Visiting Queen B

This past Sunday, my dad and I visited Grandma Rose.  Here's a few things about GMa:

• She lives at "Leisure World" in Rockville, MD.
• She's 103.
• She speaks with an affected accent much like Grace Kelly or film stars of the 40s-50s.
• She loves cruises (she once won damages when she tripped out of an elevator in her building, and paid for our first family cruise to the Bahamas).
• She has no chronic illness, but has started going blind and deaf.  She's 103...
• She remembers EVERYTHING.
• She loves Bingo.
• SHE'S 103.
• She still thinks my parents are still together.

Are you a first-time reader?  Here's a refresher course.  Parents = divorced since 2008 (didn't tell GMa b/c she was 98), GMa's now 103 -- parents still "together."

So my dad and I "drove" to Leisure World.  I'm going to use a loose definition of the word "drive," because I'm not sure it was DMV-standard roadwork, and there were numerous times I was scared for my life.  I guess as he's aged, my dad has a more "living life on the edge attitude!"  That, or he's blind and decides that highways are ONE BIG LANE!  It's the latter.

We get to LW, and they're having the famous "Sunday brunch."  My dad raved that the omelette man is top notch.  You can also tell that Sunday's are the most popular visiting day because nothing goes better with Grandparent criticism and disappointment than good lox.

We go up to GMa's apartment, and were greeted by Elena, one of my GMa's 2 caretakers.  I hesitate to say that because it seems like she's a total invalid.  No no, GMa is totally with it, and scoots on that walker, but she just needs some "Assistance."  GMa put in her brunch order with Elena who came back upstairs with an omelette AND danish.  I never thought I'd be jealous of a 103 year old woman, but she gets to eat ANYTHING SHE WANTS.  Omelette with cheese?  Sure.  Danish cut up into hand-to-mouth pop in pieces?  Of course!  A box of Valentine's Day chocolates?  Duh.  Meanwhile, I'm looking up the Weight Watchers points for hard-boiled egg whites (more on that).

GMa on her 15th course...

My dad explained to me that GMa now has this tradition for his weekly visits.  She makes him hard-boiled eggs.  This weekend, she made 4 -- 2 for Dad, 2 for me.  None for Elena... :(  I really don't think she gave a shit.  If only I could have captured Elena's reaction every time GMa claimed SHE cooked the eggs.  Any assistant in Hollywood knows that feeling all too well -- credit stolen by your boss for your hard work.  GMa proceeded to explain her unique recipe for making the eggs:

1. Boil a pot of water.
2. Place the desired amount of eggs in the pot.
3. Leave them in there.
4. Turn off the heat after they've finished.
5. Leave them in there some more.
6. Peel.
7. Serve.

I'm still waiting to hear what makes this recipe unique.

After lunch, we retired to the salon (which is conveniently in the same room), for "Letter Time!"  This is when Queen Rose's faithful servant (my Dad) opens her mail and explains the contents.  GMa was perched on her royal footstool:

"Mr. Bingly's having a ball?  How quaint..."

While they were conducting Royal business, (note: GMa won't touch such public items as mail with her bare hands!) I moseyed around the apartment.  And now, for your viewing pleasure, I present a few apartment gems:

The Royal Portrait

I mean -- Barbara Stanwyck, anyone?

The answer is "Yes."

Then there's my headshot:

From when I was in Todd Phillip's "Wasting Your Parents' Money on Booze & Drugs"

You can't tell, but my pupils are "Lick the bottom of an Amazonian toad" dilated.  Moving on to the portrait of the woman my GMa still believes to be her daughter-in-law, and me, when I was a JAP (May still be.  Probably am):

Cruisin' USA!  American Territories, and Properties Under Previous British Colonial Rule Now US Virgin Islands.

I told you.  We Birnbaums fucking love to cruise.  Not in a bathroom sex kind of way.  Well, I can't speak for all my relatives, but I think it's safe to say no... I think.  Probably not.  Maybe.

Oh, did I mention the Queen keeps up correspondence with another Royal Family?

Barack your 100 year old bod, girl! (Elderly woman.)

That's right, no big deal, Barack and Michelle just wrote a letter congratulating her for turning 100.  She didn't even write him a congrats note for winning either election.  Birnbaums: 1, Obamas: 0

Now.  My favorite.  Apparently my family starred in "Once Upon A Time in America," and no one told me.

"Leave the gun, take the challah."

This is my Dad's family.  See that "rotund" woman in the front.  That would be my Great Grandmother.  When I asked my dad what she was like, I just got a head shake and that sucking in noise when you stub your toe followed by, "Not nice."  Looking at the apparel of the time, it seemed like the men opted for the "Indoora" -- which is my name for the indoor fedora.  They also went against the "1 fedora per crew" rule.  But I wouldn't have brought that up, since I'd rather have survived the Seder.  OK let's zoom in:

Now that's the strained smile/scowl of the Grandma I know, and love.

As you can probably tell, I take after my Grandpa Jack.

Wait.

Wait.

Were you going to say I look like a middle-aged man?

Rude.

No.  It's because we both look fucking fantastic in hats.  (See above graduation portrait.)

And I have no clue who these relatives are, but I'm wouldn't want to get in a fight with them in a dark synagogue coatroom--

"Yous a wise guy, huh Rabbi?"

And one more:

Sweaty Palms > Love

UNTIL THERE'S A CURE -- WE MUST RAISE AWARENESS.

Hyperhydrosis is not a joke.

(Unless you're one of my friends or my mother.)

That's all from Leisure World.  Will probably have more to report when we inevitably go to one of our "Family Dinners."  Because she thinks my parents are still married.  And they're not.

FAMILY, AMIRIGHT?

Happy VD!

I'd just like to let everyone know, that I have had a valentine every year.  EVERY year.

2013: Mom.
2012: Mom.
2011: Mom.
2010: Yup.
2009: You guessed it.
2008: Right.  Again.
2007: Uh-huh.
2006: I guess you could...
2005: Just skip...
2004: down... a bit.
2003: Oh wait!!  No.  No.  That was the girl who sent herself flowers from her "boyfriend," in high school.
2002: Hmm.
1991-2001: Classmates, and most likely, Mama (please say that in the Guillermo del Toro movie way).
1990: Montessori School Teachers + those fast learners who could put together what were possibly letters.
1989: Montessori School Teachers.
1988: Cookie, our mail lady.
1987: The World.  Everyone fucking loves babies.

I don't know... "Chopped" is preeeeety romantic...

The above trends would indicate that I have never had a true Valentine.  Whatever that means.  Patti Stanger would know.  Anyways, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!  Except starvation, which makes you weaker.  And then kills you.

That being said, I don't mind Valentine's.  I really don't.  You know what's great about being alone?  FLEX-I-BILITY.

"Hey, what are in the mood for tonight?"
"Oh, I don't know -- I wanted to finish 'House of Cards.'"
"Me too!"
"Great, do you mind if I paint my nails during it?"
"No!  I want to do that, too!"
(The conversation occurring in my mind when I get home.)

I don't have to go to dinner/buy gifts/tell my mother that my boyfriend has yet to propose.  Still.

The perfect visual interpretation of Valentine's Day.

(Oh, yes, that is in fact my mother's "whip."  There should be a blog post dedicated to that guy sometime soon.)

Tonight, I am going to a friend's Val-D party, where I will binge on barbacoa in button-less pants, and find somewhere comfortable to lay on my stomach.  I hope you all have a Flo Rida-y good time as well.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Love is Puritan

One of my best friends from college, Angie, gchatted me such a gift.  She said she couldn't wait until Thursday to express her love:

WITH PURITAN VALENTINE'S DAY CARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Below are some more of my favorites:

And the ultimate (which is truly representative of our relationship):

Check out the rest at College Humor.

Zengo Unchained

**Alternate post titles include: Zengooooh no she dii-iint, Zengo my God, and a close runner-up: Zengo fuck yourself.

Monday night I decided to try out Bethesda's new workout craze, Zengo.  I know, I should've written this immediately after, but I barely had the energy to catch up on my pinterest boards.  Thank you for your forgiveness. (I'm assuming.)

Well.  If you like the aerobic workout of spinning mixed with the choreography of Zumba then you will HATE YOURSELF for deciding to come to this class.  Zengo-ly moly.  I realized about 45 minutes in that I had signed up for the 65 MINUTE CLASS.  Maybe the name "Power Hour" should have tipped me off... THE PAST IS THE PAST.  Judge me once you get a powdered wig.  (Note: If you do, please take a selfie and send.)

Devil in a blue tank (blue tank, blue tank).

First, let me set up the scene.  The owner basically jacked everything from Soul Cycle and plopped it down in one of the most prosperous cities in the nation.  SMART.  I was surrounded by housewives and a true rarity -- Bethesda Japs.  Usually they stay on their Potomac turf, but they sauntered on in with their tank tops and unnecessary half tank tops over those tank tops.  They probably would've started some Sharks/Jets snapping if their arms weren't laden with evil eye bracelets.  I reserved bike 43, which was in the back row so I wouldn't be that conspicuous heart attack victim -- distracting everyone else from their "Zen"... go...  The teacher approached me and helped set up my bike.  She explained in a sweet voice "You're gonna have such a good time, and remember you can go at your own pace."  LIAR, LIAR, LULULEMON PANTS/TANK ON FIRE!!!!

|Sidebar| Has anyone told women in DC and Bethesda that there's been a recession?  Because these people look like they are sponsored.  (And most of them are!  Alcoholic housewife joke!!!  Insert laugh here!)

I put my trust in you, instructor!  In your kind eyes and warm smile...  How was I to know you were the Devil's minion??  She was Beelzebub in a bandana (also lululemon).

They claim Zengo is a party on a bike.  Sure.  A party where you "accidentally" mixed a box of white wine, natty light, and whisky.  Then decided to run up the "Rocky Stairs" in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and thought "Hey, I'm not sick enough.  Why don't I get a cheesesteak from Pat's AND Geno's??"  Wasn't me.  I was just holding those cheesesteaks for a friend.

Aint no party like a Zengo party!  Cuz a Zengo party don't-- DEAR LORD IN HEAVEN HALLOWED BE THY NAME END THIS MADNESS.

I can only comment on the parts of the workout where I came to from my pushup blackouts.  That's right -- pushups, while moving your legs.  I can't even successfully walk and talk (Damn!  Any dreams of being in a Sorkin production -- dashed!), let alone participate in only what can be described as "Ibiza Boot Camp." (TM'd.  Just now.)

The music.  The music?  Would you call it music?  I realized about 5 songs in that I forgot my requisite rap airhorn!  So that really threw me off.  The instructor would say things like "One more song!" to encourage us through the exercise.  One more song?  A DANCE SONG CAN BE 20 MINUTES.  Only one more song!  Sure, 20 minutes seems to go by reeeeaaaal fast when you're on ecstasy.

Also, let's get back to her lies.  There was no going my own pace.  There was one pace, dictated by Pitbull's "ritim" which she SCREAMED OUT.  "ONE TWO ONE TWO ONE TWO."  I guess yelling it wasn't enough because she dismounted her bike to remind the rider, inches from our face.  I think at one point between the ass tap-backs and the handlebar gymnastics I screamed "MY BODY, MY CHOICE!!!" to no avail.

Who? Who doesn't want to wear the lululemon?  Why you no wear the lemon?

I didn't know where to look.  If I focused on the mirror I would look at the condensation which only reminded me that I was locked in a room with a cloud cycle of sweat.  So I would take a look at other riders.  There was this one girl -- when the instructor told us to "GOOOOFOOOOROOIIIIIIITTTTYEAHAHHH" (which I assumed translated to "Increase your speed") this one girl's legs became a blur.  I had a "Ferris Bueller" flashback -- the Ferrari on cinder blocks.  WE WERE ALL FERRARIS ON CINDER BLOCKS.  I'm concerned that no one else seemed to evaluate the risk if our bikes suddenly became un-sationaried.

But, I'm a survivor.  Oh yes.  I'm a survivor (what?)  I'm gonna make it (what?)  I will survive (what?)  Keep on survivin' (what?).  All of that being said... I'm most likely buying a package deal.

Before ZenGo, my shirt was gray.  (*Weird face result of muscular fatigue.  Everywhere.)

Old Friends

One of the greatest parts of moving back home, is getting to be with friends I've had for 10+ years. Technically, my friendship with some people in D.C. is almost old enough to vote. This past Saturday, I went out with 3 of my friends* (*names changed to protect the guilty parties), Gwelizzie, Llaura, and Wex. (We actually call Wex, "Wex" but it's still pretty ambiguous... Unless you know her... or HIM, no it's her.) So we got together at Wex's apartment and headed over to LLaura's favorite bar, Blackjack. The magical thing about this bar? IT WAS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE. "Walking Distance" doesn't exist in L.A. Well, maybe I'd say the elevators were within "Walking Distance" from my apartment door, but I was a true Angeleno/(a?) -- someone who drove to the Ralph's a block away to get groceries. What? Don't make that face -- I'm the only one allowed to judge on this blog, thank you. Plus, single-serve frozen meals get HEAVY. 

Anyways, we WALKED to the bar and I suddenly exclaimed "Isn't this city amazing? You get to interact with strangers every day!" -- referencing a gaggle of gays heading our way. We passed them silently. Wex and Llaura looked at me, confused. They made me explain "interact." "It's like... just being NEAR people, just walking... you know... eye contact." If I gave someone eye contact while driving in LA, it was because they A) Just cut me off and I wanted to really add that punch to my sarcastic "thumbs up," or B) Looked like Adam Levine. I did notice a lot of people were looking at me. Not like people don't stare at me all the time!!! (They don't.) I think it had something to do with my oversized leopard faux fur jacket. I'm actually shocked that I wasn't involved in an attempted "Sex 4 Money" transaction. I started thinking about what would be on my "Menu" of "Services" (read: sex stuff).  I think it would be something like "Good Conversation - $25," "Co-Nap - $40," "Spooning - $60." Prices subject to change. I remember LLaura saying to me "You might have to "tone it down" for D.C." Guess what? D.C. SHOULD TONE IT UP FOR ME! Is that a saying? It is now.

We get to Blackjack, and apparently I didn't even leave LA. They were projecting "Boyz n the Hood" on their exposed brick wall as we sat under bistro lights with a soft glow from vintage carnival signs with strategically burnt out bulbs. Move over shuffleboard.  Hit the road ping pong!  It's now all about BOCCE.  The bar has a back room bocce court.  Because the first thing you want to do is give a drunk guy, who's inevitably a ticking time bomb of suppressed emotions, a 5 pound ball.

No but for realsies, it's a devil monkey wearing a top hat.  It doesn't get much cooler.  Unless he smokes American Spirit.

My night was made when we scooped up the table right by the staircase entrance. PRIME people watching. But when G-Lizzie or Wex pointed out someone they thought was cute, trying to find him was a lost cause. "No, he's the guy in the button down," is basically the LA equivalent of "The guy with the beard, glasses, and plaid shirt.  No, to the left.  The one who plays mandolin in that band." All I know is D.C. is still a bastion of button downs, khakis and "Republican Hair." (You know, straight, shinny, parted to the side with a small swoop. The hair that still looks good shaken from underneath a lacrosse helmet. These people.  Ahh, yes you've got it now.)  It gave me the opportunity to put a dollar in this guy's shirt.  He was attempting to "Magic Mike" the banister that was basically in my face, so I appreciated the effort.

White people...

I just had a good old fashioned time drinking with my friends.  I'm talking legally buying booze and enjoying each other's company, not stealing sips of vodka out of a water bottle in the bathroom at some high school dance.  Ahhh, youth.  Who am I kidding with this mature sensibility?  We got just as drunk.  In this state of drunk I made my first mistake of the night.  I started talking to some guy. He wasn't my type, but in the moment he became the only one I focused on.  Why?  Because he was just next to me and I wanted to talk to someone.  This morphed into a 2-on-1 convo with his friend from Russia(?) who was just as conversationally mediocre.  But wait... No.  They couldn't be.  Are they?  Yes.  They were hitting on me. But I just wanted to have a non-sexually charged conversation!  I panicked and in fight or flight mode exclaimed I had to go to the bathroom (about 5 feet away).  I didn't even have to go to the bathroom! Oh don't we pay for the things we do wrong...  Yes, Ernest Hemingway.  Mos def.

I returned to the table after the coast was clear and asked Llaura's boyfriend, Nmark a very important question.  Imagine me drunk (don't have to, got that image loud and clear!  Boom!  Self high-five!  Congrats) -- "OK, but like... can I go up to a guy and just want to TALK to him.  Like I don't want to hook up with him, I just want to converse!  And maybe we can start a wonderful friendship."  Nmark stared at me.  "Why do you think people come to a bar?"  "To make friends?", I asked with a hopeful tone.  "No."

You already know I love free stuff.  Here's another character morsel -- I love friendship.  Love it can't get enough!  If I were to ever appear on a competition-based reality show (unlikely, unless it's "The Amazing Race," which I would do with my dad -- he'd be the brains, I'd be the comical reaction shots) the first thing I would say to the camera would be: "I didn't come here to win, I came here to make friends."  One day I'll have a TV network devoted to friendship-based reality shows.  "10 sexy guys, 10 sexy girls, with only one thing in mind... LONG-LASTING FRIENDSHIPS!"  If you hook up, you get kicked off.  Last couple standing wins cash... and then divides it up with the rest of the friend competitors.  So Nmark's answer broke my heart (the portion dealing with platonic relationships).  I pretty much spent the rest of the night reading the "Boyz n the Hood" subtitles and having fun with some "HE'S in this?" moments.

I may have threatened my hours-old friendship with Nmark after committing my second mistake of the eve.  I offered to buy a round of drinks, and Nmark and I both ordered vodka sodas.  I came back to the table and NMark was in the bathroom.  I grabbed my lime wedge for the squeeze and it SHOT out of my hands.  I blame the drink condensation and my hyperhidrosis.  (Awareness is the first step to a cure.)  Think fast, B-Baum!  It was like I had no control over my limbs.  My arm shot out and grabbed his wedge, giving it a little squeeze into my drink.  But what do I do with the lime carcass??  He's going to notice it's gone.  OK, nasal breathing, clear mind, got it!  I threw it back in his drink... just as he walked up to the table.  I then attempted to explain the situation, but just ended my defense with "YOU KNOW WHAT, I BOUGHT YOU A DRINK."  Alcohol solves ev-er-ee-thing.

Around 2 AM I left G-Lizzie and Wex to make some bad decisions, and took a cab home.  When I got to my apartment door, I felt like I was 16-18 again -- taking off my shoes ensuring silent steps back to my room; slowly turning the key to avoid the thunderous lock clunk.  After I scooted across the living room, I got to my bedroom and saw that my roommate/mother left me a giant glass of water by my bedside.

Best welcome back night ever.  Thanks to everyone involved.  Except for the girl who used the last of the toilet paper right before me.  Because they only had hand dryers.

Me.  2 AM.

Feel free to use this in an anti-drugs/alcohol campaign.  I can't wait to be known as the new "Neck-hole" woman.

It's Only Fair...

That you know about me before you decide to commit your precious time (most likely at work) to reading my mind. Literally, because I'm putting my mind down on this blog. So. About me. Well, I'm 26 and just moved from Los Angeles back to D.C. It only took me 4 years, but I realized I HATED L.A. I guess it's like when people graduate from law school or business school and think "Fuck, I don't want to do this." Basically that. Well, exactly that -- I wasted a ton of my parents' money and they can't brag to their friends about an illustrious career. I originally went out to L.A. to become a T.V. writer. Foolishly, I thought you show up with some samples and something will happen. I look back at my 22 year old self, shaking my head slowly with a tight-lipped smile. As the British and American Southerners say in the most adorably condescending way, "Awww bless." I knew NOTHING. I mean, I knew SOME things. Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter. Yeah. That's pretty much it. Moving on. I do greatly appreciate the friendships I made in L.A. I managed to find the few decent, empathetic, and smart people in this city. I think I actually located all of them. There are about 80-90 and they're aggregated on my goodbye party evite if anyone in the area would like an introduction. I miss them. Please don't cry. No, don't. It's not that big a deal! I text and google hang with them! I'm pretty much in constant communication with them. It's OK, I promise. Here, you'll feel better laughing at my attempt at intimidation (I'm all the way to the left under the whore drinking from an ale barrel.)

I made the decision to take a break from entertainment. "It's not me, it's most definitely you." I'm very happy with my decision, and one thing remains the same -- I still love writing. That's where this blog come in. I want to document my life back home. I'm sorry, did I neglect to mention I'm from D.C.? Yes, I'm currently living in my mom's apartment in the Watergate (where I bring the average age down about 40 years). My dad conveniently lives right across the Potomac in Roslyn, VA. My parents separated in 2006 and got divorced in 2008. Their divorce actually went through on my college graduation (which my mom so kindly whispered into my ear while we took a family photo). My Grandma Rose also lives in the area -- she's at Leisure World in Rockville, MD. What's frightening is that my parents were eligible to live in Leisure World about 10 years ago... Anyways, GMa Rose was 98 when my parents got divorced. My parents decided that there was no need to cause her any more stress (or a potential heart attack) and didn't tell her they got divorced. I mean, she was 98, we pretty much would say goodbye every time she took a nap. Well, GMa Rose is 103, and the charade continues. We do "family lunches" at Houstons, and my mom even comes to family events on my dad's side. I'll be working for my mom at her PR firm. And it turns out I'll actually see my dad every day, too. My dad does real estate, and didn't really have a home base. Well, until my mom so kindly gave him an office in her suite. It's technically the storage closet, so if anyone needed post-its or a stapler, you'd most likely be sucked into conversation with my dad. Yup. Me, my mom, and my dad. Every day. Every. Day. I just exhale/sighed very loudly if you were at all curious as to my mindset that I can't quite express in binary.

My mom says "It's so French!" Sure. If by "French" she means "Fucked." I will say, I'm extremely lucky that my parents' relationship is totally amicable. And that I get to see them (all the fucking time). And that I was allowed to move back in rent-free. Apparently groceries are a non-negotiable. I'll have to talk to my roommate about that. You're probably like "Wait, what? Wait, we'll get back to the whole Grandma doesn't know thing, what does this have to do with Lena Dunham?" As I so clearly state, I am NOT Lena Dunham. I don't have a TV show that I write, direct, and in which I star. I don't have a $3.5M book deal. I didn't go to the Emmys or Golden Globes. I know, it can get pretty confusing, especially since I'm living a "Tiny Furniture"-esque life, but let me say it again -- I am NOT Lena Dunham. Although this picture may prove otherwise:

By the by, that's a wig. However, I was at a supercooltotallyuberhiptrendyscene party celebrating "Young Hollywood" and the next day, received this email: "Has anyone ever told you that you may look like Lena Dunham? I’ve had a few people ask me today if Lena Dunham was at our party last night, people were convinced they saw her. And then someone said “it was definitely Lena, and I think she was shoving PopChips into her purse.” How do I know they were talking about me? I'd like to refer you to the "shoving PopChips into her purse" excerpt. Some more background about me -- I love free shit. LOVE IT. And if there's one thing that Hollywood does well, it's SWAG. At this party, there happened to be a giant PopChips stand. I fucking love PopChips. That combined with my feelings on free items, led me to take a few bags, and yes, "shove" them into my clutch. I was overzealous and attempted about 4 bags. When my clutch didn't close I thought "fuck it" and stuck it back under my arm. Much like Icarus, tempting fate became my downfall. And now I'll be remembered as the girl who MAAAAAAYYYBE looks like Lena Dunham, but more notably the girl who was "Supermarket Sweep"-ing PopChips into her clutch. I'll leave you with that image. A girl fucking stuffing free chips into a clutch, without end, and in slo-motion. Don't pretend like you wouldn't do the same thing. THEY WERE POPCHIPS! THEY'RE FUCKING DELICIOUS. THE END.