I want a new drug

It happened so fast—I finished another TV series on Netflix. There are a few nostalgic standbys in my queue (Party of Five, My So-Called Life), but really, I'm looking for a whole new thing.*

People of the Internet, please help me decide what to watch next. Some helpful guidelines:

Yes: Families, drama, escapism, intelligent rapid-fire conversation, witty banter, likable people, complicated relationships, excellent outfits that someone might actually wear
No: Homicide, crime rings, cops, laugh tracks, plucky underdog sports teams, open-heart surgery, home improvement, monsters with giant slimy jaws, Manolo Blahniks, "reality"
Acceptable: Lawyers, if there aren't too many court scenes
Best shows ever: The West Wing, Flight of the Conchords

Any ideas? My mind is waiting to be wasted. It needs you.

* At least until they release season 4 of Weeds on DVD.

There will be blood

This is my last blood post, I swear. And it's a much better story this time.

I was talking to Savta yesterday on my way home from the donation center (I didn't faint and they had a fine selection of donuts—two thumbs up), and she said, "Oh, your saba would be very proud." I asked why.

She told me that during World War II, he was in charge of the blood donation program at Hebrew Union College, where he was a rabbinical student (he later served as an Army chaplain overseas). On Sunday nights in the dining hall, he'd make a short speech after the meal to try and recruit donors. Eventually, the other students knew what was coming—so every time they saw him head to the front of the room, they'd stomp their feet and start chanting, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" He was a lifelong donor.

The fierce, the proud, the bloody Lipmans.

Platelets

It's been more than a year since I last gave blood—it's harder to motivate when they don't park one of those donation vans right outside your office, like they did quarterly at Wind River, and HR would send lots of encouraging emails about all the lives we could save. So it was effortless. But I'm in the big city now, and there's no convenient bloodmobile.

Then today, I realized: The perfect storm of editing projects that all landed at once (yes, they're done!) has been followed by a perfect storm of open space before the perfect storm of weddings swings back around in early August. If I may bludgeon the metaphor to death.

Suddenly, I have most of a weekend with nothing pressing to do, and also someone brought insane-looking fancy donuts to work this morning. I think they involved maple and bacon.

Donuts? Yes. Almost never my food of choice—except right after I give blood, when my sugar level drops to my ankles and my body can actually handle the sucrose blast of the common donut. So there was the plate of donuts, and the storm of calm, etc., so I called and made an appointment to give blood this weekend.

What a long story, with a not very interesting ending! It's true. I'm just glad the onslaught of work is over and I can get back to posting about things that don't involve the number 30.

Also, I've always enjoyed the word platelets. I feel like a parade of little tiny plates should appear every time someone uses it.

The other side

Yes, I made it. No, I don't think I'm any wiser yet . . . give it time.

My trip back east was action-packed, to put it mildly, and my liver is still recovering. It was amazing to see old friends and all kinds of family for three sunny days of talking, dancing, eating, hiking, cooking, and polishing off a vat of sangria. Everyone either generously traveled or hosted to make the weekend happen, and I can't say thanks enough times.

Photos of the birthday tribe are here on Flickr. The only party animals not pictured are the approximately 10 million bugs who bit me everywhere. But let's not speak of them.

Also posted: Some mementos of my weekend in Santa Monica last month. Viva Erinia!

left to right: too much pasta salad, too much potato salad,
the perfect amount of sangria

30 till 30: Days 28 & 29

Squeaking in under the wire: 36 minutes to go until my youth is a distant memory. Spent a million hours in transit yesterday (thanks, JFK air-traffic control!), but now I'm sweating safely in my hometown, watching the summer lightning.

But this post isn't about me. It's about my mom, who just passed her certification test to become an American citizen—after living here for 36 years. For a secret peek into the inner workings of our country's bureaucracy, check out the six questions they asked in her citizenship test:

1. How many stars are there on our flag?
2. Whose rights are guaranteed by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?
3. How many senators are there in Congress?
4. What is the most important right granted to United States citizens?
5. Who is the vice president of the United States today?
6. In what month do we vote for the president?

So how'd you do? My mom, soon to be sworn in as our newest citizen, got 100%. Then she went right out and bought an Obama sticker. I think we should all be proud.

30 till 30: Day 27

I just ate the last Mission tacos of my 20s. A burrito would've been more poetic, but I didn't have the stamina tonight. Luckily, an old friend took the fall and put most of one away.

It's getting late, and BART beckons at the wee hours to whisk me off to the airport. I should edit another chapter now, but I won't, because sometimes things don't tie up neatly and closing my eyes for a while feels like a much smarter idea.

See? I won't even be old for another 49 hours, but I'm already getting smarter. Watch out for this firecracker, New England. Your humidity can't stop the wheels from turning.

30 till 30: Days 25 & 26

I don't think I could possibly have done more work this weekend, but my projects still aren't finished. Oh well. At least I learned these fun! facts! about the animals of the Galapagos Islands:

! Flamingos are actually white, but they turn pink from the carotene pigments in the shrimp they eat.

!! The harlequin wrasse is covered with spatters of orange, red, black, and white. It's also a protogynus hermaphrodite, meaning it can spontaneously change sex from female to male.

!!! Male lava lizards do pushups.

!!!! Albatross couples were thought to mate for life—meaning for up to 50 years—but a recent study counted 1,724 matings among 300 albatrosses. (One female mated with 49 different gents.) They also demonstrated other human relationship behaviors, like adoption, adultery, and rape.

30 till 30: Days 22 & 23 & 24

Happy 4th! I suppose I should write something patriotic, but since I already gave my little homage to voting a while back, there's not much more that seems worth celebrating under this administration. Also I just edited for six hours and my neck hurts. Grump.

On the upside, it's nice and chilly outside, and I'm going to try and find some fireworks with friends. Watching things explode might actually be the perfect backdrop for my mood.

30 till 30: Days 20 & 21

Recommended drink of the day: bitters and soda. Free of alcohol, it looks and tastes kind of like beer, except without the aftermath. A fine alternative for weeknights. I was told I'd feel zingy tomorrow, and I think it's already working.

30 till 30: Day 19

I saw Wall-E last night, and now I have the entirety of Short Circuit running on loop in my head. If you think that's helpful when you're trying to put together the table of contents for a literary magazine—well, no.

















Separated at birth? Perhaps. Indelibly etched in the BCB's mind? Oh yes.

30 till 30: Days 17 & 18

The last few books I've read make a weird trio: John Berger's Here Is Where We Meet, Lisa Lutz's Meet the Spellmans, and Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation.

The first is a lovely, spare novel by one of my favorite writers (try At the Wedding by way of meeting him), the second is a cheesy but entertaining local mystery that I snagged from the shelf of advance copies at work (I heart free books), and the third is by a very funny writer who turns up on NPR a lot—but it took me an incredibly long time to get through, because I just don't care that much about the minutia of dead presidents' lives. Daughter of a historian and all.

The main lesson I learned is that mysteries aren't great bedtime reading. My brain is active enough when I'm trying to make it rest. I should stick with short stories that tie up neatly and don't complicate my dreams.

30 till 30: Days 15 & 16

Happy halfway point!

To celebrate the fact that I get to spend the remainder of my 20s reading about Ecuador, I just went to Peet's for one of their new blended tea thingies with the sort of human name. I'm not sure what was in there, except for tea and a lot of whipped cream, but it was a good excuse for a walk.

30 till 30: Day 14

I like to think of myself as pretty quick on the uptake, but it took a really long time to dawn on me that I didn't just have to suffer in my sweat lodge of an apartment. That's why natural selection made landlords.

One phone call and one plumber visit later, the insatiable radiator in my living room has been shut down for the summer. Apparently, the whole building is on the same heating timer, so I have no control over it when it's attached to that system. But it can be disconnected at will.

All together now: The heat is . . . OFF!

30 till 30: Day 13

Say that on the way home from work, you get the urge to make soba sesame noodles. Then you realize how delicious it would be to have some sautéed spinach with garlic on the side. So you stop at the little market a block from the subway to buy spinach, and there's a display of enormous red cherries. Fruit and greens in hand, you head home and drop your bag and take off your winter coat, because San Francisco has no idea if it wants to be Hawaii or Iceland. Then you cook up the noodles and the vegetables, and the whole thing only takes 20 minutes, and you put it in a bowl and eat it and it tastes exactly like you imagined it would. Then you have some cherries, and they're sweet and perfect.

Instant gratification in real time. That's the only reason (well, plus Netflix) I can sit down to edit again after editing all day, and maybe even enjoy it.

30 till 30: Days 10 & 11 & 12

So the daily post isn't turning out that way, but I promise I'm doing my best. It's probably smart to reset expectations by saying that I'll post as often as my gorilla-size schedule allows between now and birthday time. A few random snippets from the weekend:

First my electric toothbrush died (but it did set longevity records first), now my electric kettle seems to have died. The funny part is that I stood there for a full five minutes being pissed that I couldn't make tea, then turned about two degrees to the left and saw my regular old teapot all squat and red and functional on the stove. Poor outdated technology gets no respect.

The heat wave broke none too soon—I loved that I had to wear a coat today. But my leather jacket fell apart a few months ago (today's theme: possession death), and I'm really sensing the void. I can't remember ever not having a leather jacket as an adult. It feels like a weirdly critical part of my style. But I've spent some long afternoons in Mission and Haight thrift stores, and my new leather baby just hasn't shown up yet. Keep your fingers crossed.

I got to walk through a tunnel and swing on a swing and slide down a slide and climb around on a jungle gym yesterday. Remember being a little kid? Those were some fun times.

30 till 30: Day 9

For the past few days, I've had that nagging about-to-get-a-cold feeling, made worse by nights of tossing and turning in my extremely warm apartment.

I'm a believer in trying homeopathy before reaching for the hard drugs. But staying home, going to sleep early, avoiding caffeine and alcohol, not running too hard, inhaling steam, popping the occasional Wal-Profen, and drinking so much water that I feel inflatable haven't done much.

This afternoon, my wise friend Mary recommended hot water with lemon, honey, and a little whiskey. I have a jar of honey from my stepbrother's bees, but the only liquor I keep on hand is clear. Then I remembered: that fifth of a bottle of Maker's Mark left over from my 28th birthday party. Did it survive the move from Oakland?

It did. I put a few drops in my tea, and my throat feels about a thousand times better. I'm still heading to sleep at a preschool hour tonight, but my mental magic 8-ball says the outlook is good for a healthy weekend.

30 till 30: Days 7 & 8

Two things I'm proud of today:

1. A little, in a nostalgic way: The Celtics winning their first championship since the mid-'80s, which is probably the last time I saw them play. (My bro was a huge Lakers fan when we were kids. Guess we were destined for the West Coast even back then.)

2. A lot, in an it's-about-time way: All the absolutely thrilled couples getting married at San Francisco city hall and across the state. Seriously, even a 30-second report about this on NPR makes me cry. I've never heard people sound so happy.

30 till 30: Day 6

Today marks my head-first dive into enormous piles of work that will munch away at my sanity until early July. Three things: Canteen #3, Moon Handbooks Ecuador, the August issue.

I wish I had more exciting news, but sometimes this is just how I roll. So sleepy. See you tomorrow.

30 till 30: Day 5

Every time I go to L.A., it feels like a difference place, and I haven't liked any of those places too much. But now I think I've finally found my Brooklyn of the lower West Coast: Santa Monica.

Thanks to my enthusiastic and creative hostess, I learned that there are great bookstore/cafés and really cheap massages and underground dance parties and an uncrowded waterfront for strolling, plus a Big Blue Bus™ that shuttles you around when you're too weary for the afternoon walk home.

We also discovered the world's most delicious potato tacos at 3 a.m., which is exactly when potato tacos should be eaten. Please stash that bit of wisdom in your back pocket.

30 till 30: Day 4

Ladies and gentlemen, the birthday card bar has been set—and set high.
(Grandma warning: Mild obscenity to follow, with flagrant use of italics. Cover your eyes.)

Cover: Two women chatting.
W1: "Where's your birthday party at?"
W2: "Don't end a sentence with a preposition."

Inside: Same two women.
W1: "Where's your birthday party at, bitch?"

As always, the Semi knows what's what, and I dare you not to love her for it.