was only after creating a memory surrounding boxed wine did I realize that it had its place in life. In the end, it proved to be a perfectly acceptable treat as we ate our smokey dinner next to a crackling campfire in the middle of September.

Fast Forward.

Before Toby and I moved to California, we knew very little about wine. However, it seemed that every time we had visitors in from back east, we’d end up taking them to Napa Valley. Basically, Napa Valley became my New York version of the Empire State Building (which I have been up about 10 times).

Our wine education was suddenly put on fast forward. We learned about Pinot Niors, Pinot Grigios, Cabernets, Ports, Zinfendales, Cabernet/Merlot mixes, Syrahs, aged wines, young wines, vintages, grapes, climates for grapes, and vintage makers. We gained so much information and so quickly, I’m not sure how much of the information I actually retained. But I did come away from it with one important idea; every wine has its place.

If you like drinking boxed wine, then so be it. No one should tell you that’s anything less than perfect. If you enjoy the $8.99 bottle of merlot over that $100.00 bottle of cabernet, then the cheaper bottle is the better bottle of wine. I should no longer feel embarrassed about the time, years ago, at Le Bec-Fin when the waiter turned his nose up to me when I ordered red wine with my fish entree. I should no longer feel weird about spending a 100+ dollars on a bottle of cabernet for my father. Everything has its place.

Everything.

As the credits began to roll and I sat there waiting to leave, I looked around once more and realized I was surrounded by strangers. It was then I began to really appreciate the movie; it showed me that life and everyone making it up - every idea and every relationship - is complicated and wonderful no matter how simple they may seem at the time. It reminded me that each moment and each relationship should be savored by every breath I take. Sideways illustrates that life comes together - though many times, clumsily - in the most unexpected ways.

And best of all, the movie did all of this without snobbery or haste. The director doesn’t beat you over the head with any one meaning. I’m not even sure each person would step away from it with the same idea or feeling. Either way, it holds an excellent story. And I’m willing to bet that should this film be seen again by the same person, they’d step away from it with something new to discuss each and every time.

And that, my friend, is an excellent bottle of wine.

As many of you already know I have been putting a photo a day up at www.michelehowley.com. While I’m enjoying the new project, I’m also running into problems when it comes to optimization. And it’s driving me crazy. Basically, the images look perfectly acceptable straight off the camera, and they look perfectly acceptable in their RAW format once imported into Photoshop. It’s when I save them for Web do they begin to lose everything. I am color correcting in RGB so it’s not a CMYK conversion problem. Like I said, before optimizing the images everything looks perfectly peachy. Frustrating? Indeed.

Given my design background, I would have guessed I have what it takes to create an acceptable image for the Web. While my expertise (should you call it that) lies in print, I know something about color correction for the Web as well.

So, what’s going wrong? Is it the transition from RAW format to JPG? Because when I take photographs outside of RAW format (JPG/Macro shots) everything works out perfectly. Which leads me to believe this is due to my ignorance with RAW files. Or is it my Photoshop settings? Is it my lack of knowledge? Should I save them in PNG? If anyone has any insight surrounding this issues, please drop me an email. My email is michele at this domain.com or use the link at www.michelehowley.com

Thank you in advance for any information. (Part of me wishes to open up comments for this. We’ll see.)

On Sunday, Nico and George took the Chinatown Bus from Philadelphia to spend the day walking around the city. They were good friends and called me on Friday to let me know they were coming and to ask me if I cared to join them. Given the amount of time I spend leaving the house in the winter, I agreed before Nico could finish the question.

I met them at around noon on Broadway and we headed to Veselka on 2nd Avenue. There, we feasted on Russian goodies. George had the borscht (which I hear is delightful) and a variety of perogies. Nico ordered some potato pancakes. And I had some soup and a few perogies as well. You really can’t go wrong with Veselka. Should you find yourself visiting New York City or if you live here and you’d like a decently priced brunch, stop on by. There is often a wait but it’s usually worth it.

After we finished eating, we headed to the Lower East Side to check out the Tenement Museum.

Unfortunately, there was a three hour wait, so we couldn’t take the tour as Nico and George had to head back to Philadelphia later that evening. For those of you in the city or should you be visiting and wish to take a tour of the Tenement Museum, it’s best to purchase tickets ahead of time. We’ll plan better next time.

We decided to wander around and shop instead. I finally broke down and purchased an 80’s style dangly pair of earrings. (I am still sort of amazed about the fact that they are back in style. I wish I had saved all that crap.) Nico bought a pair of 50’s style earrings and a matching bracelet. After we finished shopping we hit the bar where we ordered more potato products.

Maddie, if you’re still reading this, you and your friend should try Veselka for brunch if you enjoy this type of food. The desert is delightful and it’s open 24 hours if I recall correctly.

I received this email today. It’s brilliant and needs to be shared.

SUBJECT: RACING STRIPES

OMG … since you guys are both adults, there is no earthly reason for you to even CONSIDER going to this fucking movie.  My kids insisted, and at best I hoped for a POOR “Babe” ripoff, but this has to have been one of the worst movies I’ve had to endure as a parent.  It made me feel physically ill, it was so bad.  Mother of Bleeding Jesus, I really can’t BEGIN to tell you how miserable I was.  The ONLY thing that made it survivable was the fact that I knew my wife wasn’t suffering as badly as I, and she kept laughing at me.  So, imagine how terrible you think this move MIGHT be, and then throw that away because you’re totally underestimating just how criminally BAD it is. 

 

Best line of the movie:  “With a pecker like that, I knew you’d have a big mouth!”

Here is where I admit to the fact that I can and will and often do watch Blue Crush over and over again when it’s on the television.

A zebra in a horse race! THAT’S CRAZY!

I used to love this book when I was in college. It was written by Roland Barthes. It’s called A Lover’s Discourse.

One of my favorite sections back then was titled “Waiting”. For some reason, I really liked the following paragraph:

A mandarin fell in love with a courtesan. ‘I shall be yours,’ she told him, ‘when you have spent a hundred nights waiting for me, sitting on a stool, in my garden, beneath my window.’ But on the ninety-ninth night, the mandarin stood up, put the stool under his arm, and went away.

Today, in essence of my reaction from last night, I’d like to choose the following:

The anxiety of waiting is not coninuously violent; it has its matte moments; I am waiting, and everything around my waiting is stricken with unreality: in this café, I look at the others who come in, chat, joke, read calmly: they are not waiting.

Comments are off for now. But feel free to send me email (mihow at this domain dot com) about “Waiting”. I like email. I even like waiting for email.

When we got home, he decided to make a new one. Only not really. I put the bra on his head. And Tucker thought he was insane.

Yesterday, at around 5:15, I headed out to meet Toby at the NYSC on 14th and 6th Avenue. It was only after stepping out into the eerily warm New York air did I realize that I hadn’t left the house in over 48 hours. And 48 hours earlier I had gone to the grocery store to get the necessities for making us dinner.

As if someone knew about my lazy crime, a rush of excuses came to mind.

Yes, but I’ve been sick.

It’s been really rainy and gross out lately.

I’ve actually had work to do.

I’m saving money by staying in.

But no one was around. Instead, the street was quiet. It was just getting dark. The city’s outline, like a new sheet of black paper on a game of Lite Bright, began to slowly piece together. It felt good to be outside. It felt good to be listening to my iPod.

I walked up Graham Avenue to the L Train, snapping pictures along the way of hanging meat window displays and staggering drunk polish men. It always amazed me at how drunk they could get without dying. It’s like that game at a fairground where the object is to roll the bowling ball along that track and hope that it stays within the trough instead of bleeding over to the other side. Only, these men are human and should they accidentally go over that hump, it’s more than a quarter they might lose.

I felt a bit winded by walking so fast and it occurred to me how funny that was. I was leaving the house after 48 hours of not doing anything to join a gym. Lately, if it weren’t for t.v. shows about DNA, I would have no idea what day it was.

I got to NYSC at around 5:45 and sat down to wait for Toby. The gym was pretty busy. There was a very uncoordinated aerobics class taking place in Studio 1. The treadmills bounced on a platform built, I guessed, to keep the noise-level down. There was a guy working himself silly on the Pre-Core. I pictured him fainting.

A couple was helping one another lift free-weights. A triangular-shaped man watched from afar, and noticed everything someone did wrong and nodded at those spot on. A woman atop a still treadmill gabbed on the phone. There wasn’t anyway she’d get in shape that way. Will and Grace was on one t.v. Seinfeld, on the another.

I waited.

I waited 45 minutes. Then, it occurred to me that Toby may have been downstairs waiting all that time. I got up to check. But he wasn’t there. I started to wonder if I was at the wrong gym. After all, there are hundreds of New York Sports Clubs in New York. Surely there was another one in or around 6th Avenue. I called 411. Nope. There was no other gym on sixth avenue, 7th and 8th, yes. But not 6th.

I waited.

I waited outside and looked both ways along 14th street. I called and called his cell phone and it went straight to voicemail each time. I started to get annoyed.

I don’t like it when people are late. But Toby has told me time and time again, “When people are late, most of the time, it’s not because they are having fun it’s due to a problem. You must respect that and not get so angry all the time.”

But I do. Sometimes, I become enraged. Sometimes, I get so annoyed I actually start to pace back and forth, like some kind of hungry tiger. There have even been times I have actually talked, out loud, to myself. My frustration becomes more and more intense set to the rhythm of obscenities and huffs.

But my anger benefited no one. And more importantly, it never helped me.

And then, like any decent recovering Catholic might do, the anger turned into an ALAS, WOE IS ME type Martyrdom.

Holy shit. What if something happened to him. Your life will be over as you know it. You will never be able to go on and most of all you’ll NEVER forgive yourself for having your last thoughts about him be that of anger. You are a bad person. A BAD BAD PERSON. OH dear god, please don’t have let anything happen to him. I love him. I’m no longer mad.

I waited silently.

God dammit where is he.

About an hour into my waiting, Toby called. I stood there, for the brief few seconds thinking to myself, “Please be nice to him. He made a mistake. Don’t be a bitch. Be nice. Don’t do anything stupid. Be nice.”

Where are you?

At Urban Outfitters. I’m almost there.

(No, Michele.)

What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for over an hour.

(White lie. 55 minutes.)

I went to Queens. I got on the wrong train.

(A mistake. Let it go.)

Beaner, you should pay attention.

(Bad. Worse with tone.)

After about a 10 minute argument outside the NYSC on 14th street, I realized that Toby was absolutely right. People aren’t usually late because they are having fun and disrespecting the other person. They are usually late because of a mistake or a problem.

Screw the gym. I need a membership to a club that can help me be a more understanding and patient person. That’s what I need. Is there something like that out there?

I thought my anger only flared up while waiting for food. Well, come to think of it, I was REALLY hungry.

(Must. Be. Nicer.)

Someone on the INTERNET is looking for images of t0byj0e n@ked. (Only, they spelled it correctly and I have not in hopes of thwarting more searches for the above desire.)

That will not happen. It will never happen. Like never ever will that happen.

Toby and I recently celebrated our 1 year anniversary. It’s (I’ve been told) the Paper Anniversary. Given that I’m still living through the fiscal wreckage known as Tobyjoe’s birthday and Christmas, I couldn’t afford much. Thinking I was like the smartest most cleverest gal in town, I got him a subscription to the New York Times. (You get it? Do you? Yeah.) I thought it’d be a splendid way to say, “I love you. Thanks for putting up with me all year.”

On January 3rd, Toby came home with my anniversary present.

This is probably the nicest watch I’ve ever seen. It’s so pretty! The hand sweeps. The numbering is super elegant. It’s modest, yet perfectly designed. What can I say? It’s lovely.

But I do feel kinda bad. There is a part of me who wonders if unconsciously I ordered the New York Times knowing full-well we would both benefit from it.

I remember times from my youth, hearing my parents joke about how Bob purchased yet another gift for Diane. And how it was something he wanted to have and not necessarily something she wanted to have. I thought, “I will try hard to avoid this when I grow up.”

Yeah, right.

In February, Toby and I have tickets to see Neil Labute’s new creation, Fat Pig. I promised myself that this time around, while living in New York, I’d take advantage of what this city has to offer. Which is why I also signed us up to see The Daily Show (which is booked solid until June) and David Letterman in February. One cannot live in New York and not see David Letterman once, right?

I’m excited about Fat Pig. Everyone loves a Lebute play. Generally speaking, the stories are rather disturbing. Yet they manage to come off as oddly comedic through all the tragedy. Except for In the Company of Men, which can drive a clean nun to shower.

I was also excited to learn that Keri Russell (aka Felicity) has a part. I have always liked Keri Russell even after she got her hair cut and shocked the nation.

Between late night television, off-broadway plays, work, the launch of a new version of mihow.com, and Time Warner Cable, I should keep myself busy for the next six months.

(Now, if only Missy would write me today and remind me what the name of the other play I wanted to see was called.)

Heather and Derek are at it again. First, it was the Mirror Project. Now, they’ve entered the print world and introduce us all to JPG Magazine. You should go order one.

Last night, I caught a documentary on HBO called A Rape in a Small Town. The story is about a 75 year old woman who was raped by a 25 year old man. Twelve years later, she finds herself in court fighting against his release. You can read more about the story by clicking here.

My goodness, was this documentary a tear-jerker. Florence Holway is a charming and very strong woman. You can’t help but have an absolute respect and adoration for her. Last night, instead of waiting it out to find out who won The Biggest Loser (I sort of wanted Gary to win, I won’t deny) I found myself cheering for Florence. What a heartbreaking, yet inspirational story.

(I love cable.)

I’m sure by now everyone has heard and/or read about Apple’s latest invention.. But holy crap are they ever miniature! And holy crap are they ever cheap. So much for the PC world complaining about the price. Now, get out there and convert! (They will even work with your existing monitor).

Over dinner last night, Toby informed me that he wishes to cluster a group of them. And by using Xgrid he’d create the smallest, most powerful computer in Brooklyn. Did I marry the biggest nerd, or what? I find it entirely endearing.

Really, tho, $499 for a Mac? That’s pretty cheap! I’ve had the same laptop now for five years. Ernie (my laptop) will be five in April. While I love this darn thing, I think it might be time to make another purchase. However, I still think I’d go for the G5. If I had the money, of course. The mini is beautiful, but I tend to lean more for speed.

We spent NYE at home watching a screener copy of Freestyle: The Art of Rhyme, Strangers with Candy and Regis bring in the new year so monotonously the three of us were nearly hypnotized.

What we were SUPPOSED to do, was see the Drive By Truckers at The Bowery Ballroom. But we didn’t. Instead, we ended up having dinner at a local mafia hangout called Cono and Son’s. There, one can consume excellent food on a real life Soprano’s set. We were home by 10.

The interesting thing about living in New York is watching the ball drop on television and then running to the fire escape to hear the screams waft in from Times Square. We could see the small explosions up north and the huge firework display towards the south. But the night for us was fairly quiet.

Missy from Thursday night.

If anyone is reading this and you’re not so hungover you can barely type, share with me what you did for New Years Eve.

Hello. It’s Tuesday. My time away from the Internet has been a productive one and considering I’ve have the most wicked cold/sinus infection through much of it, I’m proud of the little headway I have made. I managed to create a relationship with a new client. And given the recent tragic tsunami event, this client could not have come along at a better time for me, emotionally. I’m very grateful for that. I’ve also been asked to create a piece of graphic design for an art show in March. I’m sure I’ll write more about this over the next few weeks. I feel slightly rejuvenated. Which is a good thing given the stagnant career state I’ve been feeling over the more recent months.

Toby and I are still diligently rebuilding mihow.com. Though, our efforts have been put right behind the necessary things. (Oh, those pesky necessities.) We hope to have the new site launched by March 1st. In the meantime, given the number letters I have received, I plan on updating regularly. (All those apposed to this idea, speak now or forever hold your peace.)

I’ve also decided to put up a photo a day on michelehowley.com. My hope is to do this for the entire year. Tho, I have to admit, that might be impossible. We’ll see. If I can get through the month of January, I’ll be happy.

That is all for now. Smooches, mihow.