The Time I Met Matthew Broderick

I’m in New York City for the first time in my entire life, and I’m loving it. I was trying to describe it to Leif over the phone, and it pretty much came out in one big breath, “Ohmygosh I love it! There’s so much to see and do and there are so many interesting people to watch, and there are smells of food and flowers, and everything buzzes with noise and life and you’d absolutely hate it.”

It’s true. He really would. He doesn’t like crowds and he’s allergic to flowers. Sometimes opposites attract, ok?

Anyway. I’m in the city sans Leif for the Personal Democracy Forum, which is a conference about technology in politics. Totally up my alley. But this post is not about technology or politics, or even my husband’s environmental tastes and preferences, it’s about Matthew Broderick and the most uncomfortable celebrity photo in the history of cameras.

I was walking through the theater district with my friend Justin Hart, looking for someplace to eat, when he slowed down and hissed, “Look!” There was a couple taking a photo, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Jenny, look!” Ok, fine, I gave a second glance, because Justin was really very much way too excited about these people posing for pictures.

Oh, hello. That’s Ferris Bueller. Except way older. It happens to the best of us Matthew, don’t sweat it. He also didn’t look like he was too pleased to be taking the picture with the pretty girl posing with him, so I was content to just pass him by.

“Hi Matthew! What’s happening? Would you mind stopping for one more picture with my friend Jenny?” I know Justin might deny this, but I swear he shoved me into Mr. Broderick’s personal space as he pulled his camera out.

“Uh, hi …” What was I supposed to say? I’m sorry my friend made you do this, and don’t worry because I will probably punch him in the neck later for making my face turn the same color as my very red dress?

Then to make matters worse, my celebrity photo mate made his displeasure known by rolling his eyes and saying, “Fine. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

I look like I want to cry. Or murder Justin. One or the other.

“Oh come on, she’s a pretty girl, posing for a picture with her can’t be that bad!” Yup. ‘Physically harm Justin’ was rapidly moving to the top of my to-do list. Because he totally said that. To the man married to Sarah Jessica Parker.

Le sigh.

At least I got this picture out of it, which I have fondly titled, In Which Matthew Broderick and I Are Incredibly Annoyed at Justin Hart.


Disaster Response

It’s been over two weeks since an explosion on an oil rig killed eleven people and started spewing oil into the Gulf of Mexico at the rate of 210,000 gallons per day.

Two weeks.

The information has been spotty, to say the least. First the fallen rig wasn’t leaking. Then it was.

Then safety procedures in place since 1994 to burn off the crude oil in its earlier, containable stages were not followed.

Then some terrorist guy that graduated terrorism school in Pakistan before moving to the United States and becoming a citizen tried to blow up an SUV in Times Square in New York City. He almost got away too, after purchasing an airplane ticket and boarding the plane despite being on the on No Fly List. I seem to remember that panty bomber being on that list too. Don’t worry, I’m sure the system is working just fine. Solid B+, I say.

President Obama has been very busy. Attending Nerd Prom. That’s in-the-know way to refer to the White House Correspondent’s Dinner. I’ll spare you the embarrassment of having to ask like I did last week,”What the heck is Nerd Prom???”

Oh yeah, and Nashville’s quickly becoming the next Atlantis.

It’s time to do something, people.

Contact your Congressmen in Washington and tell them the answer to this slick disaster is not to bankrupt us by shutting off even more of our fuel.

Contact the FTA and let them know that if they’re going to have a no fly list, they might as well start actually enforcing it.

If you have the means, donate your time or money to help the mer-people of Nashville.

At least that’s what I’ll be doing. I refuse to feel helpless and sit back and twiddle my thumbs and hope everything turns out ok. Sometimes life throws you curve balls. Sometimes those stray balls smack you in the face. I’d rather be someone that gets back up to the plate, black eye and all, than someone that fears ball games for the rest of her life. Because if you never get back up to that plate, there’s no chance you’ll ever hit that home run.

Sorry for the baseball analogy. It was either that or American Idol, as both topics are dominating my tweet-stream at the moment…