The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are the 2009 winners:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus : A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxication : Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation : Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy : Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
7. Giraffiti : Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm : The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte : To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis : A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon : It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido : All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.) : Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor ( n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
The Washington Post has also published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
And the winners are:
1. Coffee , n. The person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted , adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.
3. Abdicate , v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade , v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly , adj. Impotent.
6. Negligent , adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.
7. Lymph , v. To walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle , n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence , n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash , n. A rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle , n. A humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude , n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon , n.. A Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster , n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism , n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
**Shout-out to BT for providing, thank you!
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Reblog: The Mailbox War
This one was too good to stay in the vault...
My father is a survivor of two wars.
The first was Vietnam (where he was a medic). The second was the war at home (where he was part-villain, part victim).
The war at home was not fought against my strong-willed mother, nor her strong-willed daughter (me), nor her strong-willed newborn (my brother, who was such an intolerable, shrieking toddler that we referred to him as ‘the Raptor’). Instead, the war at home was fought between two venerable enemies, and battled on civilian soil in the early nineties. On one side, my father in shorts and a polo shirt, a.k.a. Mr. Mom, who raised my brother and me and two dogs and one cat, while my mom bio-medically consulted her way through Europe, coming home only in stints.
On the other: the teenagers of Peekskill, New York and their arsenal of baseball bats.
At that time, there wasn’t much to do in town. One movie theater, one neon-signed shopping plaza (the main attraction tied between the pet shop and the hardware store). Not much else. And lots of bored teenagers in the summertime, half-assing wait or landscaping jobs during the week, coming home only to nurse beers and drive restlessly at night.
So they did what all red-blooded Americans do with energy, aggression, and an arguably poor upbringing. At low speeds in open cars, they swooped past mailboxes, improving their batting averages by smashing perched metal off poles.
We had just moved into the white clapboard house on a hill. Our mailbox was at the bottom of it. And because my parents had just begun to take pride in the place (recently out of the rental down the street), they renovated and improved, bursting with the satisfaction of their newly purchased home. One of the first acts my father took was to buy a beautiful mailbox as a prosperous symbol; a miniature bright, red barn, with a tiled roof and wide doors from which mail sprang.
And one of the first acts the neighborhood teenagers took was to smack it right off the pole in the middle of the night, denting the plastic and knocking off the doors.
When my father saw it, he knew. He had done his fair share of toilet-papering the principal’s house as a kid. But that was Halloween in Normal, Illinois. Not a summer spent destroying mailboxes in Peekskill, New York.
This was much, much different in his eyes. He had survived far worst virtually unmarked. He didn’t "come back from 'nam" to let a bunch of "punk kids" stick it to his young family, his new house, his new mailbox.
So he put it back up. Upon seeing this, the kids knocked it right back down. They too, had survived--plenty of fathers in town were out to prove a point with their mailboxes, dads that refused to be defeated, until the kids broke them down and the old guys gave up, heads hanging in shame, only to return to their wives and their kids with their shoulders shrugged in conquered disbelief.
But not my dad. Not him, not ever. My dad was of a breed these kids had never seen.
He ditched the cutesy, hard plastic in lieu of a sturdy wood structure bolted into a sturdier wood pole in the ground.
The next morning we saw, as we scaled down the driveway in our white Ford Taurus, the box lay splintered on the side of the road.
I remember what it looked like. And how my dad’s face hardened with determination, a smile flickered fast at his mouth. Even at ten years old, I saw what this meant. This was not over. This had only just begun. These were just the formative stages of what would be known forever after as The Mailbox War.
Next up was a traditional tin box, plain and black and just like all the others on the block. But it deviated when he encased it in a circular steel sheet, leaving gaps around the rectangular receptacle. Into those gaps he poured a yellow liquin plastic that bubbled and dried hard and puffy, like insulation. This he fixed to a metal pole, which he buried deep into the ground.
Now, instead of a mailbox, we had a space age monstrosity twice normal size, that gleamed in the sun with a terrible glare. As the bus lurched around the bend towards my house, I would instruct all substitute drivers to the “mailbox that looks like a big bullet” to ensure I was dropped at the right spot.
The teenagers had a hell of a time with this one, but they were just as committed as my dad. They bashed that thing mercilessly, over and over again, night after night. Try as they might, they dented the sheet and the insulation under the surface, but you could see from looking dead on that the mailbox protected by all this was entirely unscathed.
That was part one of my dad’s plan. To erect something that caused them to park their cars on the side of the drive, jump out with their bats and poles, and on foot, dance around the box, smashing it.
Part two was to hide his green and gold-flecked Buick at the bottom of the hill, obscured by night and the shade of pines. To sit in the driver’s side with his hands gripping the leather wheel, nodding off and jolting awake, his BB gun (previously used only for scaring squirrels away from the birdfeeder) at his side. Once he saw the flash of baseball bats by moonlight, the idea was to jump out, laughing maniacally and spraying the stars with BBs, forcing the teenagers to run screaming back into their cars, not before one or two of them soiled themselves, and drive away in hysterics, never to speak of that night again, and never to return.
Unfortunately, he never got the chance. The kids, perhaps anticipating an ambush, came at odd hours, and in strange patterns. Once they left the box alone for an entire week. A few days of sleeplessness and my dad’s fatigued ramblings caused my mom to put an end to that real quick.
Soon after, the mailbox was officially dismembered. Because the kids couldn’t beat it to a pulp, they blew it up, uprooting the pole like it was a diseased tree, and left it broken on its side in a nearby ditch.
At this point, we all congratulated my dad on fighting the good fight. The silver mailbox had lasted far longer than anyone could have imagined, and now that we had to erect number four, we wondered if we could just frequent a P.O. Box and live our lives in peace.
My dad scoffed at this suggestion, and got to work on his ultimate structure. He knew he had created a mailbox that could almost withstand the beatings, but a pole that could not. His solution: an iron pole cemented into the ground. As a nod to the would-be destroyers, he bolted a new version of the maimed mailbox on top, daring them to continue to try.
The box stayed atop the pole, through the winter, then spring. It seemed this had ended it. Once in a while a new dent would appear on the sheeting, but for the most part, it was left alone. No more explosions. The teenagers had been handed. But this is not the end of the story.
The hill on which our house stood was at a very dangerous turn of the road. I lost Peaches-the-cat to whizzing cars careening by. It was accident-prone and everyone within a ten mile radius knew to proceed with caution.
One day, a teenager, maybe one who had fought in The Mailbox War against my dad, maybe not, but to be sure, one who was not paying attention and one who was driving a borrowed BMW far too fast, swerved around the curve. And drove right into our mailbox. He hadn’t slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting it, assuming it would give with the thousands of pounds of steel and fiberglass of the car, figuring that the pole would bend and the box would pop off like the head of a dandelion, and he’d slow to a stop.
Instead, the car wrapped around the immovable object we called our mailbox. The airbags went off, the car was destroyed, he was in tears, his mother arrived in a rage, my father was apologetic and concerned for the boy’s safety. But our mailbox, it stayed.
The boy was perfectly fine except for the tongue-lashing he received from his mother, “I can’t believe you did this, you said you were going to be careful with the car, I never should have let you borrow it, your father is going to kill us both!”
Almost immediately, my dad dismantled the mailbox and its pole. He couldn’t, in good conscience, let it stay, knowing that bad drivers endangering their lives and the lives of anyone who happened to be nearby, could become fixed in a metal swirl around it.
He constructed a normal mailbox after that. One that was flimsy, and like most others on the block. But the funny thing was, it was never touched again. Maybe because that kid actually had been a perpetrator of our previous boxes, or maybe because the other kids were tired of it, or maybe they thought it was a trick.
Nevertheless, they stayed away.
My dad remains, to this day, victorious (if a not little notorious, as well).
My father is a survivor of two wars.
The first was Vietnam (where he was a medic). The second was the war at home (where he was part-villain, part victim).
The war at home was not fought against my strong-willed mother, nor her strong-willed daughter (me), nor her strong-willed newborn (my brother, who was such an intolerable, shrieking toddler that we referred to him as ‘the Raptor’). Instead, the war at home was fought between two venerable enemies, and battled on civilian soil in the early nineties. On one side, my father in shorts and a polo shirt, a.k.a. Mr. Mom, who raised my brother and me and two dogs and one cat, while my mom bio-medically consulted her way through Europe, coming home only in stints.
On the other: the teenagers of Peekskill, New York and their arsenal of baseball bats.
At that time, there wasn’t much to do in town. One movie theater, one neon-signed shopping plaza (the main attraction tied between the pet shop and the hardware store). Not much else. And lots of bored teenagers in the summertime, half-assing wait or landscaping jobs during the week, coming home only to nurse beers and drive restlessly at night.
So they did what all red-blooded Americans do with energy, aggression, and an arguably poor upbringing. At low speeds in open cars, they swooped past mailboxes, improving their batting averages by smashing perched metal off poles.
We had just moved into the white clapboard house on a hill. Our mailbox was at the bottom of it. And because my parents had just begun to take pride in the place (recently out of the rental down the street), they renovated and improved, bursting with the satisfaction of their newly purchased home. One of the first acts my father took was to buy a beautiful mailbox as a prosperous symbol; a miniature bright, red barn, with a tiled roof and wide doors from which mail sprang.
And one of the first acts the neighborhood teenagers took was to smack it right off the pole in the middle of the night, denting the plastic and knocking off the doors.
When my father saw it, he knew. He had done his fair share of toilet-papering the principal’s house as a kid. But that was Halloween in Normal, Illinois. Not a summer spent destroying mailboxes in Peekskill, New York.
This was much, much different in his eyes. He had survived far worst virtually unmarked. He didn’t "come back from 'nam" to let a bunch of "punk kids" stick it to his young family, his new house, his new mailbox.
So he put it back up. Upon seeing this, the kids knocked it right back down. They too, had survived--plenty of fathers in town were out to prove a point with their mailboxes, dads that refused to be defeated, until the kids broke them down and the old guys gave up, heads hanging in shame, only to return to their wives and their kids with their shoulders shrugged in conquered disbelief.
But not my dad. Not him, not ever. My dad was of a breed these kids had never seen.
He ditched the cutesy, hard plastic in lieu of a sturdy wood structure bolted into a sturdier wood pole in the ground.
The next morning we saw, as we scaled down the driveway in our white Ford Taurus, the box lay splintered on the side of the road.
I remember what it looked like. And how my dad’s face hardened with determination, a smile flickered fast at his mouth. Even at ten years old, I saw what this meant. This was not over. This had only just begun. These were just the formative stages of what would be known forever after as The Mailbox War.
Next up was a traditional tin box, plain and black and just like all the others on the block. But it deviated when he encased it in a circular steel sheet, leaving gaps around the rectangular receptacle. Into those gaps he poured a yellow liquin plastic that bubbled and dried hard and puffy, like insulation. This he fixed to a metal pole, which he buried deep into the ground.
Now, instead of a mailbox, we had a space age monstrosity twice normal size, that gleamed in the sun with a terrible glare. As the bus lurched around the bend towards my house, I would instruct all substitute drivers to the “mailbox that looks like a big bullet” to ensure I was dropped at the right spot.
The teenagers had a hell of a time with this one, but they were just as committed as my dad. They bashed that thing mercilessly, over and over again, night after night. Try as they might, they dented the sheet and the insulation under the surface, but you could see from looking dead on that the mailbox protected by all this was entirely unscathed.
That was part one of my dad’s plan. To erect something that caused them to park their cars on the side of the drive, jump out with their bats and poles, and on foot, dance around the box, smashing it.
Part two was to hide his green and gold-flecked Buick at the bottom of the hill, obscured by night and the shade of pines. To sit in the driver’s side with his hands gripping the leather wheel, nodding off and jolting awake, his BB gun (previously used only for scaring squirrels away from the birdfeeder) at his side. Once he saw the flash of baseball bats by moonlight, the idea was to jump out, laughing maniacally and spraying the stars with BBs, forcing the teenagers to run screaming back into their cars, not before one or two of them soiled themselves, and drive away in hysterics, never to speak of that night again, and never to return.
Unfortunately, he never got the chance. The kids, perhaps anticipating an ambush, came at odd hours, and in strange patterns. Once they left the box alone for an entire week. A few days of sleeplessness and my dad’s fatigued ramblings caused my mom to put an end to that real quick.
Soon after, the mailbox was officially dismembered. Because the kids couldn’t beat it to a pulp, they blew it up, uprooting the pole like it was a diseased tree, and left it broken on its side in a nearby ditch.
At this point, we all congratulated my dad on fighting the good fight. The silver mailbox had lasted far longer than anyone could have imagined, and now that we had to erect number four, we wondered if we could just frequent a P.O. Box and live our lives in peace.
My dad scoffed at this suggestion, and got to work on his ultimate structure. He knew he had created a mailbox that could almost withstand the beatings, but a pole that could not. His solution: an iron pole cemented into the ground. As a nod to the would-be destroyers, he bolted a new version of the maimed mailbox on top, daring them to continue to try.
The box stayed atop the pole, through the winter, then spring. It seemed this had ended it. Once in a while a new dent would appear on the sheeting, but for the most part, it was left alone. No more explosions. The teenagers had been handed. But this is not the end of the story.
The hill on which our house stood was at a very dangerous turn of the road. I lost Peaches-the-cat to whizzing cars careening by. It was accident-prone and everyone within a ten mile radius knew to proceed with caution.
One day, a teenager, maybe one who had fought in The Mailbox War against my dad, maybe not, but to be sure, one who was not paying attention and one who was driving a borrowed BMW far too fast, swerved around the curve. And drove right into our mailbox. He hadn’t slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting it, assuming it would give with the thousands of pounds of steel and fiberglass of the car, figuring that the pole would bend and the box would pop off like the head of a dandelion, and he’d slow to a stop.
Instead, the car wrapped around the immovable object we called our mailbox. The airbags went off, the car was destroyed, he was in tears, his mother arrived in a rage, my father was apologetic and concerned for the boy’s safety. But our mailbox, it stayed.
The boy was perfectly fine except for the tongue-lashing he received from his mother, “I can’t believe you did this, you said you were going to be careful with the car, I never should have let you borrow it, your father is going to kill us both!”
Almost immediately, my dad dismantled the mailbox and its pole. He couldn’t, in good conscience, let it stay, knowing that bad drivers endangering their lives and the lives of anyone who happened to be nearby, could become fixed in a metal swirl around it.
He constructed a normal mailbox after that. One that was flimsy, and like most others on the block. But the funny thing was, it was never touched again. Maybe because that kid actually had been a perpetrator of our previous boxes, or maybe because the other kids were tired of it, or maybe they thought it was a trick.
Nevertheless, they stayed away.
My dad remains, to this day, victorious (if a not little notorious, as well).
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Items for a good mood...
Lengthy updates via email from cross-country friends
The very last sniffle of a cold
A found twenty-dollar bill
Cold lemonade or hot tea, depending on the weather
Sample subscriptions to magazines boasting implicit simplicity
A deep breath and a deep stretch
A cell phone chirp indicating a new text message
A snarky comment prevented from repetition aloud
A soft bed, with high thread count sheets freshly laundered
Low glow from an antique lamp
A well-thumbed book, the third time read
Free lunch, and even better, at a restaurant
A scary movie, and someone to split buttered popcorn with
Al fresco anything
Having someone tell you there’s something in your teeth, immediately
Impromptu invitations
A sick day for your boss
Sunlight through the sunroof
Dew on grass, and then feet on dew
Praise
Icy water, without the ice
Naps
Sunday night before a Monday holiday
The burger at Wellville, Blue 9 or Corner Bistro
Bryant Park’s fountain
The still of seven a.m.
Being second in line (first is the worst, second is the best…)
Trampolines
Blue-bottomed pools
When someone refers to you as their best friend
Rooftop cocktails and fireworks
Bare arms and legs in the afternoon
Sunglasses that don’t pinch
Tulips
Shade
Knowing that, on Friday morning, the entire weekend lies ahead
The very last sniffle of a cold
A found twenty-dollar bill
Cold lemonade or hot tea, depending on the weather
Sample subscriptions to magazines boasting implicit simplicity
A deep breath and a deep stretch
A cell phone chirp indicating a new text message
A snarky comment prevented from repetition aloud
A soft bed, with high thread count sheets freshly laundered
Low glow from an antique lamp
A well-thumbed book, the third time read
Free lunch, and even better, at a restaurant
A scary movie, and someone to split buttered popcorn with
Al fresco anything
Having someone tell you there’s something in your teeth, immediately
Impromptu invitations
A sick day for your boss
Sunlight through the sunroof
Dew on grass, and then feet on dew
Praise
Icy water, without the ice
Naps
Sunday night before a Monday holiday
The burger at Wellville, Blue 9 or Corner Bistro
Bryant Park’s fountain
The still of seven a.m.
Being second in line (first is the worst, second is the best…)
Trampolines
Blue-bottomed pools
When someone refers to you as their best friend
Rooftop cocktails and fireworks
Bare arms and legs in the afternoon
Sunglasses that don’t pinch
Tulips
Shade
Knowing that, on Friday morning, the entire weekend lies ahead
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Remembering: What Matters
My speaking voice has been gone all week, a good seque to me finding my literary voice, as I revise and re-revise my writing sample and my novel (going off to a tell-it-like-it-is editor in one week--good Lord, so much to do before then).
Today, here is what I remember:
Under the sun, geckos dart around my feet, and I think about the things that matter. What they are. What they are not.
I think they’re not budget reports and filing piles. They are not dinners with peers strategizing nor blank-faced TV programs where hours pass, uncounted. They are not a blur of drunken vomiting and strangers kissed each weekend to fill the unfulfilled. They are not when days knit together, undulating grumpily until there are two parts of one life—the minutes spent anticipating and the minutes spent reminiscing. They are not go go go and yoga merely purposed to un-hunch shoulders, praying only when things are bad because we wish them to be good, breathing merely to dissipate emotion and apologies to get our way.
They are, instead, sadness at stopping and finally seeing what we have wasted our time and energy on. They are finding the right in saving ourselves from ourselves, and our own distractions. They are realized the moment we inhale cut grass and understand that living is anything we make of it, sure, but more, we hold a choice in our balled hands. That choice is to make it good, make it count, and be free or to bow to impositions, cower under the difficulties of waking each morning and to let anything move us instead of moving it ourselves.
I think a popsicle and open sky and two fully-formed feet are incredible gifts once I unfurl my heart. I think what matters is being thankful and being forgiving and forgiven.
Today, here is what I remember:
Under the sun, geckos dart around my feet, and I think about the things that matter. What they are. What they are not.
I think they’re not budget reports and filing piles. They are not dinners with peers strategizing nor blank-faced TV programs where hours pass, uncounted. They are not a blur of drunken vomiting and strangers kissed each weekend to fill the unfulfilled. They are not when days knit together, undulating grumpily until there are two parts of one life—the minutes spent anticipating and the minutes spent reminiscing. They are not go go go and yoga merely purposed to un-hunch shoulders, praying only when things are bad because we wish them to be good, breathing merely to dissipate emotion and apologies to get our way.
They are, instead, sadness at stopping and finally seeing what we have wasted our time and energy on. They are finding the right in saving ourselves from ourselves, and our own distractions. They are realized the moment we inhale cut grass and understand that living is anything we make of it, sure, but more, we hold a choice in our balled hands. That choice is to make it good, make it count, and be free or to bow to impositions, cower under the difficulties of waking each morning and to let anything move us instead of moving it ourselves.
I think a popsicle and open sky and two fully-formed feet are incredible gifts once I unfurl my heart. I think what matters is being thankful and being forgiving and forgiven.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Needful Things
In times like these, some fashion items cross over from accessory to necessity. Like this this,for instance.* There was a time where I was going to make a necklace out of my wisdom teeth dipped in bronze, but it turned out that making it was far more work than just acting like I was going to do it until the novelty wore off in my mind.
In other news, I have lost my voice for what is now the second day. The first (yesterday), it was this little cracking, off-key, in and out honking voice that rasped up at the end of each sentence, making them all seem like questions which made it sound like I was an undergrown goose with a cold.
Today, it's so bad it's a whisper. I never have lost my voice before, but I remember being twelve and wanting to, because I thought it sounded sexy. It, as it turns out, sounds like emphysema, which is decidedly un-sexy. Luckily any jobs I have require me to write, not speak, and now that I'm working from a variety of coffeeshops and living rooms, I can just tap all day. I need that computer voice so that I can communicate with people. You know the one.**
*Thanks for sending, CD!
**How do I use that? I'm pretty inept at computer programs but assert that because I have a Mac, the option's got to be on here. I mean, I could record play the guitar on this thing, or so says some icon at the bottom of this screen that I'm not cool enough to click on.
In other news, I have lost my voice for what is now the second day. The first (yesterday), it was this little cracking, off-key, in and out honking voice that rasped up at the end of each sentence, making them all seem like questions which made it sound like I was an undergrown goose with a cold.
Today, it's so bad it's a whisper. I never have lost my voice before, but I remember being twelve and wanting to, because I thought it sounded sexy. It, as it turns out, sounds like emphysema, which is decidedly un-sexy. Luckily any jobs I have require me to write, not speak, and now that I'm working from a variety of coffeeshops and living rooms, I can just tap all day. I need that computer voice so that I can communicate with people. You know the one.**
*Thanks for sending, CD!
**How do I use that? I'm pretty inept at computer programs but assert that because I have a Mac, the option's got to be on here. I mean, I could record play the guitar on this thing, or so says some icon at the bottom of this screen that I'm not cool enough to click on.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
A Poster on Gawker Sums It Up Best...
About this AIG mess from today's Gawker comments:
"I'm sure there are individual bankers who did their job, did it well, and probably deserve some extra compensation. But the notion that these bonuses are somehow promised compensation is absurd. Every employer I've ever worked for that offered bonuses took great pain to specify that bonuses are just that - an add-on to your salary. They've also taken great pains to specify that the terms of the bonus can change almost without notice.
I don't begrudge (some) people in the financial services industry their money; they do a job that, in many cases, I don't understand or comprehend. But the notion that hundreds of millions of dollars are required to retain "top talent" - in many cases, talent that oversaw the actions that got us into this damn mess to begin with - is absolutely absurd, and not in keeping with, you know, the overwhelming majority of Americans. Regardless your level of employment, if you work for a firm that was required to take bailout cash to continue functioning as an organization, I'd say that pride in your organization is misplaced (regardless of what area you work in). I work in support operations, and if our marketing group does an awful job conceptualizing or releasing a product, the product is a failure regardless of whether the support operations are solid or not.
In short, fuck them."
"I'm sure there are individual bankers who did their job, did it well, and probably deserve some extra compensation. But the notion that these bonuses are somehow promised compensation is absurd. Every employer I've ever worked for that offered bonuses took great pain to specify that bonuses are just that - an add-on to your salary. They've also taken great pains to specify that the terms of the bonus can change almost without notice.
I don't begrudge (some) people in the financial services industry their money; they do a job that, in many cases, I don't understand or comprehend. But the notion that hundreds of millions of dollars are required to retain "top talent" - in many cases, talent that oversaw the actions that got us into this damn mess to begin with - is absolutely absurd, and not in keeping with, you know, the overwhelming majority of Americans. Regardless your level of employment, if you work for a firm that was required to take bailout cash to continue functioning as an organization, I'd say that pride in your organization is misplaced (regardless of what area you work in). I work in support operations, and if our marketing group does an awful job conceptualizing or releasing a product, the product is a failure regardless of whether the support operations are solid or not.
In short, fuck them."
Friday, March 20, 2009
Minetta Tavern: Crispy Pork Trotters, Lamb Saddle and Grand Marnier Souffle...
Sure it's the most impossible reservation to get in town, but that didn't stop my more-than-lovely friend Emily from inviting me to be her date to Minetta Tavern's opening week. It helps to have friends from the food world...
From FOOD & WINE and my darling friend, who described what we ate better than I ever could:
"Even better, chefs Riad Nasr and Lee Hanson (who, as alums of Balthazar and Pastis, are used to running popular restaurants) are already turning out some great dishes, including tender Berkshire pig's trotter mixed with mushroom duxelles and pork forcemeat that’s deep-fried and crispy. It’s a classic French dish that fits seamlessly with the bubbling café vibe. Juicy lamb saddle with belly meat intact is excellent, and so is a bright, billowy Grand Marnier soufflé flecked with orange sections."
Check out the rest of the article here and tell her she did a great job!
From FOOD & WINE and my darling friend, who described what we ate better than I ever could:
"Even better, chefs Riad Nasr and Lee Hanson (who, as alums of Balthazar and Pastis, are used to running popular restaurants) are already turning out some great dishes, including tender Berkshire pig's trotter mixed with mushroom duxelles and pork forcemeat that’s deep-fried and crispy. It’s a classic French dish that fits seamlessly with the bubbling café vibe. Juicy lamb saddle with belly meat intact is excellent, and so is a bright, billowy Grand Marnier soufflé flecked with orange sections."
Check out the rest of the article here and tell her she did a great job!
Everyone is Pregnant
Is there something* in the air? No less than four of my good friends are pregnant. Of course these fine young women are off married in other states. Is this a suburban** vs. city thing? Or is it just the whole world against NYC thing?
Are we all destined to continue a prolonged adolescence in New York where we don't want to get married until 30 if even then or have babies until 35+?
So many questions remain unanswered. Like how they're figuring out to pay for school for their unborn, and how I'm trying to figure out how to pay for school***...for myself****.
*My choice not to use "semen" instead of "something" proves that I am actually mature.
**My choice to use "suburban" even those these lovely girls live in Seattle, Philly and Jersey proves that I have finally succumbed to the wave of pretension around me, and therefore am not mature, and am simply, a pompous jackass who thinks NYC is the end-all be-all of the world.
***My choice to apply to schools everywhere except New York proves that I am less of a jackass than previously thought.
****Less of a jackass, maybe. But no less selfish....hey no one's going to make my life cool for me. It's up to me to do that now. And you know, I promise when I have a baby I'll spoil it rotten. Until then, there are plenty (about to be) around to teach me how.
Are we all destined to continue a prolonged adolescence in New York where we don't want to get married until 30 if even then or have babies until 35+?
So many questions remain unanswered. Like how they're figuring out to pay for school for their unborn, and how I'm trying to figure out how to pay for school***...for myself****.
*My choice not to use "semen" instead of "something" proves that I am actually mature.
**My choice to use "suburban" even those these lovely girls live in Seattle, Philly and Jersey proves that I have finally succumbed to the wave of pretension around me, and therefore am not mature, and am simply, a pompous jackass who thinks NYC is the end-all be-all of the world.
***My choice to apply to schools everywhere except New York proves that I am less of a jackass than previously thought.
****Less of a jackass, maybe. But no less selfish....hey no one's going to make my life cool for me. It's up to me to do that now. And you know, I promise when I have a baby I'll spoil it rotten. Until then, there are plenty (about to be) around to teach me how.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Life Plan, Here We Go
I'm unemployed on a regular basis.
So I get to be lazy (between futile job searches and freelancing assignments and classes, that is).
BUT, not lazy in a usual sense. Systematically choosing new MFA programs to apply to has occupied my time (if at first you don't succeed, try try again--I'm looking at you 2006, the worst year of my life: Dad got cancer, my long-term live-in relationship ended, I changed into a horrible job and I was an absolute mess because my boss from the last job took me with her to the new and she hated it, I applied to schools because I liked how they sounded so far away, and I got in to some...with no financial aid, and decided that running off to Hawaii was not the answer to solving my problems, it was staying and facing them. It was hard, it was ugly and it was my finest moment. )
I'm inspired again (you know how I get that way) because my new book is just fun in a way that my old one isn't (God I'm sick of those old characters!). But I'm inspired by those around me, friends getting into spectacular programs: top ten in social work, top five in marketing, top everything. These are my friends, this is my group. I've got to hold up my end of the bargain.
So back to the flurry. I've enrolled in a Stanford writing course on Voice in Fiction, which (fingers crossed!) I will get an A in and then squeeze out some info from the prof on applying to Stanford's writing program (here's a hint, it's impossible to get into, ugh). I've enlisted an amazing editor to take a long hard look at my first novel about how to turn nearly good into definitely great (meaning I'm frantically changing things starting TONIGHT so that I can get it to him by April 10th). I've also tracked down some really prestigious writers who I want to get advisement on choosing the right programs for me, and the right writing sample--(I've got hundreds of pages to choose from and it's impossible to pick what's right). Oh yeah and I'm writing the children's book and hoping to get it to agents this summer.
Writing to come tomorrow, today I'm planning out my schedule and begging NYU to send me my transcripts from the ONE Tisch class I took which apparently all grad schools require the grade I received: B plus, damnit.
So I get to be lazy (between futile job searches and freelancing assignments and classes, that is).
BUT, not lazy in a usual sense. Systematically choosing new MFA programs to apply to has occupied my time (if at first you don't succeed, try try again--I'm looking at you 2006, the worst year of my life: Dad got cancer, my long-term live-in relationship ended, I changed into a horrible job and I was an absolute mess because my boss from the last job took me with her to the new and she hated it, I applied to schools because I liked how they sounded so far away, and I got in to some...with no financial aid, and decided that running off to Hawaii was not the answer to solving my problems, it was staying and facing them. It was hard, it was ugly and it was my finest moment. )
I'm inspired again (you know how I get that way) because my new book is just fun in a way that my old one isn't (God I'm sick of those old characters!). But I'm inspired by those around me, friends getting into spectacular programs: top ten in social work, top five in marketing, top everything. These are my friends, this is my group. I've got to hold up my end of the bargain.
So back to the flurry. I've enrolled in a Stanford writing course on Voice in Fiction, which (fingers crossed!) I will get an A in and then squeeze out some info from the prof on applying to Stanford's writing program (here's a hint, it's impossible to get into, ugh). I've enlisted an amazing editor to take a long hard look at my first novel about how to turn nearly good into definitely great (meaning I'm frantically changing things starting TONIGHT so that I can get it to him by April 10th). I've also tracked down some really prestigious writers who I want to get advisement on choosing the right programs for me, and the right writing sample--(I've got hundreds of pages to choose from and it's impossible to pick what's right). Oh yeah and I'm writing the children's book and hoping to get it to agents this summer.
Writing to come tomorrow, today I'm planning out my schedule and begging NYU to send me my transcripts from the ONE Tisch class I took which apparently all grad schools require the grade I received: B plus, damnit.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Unspecial
Excerpt from my newest book...for kids (some adult themes are explored, btw)...
Today I turned ten and guess what I got? A cake full of mayonnaise, that’s what.
Mom’s gone on another site dig, so Dad had to make the cake and let me tell you, he’s basically the worst at cooking. Whoever said the greatest chefs were men never met my lunch. When Dad makes my sandwiches there’s never any mayonnaise, just the baloney and the bread. So what’s with the mayonnaise in the cake, I say when I blow out the candles. He says try it.
Henry makes a face and takes a pretend bite when Dad’s watching me cause when it’s your birthday everyone pays you too much attention and stares when you eat. Henry’s too old to warrant Dad making a sandwich. Henry gets money instead. He’s in seventh grade so he’s at middle school. He gets to have a really big locker that he’s always forgetting the combination to. I’d never do that.
“Mmmm,” I say and just lick the frosting. Trails of smoke from the candles are swimming all around Dad’s face. I must have blown them to the side.
“You didn’t try it,” Dad says, and sighs.
So I take a bite. It doesn’t taste like mayonnaise. It tastes like cake. Maybe a little burnt, but it’s chocolate so it’s hard to tell. “Where’d it go?”
Dad beams like he’s won the lottery and we can all go live in Hawaii. “We were out of eggs and then I thought, what’s mayonnaise except oil and eggs? Two ingredients on the back of the cake box are oil and eggs, and here I had both, already mixed!”
I want to interrupt that my birthday was no time to play around, this was the most important thing I’ll eat all day, but I don’t. Dad’s a biomedical engineer, which is just a fancy label for scientist, and he loves breaking down and building up things. He thinks didactically. I forget what it means, but I suppose it’s an answer to some question I never asked.
So here I am, eating the cake and still Henry won’t take a bite. He doesn’t like what he can’t see. Dad loves that about Henry, says it means he’s a verifiable brain-in-training. I said Henry’s an idiot, and my supporting evidence was people can’t see planets moving or see evolution. That’s just a leap of faith. Henry said I got it backwards, as usual, and waved a book in my face, The Beak of the Finch. He said Charles Darwin saw it because he was patient, unlike me. I go, I’d read that book myself just to shove it in Henry’s face if it weren’t so freakin’ boring.
Dad said don’t say freakin’, it’s unladylike. Another thing Henry gets to do that I don’t. I’m supposed to become a lady and he gets to be a man, which aside from not being able to cook seems a lot better because you don’t have to wear lipstick and no one judges you by how big your bra is. Dad says talking about a bra before I need one is also unladylike.
You’re exasperating, I said to Dad, because he always says it to me. He said don’t push it, so I didn’t because, you know, he was making that face. He was making that same face to Henry about the cake so Henry took a bite really fast.
“Hey this isn’t half bad,” he says, and with his mouth full too. And then he keeps eating, just wouldn’t stop eating it. His piece was gone in like, a millisecond, I swear. I count in my head. At that rate, the whole thing would be gone in one point two minutes.
“Don’t pig out! Leave some, I want to eat this all week!” I tell him.
I’m starting to regret that my birthday party isn’t until next Saturday. You can’t have a party on Sunday night, not with your friends cause no one will come, so we’re having our little party as a family. Plus the bowling alley would be more fun on the weekends. Rachel and Andrea and Sammy have never eaten a mayonnaise cake, to my recollection. They would have told me if they did.
“I can make more,” Dad says, probably as a cue for us to pipe down.
So we all keep eating it and I don’t say out loud how I wished Mom were here to try it. She’s missed my birthday before—she’s an archeologist and is basically always gone—but I guess I thought she’d be here for my graduation into double digits, since today I turned ten. That’s a big number, especially now that I’m in fifth grade, the last grade before middle school. It seems important to have your mom around for that kind of a thing. But then again, I wouldn’t have had a mayonnaise cake if she were here. So I didn’t say anything about Mom missing the cake out loud. If she were here, it couldn’t have been mayonnaise cake at all. That’s what Dad calls an impossibility.
Today I turned ten and guess what I got? A cake full of mayonnaise, that’s what.
Mom’s gone on another site dig, so Dad had to make the cake and let me tell you, he’s basically the worst at cooking. Whoever said the greatest chefs were men never met my lunch. When Dad makes my sandwiches there’s never any mayonnaise, just the baloney and the bread. So what’s with the mayonnaise in the cake, I say when I blow out the candles. He says try it.
Henry makes a face and takes a pretend bite when Dad’s watching me cause when it’s your birthday everyone pays you too much attention and stares when you eat. Henry’s too old to warrant Dad making a sandwich. Henry gets money instead. He’s in seventh grade so he’s at middle school. He gets to have a really big locker that he’s always forgetting the combination to. I’d never do that.
“Mmmm,” I say and just lick the frosting. Trails of smoke from the candles are swimming all around Dad’s face. I must have blown them to the side.
“You didn’t try it,” Dad says, and sighs.
So I take a bite. It doesn’t taste like mayonnaise. It tastes like cake. Maybe a little burnt, but it’s chocolate so it’s hard to tell. “Where’d it go?”
Dad beams like he’s won the lottery and we can all go live in Hawaii. “We were out of eggs and then I thought, what’s mayonnaise except oil and eggs? Two ingredients on the back of the cake box are oil and eggs, and here I had both, already mixed!”
I want to interrupt that my birthday was no time to play around, this was the most important thing I’ll eat all day, but I don’t. Dad’s a biomedical engineer, which is just a fancy label for scientist, and he loves breaking down and building up things. He thinks didactically. I forget what it means, but I suppose it’s an answer to some question I never asked.
So here I am, eating the cake and still Henry won’t take a bite. He doesn’t like what he can’t see. Dad loves that about Henry, says it means he’s a verifiable brain-in-training. I said Henry’s an idiot, and my supporting evidence was people can’t see planets moving or see evolution. That’s just a leap of faith. Henry said I got it backwards, as usual, and waved a book in my face, The Beak of the Finch. He said Charles Darwin saw it because he was patient, unlike me. I go, I’d read that book myself just to shove it in Henry’s face if it weren’t so freakin’ boring.
Dad said don’t say freakin’, it’s unladylike. Another thing Henry gets to do that I don’t. I’m supposed to become a lady and he gets to be a man, which aside from not being able to cook seems a lot better because you don’t have to wear lipstick and no one judges you by how big your bra is. Dad says talking about a bra before I need one is also unladylike.
You’re exasperating, I said to Dad, because he always says it to me. He said don’t push it, so I didn’t because, you know, he was making that face. He was making that same face to Henry about the cake so Henry took a bite really fast.
“Hey this isn’t half bad,” he says, and with his mouth full too. And then he keeps eating, just wouldn’t stop eating it. His piece was gone in like, a millisecond, I swear. I count in my head. At that rate, the whole thing would be gone in one point two minutes.
“Don’t pig out! Leave some, I want to eat this all week!” I tell him.
I’m starting to regret that my birthday party isn’t until next Saturday. You can’t have a party on Sunday night, not with your friends cause no one will come, so we’re having our little party as a family. Plus the bowling alley would be more fun on the weekends. Rachel and Andrea and Sammy have never eaten a mayonnaise cake, to my recollection. They would have told me if they did.
“I can make more,” Dad says, probably as a cue for us to pipe down.
So we all keep eating it and I don’t say out loud how I wished Mom were here to try it. She’s missed my birthday before—she’s an archeologist and is basically always gone—but I guess I thought she’d be here for my graduation into double digits, since today I turned ten. That’s a big number, especially now that I’m in fifth grade, the last grade before middle school. It seems important to have your mom around for that kind of a thing. But then again, I wouldn’t have had a mayonnaise cake if she were here. So I didn’t say anything about Mom missing the cake out loud. If she were here, it couldn’t have been mayonnaise cake at all. That’s what Dad calls an impossibility.
Lesson Learned?
So remember when I took the huge artistic stand? And was preparing to get fired from the publication? Well turns out, acting like a man about it (this is my theory, when I act assertive and full of confidence and like I don't accept something less than what's a little bit more than I'm worth, I'm not a bitch, I'm acting like a man...this gives me some sort of Oprah-esque boost where I prance around in unflattering pants and go "I'm FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABulous!") actually worked! (So far, I can be proven wrong at any given moment).
Throwing my theoretical balls out on the table showed everyone I wouldn't accept less than, pointing out the mistakes made in a non-threatening, non-emotional and somewhat authoritative way actually showed that I was a professional (mwah, hah, hah, they'll never know the truth) and I got respect in return! I mean, no one's asked me to write a feature or come on staff there or anything (pssst, I'm totes available to fill a position there, please please please?).
So uh, I'm worth it? Coincidentally which is also some sort of makeup commercial I think. Maybe she earned it? Maybe it's Maybelline!
Throwing my theoretical balls out on the table showed everyone I wouldn't accept less than, pointing out the mistakes made in a non-threatening, non-emotional and somewhat authoritative way actually showed that I was a professional (mwah, hah, hah, they'll never know the truth) and I got respect in return! I mean, no one's asked me to write a feature or come on staff there or anything (pssst, I'm totes available to fill a position there, please please please?).
So uh, I'm worth it? Coincidentally which is also some sort of makeup commercial I think. Maybe she earned it? Maybe it's Maybelline!
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Oh Brain, Where Art Thou?
Pardon me, I've been away,
Where exactly I can't quite say,
Burning bridges, Just about
Stamping career embers out....
Yes, about that. So there comes a time in every youngish-getting-old-as-hell writer's life when he/she is faced with a job opportunity which would essentially be managing person on a very large editing project but that is not offered full-time, nor permanent and would interfere with other projects that writer has going, so she has to turn it down. Fine.
But does that very same youngish-getting old as hell writer have to take an artistic integrity stand on another little project, one with a magazine she actually loves and hardly ever gets work from?
Because she spent so much time crafting a *fair and subtly balanced profile that was oh so nuanced (hey, we all think we're geniuses--zing!)* that after a revision became something she wasn't so happy to put her name on (PS Yes, said writer knows that she is an absolute nobody and does not have clout to flex) ?
With a bulleted email, no less, because the edit doesn't do the subject matter justice even though said writer kinda disliked the thing said writer was profiling? Bulleted in such a way so that the incensed email pointed out where the new director had not only substantive errors, but stylistic? Did said writer have to point out to editor, and by proxy, new director where they had made grammatical, fact-checking, and, by God, punctuation errors just to make a point?
In this economy, with this writer, the answer is yes. In the words of Homer Simpson, "I wish, I wish, I hadn't killed that fish."
SH*T. Guess I'm not getting hired there anymore. Hey, at least I fought the power...right? Right. Back to the children's book, which by the way is going swimmingly...no seriously, it's pretty awesome.
Where exactly I can't quite say,
Burning bridges, Just about
Stamping career embers out....
Yes, about that. So there comes a time in every youngish-getting-old-as-hell writer's life when he/she is faced with a job opportunity which would essentially be managing person on a very large editing project but that is not offered full-time, nor permanent and would interfere with other projects that writer has going, so she has to turn it down. Fine.
But does that very same youngish-getting old as hell writer have to take an artistic integrity stand on another little project, one with a magazine she actually loves and hardly ever gets work from?
Because she spent so much time crafting a *fair and subtly balanced profile that was oh so nuanced (hey, we all think we're geniuses--zing!)* that after a revision became something she wasn't so happy to put her name on (PS Yes, said writer knows that she is an absolute nobody and does not have clout to flex) ?
With a bulleted email, no less, because the edit doesn't do the subject matter justice even though said writer kinda disliked the thing said writer was profiling? Bulleted in such a way so that the incensed email pointed out where the new director had not only substantive errors, but stylistic? Did said writer have to point out to editor, and by proxy, new director where they had made grammatical, fact-checking, and, by God, punctuation errors just to make a point?
In this economy, with this writer, the answer is yes. In the words of Homer Simpson, "I wish, I wish, I hadn't killed that fish."
SH*T. Guess I'm not getting hired there anymore. Hey, at least I fought the power...right? Right. Back to the children's book, which by the way is going swimmingly...no seriously, it's pretty awesome.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Extreme Makeover: Life Edition
It started small, they always do. Turn the T.V. off a half hour before sleeping. Insist boy that buying a rug will indeed make his pad more homey. Just say no, a thousand times to Vegas, only to be bamboozled into it, and watch as boy unceremoniously takes it out on the rug.
Work on Children's Book until I get back my oldie but goodie (that's Saturday). Listen to new music (Handsome Furs, that new Eminem song--I'm not kidding it's just great). Make a lot of wine dates with various factions of still-employed girls. Write a really bold email proposing a job to a place that's not hiring (that's how I roll). Spend the weekend eating sushi and playing Wii. Hooray for Super Smash Bros. No longer wonder why I want to write Children's Books.
Talk my parents to taking the family out to lunch at Chanterelle (you have not lived until you've tried the grilled Seafood Sausage) now that the economy has made it, for the first time in the restaurant's 30 year history, possible to order a la carte.
Get asked to buy a dirt bike for my interview subject. Promise him it can be so, only if he picks up his other bandmate in NY and drives back to their home, cross country, with snot streaming on their cheeks a la Dumb and Dumber style. Do not hear about dirt bike again.
Try to want to see any of the Oscar award movies. Say to myself that's selling out to see them just because they're recognized even though I'm not as interested as I should be. Listen to Lady GaGa instead and hang my head in shame.
Keep browsing overstock.com. The wishlist on there is as long as a wedding registry. Consume inordinate amounts of White Tea. Decide honey can be used as a condiment for anything.
Buy a new pen. That's the reality here, people. This is revelatory.
Email about an apartment in Paris, because, why not?
Think about new recipes. Knit two inches of a scarf while letting laundry building into a teetering tower of Pisa.
Watch a whole lot of Anthony Bourdain. Make new outfits from purple tights, a black and white dress and a green sweatshirt, even if I'm called Punky Brewster by more than one person.
Ride on a Ducati a lot. Realize that it's the motorcycle equivalent of the thong.
Sing for no reason when someone scares me on the street. Realize this, in turn, scares them.
Got a long way to go...
Work on Children's Book until I get back my oldie but goodie (that's Saturday). Listen to new music (Handsome Furs, that new Eminem song--I'm not kidding it's just great). Make a lot of wine dates with various factions of still-employed girls. Write a really bold email proposing a job to a place that's not hiring (that's how I roll). Spend the weekend eating sushi and playing Wii. Hooray for Super Smash Bros. No longer wonder why I want to write Children's Books.
Talk my parents to taking the family out to lunch at Chanterelle (you have not lived until you've tried the grilled Seafood Sausage) now that the economy has made it, for the first time in the restaurant's 30 year history, possible to order a la carte.
Get asked to buy a dirt bike for my interview subject. Promise him it can be so, only if he picks up his other bandmate in NY and drives back to their home, cross country, with snot streaming on their cheeks a la Dumb and Dumber style. Do not hear about dirt bike again.
Try to want to see any of the Oscar award movies. Say to myself that's selling out to see them just because they're recognized even though I'm not as interested as I should be. Listen to Lady GaGa instead and hang my head in shame.
Keep browsing overstock.com. The wishlist on there is as long as a wedding registry. Consume inordinate amounts of White Tea. Decide honey can be used as a condiment for anything.
Buy a new pen. That's the reality here, people. This is revelatory.
Email about an apartment in Paris, because, why not?
Think about new recipes. Knit two inches of a scarf while letting laundry building into a teetering tower of Pisa.
Watch a whole lot of Anthony Bourdain. Make new outfits from purple tights, a black and white dress and a green sweatshirt, even if I'm called Punky Brewster by more than one person.
Ride on a Ducati a lot. Realize that it's the motorcycle equivalent of the thong.
Sing for no reason when someone scares me on the street. Realize this, in turn, scares them.
Got a long way to go...
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Yellow Cucumber Pie
That was the name of the book my team wrote in class last night. Two guys are fantastic illustrators. Note to self: steal them once the class is over.
And now to cull the best of my childhood memories: when my father engaged in an explosive mailbox war with the teens in the neighborhood, when I punched Sonny Lubin in the nose when he had his pants around his ankles because he was a jerk and otherwise engaged as he was learning to pee standing up, when my brother was a turkey on Thanksgiving and threw ours away, when I had two cats named Peaches and Cream and though Peaches got run over, I had Cream until I was big, the fact that my father stayed home with us kids during the 80s and when I cried that I couldn't be in the girl scouts because there were no mothers available to us to run it, he became the state's only male leader, and hot glue gun and stapled on my badges on my sash, and for my birthday made brownies with mayonnaise in them (because we were out of eggs and what was mayonnaise but trussed up eggs, god damnit?), when my parents told me the Golden Mosquito would leave me a present if I was good for the babysitter and I thought he looked just like C-3pio, when my parents thought my fourth grade class should see the pictures of my brother's birth with a post-it positioned over the naughty parts as an educational aid, when they told me he was coming and I had hoped it was a kitten instead so dressed him up while he was asleep with feathers and sequins, when I won the summer reading award four years in a row...yeah I think I've got some Judy Blume in there, some David Sedaris for kids...I hope.
And now to cull the best of my childhood memories: when my father engaged in an explosive mailbox war with the teens in the neighborhood, when I punched Sonny Lubin in the nose when he had his pants around his ankles because he was a jerk and otherwise engaged as he was learning to pee standing up, when my brother was a turkey on Thanksgiving and threw ours away, when I had two cats named Peaches and Cream and though Peaches got run over, I had Cream until I was big, the fact that my father stayed home with us kids during the 80s and when I cried that I couldn't be in the girl scouts because there were no mothers available to us to run it, he became the state's only male leader, and hot glue gun and stapled on my badges on my sash, and for my birthday made brownies with mayonnaise in them (because we were out of eggs and what was mayonnaise but trussed up eggs, god damnit?), when my parents told me the Golden Mosquito would leave me a present if I was good for the babysitter and I thought he looked just like C-3pio, when my parents thought my fourth grade class should see the pictures of my brother's birth with a post-it positioned over the naughty parts as an educational aid, when they told me he was coming and I had hoped it was a kitten instead so dressed him up while he was asleep with feathers and sequins, when I won the summer reading award four years in a row...yeah I think I've got some Judy Blume in there, some David Sedaris for kids...I hope.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
This Is Why You're Fat
Have you been here?You don't know what you're missing if you haven't! Hooray for America, even in times of recession, we can dream up new ways to be even fatter. (That second picture would be Krispy Kreme Donut Bacon Cheeseburgers, oh yes, you heard me).
Friday, February 13, 2009
File this under WTF
Dear Lord.
His girlfriend...is twice his size. He's four feet tall. He's 13 and she's 15. They had a BABY! At least the British press writes it hilariously, though it is a sad, sad tale. I'm glad the baby is healthy and there are two sets of involved grandparents but who the hell thought this was a good idea? Starting with the fact that they were dating in the first place!
His girlfriend...is twice his size. He's four feet tall. He's 13 and she's 15. They had a BABY! At least the British press writes it hilariously, though it is a sad, sad tale. I'm glad the baby is healthy and there are two sets of involved grandparents but who the hell thought this was a good idea? Starting with the fact that they were dating in the first place!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Avert your eyes
Buttermilk fried chicken, sour cream and ricotta chocolate cake. The fridge is full for my imaginary ten child family.
The cooking continues, the descent into madness deepens. The hurry up and wait game, that's not under my control either. There are promises of jobs, but no jobs, there are hands extended with glittering assignments that would be perfect if only that restaurant didn't just close, that band just didn't break up over depleted funds, that boutique design startup with the cute pleating whose parents' just cut their talented but precious children off.*
And while all that happens, the government cheese is drying up (some issue at the unemployment office because of...what's the word, oh yeah recession) and my traveling tendencies start kicking in. It's an addiction, and it's not pretty. Especially when there is no no no no money at all to take it!
So, don't think about it, keep making cake, keep watching videos of kittens falling asleep, keep ordering Vietnamese hot and sour soup, keep scrubbing the floors, pick lint from cushions, refold quilts, neatly write and rewrite to-do lists and scratch through tasks done with a satisfying stab of a red pen.
Catch up on movies, Aliens, Body Heat, King of New York, Dressed to Kill, classics and eighties thrillers, melodramatics, period pieces, arthouse pleasers (do not see "Nightmare" even though it was on the IFC circuit and On Demand with a really great trailer), see Coraline 3-D and then go all the way back beyond rentals to the Free Movie Channel on Demand (Friday the 13th 2 anyone?)
Read. Read until I feel like writing. Conversely, write. Write until I feel like reading.
Stack magazines. Cancel magazine subscriptions. Stare longingly at old issues of Oprah, Real Simple, Time Out. Rinse and repeat.
Make green tea like it's going out of style. Try peppermint to mix it up.
Lose iPod. Try not to freak out. Find it, realize all the music is at least a year old and bemoan lost status as the go-to friend for music.
Tape every show I used to miss, without abandon. Sleep until 11 AM without abandon. Start flossing on a regular basis.
Avoid haircuts, nibble nails and put on woolen socks to cover three month old pedicures, knit badly, take lots of hot showers and keep going to the gym, wear a scarf because it's very very windy outside and try to ignore the texts of people I really want to go play with who have warm weather dreams, the South, the West, my pregnant friends in pretty places, and all the rest. It's winter in the city, it's deep in the recession and I'm a cheery person, so to save my sanity and my dreams, I'll bury myself in busying myself, or else we all know where that leads: Nicaragua and beyond...
*Damn you parents! Take care of us until we're forty!
The cooking continues, the descent into madness deepens. The hurry up and wait game, that's not under my control either. There are promises of jobs, but no jobs, there are hands extended with glittering assignments that would be perfect if only that restaurant didn't just close, that band just didn't break up over depleted funds, that boutique design startup with the cute pleating whose parents' just cut their talented but precious children off.*
And while all that happens, the government cheese is drying up (some issue at the unemployment office because of...what's the word, oh yeah recession) and my traveling tendencies start kicking in. It's an addiction, and it's not pretty. Especially when there is no no no no money at all to take it!
So, don't think about it, keep making cake, keep watching videos of kittens falling asleep, keep ordering Vietnamese hot and sour soup, keep scrubbing the floors, pick lint from cushions, refold quilts, neatly write and rewrite to-do lists and scratch through tasks done with a satisfying stab of a red pen.
Catch up on movies, Aliens, Body Heat, King of New York, Dressed to Kill, classics and eighties thrillers, melodramatics, period pieces, arthouse pleasers (do not see "Nightmare" even though it was on the IFC circuit and On Demand with a really great trailer), see Coraline 3-D and then go all the way back beyond rentals to the Free Movie Channel on Demand (Friday the 13th 2 anyone?)
Read. Read until I feel like writing. Conversely, write. Write until I feel like reading.
Stack magazines. Cancel magazine subscriptions. Stare longingly at old issues of Oprah, Real Simple, Time Out. Rinse and repeat.
Make green tea like it's going out of style. Try peppermint to mix it up.
Lose iPod. Try not to freak out. Find it, realize all the music is at least a year old and bemoan lost status as the go-to friend for music.
Tape every show I used to miss, without abandon. Sleep until 11 AM without abandon. Start flossing on a regular basis.
Avoid haircuts, nibble nails and put on woolen socks to cover three month old pedicures, knit badly, take lots of hot showers and keep going to the gym, wear a scarf because it's very very windy outside and try to ignore the texts of people I really want to go play with who have warm weather dreams, the South, the West, my pregnant friends in pretty places, and all the rest. It's winter in the city, it's deep in the recession and I'm a cheery person, so to save my sanity and my dreams, I'll bury myself in busying myself, or else we all know where that leads: Nicaragua and beyond...
*Damn you parents! Take care of us until we're forty!
Monday, February 09, 2009
Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog
Read: the above title. There was a time when I was little and I loved palindromes. Insert thrown rotten tomato/nerd alert comment/anything else. Yes I loved reading! And words! And reading words! And I had pink glasses with smurfettes at the corners and bangs that were cut by my mom and I wrote my first book when I was in second grade and wrote it about two poodles who solved crimes and drew pictures of them with big fluffy heads and enormous black noses and purple trees. It was a big hit in Mrs. Tropiano's class, other kids even checked it out of our homegrown library.
Anyway, back in those days I had a book, titled "Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog" (I know, it makes no sense, but had a cartoon of someone eating a lot of lasagna when someone is offering them a big salami) and at that time it was the longest palindrome that I could find. The others were "Llama Mall" or "Boob". And today, I'm thinking about words, and well, lasagna. Because I just made one, yes I have become that domesticated. I went out, bought a tub of ricotta, shredded mozzarella, strips of pasta, sweet sausage, a big yellow onion and garlic, and parmesan cheese. Combining those with a faulty oven, a too small dish, an uneven stovetop and a a stolen jar tomato and basil sauce from my parents' house, I made lasagna. For no reason. I'm even going out to dinner tonight with my uncle, and my roommates are vegetarian, weekday salad eaters and working late nights at school (in that order).
So what, I'm unemployed, and now a lasagna hog too. Hey, as I said yesterday, all the good restaurants in New York are closing. I've got to make my own. Speaking of that, now back to knitting...
Anyway, back in those days I had a book, titled "Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog" (I know, it makes no sense, but had a cartoon of someone eating a lot of lasagna when someone is offering them a big salami) and at that time it was the longest palindrome that I could find. The others were "Llama Mall" or "Boob". And today, I'm thinking about words, and well, lasagna. Because I just made one, yes I have become that domesticated. I went out, bought a tub of ricotta, shredded mozzarella, strips of pasta, sweet sausage, a big yellow onion and garlic, and parmesan cheese. Combining those with a faulty oven, a too small dish, an uneven stovetop and a a stolen jar tomato and basil sauce from my parents' house, I made lasagna. For no reason. I'm even going out to dinner tonight with my uncle, and my roommates are vegetarian, weekday salad eaters and working late nights at school (in that order).
So what, I'm unemployed, and now a lasagna hog too. Hey, as I said yesterday, all the good restaurants in New York are closing. I've got to make my own. Speaking of that, now back to knitting...
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Don't Let That Stop You
There was a time when I was paid to eat. And not just eat, but eat too much, pork belly, duck eggs, french fare, little chorizo tapas plates, spicy pickles, juicy turkey burgers and pad thais till the cows came home.
It sounds easy, it was actually hard: ordering things I didn't want to, clandestinely jotting down notes in a little pink moleskin, sizing up the hostess, assessing the crowd, casually asking about the materials used in a wrap-around bar, a banquette, a lush gathering of drapes. Don't get me wrong, I love to eat--I've asserted more than once I'm a fat person in a fairly skinny person's body (that's thanks to my trainer, and I can't imagine this body will last past 35 even if I go macrobiotic, so why not go bacon now?). But the work around eating, the assignments, the scoping out, that's not just a leisurely meal. That's work. Cool work, but work, I promise. There was calling of chefs, checking up with purveyors, grilling the manager on the wine list choice, demanding why the paella wasn't as crispy as advertised once I revealed myself behind the curtain I'd drawn. And then there was the new way to say tables, seating, booths and cubes. Figuring out how to describe ten mediocre bistros in a way that would give you, dear reader (of another place, not here, a place far more legit, where I had a great editor who would make me tear up because I wanted to do right by her so badly, this is a mark of a good editor--one that brings you to tears, I'm sure of it) is not easy.
Eating until I need to be rolled out of a restaurant is. Not ordering the cocktails (which are not covered, of course), until I have fully assessed the joint to my powers, that was another story.
Well in such economic times, sadly the restaurant writing has temporarily (I hope!) dried up. They've slashed and burned across the boards, all the great food mags, all the great food sites, they need to keep their high paid talent and cut the lowly staffers and permalancers (that's me). I get it. In times like these, people can't eat out as much. Great places are shuttering left and right: the unbelievable fried green tomato, southern fried classics and Jamaican jerk chicken restaurant in Chelsea will go this week. The neverending (we had wistfully said once over lattes with rock candy stirrers) gastropub brunch spot where they didn't shove you out the door and still had market fresh ingredients every damn day has already closed its doors.
And when the work dries up, the solace is found in meeting in dimly lit places, cocktails and small plates and commiserating. Except we have no money, we have no new places and our old favorites are gone, and yet, we've become addicted to the rich life that we led. It's a spoiled brat problem. And my friends and I are suffering from it. We're back to our first few months in the city, canned soup and skipped meals, which isn't bad, in fact it's a damn decent way to live. It's proud. If only we hadn't eaten to near gout proportions before. If only it hadn't been my job to see every new place and go in, and eat every damn thing there. If only I hadn't been lucky enough to taste it all, in New York, in the first place. I'd feel less addicted now, and far less foolish, drooling over the fancy people and their fancy meals, just like I had when I was twenty...
It sounds easy, it was actually hard: ordering things I didn't want to, clandestinely jotting down notes in a little pink moleskin, sizing up the hostess, assessing the crowd, casually asking about the materials used in a wrap-around bar, a banquette, a lush gathering of drapes. Don't get me wrong, I love to eat--I've asserted more than once I'm a fat person in a fairly skinny person's body (that's thanks to my trainer, and I can't imagine this body will last past 35 even if I go macrobiotic, so why not go bacon now?). But the work around eating, the assignments, the scoping out, that's not just a leisurely meal. That's work. Cool work, but work, I promise. There was calling of chefs, checking up with purveyors, grilling the manager on the wine list choice, demanding why the paella wasn't as crispy as advertised once I revealed myself behind the curtain I'd drawn. And then there was the new way to say tables, seating, booths and cubes. Figuring out how to describe ten mediocre bistros in a way that would give you, dear reader (of another place, not here, a place far more legit, where I had a great editor who would make me tear up because I wanted to do right by her so badly, this is a mark of a good editor--one that brings you to tears, I'm sure of it) is not easy.
Eating until I need to be rolled out of a restaurant is. Not ordering the cocktails (which are not covered, of course), until I have fully assessed the joint to my powers, that was another story.
Well in such economic times, sadly the restaurant writing has temporarily (I hope!) dried up. They've slashed and burned across the boards, all the great food mags, all the great food sites, they need to keep their high paid talent and cut the lowly staffers and permalancers (that's me). I get it. In times like these, people can't eat out as much. Great places are shuttering left and right: the unbelievable fried green tomato, southern fried classics and Jamaican jerk chicken restaurant in Chelsea will go this week. The neverending (we had wistfully said once over lattes with rock candy stirrers) gastropub brunch spot where they didn't shove you out the door and still had market fresh ingredients every damn day has already closed its doors.
And when the work dries up, the solace is found in meeting in dimly lit places, cocktails and small plates and commiserating. Except we have no money, we have no new places and our old favorites are gone, and yet, we've become addicted to the rich life that we led. It's a spoiled brat problem. And my friends and I are suffering from it. We're back to our first few months in the city, canned soup and skipped meals, which isn't bad, in fact it's a damn decent way to live. It's proud. If only we hadn't eaten to near gout proportions before. If only it hadn't been my job to see every new place and go in, and eat every damn thing there. If only I hadn't been lucky enough to taste it all, in New York, in the first place. I'd feel less addicted now, and far less foolish, drooling over the fancy people and their fancy meals, just like I had when I was twenty...
Thursday, February 05, 2009
I totally have an Ex that fits into this category
A choice letter from my favorite new website, Psychotic Letters from Men:
(This is to GET HER BACK! These are the words he uses??)
"Hello
You should reconsider not being with me, Im sure you can understand, that the longer this goes on, the less likely I am to believe that this is all a terrible nightmare that I will wake up from, in a cold sweat rubbing my tear streaked cheeks praying for the nightmare never ever to become a reality.
I am aware that, in cutting off our noses to spite our faces, we have said some horrible things to each other, and our egos have forced us to up the anti so to speak, and make the things we say even more horrible each step in order to provoke as much hurt on the other as possible.
This is something that we are both guilty of, and I am sure that you would agree. Let the records show that, while I’ve said some very nasty things, but it was nothing that’s not true. I did it to make you a better person.
You are making a big mistake not being with me, you will see. You will fall down the slippery trail of scumbag ex’s, I know being the slut you are….
I am sorry that I have been mean lately. I am sorry that I have let the pressures of running a small business in an ailing economy get to me so much that I take my despair out on you. I am sorry that I can't be the perfect wonderful every second is a dream boyfriend that you read about in story books.
I mean, it’s not like you are perfect. I mean, my friends give you a 5/ 10 and that’s because you’re with me. I mean, you aren’t going to get anyone better than me are you, you’re not exactly a size 2 anymore.
We both must take a step back, take a deep breath, take a good hard look at our actions, then think
What would the magical leopluriton do?
Why, he'd whisk you away into a magical dreamland and make everything better, of course.
And that is what, to the best of my ability, I intend to do.
Please, don’t throw us away, I know things can be perfect, if you just try not stuffing your face all the time, and I will be more accommodating of your rapid mood swings.
I suggest you think about it. Hard.
Paul"
Read them, and weep for humanity here.
(This is to GET HER BACK! These are the words he uses??)
"Hello
You should reconsider not being with me, Im sure you can understand, that the longer this goes on, the less likely I am to believe that this is all a terrible nightmare that I will wake up from, in a cold sweat rubbing my tear streaked cheeks praying for the nightmare never ever to become a reality.
I am aware that, in cutting off our noses to spite our faces, we have said some horrible things to each other, and our egos have forced us to up the anti so to speak, and make the things we say even more horrible each step in order to provoke as much hurt on the other as possible.
This is something that we are both guilty of, and I am sure that you would agree. Let the records show that, while I’ve said some very nasty things, but it was nothing that’s not true. I did it to make you a better person.
You are making a big mistake not being with me, you will see. You will fall down the slippery trail of scumbag ex’s, I know being the slut you are….
I am sorry that I have been mean lately. I am sorry that I have let the pressures of running a small business in an ailing economy get to me so much that I take my despair out on you. I am sorry that I can't be the perfect wonderful every second is a dream boyfriend that you read about in story books.
I mean, it’s not like you are perfect. I mean, my friends give you a 5/ 10 and that’s because you’re with me. I mean, you aren’t going to get anyone better than me are you, you’re not exactly a size 2 anymore.
We both must take a step back, take a deep breath, take a good hard look at our actions, then think
What would the magical leopluriton do?
Why, he'd whisk you away into a magical dreamland and make everything better, of course.
And that is what, to the best of my ability, I intend to do.
Please, don’t throw us away, I know things can be perfect, if you just try not stuffing your face all the time, and I will be more accommodating of your rapid mood swings.
I suggest you think about it. Hard.
Paul"
Read them, and weep for humanity here.
Lost in Lost
Now that I am a lady of leisure (and how!) I find I have become once again addicted to the following shows with diminishing returns: Gossip Girl, The Office and Lost.
Let's start with Lost (though I'd like to quickly say that if Blair and Chuck don't make it soon or if Pam and Jim don't break up in the foreseeable future--come on they're so dumpy, it's like watching grits congeal with the two of those sadsacks, and what's with them trying to make her hot? She was way better as the underappreciated frump. Also, fire Kevin after the Hilary Swank argument. That was awful. I demand more Creed. The Creed and Stanley Hour, perhaps).
So, I get it. Time travel. Hey, if the island is just magic then any rules apply! You jerk writers. You expect me to forget everything that happened before then? As if time travel is the catch-all that makes everything else make sense? I mean I like it as a plot line but where does that fit in with drug smuggling, psychological experiments, Whitmore's bloodlust to turn the place into some sort of themepark and all the rest?
Okay so let's just discount the four-toed statue (is anyone going to explain this??), the smoke monster, the polar bears, the people that lived on the island first (the other others?) and everything else. Unfair, but okay. Clearly the writers were just given carte blanche and mushroom tea for the first four years of this. But now, that we are back on ground, can we please address where Walt is, why Jack can't make it with Kate and how unfair it is for him to say that she's not Aaron's mom (um dude, birthing and abandoning a kid does not a mother make, how about the woman who saved him at his mother's behest and raised him for three years?? What a jerk! I want to like him but sheeesh) and why Hurley still hasn't lost any weight? I mean, we laughed about it a while but come on. And do you even know that that dude is dating some hottie in real life? Ugly dudes and hot women go together like peanut butter and jelly. So unfair.
Also why is it that I am attracted to Sayid? He is gross and I love it. Oooh all that assassin stuff. And also why is Desmond always dressed like a foppish dandy in rose-colored glasses and silk scarves? So many questions, so few answers. Lost. You bastard. Why can't I quit you.
Let's start with Lost (though I'd like to quickly say that if Blair and Chuck don't make it soon or if Pam and Jim don't break up in the foreseeable future--come on they're so dumpy, it's like watching grits congeal with the two of those sadsacks, and what's with them trying to make her hot? She was way better as the underappreciated frump. Also, fire Kevin after the Hilary Swank argument. That was awful. I demand more Creed. The Creed and Stanley Hour, perhaps).
So, I get it. Time travel. Hey, if the island is just magic then any rules apply! You jerk writers. You expect me to forget everything that happened before then? As if time travel is the catch-all that makes everything else make sense? I mean I like it as a plot line but where does that fit in with drug smuggling, psychological experiments, Whitmore's bloodlust to turn the place into some sort of themepark and all the rest?
Okay so let's just discount the four-toed statue (is anyone going to explain this??), the smoke monster, the polar bears, the people that lived on the island first (the other others?) and everything else. Unfair, but okay. Clearly the writers were just given carte blanche and mushroom tea for the first four years of this. But now, that we are back on ground, can we please address where Walt is, why Jack can't make it with Kate and how unfair it is for him to say that she's not Aaron's mom (um dude, birthing and abandoning a kid does not a mother make, how about the woman who saved him at his mother's behest and raised him for three years?? What a jerk! I want to like him but sheeesh) and why Hurley still hasn't lost any weight? I mean, we laughed about it a while but come on. And do you even know that that dude is dating some hottie in real life? Ugly dudes and hot women go together like peanut butter and jelly. So unfair.
Also why is it that I am attracted to Sayid? He is gross and I love it. Oooh all that assassin stuff. And also why is Desmond always dressed like a foppish dandy in rose-colored glasses and silk scarves? So many questions, so few answers. Lost. You bastard. Why can't I quit you.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Idiocy
In times like these, blogs, links. books and communication are more important than they ever were before (plus I've got a lot more time to read them!).
I always loved the rejection letters given to now long dead and famous actors ("'Lolita' is nothing more than an exercise in perversion, and not even a very good one at that' comes to mind). And today, as we're all feeling like we're not good enough, smart enough, adept enough to handle the economic downturn*, I give you those smarter than us, who also act like idiots sometimes.
Inept literaries. Love them.
*I have a friend who upon learning his job was gone, immediately got drunk and then decided he would leave the apartment he's already paid the month's rent for, move in with his mother-in-law in LA as his wife stays behind in the apartment, left to clean up everything and find a job in LA all by herself, and she's a newlywed. Oh and did I mention that the gentleman in question has no prospects at all in LA, and could instead stay with his wife as she tries to pick up their lives together instead of insisting that she do it alone, while he goes and will of course, hate LA, having no resources and staying with HER mother without his wife, thereby forgoing any chance of a lasting relationship because they already don't get along and now there is no buffer. Oh and PS, they aren't hiring in LA either--it's not a magical world where jobs exist, there's no gold mines anymore.
I always loved the rejection letters given to now long dead and famous actors ("'Lolita' is nothing more than an exercise in perversion, and not even a very good one at that' comes to mind). And today, as we're all feeling like we're not good enough, smart enough, adept enough to handle the economic downturn*, I give you those smarter than us, who also act like idiots sometimes.
Inept literaries. Love them.
*I have a friend who upon learning his job was gone, immediately got drunk and then decided he would leave the apartment he's already paid the month's rent for, move in with his mother-in-law in LA as his wife stays behind in the apartment, left to clean up everything and find a job in LA all by herself, and she's a newlywed. Oh and did I mention that the gentleman in question has no prospects at all in LA, and could instead stay with his wife as she tries to pick up their lives together instead of insisting that she do it alone, while he goes and will of course, hate LA, having no resources and staying with HER mother without his wife, thereby forgoing any chance of a lasting relationship because they already don't get along and now there is no buffer. Oh and PS, they aren't hiring in LA either--it's not a magical world where jobs exist, there's no gold mines anymore.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Hooray for Kittens (AKA Yes, I'm Unemployed, What's it to You, Huh?)
Kitten cams...hooray! Now when I'm staring at the wall trying to figure out where it all went wrong, with one hand stuffed into a bag of Milano cookies and the other clutching a tear-stained copy of my resume, I can do this between crying bouts!
Honestly, I love kittens and this is why the internet was invented--to promote fluffballs of joy. They spend all day jumping on each other! This is the same reason I always wanted a bunch of siblings.
Sweet.
Honestly, I love kittens and this is why the internet was invented--to promote fluffballs of joy. They spend all day jumping on each other! This is the same reason I always wanted a bunch of siblings.
Sweet.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Pictures, Pictures
We were able to save the photos! The camera, however, is DOA. And the Costa Rica pictures were done on a disposable, so let's see how that pans out...
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Reasons to Quote
"Lust is easy, love is hard, like is most important."
-Rob Reiner
When you spend three plus weeks with someone navigating through plates of deep fried concrete discs under the guise that they are patacones, cracked out drug hordes, Panamanian sailors, pork soup with a fine veneer of grease floating on the top for breakfast, weak beer, too-strong rum, crusty old Germans with swastika and Che tattoos, the stopped-up toilet that the entire Mondo Taito hostel shared (and its Monday Martini Night vomiting), the dive shop that insisted we go out in the rainy boat and salt-spraying ocean that immediately killed the new camera bought to replace the one stolen, the flight cancels, the barge leaves early, the bus far too late, stinking of urine, freezing cold at four AM with the radio blasting, "Me gusta! Me gusta! Me gusta!"...you remember stupid things like quotes and forget important things like giving your traveling partner some slack for not wanting to talk after being awake for forty hours.
Things like love can't get you through that, the rib that was nearly cracked, the Codeine tablets popped every six hours after the clinic sets you free, talking your way into getting a Yellow Fever card to get you out of the country instead of receiving the second Yellow Fever shot in ten days (that's a live vaccine, meaning they GIVE it to you a second time, what do Colombian officials care if you'll surely die from such a thing? A different Colombian official took your card upon entry and never gave it back, so they consider you WITHOUT A CARD.). Love is nothing. Love isn't easy, sure, but to really enjoy, really like someone, that's something special. To spend all that time with someone, the hards, the have nots, the bruises and broken everything, the mud and blood-spattered clothing, no money, no clue, no way out, and to come home and immediately rent Deep Cover and get hot and sour soup and spend the day in your bed falling in and out of consciousness, that is something special.
I think.
-Rob Reiner
When you spend three plus weeks with someone navigating through plates of deep fried concrete discs under the guise that they are patacones, cracked out drug hordes, Panamanian sailors, pork soup with a fine veneer of grease floating on the top for breakfast, weak beer, too-strong rum, crusty old Germans with swastika and Che tattoos, the stopped-up toilet that the entire Mondo Taito hostel shared (and its Monday Martini Night vomiting), the dive shop that insisted we go out in the rainy boat and salt-spraying ocean that immediately killed the new camera bought to replace the one stolen, the flight cancels, the barge leaves early, the bus far too late, stinking of urine, freezing cold at four AM with the radio blasting, "Me gusta! Me gusta! Me gusta!"...you remember stupid things like quotes and forget important things like giving your traveling partner some slack for not wanting to talk after being awake for forty hours.
Things like love can't get you through that, the rib that was nearly cracked, the Codeine tablets popped every six hours after the clinic sets you free, talking your way into getting a Yellow Fever card to get you out of the country instead of receiving the second Yellow Fever shot in ten days (that's a live vaccine, meaning they GIVE it to you a second time, what do Colombian officials care if you'll surely die from such a thing? A different Colombian official took your card upon entry and never gave it back, so they consider you WITHOUT A CARD.). Love is nothing. Love isn't easy, sure, but to really enjoy, really like someone, that's something special. To spend all that time with someone, the hards, the have nots, the bruises and broken everything, the mud and blood-spattered clothing, no money, no clue, no way out, and to come home and immediately rent Deep Cover and get hot and sour soup and spend the day in your bed falling in and out of consciousness, that is something special.
I think.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
It's the Stupid, Economy
Well after being gone, coming back to the cold weather and the cold job search is a ruder awakening than I'd prepared myself for. Sure, I knew it was bad...but so bad that a generally undomestic person like myself could be found with four resumes crumpled in her bag, sloshing coffee on her only pair of gloves, running to the next futile appointment, stopped short in front of the venerable Soho knitting store Purl, imagining a life inside?
Where a rainbow of colors and textures, soft knits, nubby wools and dyed cashmere bundle together, sweet-faced girls who can't wait to help you with the next stitch flip their handmade scarfs over their perfect sweaters, patrons huddle with their hot chocolates steaming on the shelf as they click together bamboo needles, and every time the door opens it's some happy new mother toting a sleeping baby and a wagging dog who's just dying to find the newest pattern for a two-toned hat...
This is paradise. Pure, unadulterated magic.
Thank you, New York City, the governmental powers that were, and the magazine industry. You have officially made me insane. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a scarf to knit and a coconut shrimp recipe to master.
Will write for food and sanity whenever anyone will have me. In the meantime, domesticate! Are you doing anything uncharacteristic in this crazy economy?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
More Cheating...
Mountains, highland cows, white beaches, Christmas lights and coconuts...not bad for a month where it was three degrees back home...
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Bad Bad Bad
I've been real bad about this blog, but I have an excuse, I swear. It's called an adventure, not a vacation, there are no frozen drinks by the pool, no all inclusive bands around my wrist and organized tours, because we went to Colombia, did you know that there is no guidebook that can be bought on Colombia but in my parents' town in Connecticut there were three copies of a guidebook to Cuba? That's right, a country we can't even visit as US citizens.
So we pay for our sins in Colombia. His camera is stolen. We get abandoned by our bus in a national park as dusk settles. The jetski sends us flying into Windex colored waters and we float to the surface, gingerly pressing for broken ribs. The sailboat to Panama changes schedules, but not their refund policy, which is none. The bus ride to the airport stinks of urine and the air conditioning is broken, that is to say it blasts frigidly upon us as we shiver at four in the morning, cowering and trying not to vomit, the bus lurching back and forth, and then at five on the dot, the driver blasts something else, screamingly loud music whose only words are "Me gusta! Me gusta! Me gusta!"
But the beaches we've seen are unspoiled, crashing and white and the sun is very high, the mango juices are on every corner, the party doesn't stop, Colombians are on vacation too and they dance in the streets, under yellow awnings, as they serve soup for breakfast. The mountains carve out from the sea and the hills are pillows, the sky is too bright behind sunglasses and hats, the rum is strong as are our wills. We have seen things few of our friends will ever see, some will be glad for that, but we aren't like some.
We take off to Panama and the food gets better though the weather gets worse, we're in green water looking at the fish, happy to be away, even happier to be alive on a perfect beach that a dugout canoe and broken scooter has taken us to. The visibility is miles long and the waves lull, the sun makes shadows and I pull up from the surface the biggest starfish we've ever seen. Maybe the biggest one anyone has.
And then the crappy camera that he bought in Colombia, the one to make up for the one that was stolen, the one that recorded it all, is sprayed finely with seawater and breaks.
We go to Costa Rica with a disposable. Cameras are expendable. Adventures are not.
Many more stories to come, and maybe, if we're really lucky, pictures too...
So we pay for our sins in Colombia. His camera is stolen. We get abandoned by our bus in a national park as dusk settles. The jetski sends us flying into Windex colored waters and we float to the surface, gingerly pressing for broken ribs. The sailboat to Panama changes schedules, but not their refund policy, which is none. The bus ride to the airport stinks of urine and the air conditioning is broken, that is to say it blasts frigidly upon us as we shiver at four in the morning, cowering and trying not to vomit, the bus lurching back and forth, and then at five on the dot, the driver blasts something else, screamingly loud music whose only words are "Me gusta! Me gusta! Me gusta!"
But the beaches we've seen are unspoiled, crashing and white and the sun is very high, the mango juices are on every corner, the party doesn't stop, Colombians are on vacation too and they dance in the streets, under yellow awnings, as they serve soup for breakfast. The mountains carve out from the sea and the hills are pillows, the sky is too bright behind sunglasses and hats, the rum is strong as are our wills. We have seen things few of our friends will ever see, some will be glad for that, but we aren't like some.
We take off to Panama and the food gets better though the weather gets worse, we're in green water looking at the fish, happy to be away, even happier to be alive on a perfect beach that a dugout canoe and broken scooter has taken us to. The visibility is miles long and the waves lull, the sun makes shadows and I pull up from the surface the biggest starfish we've ever seen. Maybe the biggest one anyone has.
And then the crappy camera that he bought in Colombia, the one to make up for the one that was stolen, the one that recorded it all, is sprayed finely with seawater and breaks.
We go to Costa Rica with a disposable. Cameras are expendable. Adventures are not.
Many more stories to come, and maybe, if we're really lucky, pictures too...
Monday, January 05, 2009
Cartagena...
Is all decaying splendor, horse carts and drug dealing kids who dance on the rooftops of historical buildings and flick cigarettes onto the glittering lights below. Thumping beats from clubs, happy throngs and short skirts, it's hot as Hell here and I am covered in backpacker marks, bruises, bites, the wear and tear where the nylon digs into my skin, where the sun burns my nose, where the streets are cobbled and I trip and slip in my flip flops.
Happy New Year and we've celebrated too long, we didn't sleep, and who would let us, long hallways and bottles of rum on the street, the group from Bogota who wants to take us to their fathers' beach house on the remote side of...somewhere, but we're running on empty, salsa screams from the corners, fried maize wafts in and we're off to a beach where the only colors are blue and white and the pink of hammocks and someone is catching fish for our dinner and we have to sleep, sleep, sleep.
Happy New Year and we've celebrated too long, we didn't sleep, and who would let us, long hallways and bottles of rum on the street, the group from Bogota who wants to take us to their fathers' beach house on the remote side of...somewhere, but we're running on empty, salsa screams from the corners, fried maize wafts in and we're off to a beach where the only colors are blue and white and the pink of hammocks and someone is catching fish for our dinner and we have to sleep, sleep, sleep.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Colombia
We arrive in the Bogota airport wary of the "world`s most dangerous drug", the one where captors blow it into your face, rendering you so placid you help them rob yourself, harm other people, rob banks with candy bars and frozen loafs of bread, etc. and wake in the morning or even days later without any recollection.
In fact, it´s clean, just as the Nicaragua airport was clean, and we have no trouble at all. The people are nice. The signs are easily read. The cocaine is fabulous (just kidding, you´d think the entire country was made of one big white sandcastle, but alas, that is a myth). So we start in the mountains and there is a dewy mist, cloud forest, a long walk in the cold with our sweaters bundled but our backs sticky from the journey, stray dogs follow us, we have water but nothing else, we arrive in a national park that is most treacherous, no signs, nowhere to go (down to the valley and other towns, up to the summit where no one lives, what kind of park is this anyway!!), we climb through thick jungle for hours, lamenting, wishing we had machetes, peeing in bushes and scared of animals biting our bare white butts, complaining, should we have turned left or right, was it your fault or mine, God will we be alive come nightfall? Where did the path go, where did our minds go, the visibility is less than 3 feet in any direction and any grab to a tree is a potential snake´s lair. We are dirty, tired, scared, and finally hours later come upon a sign that doesn´t mean what it says, but there are ducks and turkeys gobbling and llamas and a nice farmer who points us up the summit, says three more kilometers and we will be safe.
We descend upon a lodge, we eat fried dough and try to catch our breath, we`re served lemonade with no sugar, it`s merely lemon juice, and the llamas start eating other people`s picnics and we jump on the strongest horses in the world who slip up a forty-five degree angle slick with moss, somehow, someway we get on a van to a bus to a collectivo to a long walk home and that´s before the craze Jafakian (that`s Fake Jamacain) kicks my traveling partner because he won't follow him to buy a knife or drugs or whatever the hell he is trying to sell and I shout his name and we run in the other direction, but we aren`t scared, we are happy and safe and sleep in our sweaters because these are the misty mountains and this is Bogota and we will be spending New Year`s in a neon street party in Cartegena on the coast and have booked a sailboat which will stop on islands on our way to Panama and my sunburn has just begun.
There are many stories to tell, and even more to make...I hope you are having a Happy New Year and I will write soon!
In fact, it´s clean, just as the Nicaragua airport was clean, and we have no trouble at all. The people are nice. The signs are easily read. The cocaine is fabulous (just kidding, you´d think the entire country was made of one big white sandcastle, but alas, that is a myth). So we start in the mountains and there is a dewy mist, cloud forest, a long walk in the cold with our sweaters bundled but our backs sticky from the journey, stray dogs follow us, we have water but nothing else, we arrive in a national park that is most treacherous, no signs, nowhere to go (down to the valley and other towns, up to the summit where no one lives, what kind of park is this anyway!!), we climb through thick jungle for hours, lamenting, wishing we had machetes, peeing in bushes and scared of animals biting our bare white butts, complaining, should we have turned left or right, was it your fault or mine, God will we be alive come nightfall? Where did the path go, where did our minds go, the visibility is less than 3 feet in any direction and any grab to a tree is a potential snake´s lair. We are dirty, tired, scared, and finally hours later come upon a sign that doesn´t mean what it says, but there are ducks and turkeys gobbling and llamas and a nice farmer who points us up the summit, says three more kilometers and we will be safe.
We descend upon a lodge, we eat fried dough and try to catch our breath, we`re served lemonade with no sugar, it`s merely lemon juice, and the llamas start eating other people`s picnics and we jump on the strongest horses in the world who slip up a forty-five degree angle slick with moss, somehow, someway we get on a van to a bus to a collectivo to a long walk home and that´s before the craze Jafakian (that`s Fake Jamacain) kicks my traveling partner because he won't follow him to buy a knife or drugs or whatever the hell he is trying to sell and I shout his name and we run in the other direction, but we aren`t scared, we are happy and safe and sleep in our sweaters because these are the misty mountains and this is Bogota and we will be spending New Year`s in a neon street party in Cartegena on the coast and have booked a sailboat which will stop on islands on our way to Panama and my sunburn has just begun.
There are many stories to tell, and even more to make...I hope you are having a Happy New Year and I will write soon!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
And I'm off
I've been scrambling to finish chapters, fill in at odd jobs, wrapping up an article and enjoying my family for Christmas (quiet this year, just us and I glazed a ham and help bake a cranberry-walnut pie). And tomorrow at 4:30 AM, for all intents and purposes TONIGHT, I leave for South America!
First up, Colombia...with many many stories to come, hope you are all having a wonderful holiday and I'll tell you how Cartegena does New Year's...
And I'm off...but not gone by a longshot...
First up, Colombia...with many many stories to come, hope you are all having a wonderful holiday and I'll tell you how Cartegena does New Year's...
And I'm off...but not gone by a longshot...
Friday, December 19, 2008
Japanese Cat Humiliation
Today I've got lunch with a Top Chef judge (we go way back) and must get my book in halfway decent shape and printed out for my writing partner to look at while I get tan on the beaches of Colombia for the next few weeks.
Life is pretty cool. But, there is so much to do before the holidays, the birthdays that fall right on or before the holidays (that's a few people in my life) and the book (have edited and really tightened and now love pages 1-148, the second half is in shambles and I cannot vouch for it, but have cut about 23 pages in total by going through every page and cutting a line here and a line there)
But then, how can I do any work when it's snowing outside my window and there's Japanese Cat Humiliation to watch?
Life is pretty cool. But, there is so much to do before the holidays, the birthdays that fall right on or before the holidays (that's a few people in my life) and the book (have edited and really tightened and now love pages 1-148, the second half is in shambles and I cannot vouch for it, but have cut about 23 pages in total by going through every page and cutting a line here and a line there)
But then, how can I do any work when it's snowing outside my window and there's Japanese Cat Humiliation to watch?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Do As I Say, Not As I Do
A great quote from my dad who used it when I would plaintively point out that he was breaking a cardinal rule he set forth for me: get your chores done before you engage in any play (little did I know that every phone call he ever took was about work--I saw the phone as made only for planning playdates not scheduling the electrician), don't skip meals (here he was too busy doing chores to eat--what can I say, I've never met harder working folks than both my parents), and so forth.
I'm hardworking too, I swear. But the economy doesn't want me to be: full-time writing jobs slashed across all magazines in the building, even my fun and very regular food-writing has vanished (and my boss, and my boss's boss--gone in a flash). So I'm going in a flash. To Colombia and Panama for 3 weeks. More backpacking, more money I don't have. Because I've got the time and at 27 years old, do I ever have any time?
And at 28 and 29 I'll be paying for it. I should be deep in the throes of pre-30s depression by then so hey, why not.
So, any of you been? Have recommendations? Remember, I survived Nicaragua and I'm only going to the safest of places in Colombia...
Anyone else just up and doing something crazy since the job market tanked?
I'm hardworking too, I swear. But the economy doesn't want me to be: full-time writing jobs slashed across all magazines in the building, even my fun and very regular food-writing has vanished (and my boss, and my boss's boss--gone in a flash). So I'm going in a flash. To Colombia and Panama for 3 weeks. More backpacking, more money I don't have. Because I've got the time and at 27 years old, do I ever have any time?
And at 28 and 29 I'll be paying for it. I should be deep in the throes of pre-30s depression by then so hey, why not.
So, any of you been? Have recommendations? Remember, I survived Nicaragua and I'm only going to the safest of places in Colombia...
Anyone else just up and doing something crazy since the job market tanked?
Friday, December 12, 2008
Can't stop watching this.
Yes I know by now it's totally played out, but by now I know all the words and I'm a Lonely Island fan ever since "The 'Bu". Did you know Andy Samberg is dating Joanna Newsom? This is true--I'm just glad Peach, Plum, Pear didn't leech into this.
I love this on so many levels...
My favorite line is "Got a few things from the grocery, do things alone now, most-ly."
Am I the only one who might actually buy this album?
I love this on so many levels...
My favorite line is "Got a few things from the grocery, do things alone now, most-ly."
Am I the only one who might actually buy this album?
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Editing a book is hard
"The limitation of the great stylists--Henry James, say, or Hemingway, is that you remember their voices long after you've forgotten the voices of any of the people they wrote about. In one of the Psalms, God says, 'Be still and know that I am God.' I've always taken that to be good literary advice too. Be still the way Tolstoy is still, be still the way Anthony Trollope is still, so that your characters can become gods and speak for themselves and come alive in their own ways."
--Frederick Buechner
--Frederick Buechner
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Reeling
Ever have an encounter that you thought you could essentially handle and then when it comes upon you, you've been prepping yourself by drinking glasses of wine on an empty stomach in a sparkly dress and catching up with your best friend and then you're finally confronted by a confusing slapdash of film shorts that may or *may very well not be* brilliant in any form and you run into your ex who you prepared for seeing for three months and even a few short hours before had spoke to on the phone and laughed about seeing each other and it was really, really weird and you felt like you had to explain why things were the way they were, or ended how they did, or where you are now and who you spend your time with instead, and all that comes out is some sort of broken whimper and an awkward joke and both of you leaving the party reeling?
No?
Oh, ok, just me then. This is why I need to stop dating, settle the hell down like the rest of my friends and start having babies. But then, I really, really like my apartment.
No?
Oh, ok, just me then. This is why I need to stop dating, settle the hell down like the rest of my friends and start having babies. But then, I really, really like my apartment.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Advice
My bff is applying to business school. She's got some essays. She wants some advice. Enter in Pandora's Box.
This just happened with an article I wrote. I showed it to someone after it had been factchecked, changed by my editor to fit the magazine's style (while retaining the most choice lines). I asked someone to check it out, thinking that they would want to hire me for something else.
Wrong. They didn't like the style of the article. But that was the whole point of the article (seriously, I'm the first one to admit when I write crapola--it happens more than I'd like to think).
So, back to the business school essay. Or the person who doesn't have the balls to quit their job, break up with the boy, move to the new city. Do they want to bitch or do they want advice?
Or do they just want you to tell them they're right? Judging from my own experience, I say they want you to tell them they're right. Brilliant. That they can't change a word or a single situation without a whole deck of cards falling. Sad perhaps, but very true.
Now off to tell an essay is brilliant! Because at this point, it's going to be handed in tomorrow. At this point, being the a-hole who has suggestions on changing the entire theme is going to make me the bad guy, not the hero. Because at this point, my friend is a beautiful person, and if her essay doesn't reflect that, hell if I'll be the one to tell her...
Call me a coward all you like...but don't tell me you wouldn't do the same, late in the game? Once the article has been published, once the package is in the mail, once the talk has been had and the email has been sent, what the hell else are you supposed to do? I'll tell you. You say this, "I've done this. I'm sharing it with you because I'm insecure. The only thing, and I repeat, the ONLY thing I want from you is to tell me it's amazing. Cool?"
The world might be a better place if we did these things, don't you think?
This just happened with an article I wrote. I showed it to someone after it had been factchecked, changed by my editor to fit the magazine's style (while retaining the most choice lines). I asked someone to check it out, thinking that they would want to hire me for something else.
Wrong. They didn't like the style of the article. But that was the whole point of the article (seriously, I'm the first one to admit when I write crapola--it happens more than I'd like to think).
So, back to the business school essay. Or the person who doesn't have the balls to quit their job, break up with the boy, move to the new city. Do they want to bitch or do they want advice?
Or do they just want you to tell them they're right? Judging from my own experience, I say they want you to tell them they're right. Brilliant. That they can't change a word or a single situation without a whole deck of cards falling. Sad perhaps, but very true.
Now off to tell an essay is brilliant! Because at this point, it's going to be handed in tomorrow. At this point, being the a-hole who has suggestions on changing the entire theme is going to make me the bad guy, not the hero. Because at this point, my friend is a beautiful person, and if her essay doesn't reflect that, hell if I'll be the one to tell her...
Call me a coward all you like...but don't tell me you wouldn't do the same, late in the game? Once the article has been published, once the package is in the mail, once the talk has been had and the email has been sent, what the hell else are you supposed to do? I'll tell you. You say this, "I've done this. I'm sharing it with you because I'm insecure. The only thing, and I repeat, the ONLY thing I want from you is to tell me it's amazing. Cool?"
The world might be a better place if we did these things, don't you think?
Monday, December 01, 2008
Quote of the Day
"You know there is something wrong in the twenty four hours between sharing homemade pumpkin pie and creamed parsnips you find another girl's panties in his apartment."
All guys scumbags? No, no, no that can't be true!
"Here's the thing, if I believe him, that's the first line I'd say on a Jerry Springer episode where the audience would boo. You know, 'He said it proceeded me, he didn't remember it was there,' and then every overweight person in the studio would go, 'Fool!""
Such a cliche to say men are dogs, but then, why do they do such oblivious things as this?
All guys scumbags? No, no, no that can't be true!
"Here's the thing, if I believe him, that's the first line I'd say on a Jerry Springer episode where the audience would boo. You know, 'He said it proceeded me, he didn't remember it was there,' and then every overweight person in the studio would go, 'Fool!""
Such a cliche to say men are dogs, but then, why do they do such oblivious things as this?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving!
I'm in a flurry of planning, hoping to try out a new creamed spinach and parsnip dressing, wondering how to talk my mother into glazing the turkey with apricot compote (for color, I hear it's fantastic), overstuffing bags in case one outfit for dinner ends up with a big fat gravy splotch on it (this is most probable of all). I'm combining friends and family this year and hope everyone is on their best behavior, but the house is full of cats and the dog and my turkey of a brother, my mother who curses if the sausage stuffing dries out, my father who inevitably has to run to the barn, last minute to secure the chair we're missing, and it's inevitably tiny, antique and iron and I have to somehow sit on it as I sip perhaps my third wine and second buttered rum of the evening.
Thanksgiving is fantastic. Especially since I just ordered these flowers as a gift to family who won't be able to join us this year. But before all of that, a manic running around the "office" to check up on freelancing possibilities. My bags are heavy but my load is light--I have my family, I have my friends, I have a bed and for the moment, I may be exceptionally underemployed, but that merely gives me more time to put a new twist on our famous cranberry walnut pie. Traditions? We have none. Just to have a good time and a good stiff drink. And to retell this story.
Sending good wishes to all of you today, may you overeat and not think about the economy for just one day...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Review
When writing a restaurant review, I have learned my editor adores neutrality, abhors cliches (though does not consider the word 'fashionista' a cliche, which as we all know, rises the bile in my throat like nothing else--oh sorry, we're talking about food here, I retract that) and generally likes to get a feel of a place without a laundry list of how the place looked or the menu. Mark what stands out, be imaginative with language, but honestly, what is another word for clientele? Crowd? Patron? Diner? And there friends, is the trouble with restaurant reviews. Well, one of them anyway.
I looked at a random sampling of five that I've written and are on the magazine's website for all eternity. In three I say some variation of the word "elevate". Damn.
So when I go to a vegan coffeeshop that's blasting "ironic" music (Foo Fighters--though I'll contend anything from the late nineties isn't far enough gone to be ironic, early Nirvana = OK. Late Foo Fighters = Dear God No.) and serving weak coffee in "ironic" cups that were funny eight years ago (you mean you didn't graduate from Talahassee High, class of '83?) I try to keep an open mind.
I'm a food lover. A huge food-lover. Groomed at food magazines, I revel in every seared scallop, every crisped bit of pork cracklings, the richness of a buttery croissant or the heft of roasted root vegetables (especially when they have some sort of Parmasean crust). I love sushi, miso, coconut curries, meaty cuban sandwiches, crunchy fried chicken, cool rice pudding. All of it. I am an extremely fat person stuck in a thin person's body (this people, is why I have a trainer).
Now when a vegetarian crosses my path, hell I've even dated some, I don't get overly discouraged. Macrobiotic raw food? Pure Food and Wine on Irving makes delicious plates of thinly sliced vegetables layered between a garlicky pesto and gobs of the freshest tomato sauce I've ever had. It's vegetarian, then vegan, then macrobiotic and not even cooked. And believe me naysayers when I tell you it was amazing.
So when I was assigned this vegan coffeeshop, I was not at all irritated (leave that for the friend I opted to bring along). I imagined vegetable sandwiches and awesome salads. Or at least, really hot coffee that was sustainably grown.
What I got was some of the worst stuff I've had. And it's not because it was vegan, it was because the flavors were all off. The pesto had no bite, the tempeh overpowered the soy patty, the greens in a salad arrived grimy and unwashed ("Like the clientele!" My friend joked.) It wasn't awful because it was vegan. It was just straight up bad food. But vegans have little delicious options in that section of the city, and the people who ran it were really interesting, and had a community thing going on. So I don't want to diss it. I mean, how can a bacon-loving foodie ever criticize these sweet folks? Maybe because the "chef's" experience before this was DELIVERING FOOD ELSEWHERE.
But still, I lament. I'm not a vegan, how would I know what good vegan food is? But I'm starting to wonder if it even matters. Because these were vegans who seemed to not enjoy food very much. And I think that if you are a vegan or vegetarian you should never be eschewed for not eating meat (it's delicious, but whatever). Having principles rocks. It's important. Not enough people go green and not enough understand that when done right, being vegan or vegetarian has an enormous positive impact on your body and the world as a whole. But I'm someone who enjoys food down to the smallest level. Salads simply dressed with lemon, freshly-squeezed juices, artisanal and organic breads--all of these things can be amazing. When a food establishment doesn't take the umbrella of vegetarian to mean they can just crank out food that...well, isn't up to par, is it?
Guess I'll try to keep that in mind while writing a review--the place just wasn't for me. And not because I'm not vegan. But because I don't like mediocre meals--vegan or otherwise...
I looked at a random sampling of five that I've written and are on the magazine's website for all eternity. In three I say some variation of the word "elevate". Damn.
So when I go to a vegan coffeeshop that's blasting "ironic" music (Foo Fighters--though I'll contend anything from the late nineties isn't far enough gone to be ironic, early Nirvana = OK. Late Foo Fighters = Dear God No.) and serving weak coffee in "ironic" cups that were funny eight years ago (you mean you didn't graduate from Talahassee High, class of '83?) I try to keep an open mind.
I'm a food lover. A huge food-lover. Groomed at food magazines, I revel in every seared scallop, every crisped bit of pork cracklings, the richness of a buttery croissant or the heft of roasted root vegetables (especially when they have some sort of Parmasean crust). I love sushi, miso, coconut curries, meaty cuban sandwiches, crunchy fried chicken, cool rice pudding. All of it. I am an extremely fat person stuck in a thin person's body (this people, is why I have a trainer).
Now when a vegetarian crosses my path, hell I've even dated some, I don't get overly discouraged. Macrobiotic raw food? Pure Food and Wine on Irving makes delicious plates of thinly sliced vegetables layered between a garlicky pesto and gobs of the freshest tomato sauce I've ever had. It's vegetarian, then vegan, then macrobiotic and not even cooked. And believe me naysayers when I tell you it was amazing.
So when I was assigned this vegan coffeeshop, I was not at all irritated (leave that for the friend I opted to bring along). I imagined vegetable sandwiches and awesome salads. Or at least, really hot coffee that was sustainably grown.
What I got was some of the worst stuff I've had. And it's not because it was vegan, it was because the flavors were all off. The pesto had no bite, the tempeh overpowered the soy patty, the greens in a salad arrived grimy and unwashed ("Like the clientele!" My friend joked.) It wasn't awful because it was vegan. It was just straight up bad food. But vegans have little delicious options in that section of the city, and the people who ran it were really interesting, and had a community thing going on. So I don't want to diss it. I mean, how can a bacon-loving foodie ever criticize these sweet folks? Maybe because the "chef's" experience before this was DELIVERING FOOD ELSEWHERE.
But still, I lament. I'm not a vegan, how would I know what good vegan food is? But I'm starting to wonder if it even matters. Because these were vegans who seemed to not enjoy food very much. And I think that if you are a vegan or vegetarian you should never be eschewed for not eating meat (it's delicious, but whatever). Having principles rocks. It's important. Not enough people go green and not enough understand that when done right, being vegan or vegetarian has an enormous positive impact on your body and the world as a whole. But I'm someone who enjoys food down to the smallest level. Salads simply dressed with lemon, freshly-squeezed juices, artisanal and organic breads--all of these things can be amazing. When a food establishment doesn't take the umbrella of vegetarian to mean they can just crank out food that...well, isn't up to par, is it?
Guess I'll try to keep that in mind while writing a review--the place just wasn't for me. And not because I'm not vegan. But because I don't like mediocre meals--vegan or otherwise...
Thursday, November 20, 2008
This. Means. War.
Hey Apple Store,
Hi! Hey! Over here! Look at me! Can you see me? Helloooo? I’m waving to you. Yes, you. Hey, oh look you’re coming over here. Great. Okay I’ll wait. Look at your sleek, pretty exterior. I would wait until the end of time for you.
What’s that Apple store? You need to put me on hold? Sure! You’re busy. What with all those adorably be-speckled clients of yours, in their vests and skinny jeans and new business plans. ZOMG, I totally identify with everyone else. Boy I’m glad I switched to a Mac.
Hey, the hold line is playing music! Yeah, I bet it’s a hot new band cause like, Apple totes knows all the hot new bands, I mean, lookie at those ipod commercials! Oh wait, it’s Ch-Ch-Changes. Ch-ch-changes!
Hey, you’re back! And it was only 45 minutes? Can I just tell you how funny it is that you are playing Ch-ch-changes over and over and over again? That’s totally hilarious. We’re really going through some changes, huh? How about that Obama? CHANGE! Speaking of which, can you spare any?
Right, how silly of me to ask. That was a joke, yeah yeah. A joke. What’s that Apple store? You’re mumbling. I must be hallucinating cause I think you just said you want to charge me almost $900 to fix my computer monitor.
Oh you do? That wasn’t a Klonopin-induced nightmare? I see. (Choking back the rising bile)
No, no, it’s totally fine. I mean, if anyone understands the creative underclass it’s you. Like you wouldn’t charge me that unless you had to right? (Holding back tears).
I mean, you wouldn’t do that to a freelance writer who already lives with three roommates and is awaiting the ax from each magazine as they fold….right?
Oh, you would? You’re a corporate bastard who doesn’t allow a computer that is 9 months old to be covered under your warranty because you make the screen of graham crackers, excitedly awaiting it to crack apart and charge me 1/2 of what it cost to buy this machine in the first place?
I see. (Popping antacids like Pez)
Okay but you would totally give me my computer back really fast right? Cause I have no resources without it, and can’t get new jobs, let alone finish the old ones without the computer right? Oh, you need to put me on hold again. Cool.
Hey, I wonder how long I could live on ramen and slices of that really big meatball I got at dinner the other night and took home, seeing the potential for ten meals from that meatball, if I cut it real thin…
Oh Apple! You’re back! God it feels like we’ve been talking for hours. Days even. Wait, today is Thursday. And you’ve had my computer for a week. And this is our fifth phone call. So, we have been talking for days. Well at least you’re working hard on my—
Oh. You’ve…lost my ticket and haven’t even shipped this thing out to get fixed. Why? Oh, you can’t tell me. No, no, it’s fine! I mean, I’m just a little FRUSTRATED! Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to yell. Okay, so you are putting in the order now. Any chance you can knock off a few bucks for dicking me around so much?
Right, of course not. Pardon me a minute, there’s something I have to do….
(Loading shotgun)
Hi! Hey! Over here! Look at me! Can you see me? Helloooo? I’m waving to you. Yes, you. Hey, oh look you’re coming over here. Great. Okay I’ll wait. Look at your sleek, pretty exterior. I would wait until the end of time for you.
What’s that Apple store? You need to put me on hold? Sure! You’re busy. What with all those adorably be-speckled clients of yours, in their vests and skinny jeans and new business plans. ZOMG, I totally identify with everyone else. Boy I’m glad I switched to a Mac.
Hey, the hold line is playing music! Yeah, I bet it’s a hot new band cause like, Apple totes knows all the hot new bands, I mean, lookie at those ipod commercials! Oh wait, it’s Ch-Ch-Changes. Ch-ch-changes!
Hey, you’re back! And it was only 45 minutes? Can I just tell you how funny it is that you are playing Ch-ch-changes over and over and over again? That’s totally hilarious. We’re really going through some changes, huh? How about that Obama? CHANGE! Speaking of which, can you spare any?
Right, how silly of me to ask. That was a joke, yeah yeah. A joke. What’s that Apple store? You’re mumbling. I must be hallucinating cause I think you just said you want to charge me almost $900 to fix my computer monitor.
Oh you do? That wasn’t a Klonopin-induced nightmare? I see. (Choking back the rising bile)
No, no, it’s totally fine. I mean, if anyone understands the creative underclass it’s you. Like you wouldn’t charge me that unless you had to right? (Holding back tears).
I mean, you wouldn’t do that to a freelance writer who already lives with three roommates and is awaiting the ax from each magazine as they fold….right?
Oh, you would? You’re a corporate bastard who doesn’t allow a computer that is 9 months old to be covered under your warranty because you make the screen of graham crackers, excitedly awaiting it to crack apart and charge me 1/2 of what it cost to buy this machine in the first place?
I see. (Popping antacids like Pez)
Okay but you would totally give me my computer back really fast right? Cause I have no resources without it, and can’t get new jobs, let alone finish the old ones without the computer right? Oh, you need to put me on hold again. Cool.
Hey, I wonder how long I could live on ramen and slices of that really big meatball I got at dinner the other night and took home, seeing the potential for ten meals from that meatball, if I cut it real thin…
Oh Apple! You’re back! God it feels like we’ve been talking for hours. Days even. Wait, today is Thursday. And you’ve had my computer for a week. And this is our fifth phone call. So, we have been talking for days. Well at least you’re working hard on my—
Oh. You’ve…lost my ticket and haven’t even shipped this thing out to get fixed. Why? Oh, you can’t tell me. No, no, it’s fine! I mean, I’m just a little FRUSTRATED! Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to yell. Okay, so you are putting in the order now. Any chance you can knock off a few bucks for dicking me around so much?
Right, of course not. Pardon me a minute, there’s something I have to do….
(Loading shotgun)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
So, the reason I've been gone is....
The day after I got me some downsized hours (along with the rest of the permalancers in the building--please revise my earlier statement--PRINT IS DEAD! For a month or so...damn you economy), my laptop fell off my lap (no joke, because someone knocked on the door and I was startled, like some old lady who doesn't understand the cell phone ringing in the movie she is watching is not actually her own phone which never rings) and the LCD screen exploded into a beautiful kaleidoscope of white and green.
Which was pretty. For a minute. But I found quickly that it's not an Etch-a-Sketch. You can't just shake it to fix it.
Now no office computer (not really) and no home computer (not at all until it comes back from the Apple "Genius")! And I've never felt like blogging and writing more. Oh for crying out loud...
So yeah, sorry about that. I will try to post more often than once a week...in the meantime, how's your job(s) going?
Sweet. So, you hiring?
Which was pretty. For a minute. But I found quickly that it's not an Etch-a-Sketch. You can't just shake it to fix it.
Now no office computer (not really) and no home computer (not at all until it comes back from the Apple "Genius")! And I've never felt like blogging and writing more. Oh for crying out loud...
So yeah, sorry about that. I will try to post more often than once a week...in the meantime, how's your job(s) going?
Sweet. So, you hiring?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I can haz ur overused wrdz?
I was perusing some lists of words/phrases that should be banned (that sometimes we all use) and wanted to come up with my own (and steal some of theirs).
10. "Net net".
Hey newly-minted business person who wants to use phrases like "status" and "multiple touchpoints" in normal person-speak, I used to work in advertising too! Now shut up. Damn made up language.
9. "He gave it to Susan and I"
Oh pardon me! I didn't realize I was talking to the Queen of England...except you're just being pretentious and using the word "I" incorrectly instead of "me". Note to those mutton posing as lamb: If you take away the person or article in front of your "I", it damn well better make sense. As in, "He gave it to I vs. He gave it to me."
8. "Snap!"/"Hot Mess"/"Beat Down"/"Hell Yes"
This came up recently when one friend accused another friend of learning their slang from 90s sitcoms like Living Single and City Guys (you know you watched City Guys after Saturday morning cartoons. "C-I-T-Y, you can see why, the city guys!")
7. "Blogosphere". There are not enough descriptors in Dante's Hell that suit my insatiable and inhuman desire to murder this phrase into the ground. See also, "Hipster". See also "Hypocrite" as I have used these both in the past week.
6. "I just threw up in my mouth a little"
Really? I mean, that is wild! See cause when people throw up a little, or even a lot, I thought it was in their ass. Boy, you're clever.
5. "Myself". As in it was Carrie and myself. Refer to #9.
4. "Print is dead". Look, I know the "Internets" is the way of the future, thanks for pointing that out, 1990. What a new concept! The idea that words posted on a screen versus on a page is nothing new. I'd love it however, if people would stop treating this as a new concept, especially anyone born after 1985. Journalistic standards are crap online, and anyone can be famous. Print is the last bastion of the elite. Internet brings people together and waters down talent. Now I work in magazines, and you will pry each one that folds before my eyes from my cold dead hands. I am writing a book. I think writing should be on paper (and have an online supplement). Kids younger than me, stop telling me this is not a worthy pursuit and that PRINT IS DEAD. The young ones always have the conviction but rarely the acumen to truly predict and be cognizant of what is going on the moment they are young. Obama will not be twittering his inaugural address. Yes it's cool that he knows what it is. It's even cooler that he doesn't use it, because to do so would be a dilution. P.S. They said the VCR would be the end of movies and television too. Technology is not our destructor and not our savior. Can we do something a little more important with our lives than decrying some resources and having endless, circular discourse? Also, you tell me my Grandpa doesn't like getting a card in the mail instead of an email. Yeah, he's old, but he's awesome and Australian. Let's listen to him.
(to be finished in a moment...)
10. "Net net".
Hey newly-minted business person who wants to use phrases like "status" and "multiple touchpoints" in normal person-speak, I used to work in advertising too! Now shut up. Damn made up language.
9. "He gave it to Susan and I"
Oh pardon me! I didn't realize I was talking to the Queen of England...except you're just being pretentious and using the word "I" incorrectly instead of "me". Note to those mutton posing as lamb: If you take away the person or article in front of your "I", it damn well better make sense. As in, "He gave it to I vs. He gave it to me."
8. "Snap!"/"Hot Mess"/"Beat Down"/"Hell Yes"
This came up recently when one friend accused another friend of learning their slang from 90s sitcoms like Living Single and City Guys (you know you watched City Guys after Saturday morning cartoons. "C-I-T-Y, you can see why, the city guys!")
7. "Blogosphere". There are not enough descriptors in Dante's Hell that suit my insatiable and inhuman desire to murder this phrase into the ground. See also, "Hipster". See also "Hypocrite" as I have used these both in the past week.
6. "I just threw up in my mouth a little"
Really? I mean, that is wild! See cause when people throw up a little, or even a lot, I thought it was in their ass. Boy, you're clever.
5. "Myself". As in it was Carrie and myself. Refer to #9.
4. "Print is dead". Look, I know the "Internets" is the way of the future, thanks for pointing that out, 1990. What a new concept! The idea that words posted on a screen versus on a page is nothing new. I'd love it however, if people would stop treating this as a new concept, especially anyone born after 1985. Journalistic standards are crap online, and anyone can be famous. Print is the last bastion of the elite. Internet brings people together and waters down talent. Now I work in magazines, and you will pry each one that folds before my eyes from my cold dead hands. I am writing a book. I think writing should be on paper (and have an online supplement). Kids younger than me, stop telling me this is not a worthy pursuit and that PRINT IS DEAD. The young ones always have the conviction but rarely the acumen to truly predict and be cognizant of what is going on the moment they are young. Obama will not be twittering his inaugural address. Yes it's cool that he knows what it is. It's even cooler that he doesn't use it, because to do so would be a dilution. P.S. They said the VCR would be the end of movies and television too. Technology is not our destructor and not our savior. Can we do something a little more important with our lives than decrying some resources and having endless, circular discourse? Also, you tell me my Grandpa doesn't like getting a card in the mail instead of an email. Yeah, he's old, but he's awesome and Australian. Let's listen to him.
(to be finished in a moment...)
Monday, November 10, 2008
Monday Laugh-In
I do not have any money so I'm sending you a drawing of a spider instead.
Brilliant. Read from the top!
Brilliant. Read from the top!
Friday, November 07, 2008
Quote of the Day
In honor of the novel, and the edits I am going through, I'd thought I'd share a quote from page 334 (now this doesn't AT ALL mean pages 1-333 are done, I'm going through to see the arc of each chapter, the arc of the novel, if each character that already is, should be, represented in a scene, if each scene serves a theme, if each theme serves ice cream, and other important notes).
The character is Alfred, a 60 year old curmudgeon with foppish tendencies whom the protagonist forms a fatherly relationship with....
-----
She took a step forward in an effort to pet it, but the cat turned, ready to dash. Alfred cleared his throat dramatically. "Hurry up."
"Why? It's early."
"Well I don't really want to get into it, but that creature's anus just winked at me."
The character is Alfred, a 60 year old curmudgeon with foppish tendencies whom the protagonist forms a fatherly relationship with....
-----
She took a step forward in an effort to pet it, but the cat turned, ready to dash. Alfred cleared his throat dramatically. "Hurry up."
"Why? It's early."
"Well I don't really want to get into it, but that creature's anus just winked at me."
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Weeee! Nonsense! Fake Post!
Barack, furiously rewriting my novel and bouncing around on too many dinners out (but now actually able to do chin-ups at the gym, I know, right?)!
This is a good week. Now if only I could revise the 40 pieces of writing that just arrived on my desk. Anyone know a new word for garlicky? Hmmmm? Yes, indeed I have a noble profession.
Still...hooray!
This is a good week. Now if only I could revise the 40 pieces of writing that just arrived on my desk. Anyone know a new word for garlicky? Hmmmm? Yes, indeed I have a noble profession.
Still...hooray!
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