Did I Really Move to Greenwich?

What Have You Done During My Absence?!?

2012-02-09T07:14:00.004-05:00

I know I don't live in Manhattan anymore. Even as I still consider hizzoner my mayor, and Mimi's my pizza place. But while I've been gone, something absolutely silly has happened, and you might not be aware.

I speak of something I discovered, purely by accident, yesterday: select bus service.

I attempted to board the M15 at 125th and 2nd and was told the bus did not accept metrocards. Wait for that to sink in. No. Instead, I was told to put my metrocard into a metrocard dispenser-looking thing outside the bus, by the bus shelter, and get, wait for it, a receipt. Then I could board the bus and, again, hold your breaths, not show anyone my receipt. Of course, by this time, I had missed that bus because, well, there was a substantial line of other people waiting to get receipts from the metrocard kiosk.

WTF? doesn't even begin to cover it.

I realize that I am of the old school that clearly remembers tokens and their phase out, but I also remember that metrocards were designed to be easier. Have metrocard, have access to public transport. Now, less than 20 years later, and the metrocard WON'T gain me access to public transport? Explain to me how this makes anything easier - to say nothing of the fact that I had no idea where this "select bus" planned on stopping and was just happy that I wanted to go to a two-way crosstown intersection which I felt sure would be a stop.

Devoted partner attempted to make sense of this by saying that it was, perhaps, designed to prevent long lines of people waiting to insert their metrocards into the slot on the bus - strangely enough, the MTA sort of agrees by claiming that you can now board at the front or the back of the bus. Hallelujah, praise jeebus. But explain one tiny thing to me: would it not have been ever so slightly easier to, I don't know - have a second metrocard reader at the back door of the bus? Wouldn't that accomplish the same thing and save me from a multi-step process to RIDE A BUS? After all, there was a second MTA employee on my select bus, presumably to check that I had a receipt (also, do you know how easy it is to misplace a receipt the second you receive it? Am I supposed to clutch this wispy piece of paper in my hand like it's a treasure map on the chance the receipt police come a-knockin?).

This is, easily, the silliest technological backstep I've seen in a while, and I can only assume it was allowed to happen because I moved away. And before you start to make it out like I'm the crazy one, how about this gem of information from the MTA website:

"Neither machine sells or refills MetroCard; they are not vending machines, and do not make change."

So to board a select bus you need to 1. Go to the subway station and buy a metrocard; 2. Walk to the bus stop and insert your metrocard into a kiosk that serves to only print a receipt; 3. Not lose said receipt because 4. Someone maybe perhaps will ask to see it.

Sorry, fellow New Yorkers, this is clearly my fault for leaving. But since I have no sway with your mayor, perhaps this is something you'll have to fight without me. Mention my name, though, I like to feel like I'm still relevant.

Because We Need To Finish The Veal Stew First

2012-02-03T10:59:00.004-05:00

I had promised an ambitious food posting, but then there's still stew to be eaten and fish doesn't keep, so fish later, stew until there is no more, and something different for reading today.

Last weekend, we had brunch with my mother-in-law and devoted partner(husband)'s former minister whom I had only met once at a Border's in 19something and who wasn't able to attend our wedding. She asked us a question which, strangely, people have been asking: does it feel different to be married? And I don't want to belittle the question because it's a rather valid one in our circumstance. We were together a very long time before making it official and that perplexed people; as it perplexed them when, seemingly out of nowhere, we decided to go ahead and sign the papers and serve wine with them. I think if you had asked me to answer that question before marriage I would have given a flippant answer. Now, though, I have to admit that it is different. But in very specific, kinda cheesy ways.

I draw your attention to two things I've read about love and marriage in the past day, both courtesy of friend postings on Facebook. The first a story about a married couple whose lives were irrevocably changed when the husband suffered irreversible brain damage; the second about a single woman my age contemplating a lifetime with a man whose views on religion deviate so wildly from her own that crying is a frequent occurrence.

Both of these articles incited emotion from me; emotion that would have been different prior to marriage. I would have, without hesitation, assured you, in my pre-marriage state, that I was with devoted partner in sickness and in health. But I would have been under no moral, ethical, or quasi-legal obligation to do so. It was merely my love for him that prompted that response. Now, though, it's serious. It's real. Words are only words save for how you endow them with meaning, and when we recited our vows - our traditional, old-fashioned vows - we meant them. Literally. Irrevocably. I think it's why we wanted those vows. Those were the lessons of marriage that spoke to us and we wanted it to be absolutely clear that we were signing on for old-fashioned, irrevocable marriage. It wasn't just laziness on our parts. Or as Henry Rollins said, "Me and you until we die. For better for worse. You get cancer, I'm sticking with you, your tits get cut off, I'm sticking with you, you f-ing grow this melanoma lump out of your f-ing head, I'm staying with you. I gotta put you in adult f-ing diapers when you're 90, I love you and I'm going to do it every day."* We didn't think the guests would really get that, so we went with the book of common prayer. And this first article is absolutely heartbreaking because it resonates so strongly. Sure, we had gobs of years in the bag where that's what we thought, but being married feels different because we know we're going to do it now.

Which brings me to the second article where a woman is wondering if she should enter into what any rational person could see is a doomed long-term relationship simply because she's 34 and her pickings are slim. All the self-righteous crap I just spewed above, that's MY truth. MY life. MY stubbornness. And I do my level best not to judge how others do it simply because we decided on the Thunderdome interpretation of marriage. But it gets me in the gut to read and hear about this paranoia of being left alone and grabbing at anything vaguely compatible to avoid this. As if you get a medal for it, or that at your funeral they make mention that you lived your life summa cum somebody. Marriages are tough in the best of situations, but entering into one where you already have one of the three bellwethers of divorce checked off (the other two are money and kids) beggars belief. And doing so because you think it's the best you'll ever get (an outlook, by the way, which I believe dooms one to only getting the ok out of life)?

Listen, I'm now a big advocate of this whole spending-your-life-with-the-same-person thing, I like it, but the whole Big Capitalized Vow aspect? I never could have done that for someone who was just the best I could get. I'd like to think most people (or most of the people I know) get into marriage because they love the other person and think it's going to work forever, not simply so they can check "married" off on their bucket lists; it's terrible when it doesn't work out that way, but knowing it's not going to work out that way and having the party anyway? Ick. I mean these are the author's own words: "But if I decide not to be a part of this holy threesome, I could risk ending up on my own. That doesn't sound like a very good deal to make. In fact, that sounds rather like a deal with the Devil." Great, so marry someone with whom you have fundamental, intrinsic differences and enjoy the two years or so of getting to claim you're married before you kill each other or merely divide your stuff and flee to opposite ends of the country. Is there a prize for that?

So, yes, it feels different to be married. More weighty. More explicitly responsibility-laden. And while I clearly did judge the soon-to-be-married-and-then-divorced author, there are too many struggling marriages that deserve a chance for me to get worked up about a theoretical one that should never happen. We waited a long time, and I'm glad we did. Not because it is an amusing story to tell new people, but because, given our feelings about marriage, we wanted to be damn sure we meant it. Having set it down on paper? Yeah, that feels pretty damned different!

*Dear Henry Rollins, This is now the third time I have bought this album. Today I did it to find that one passage. Thank goodness for The Cloud because, theoretically, it means I won't have to buy it again. Love, Yelena.

When The Pants Come Off

2012-02-02T12:18:00.003-05:00

I should mention the things I'm reading more often, especially when I both like what I've read and I know the author. This morning it was an article by a college chum, Chris, on male and female body issues and a call for more nudity. Sign me up! Oh wait, as anyone who has ever had the (mis)fortune of living with or near me knows, I've already signed up.

Now, I may have an unfair advantage in that I grew up in a clothing-optional or, put a more accurate way, too-lazy-to-really-dress household. Some of this naturally arose from 4 people living in 650 square feet with one bathroom, but some of it was probably latent and subconscious hippiedom on the part of my not-that-hippie parents. We weren't full on nudists, we were just more of a "hey, is it ok if we wear our underwear to dinner?" kind of group. Other people tell me that's kind of gross.

Whatever long-lasting psychological damage I feel sure my more modest brother suffered from this, I do know that nudity and shame were never a thing we had in our house. It just wouldn't have occurred to us. Gym class? Not a problem. Those bizarre open changing rooms in some department stores? Ditto. I remember being shocked at the grown-up gym one time when I had been working out with a female coworker who went through all kinds of frightful contortions to cover herself after showering and wondering how that became her normal; similarly I may have inappropriately busted out laughing at college once upon discovering that a couple I knew slept in full-on clothing together. It's one of those things where what you grow up with really does become default normal. And just like the woman's side of the bed is the left side, the proper attire for sleep is nothing. It's just what I knew.

Now I can't claim all of the benefits Chris has discovered from an embracing of less clothing - I still weigh myself quite a bit (and can someone explain how the scale went up .2 pounds this morning from the time I woke up through the time I had finished my daily coffee and what comes after coffee?) and I still worry about how this or that part looks, but the root causes of my here-and-there body dissatisfactions don't come from a place of shame and for that I am eternally thankful to good old not-quite-dressed mom and dad.

It is, however, worth noting that the brain still edits. For example: would I be comfortable meeting up with Chris and his family at a clothing-optional mini-golf course? I honestly don't know. The stubborn, defensive part of me says, "of course! Naked mini-golf with open-minded friends is what all normal people should do!" But nudity in front of family or strangers is still far more comfortable than nudity in front of people one actually knows. However attired we were for family dinners, when we had friends for dinner, it wasn't like my dad actually showed up in his briefs, or encouraged his guests to do likewise.

So I'm going to think about this, Chris, because I like to be proven a hypocrite as often as possible (and lest anyone reading this gets the wrong idea, no naked mini-golf has been proposed). In the meantime, though, if any of you come over and want to take off your pants, we're chill with that!

Curse You, Default Sheep Mentality

2012-01-31T08:30:00.002-05:00

While we're on the subject of cooking, I thought I'd share a problem I've been having recently: following directions. As in, I follow them when I know I shouldn't. The wedding cake death march should have taught me that, when reading a recipe, be skeptical.

Over the holidays, we sampled some really delicious chocolate sables from a bakery in San Francisco. They were delicious enough that I wanted to find the recipe and crank out some myself. It took me until now to try (also I needed more cocoa, aforementioned wedding cake having thoroughly plundered my supply) them and how lucky I was that the recipe was available on el internet. In fairness, I gave myself every opportunity to correct the obvious fault with the recipe. I read it several times, opened up my master notebook of working recipes to compare, read the original again, shrugged my shoulders, and said (in a famous last words kind of way): "they published this recipe in a book, it MUST work."

Intrepid readers and bakers, perhaps you can spot the missing ingredient: cocoa, butter, sugar, flour, baking soda, vanilla extract, grated chocolate.

I'll give you a minute.

For those who don't bake often, the missing ingredient is some form of EGG PRODUCT. An ingredient, by the way, that was in every sable recipe I had in the master notebook. The mixture this recipe gave me could politely be described as "sandy." It was so dry and separate-y that even an attempt to roll it in log form in cling wrap did nothing for it. While the recipe implies that one should be able to roll the dough out and cut it into shapes, this was demonstrably untrue; instead I mashed it onto a cookie sheet as best I could and threw the whole mess in the oven (the final destination of these cookies is, as luck would have it, the crust for a cheesecake, so presentation is the least of my concerns as the whole mess will end up in the food processor anyway). What came out of the oven could politely be described as looking like the waste product of a mammal pressed onto a baking sheet and cooked.

The flavor was fine, but you couldn't possibly mistake it for a cookie - or a sable for that matter. It should work for its purpose, but don't expect to see these tied up with ribbon and presented as gifts anytime soon.

So while I seem to be a know-it-all, when confronted with written instructions, I tend to follow blindly and curse later. I find the same thing when following a knitting pattern. In both of these endeavors, I need to stop trusting the authors and instead trusting my wealth of accumulated knowledge.

On the bright side, and following from yesterday's post, the utter and complete failure of this extraordinarily simple recipe removes any chance that I would buy the full cookbook (oh, I realize I have been protecting the guilty: the recipe was from the Miette cookbook).

Otherwise They're Just Taking Up Space

2012-01-30T09:13:00.002-05:00

One of the novelties of our suburban life which pleased me to no end was this magical extra room known as the laundry room. In apartment life the laundry room was in the basement if you were lucky, or several blocks away if you weren't. I spent many many years paying other people to do our laundry because I simply couldn't endure the laundromat - a luxury I know, but one which we endlessly justified by comparing our hourly rate at work vs. the .60/pound the nice people charged to do our laundry (and fold it) for us.

With the advent of in-house laundry, this rationalization flew out the window. I still do not relish the laundry job, but I have come to accept it as something normal people do. However, our particular laundry room may well be the largest room in our house and that seemed like a lot of room to allocate just to soiled things. So, in my optimism, I rechristened our laundry room: the prep kitchen. It has industrial shelving and a 6 foot long stainless table; all of the bizarro ingredients that don't belong in our regular kitchen (I'm looking at you, atomized glucose); and the massive stacks of cookbooks I have amassed over the years. This configuration, though, has proven the out of sight out of mind adage, and only in very special circumstances do I pick up one of those dusty cookbooks.

This will now change.

Starting this week, I will select a never before made recipe from on of the books and we will have it for dinner on Thursdays. There is really no point in ever buying another cookbook (and on this point, I have been rather firm - I haven't had a new cookbook in well over a year) if I haven't made at least some of the recipes from the existing ones.

True, there are some limitations. As there is still some calorie-watching going on in our household, it will be safe to assume that pork belly in cream sauce will not be on the menu anytime soon but, as luck would have it, the first book I selected at random immediately coughed up an acceptable meal: lime and chili crusted seared tuna.

Watch this space on Friday for the post-game.

My Open Job Application to The Daily Show

2012-01-26T12:05:00.003-05:00

Dear The Daily Show,
I'm a woman. There have been rumors that women don't feel so much of the love working for you. I don't really care. I'm a big fan and I can clearly take what you can dish. What I do care about is that other women seem to be hired in my stead. Granted, you've never received a formal letter of interest from me, but I'm considering changing that. Your women don't seem to last long with the exception of Samantha Bee, and I have a theory on that: she's the only one who is funny. These other women you hire, they are not funny. They are cloying and annoying and seem to equate humor with being massively, cliche-ly over the top. You have a new woman whose name I haven't bothered to learn because I doubt she'll be around long, and in her first appearance, she was a train-jumping hobo. Who wasn't funny. Not even a little bit. Then she was in a maelstrom of primary antagonism in South Carolina. Also not funny. She pulled faces and made silly voices and did pretty much everything I don't associate with humor on your show. Olivia Munn was just as bad. And don't get me started on the girl with the annoying voice.

Samantha Bee is self-deprecating, sarcastic, sardonic, all the good S-es. It's why I like her. The other women should be on sitcoms with laugh tracks for all the originality and verve they bring.

So, I would like to volunteer my services. I am a sarcastic, rage-filled, New York snob who would describe her attitude towards modern political life as ennui-filled, but can't because I do seem to still care. Previous experience includes a serious consideration of a run for the Senate seat soon-to-be-vacated by Joe Lieberman which I abandoned when I discovered he was no longer running, thus nullifying my campaign slogan, "I couldn't possibly be worse than this guy." I was also frankly adorable during several appearances on a game show in 1982-84. I don't think I'm necessarily funny, but I could work on my confidence in that arena. I know I'm funnier than the other fly-by-night women you have employed. And, not being a professional comedienne, don't have much invested in myself in that regard. Which means I won't throw hissy fits over my creative voice.

Furthermore, I'd be rather perfect at PR because I would happily stand in front of cameras and tape recorders and assure your critics that the women who have been unhappy in your employ were a bunch of whiners. I have no ego when it comes to being made to look ridiculous, and am rather phenomenal at keeping a straight face; also lying. While others might find me insufferable, I have never found myself to be. Additionally, if you hired me, I could finally convince my parents to stop watching the NBC local news at 11.

In short, I think I have The Daily Show voice. I think we could work well together. While I'm not really a cult of personality-type person, I might be able to get it going for Mr. Stewart, and I'd be all for practical jokes when Donald Rumsfeld or similar is in the green room. I would also bake cupcakes. I mention this because my understanding is that people like cupcakes. And my baking is pretty outstanding.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience. Or I'll just assume you've already read this when I send you my letter of inquiry.

Best,

Yelena

Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Read The Internet

2011-12-22T10:52:00.000-05:00

It starts, innocently enough, with a link on facebook. Then I read one article which links to another which links to another which gets me to this.

And then I get all aggro again.

"Real Bodies Unite is appealing to all those women fed up of being bombarded with unrealistic imagery in the fashion and beauty industry, by launching a global campaign to raise at least 10,000 signatures for the use of body diversity instead."

Flashback: the year is 1991. A certain young feminist author with a hot, new, provocative book comes to talk to our eighth grade class (yes, I just outed my age). She talks to just the girls in the class about how Vogue and, I don't know, Beverly Hills 90210 are forcing us to hate ourselves and how we look and how those are the reasons we have poor body image. A certain student in the class raises her hand and politely (ok, probably not that politely) asks the feminist author if she is smoking crack. How on earth can a magazine make us do or feel anything we don't want? Vogue doesn't make this young lady feel bad about weighing 150+ pounds at 14 - she feels bad about her weight because she looks bad. Objectively. Whether or not Anna Wintour exists. It is possible that said young student is forcibly escorted out of the room and counseled by a teacher to maybe stop with the talking because the feminist author's message will be important to some of the student's classmates and she shouldn't ruin it for everyone.

20 years later and this theory has become widely accepted and a cottage industry.

It is neither the anorexic model, nor the agency that employs her, nor the magazine that prints her, nor the designer who hires her, who is at fault in the tiresome lady-body-image debate. We, the ladies. We're the problem.

Yup, I said it. Wanna be taken seriously, ladies? Accept responsibility for your own complicity in this. Reading the Real Bodies Unite mission statement (which I sincerely hope was written by a teenager, otherwise I cannot excuse the poor grasp of the English language) would have you imagining that the media (capital-M, lowercase-M, whichever) puts thoughts into your head. Thoughts you can't un-put there. Like Son of Sam and his dog. She/we are powerless when the media speaks. The thoughts are unthinkable. Good thing it's only telling us to hurt ourselves emotionally and psychologically, otherwise the courts would be jam-packed with defendants saying "Glamour made me do it."

Even as the crusaders admit that they know the representations of women in the media are "not real," they seem powerless to separate fantasy from reality. Herein lies another gripe: designers don't design for "real women." (For real we should assume heavyish.) Sadly, there's a Freakonomics problem here: heavy women aren't wealthy. Only wealthy women buy designer clothing. Ergo, designers have slender women modelling their clothing. Take a look at the society pages and you'll notice that those women (possibly real, even) are similarly sized and shaped to the women in the fashion magazines. If you are 300 pounds, statistics suggest you do not have $7,000 for a dress. Why would the person selling a $7,000 dress care if you identify with his model if you're not the intended audience any way? The $7,000 dress is a fantasy just as the model is. Why isn't there a movement whose mission is to compel couture houses to make dresses that cost $70? After all, by the same logic, it's unfair to the rest of us that they don't. That we expect women to understand that ownership of a $7,000 dress is a fantasy, but ownership of the body modelling it shouldn't be, is a leap I am unwilling to make.

Women in fashion magazines, movies, television, are professionally beautiful. Being beautiful in an unattainable way is their job. They work every day to be that beautiful. Were that my job, I would lift more weights, clean my face on a regular basis, not consider exfoliation to be "a hassle," and never eat a carb. But since I don't get paid to be attractive, it's bread and sleeping in eyeliner for me. If you, personally, don't like their occasionally boyish figures or outsized busts, it shouldn't matter to you that you don't look like that. There is a serious disconnect between complaining about how unattractively thin models are and then complaining that the selfsame things you find unattractive about them, being unattainable for you, make you feel unattractive yourself.

Does anyone really, truly, honestly think that if there were women of all shapes and sizes in the media, that we women wouldn't find something else to be self-hateful about? Is it really that simplistic? Get a bunch of regular sized and lumpy chicks on the pages of InStyle and we'll all live in Utopian body satisfaction world? To quote the girl from 1991: are you smoking crack?

Want a great example? This photo. Oh, look, girls who also have rolls in their stomachs when they lean over. Bravo! But do you notice what these "real" women don't have? Here's a cursory list:

Cellulite
Scars from ingrown leg hairs
Any body hair whatsoever or the razor burn/waxing bumps to prove they ever had any
Thin hair
Split ends
Visible stretch marks
Wrinkles
Grey hair
Weird moles
Uneven skin tone
And so on, etc. etc.

Also these women may be non-thin, but none is fat. Also none is over 30. If you want to pay money to look at a non-thin-but-not-fat, over thirty woman with thin hair, stretch marks, scars on her knees from summer camp, broken blood vessels on her nose, and the remnants of a manicure from October, I'll start telling you where to send the checks. The women in that picture are no more representative of the rest of us than Kate Moss. They're merely 40 pounds heavier than Kate Moss. Everything else remains the same (it should be noted that I have no idea if there are Supermodels anymore, and Kate Moss is the last one I remember who was very skinny - I realize Kate Moss is now well over 30).

So putting beautiful women 40 pounds heavier than Kate Moss, but whose skin, hair, etc. is equally airbrushed, who have spent the same number of hours in the stylist's chair prior to being photographed, in magazines, as opposed to only showing women as thin as Kate Moss will do absolutely nothing to improve women's self-image issues. And anyone who says otherwise is an imbecile.

A dangerous imbecile who is doing exactly the same thing to women as he/she claims the media is: reducing an entire gender to a group of mouthbreathers incapable of making decisions -good and bad- for itself. Oh, don't blame that woman for her poor self-image; the magazine made her do it. She couldn't possibly be expected to stand up for herself on her own. We need to change the magazines so that the poor thing can get out of bed in the morning without wanting to take a razor to her fat, hairy wrists.

These purported feminists are doing more to halt women's progress than any fashion magazine could ever claim to do. I don't want my raison d'etre as a woman to be perpetual victimhood, nor am I comfortable with the notion that until some third-party changes its ways, I will be unable to change my own.

There is a self-image problem that exists for women, but the hard truth is that in many cases it is created by women. We are the consumers and the judges of other consumers. Beauty as a status symbol is a tenet upheld by us all and no amount of media manipulation alone will change that. Belief that we are all equally beautiful negates the very idea of beauty. Admitting that beauty is both subjective and rare doesn't hurt the feminist cause. Attempting to deny subjective beauty makes us both naive and fatuous. The actual challenge is creating a hierarchy where beauty is not the only barometer of success for women. Ignoring beauty as a factor in how we evaluate others does nothing to broaden the scope of our evaluations; it reinforces a narrow view of worth in women. If we, as women, are only evaluating ourselves and others by their beauty, we're the problem. And we need to change. Otherwise, the magazines could print blank page upon blank page, and we'd still be no better off.

The Toughest Review I've Ever Had To Write

2011-12-09T08:13:00.004-05:00

It's tangentially related to the honeymoon, but if you're truly more interested in photos of baby elephants (and who isn't) head on over to my facebook or flickr. Devoted partner and I are now proud owners of e-readers; he, a kindle, me, a nook. This has drastically changed the way we pack for trips as we no longer need to allocate 20 or so pounds for books. Prior to leaving for Corisca, I downloaded a pantsload of books to my nook so that the beach would not be boring. Consequently, we spent precious little time doing nothing on that trip, so my nook remained full. Part of this was my fault as I chose a 700+ page tome on the Algerian war which remained only half finished upon our return.

For this trip, I didn't need to add to my selections and, furthermore, the book I really wanted to read wasn't to be released until after we left. Sadly, the author's tour was also going to coincide with the trip and I would be unable to foolishly prostrate myself at the feet of my hero (devoted partner was less upset by this as I freely admit the carnal aspect of my hero worship).

So imagine my delight when, upon finally receiving internet access, I discovered the book was available for download. Oh, joy! I would be able to read the long-awaited novel whilst on the pristine beaches of Mauritius. But satisfaction delayed is often just as sweet, so I finished up with the Algerians first. Aside: yes, it was long, but A Savage War of Peace was also really really fascinating.

The sun was shining, I was in a new bright traffic cone orange bikini, and a man was bringing drinks to my deck chair. I was ready. Umberto, I come for you and your brilliant new novel, The Prague Cemetery.

For those who are possibly unaware, I own all of his books. Even the lengthy, of interest only to doctoral students of semiotics, philosophical tomes. I have read Foucault's Pendulum no fewer than 20 times. I even own a copy in Italian, a language I neither speak nor read. I am smitten by the kind of puppy love that only makes sense when it begins in adolescence. For his last book tour, I brought him chocolates and a 10-page, quite stalkerish letter (still waiting on a reply). My smitten is unwavering.

So, I cannot even begin to explain how devastated I was that this new book...oh god this is hard...is a steaming pile of, well I won't say excrement, discarded notes from all of his actually good books. Literally. As a reader of all of his books I could actually envision him going through old notebooks from 30 years ago and gathering up the stuff that wasn't good enough then and combining it to make this mostly unreadable novel. And not unreadable due to complexity or snotty vocabulary. Unreadable in its lack of plot, lack of character development, lack of interestingness, lack lack lack! The Prague Cemetery has none of the oomph. It feels so mailed in that I briefly wondered if it was a joke. A horrible joke perpetrated at my expense (narcissism, I know). I simply don't know what happened here.

The book is about the development of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion which isn't a bad idea for a book. For the first 100 or so pages, one could almost imagine that there would be light at the end of the tunnel (that is if one were so enamoured with the author as to think he could do no wrong). The protagonist has no redeeming qualities, you don't care about him or his story, and you wonder where his mental diarrhea comes from and how it can be so uninteresting. And then it just goes on and on and on. The epitome of sound and fury signifying nothing. Furthermore, the virulent anti-semitism one would expect from a book on this subject just rang so hollow because you could tell Eco's heart wasn't in it. And, unlike Stephen Colbert, he couldn't amusingly fake opinions so radically different from his own.

Upon finishing, and I did finish, I was overwhelmed by feelings of WTF? Why did you write this book, Umberto? It didn't seem like you were interested or invested in it. It read lazily. And you're not lazy. You're meticulous and brainy. I know you're a little pissed off that a no-talent hack like Dan Brown made like he invented Templarian mysteries, but that doesn't mean you should start phoning in your own novels. I wait upon these new tomes of yours with baited breath. I mean have you seen what my other options are for reading these days? And, let's be honest, you don't have that many books left. Would you really be happy if this was the last work you left us?

I'm not going to go overboard and say this ruined our honeymoon and the reason is, it just wasn't significant enough to do anything but leave a bad taste in my mouth (which I washed out with rum). It just made me sad. After plowing through J. Maarten Troost's Life on Planet China and Too Close to the Sun, a biography of Denys Finch Hatton, I had to start on Name of the Rose just to get the taste of Prague Cemetery out of my mouth (rum-soaked though it was). I hope we can reconcile soon. A small book of your essays would help.

Everyone else: if a die-hard fangirl like me can find nothing good to say about this book, you should probably leave it on the shelf.

Selfless Service

2011-10-07T13:44:00.004-04:00

I want you all to think of me as a giver. Someone who will go above and beyond the strict call of duty to make your lives better. To help you with this, I have sacrificed myself for the greater good.

I have TiVo'd a fair percentage of the new fall shows so that I may better suggest to you which you should TiVo.

Applications for sainthood on my behalf may be initiated at any time.

There was some pre-recording winnowing based on some highly scientific criteria: most comedies suck. Comedies with Tim Allen in them suck especially. Not worth trying.

I will not, repeat, will not watch supernatural shows. So the new show that's like Lost meets Jurassic part meets, dear god I'm already bored, didn't make the cut. Also I don't plan on watching any of the shows that deal with fairytales or vampires. Wouldn't do it when I was a tween myself, don't plan on doing it now.

So, with one exception, I made a study of the season's new hour-long dramas and here's what I found:

I like cop shows.

Ok, more specifically. Even though I can pinpoint nothing about the new show Unforgettable that is especially, well, unforgettable, I have now watched three episodes. Yes, I was initially drawn in by the less-hot guy from Nip/Tuck, and then immediately put off by the show's subplot - the lady detective with the fiery red (not real) hair is a cop because someone killed her sister and she needs to find out who he is. Yet, despite that incredibly lame device, the show is certainly not unwatchable. It's a formulaic cop shop and I have never seen a lady detective show that much cleavage, but formulaic cop shows work more often than not.

Things that don't work? The Playboy Club. I watched through the second commercial of the pilot episode before turning off and erasing. Apparently I was not alone as I think the show got canceled. If you missed it, you didn't really.

But back to cops. Maria Bello's show, Prime Suspect is better than Unforgettable but worse than your typical Law & Order, original recipe. I'm pleased that even though the promos made it seem like her wearing of a hat was going to be a major component of the show's plotlines, it isn't. Yes, she wears a stupid hat, but it's ok because they don't mention it much. She's a little one-dimensional, but I am willing to give it time - maybe she develops a character other than the wiseass lady cop. Some of her wiseassitude is amusing.

Another thing I discovered (a shock to you all, I know) is that my nostalgia addiction might have bad side effects. Naturally, I mean of course, I mean was there any ever question, I chose to watch the new Charlie's Angels.

I made it through 1.2 episodes. It's really really bad. I mean really bad. Not as bad as the Playboy Club (by approximately 5 commercial breaks), but bad. I'm not recording it any longer. Some reasons it's bad. The angels aren't ex-cops, they're ex-felons. And they're really unmemorable. I know these are attractive women, but they're kind of like cereal box attractive. They aren't interesting enough looking or acting to hold my attention. They're good right until the milk starts to go all chalky, and then they're not so good anymore. There's no charisma and, since I just checked, the guy who voices Charlie pretty much sums up the lack of charisma: he's the older guy from Alias. In other words: no one. His voice isn't interesting and neither is he. John "muthableeping" Forsythe was amazeballs as Charlie. This guy is just a voice on one of those speaker phone jobbies no one in your office can use properly. Also, and this is a truly personal pet peeve. If you are going to wear $1000/pair shoes, you should know how to pronounce them. For the record: Louboutin is pronounced loo-boo-tan - where "tan" is pronounced like tan - like the thing you get from lying under the sun (obviously if you are French, you don't quite pronounce it like that, but for a transliterative purpose, it's close enough). I don't know what a loo-boo-tawn is, but I assume it comes from the same place a moo-lawn rouge does.

Then there's Pan Am for my nostalgia of times that never existed. It's middle-of-the-road watchable while being simultaneously stupid. The subplot device used here is that one of the stewardesses is also working for the CIA. I don't know why the show needed that except, oh, wait, I do, the rest of it is merely an advertisement for vintage Pan Am handbags. The banter isn't cute, the vintage outfits aren't either. It's a really poor imitation of the Mad Men mystique, but I don't know if it would be as bad had Mad Men never existed. That being said, I don't hate the show, but if it went off the air, I wouldn't miss it.

Now the nostalgia takes a turn. I didn't start watching the OC until it was, I believe off the air. I don't even think I really liked it, but it grew on me, kind of like riding boots. And I like Rachel Bilson. So even though nothing about the promos for her new show Hart of Dixie said that I would enjoy it, I tuned in. And you know what? It's not bad. It has the basketball player from original 90210 who Brandon had to tutor for the teacher whose wife he was sleeping in, but then the basketball player becomes a good guy and a friend of Donna's. And I've always liked him. And I think Rachel Bilson is really cute. This is not a good show either, but it's bad in a good way.

I let one comedy slip in because, I don't remember why, except I like Christina Applegate. Up All Night with her and Will Arnett is awesomely poignant for me because it smacks of the kind of crap clueless parent I might inevitably become. Devoted partner likes it less. Probably for the reasons I like it a lot.

Oh, and The X Factor. Neither here nor there. I like Simon Cowell. I stopped watching American Idol when he left so I'll at least watch this season of his new show.

To sum up, on a scale of 1-10 where 1 is Baywatch Nights and 10 is The West Wing:

Unforgettable - 4; will watch at least one or two more episodes before making a final decision

The Playboy Club - 1; and now no longer anyone's problem

Prime Suspect - 5; if Law & Order: Special Victim's Unit is a 7

Charlie's Angels - 1.5; not quite as bad as The Playboy Club, but I'm no longer watching

Pan Am - 3; since my Sunday night schedule is pretty light, I'll let it have a couple more weeks

Hart of Dixie - 4; in some moods, maybe a 5

Up All Night - 7; it makes me smile and I really really like Christina Applegate

The X-Factor - NR; either you watch reality tv or you don't

Not yet rated - Person of Interest. We have several episodes on the machine waiting to be watched.

People Do Give You Funny Looks

2011-10-04T10:25:00.003-04:00

I am no stranger to the strange looks cashiers give you at the grocery store. After all, I was the girl at Fairway with a case of heavy cream and nothing else. Come to think of it, I also got strange looks when I bought 6 pounds of duck fat and nothing else.

As of today, my crisper drawers are filled with 12 pounds of cream cheese and 9 pounds of butter and the walk of shame to checkout was significant. People do wonder what the hell you're planning when they see that in your hand cart.

After much trial and error and, given the cake-free zone in our house, disposing of failcake in the trash, the recipe for the wedding cakes is set. The test-freezing has been done. Now it's just a question of ingredient amassing.

What has been interesting is discovering just how much I already had in the house. It does, in fact, take a while to go through a 50 pound bag of sugar. I was able to make all of the test cakes without buying more cake flour. I have quart sized mason jars of vanilla extract just hanging about.

So in case you've ever wondered what it takes to make cake for over 100 people, have at it (approximately):

8 pounds of flour
9 pounds of sugar
8 pounds of butter
30 eggs
2 pounds of cocoa powder
1 gallon of oil
1 gallon of buttermilk
12 pounds of cream cheese
6 pounds of confectioner's sugar

and assorted smaller amounts of the minor ingredients.

When I look at it all together, it doesn't seem like that much, which is a boon to anyone who might be having a minor panic attack about making cake for over 100 people in the next three weeks (and then making chocolates). But then I realized that making one entire cake every day for a week pretty much dispenses with cake making and the chocolates can be done in a day.

But I'm glad I only have to do it once.

There Are, Occasionally, Things To Eat Here

2011-09-29T08:24:00.003-04:00

I have been remiss in oh, so many things, but it occurs to me that as I have gotten more used to Connecticut, I have stopped talking about it. And things do change here from time to time. I now know which of the 3 Super Stops and Shops within short distance from my house is the one to shop at - Glenville, if you were wondering, always has my Kashi Go Lean bars in stock - I know that no matter how hard I try, I will not be able to rationalize getting Chinese food from the expensive places when the hole in the wall on Main Street in Port Chester, China House, is a) better and b) 1/3 the price, and I finally know that it really is faster to take the highway.

But it is food I wish to talk about, especially as people will be visiting from out of town soon. Lower Fairfield County (and Westchester County) is not a food mecca by any stretch of the imagination. Devoted partner (soon to be rechristened, hmmm, I don't know "devoted life partner," "legally devoted partner," "partner of legally mandated devotion") and I simply do not eat out often. Part of this is cheapness on our parts, but the better part of it is unwillingness to shell out money for substandard food. The "nice" places around here are, sadly, so much country club cuisine. The number of times I have typed "Stamford CT ramen" into google hoping to find something is embarrassing.

It helps that food has not been a priority of late, notfood having won out for nearly 2 years, but occasionally we want someone else to bring us food. Especially last Sunday when we were hungover. So, I thought it would only be fair to highlight some of the food we have enjoyed.

My friend Julie recommended Casa Villa. One night when, again, I could not find the taco truck open (the taco truck is awesome, but not even remotely healthy), we took a look at its location on the Stamford border. We did not stay. It was not the shiniest of locations and food was in steam trays, and it just sort of said "don't eat me if you want to enjoy tomorrow morning." Perhaps this judgment was premature. Last week Julie and I went to the nicer, shinier location, where comely waitresses with perfect command of English brought us yummy tacos and plantains. I was hooked. The tacos were really really fresh with lots of onion and cilantro. I was so smitten that when Sunday came, I schlepped devoted partner there as well where I discovered that an additional bonus is the presence of Mexican coke. My only complaint about the food is that the cooks are a little liberal with their use of salt, but the Mexican coke helps.

And let's keep going with the taco theme because Port Chester got a hot new place over the summer and I mostly believe the hype. Bar Taco is happening. We waited over an hour for a table the first time we went. The menu is limited and the process of ordering (golf pencils and a fill-in order card) is hokey, but what is served is pretty damn good. And the ambience, while also hokey were it plunked down in Manhattan, is nice for people who miss non-starchy eating environments. The majority of seating is outside on a deck which has a bit of Kennebunkport to it. It gets busy and noisy and some of the patrons would do well on reality tv but, again, beggars and choosiness comes to mind. In a taco-off between Bar Taco and Casa Villa, I'll give the nod to Casa Villa, but for a night with a group and the desire for liquor based potables, Bar Taco gets my vote.

And apparently, we like food made by Spanish speaking peoples because for my birthday this year we tried out up-scale Lolita in Byram. It's Mexicanish, very dimly lit, and, I guess, good for dates or for drinks once hedge fund hours are over. The food was good. Not great. Good. But I have to reiterate that when in a food desert, sometimes good is great. Would the restaurant last five minutes in Tribeca or DUMBO? No. But there were no strollers which, believe me, is a godsend.

We also finally tried Layla's in Stamford late one night with Abby. Layla's is storefronty-looking, but serves very competent middle eastern food. I tried the falafel and the lamb schwarma and both pass with high marks. We passed on the hookah course, but it's there if you want it.

I'd like to give some props to the big bowl noodle soup we ended our Sunday hangovers with from Penang in Greenwich. It wasn't Ippudo, but it was warming, not overly salted, and under $10.

But the place in our neighborhood that is most craved, is clearly, and without peer, Burgers Shakes and Fries. Maybe it's simply that my body wants fried potatoes more than it wants any single other thing, but this is a good, grease-filled meal of excellence. I may have been originally swayed by the orange interior, but these people make excellent, as you like them, burgers. True, I've never managed to finish one, but I rarely eat an entire burger. The fries are my current local favorite and they are on the precipice of too salty - also known as perfect. They're also really really nice. Even when busy. And full of strollers. When it seemed like we would have to have a rehearsal dinner, I kept threatening to do it here.

So while I would love to find a place that does Dim Sum (good luck), perhaps some Turkish or Moroccan, and another Italian place (dear Tarry Lodge, you're my go-to for dinner with adults, but would it kill you to change your menu?), I will not dismiss, out of hand, all food options in our area. Most of them? Yes. But there's at least enough here to satisfy our 1-2x/month escape from the confines of our own home and the neverending grilled chicken served there.

Life After Fat

2011-09-23T09:19:00.007-04:00

The time has come to admit that I am no longer, in any way, shape or form, fat. I can no longer make self-deprecating comments about my fat. It is now unseemly as opposed to just undignified. I must now humbly join the ranks of the not-fat who still have body issues. As in, I know I am not fat, but that doesn't mean that there isn't room to improve the quality of my midsection.

I'm being flippant, natch, but this is actually a rather difficult transition. I have been legitimately and certainly medically fat my entire adolescent/adult life. It was a fallback defense and a daily reality. The number of times I used fat as an excuse for something entirely non-fat related? Too many times to comfortably admit. It turns out that my shortcomings will now have to be rationalized via other means.

And it's really not easy to get my head out of its fatspace. One great example: buffets. I used to worry that, in an environment where there was easy food access, people would notice when I decided to help myself: too early and they would judge the fat girl who couldn't keep her hands off the food; too late and I was tacitly admitting my fat and its control over me. Also clothing choices, as in, why is that fat girl wearing that form fitting outfit. Does she not know she is fat and should, therefore, be hiding that?

No one has much sympathy for the non-fat body dysmorphia. Glamour magazine no longer considers my body a protected class and all those cover articles promising the best jeans/dress/outfit for your body type, don't have my body type. And while I agonize over the perfect 12" measurement differential (possibly achievable) and the sad state of affairs that is my skin, I don't get to be all that vocal about it because after all, I'm not fat. I really shouldn't have anything to complain about - certainly not the fact that a pair of really tiny jeans I got 10 pounds ago are now loose.

Now I get the "you shouldn't lose any more weight" comments. Which, don't get me wrong, I understand come from a place of support, but don't do much for the lurking suspicion that there actually are some more pounds that wouldn't be missed should they suddenly go missing.

While on vacation, I ate foie gras twice without guilt. Also while on vacation we took some pictures. In all of them I can point out to you what still needs improvement, but as a farewell to the fat that was, I will share two with you.

You see when we went to Corsica in 2005 we took a lot of pictures as well. Including this one:

And while we didn't get the angle quite right, we went in search of the exact same location while on this trip to take the same photo:

Is the first picture rather embarrassing now? Absolutely! Have I delighted in looking at these two side by side ever since we got home? Yup!

So this will be among the last posts I write about my weight. I'll be losing a little more and toning what remains, but I can no longer pretend that this is a real issue that deserves attention. Please bear with me, in person and online, as I make the mental transition from fat to normal - if you've never been both, you might not understand that the brain takes some time to catch up with the body, but I assure you this is neither dissembling nor a pathetic compliment-fishing expedition. And if you hear me refer to my "fat" in the present tense, give me a couple of months before you yell at me. New body and I are still somewhat strangers to each other.

Perhaps I Suffer From Overexpediency

2011-08-04T09:48:00.003-04:00

I've been trying to give money away recently. I know that in this economy, that might sound strange, so I'll say that I've been trying to give money away in targeted areas. Apparently, it's not as easy as one would assume.

Let's pretend you are a small business owner and someone approaches you and says, "I would like to hire your business. Here is what I need. Please put together a contract and I will sign it and give you money." In my mind, a reasonable turnaround on that request is 24-48 hours - at the very least, there should be some form of communication within that timeframe. Similarly, let's pretend you want to BUY A CAR. Does it seem like a week should go by without the dealer getting back to you. And when he finally does, is it odd that he is responding to a voicemail you left from two weeks prior and that, in the interim, you met and spoke with him in person?

I feel so conditioned by my own past employment to assume that any request made is already 24 hours late and that everyone plays catch up meaning the sooner the request is fulfilled, the better, but I'm having to rethink this.

(As an aside, it is humorous to note that when the dealer finally did get back to me, albeit with the "woah, didn't anyone call you?" excuse on his lips, he then wanted me to make the decision within 2 hours so he could pad his monthly quota for July. Oh, sorry, didn't quite do that, did I?)

The problem, however, with wedding vendors, for example, is that I (and el padre) are interpreting this lackadaisical method of entering into contractual obligations with us, as unsound business practices which, according to the wedding books, is not something you want in a wedding vendor (of course the wedding books have also counseled me to start my facial and mani/pedi reginmen SIX MONTHS before the wedding, so perhaps not all of their advice is gospel). Don't these people want our money? And can I be assured that if we give it to them they will show up and do the job they were hired to do? Would I be better off hanging out at Home Depot on the morning of the affair and hiring day laborers?

Or maybe I'm just not spending ENOUGH money. Perhaps if I was inquiring at the Ferrari dealership, there would be more handholding, buttkissing, and returning of phone calls. Perhaps if Joel Robuchon was personally catering the party, I could expect things to happen tout de suite!

Or perhaps I'm just too high-strung and this time lapse business is normal and I'm the weird one (well me and my dad). I'm just having difficulty getting my mind around this.

Dear God, Why?

2011-08-02T08:08:00.003-04:00

As we rattled up the Garden State Parkway from the beach Sunday evening, something distracting occurred (and it wasn't our attempt to validate stereotypes regarding the owners of white pickup trucks and priuses by checking out the traffic beside us). I hit one of my radio presets, 101.9 and was greeted by a playlist consisting of No Doubt, TLC, and John Mellencamp, as well as informative listener call-ins describing how much women love chocolate. This was unusual as I rely on 101.9 for a steady diet of STP and Soundgarden, making me feel oh-so-high-schooly. Since there is literally no other radio station in the tri-state area that plays Soundgarden (dear 104.3, the very words "Get the Led Out" and "Out of the Led and into the Pink" give me palpitations requiring immediate mental health intervention), this was quite distressing. Still, I held out hope that this was a special Sunday Night Suckathon of Top-40 hits from a 1997 BC sorority house.

Then I listened more closely, specifically to the station identification. The numbers were right, but the call sign wasn't. I was no longer listening to 101.9WRXP. I was listening to 101.9WEMP which played, please don't be scared, adult contemporary. [Insert stream of expletives]

Because what the radio landscape needs, second to more Top 40, is more adult contemporary.

Sure, the old-timer in me did have to occasionally change the channel when some young whippersnapper hard rock band came on the station (or when they played Nirvana), but on the whole, I was mightily satisfied with my Temple of the Dog and Jane's Addiction fixes. In fact, if pressed, I would have said 101.9WRXP was my favorite radio station.

Now it's gone. Gone gone gone. And I have no defensible reason to shell out money for satellite radio as I just don't spend hours a day in the car. Devoted partner makes fun of the fact that I can listen to 1010WINS's 22 minute coverage for more than an hour, but now there seems to be no other choice. Much like when MTV stopped playing videos and VH1 only played adult contemporary ones, and I just stopped watching videos altogether, I fear that this marks the end of my brief FM radio experiment.

Won't Someone Please Think of the Children

2011-07-28T09:13:00.003-04:00

Oh, those words that get tossed about until they are rendered meaningless. The news had two non-default related things to talk about recently and, strangely, they both got the same word: tragedy. They got it right. Once.

If you are a Norwegian, you experienced a tragedy. In fact, you experienced a Tragedy. We're with you 100% as you try to come to terms with this.

If you are a highly publicized drug addict who is no longer alive, however, you are merely an inevitability.

Let's reserve tragedy for actual tragedies.

While perusing people's responses to said inevitability, something ungracious occurred to me: when a smoker dies of lung cancer, no one calls it a tragedy. That's because we all expect that smokers know they're going to die of lung cancer when they start smoking.

Pardon me, when they CHOOSE to start smoking.

Why, then, is one death brought about by a conscious choice less tragic than one, say, brought about by the CHOICE to do heroin?

If addiction is an illness, and I am not getting into that debate here, surely both the addiction to heroin and the addiction to cigarettes are both illnesses, right?

In only the most bizarre of instances is anyone forced to try a cigarette or try heroin the first time.

Yet the addict who overcomes an addiction to heroin is a hero and the addict who succumbs is tragic. Whereas the smoker who quits is an "it's about time," and he who dies "should have known better."

Where are the accolades for he who never tried heroin in the first place? Shouldn't there be some kind of prize for that?

Surely the collective fascination with drug addicts can't be attributed to their not knowing better. We can't possibly be saying that the smoker should have known better than to start smoking in the first place, but the tweaker couldn't help himself. After all, there was a day in both of those people's lives when they, for the first time, chose their poison.

And I'm not saying it isn't hard, once attached, to break up with one's addiction. But people do it. They're not heroes, they're making the right choice belatedly. And good for them!

Conversely, those who never make the right choice don't really get my sympathy, which I'm reserving for Norwegians.

Why New Yorkers Remain Globally Friendless

2011-07-25T08:06:00.003-04:00

Because you just can't take us anywhere. See if this rings familiar:

"While you're visiting, we just have to go to Panda Dragon*. It is THE BEST Chinese food in all of Boulder!"

*Panda Dragon is not a real place. It was my lame attempt at naming anonymous Chinese restaurants which generally have either Panda or Dragon in the name.

One hour later and your hosts are looking at you like you'll never be invited back to their home because you vaguely picked at the gelatinous mess that was Panda Dragon's Kung Pao chicken.

Since moving to Greenwich, devoted partner and I have tried our hand at local Chinese (which is perilously more expensive than your de facto local Chinese in New York - I mean when was the last time your Chinese food main course cost more than 10 bucks?) and have decided that the best option is the anonymous, neon lighted shack on Port Chester's main street whose cuisine you lovingly refer to as "dirty Chinese."

As an aside, I don't know where this handle came from, but we've been using it for quite some time. Since I think it is a personal moniker, let me explain: "drity Chinese" comes from a place with one or two molded plastic bench/table combos, optional bulletproof glass separating your from the person making your food, and frequently serves such Chinese delicacies as fried chicken. Clean Chinese a) delivers, b) has waiters, and c) does not immediately assume you intend to rob the establishment.

However, despite my near-universal pessimism, I am still idealistic when it comes to CT food - I feel like I just haven't found the excellent food, not that it doesn't exist. So this weekend, a girlfriend and I hopped in the car and drove just shy of an hour to reach New Haven where "the best pizza" is. Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana is a New Haven institution, operating since 1925, and if you make with the google, it has an insane following of superlative gushers, touting it as the best pizza, not in CT, just THE BEST.

I like pizza. Many know that my last meal in prison prior to death sentence would be pizza. I think it's important to try as much pizza as possible. Driving an hour for pizza, especially the best pizza, seems a small sacrifice.

The good news: we managed to sneak in just shy of noon when there was no wait. Upon exiting a mere 30ish minutes later, the line was out the door and halfway down the block, forcing passers-by to imagine the best pizza is only a half-block line away.

The bad news: the "best pizza" is, for your New Yorker accustomed to an embarrassment of pizza riches, 100% average. There is nothing wrong with the pizza, but there is absolutely nothing special about it. It is thin crust pizza and if I had to rate it next to some of New York's thin crusts, it's in the Grimaldi's range (though Grimaldi's is better) and falls far short of, say, Patsy's in East Harlem (bonus note: the ONLY good thing about living in East Harlem was the proximity of Patsy's).

It's crust, which needs more salt, topped with bland but not objectionable tomato sauce, and the same cheese everyone else uses. I don't know why that gets the title "famous," but I assume it's the same kind of "famous" as Original Famous Ray's, Famous Original Ray's, Ray's Famous Original, etc. etc. The long and short of it is, it's flippin' thin crust pizza. End of story.

Having never lived in New Haven, I can't determine if it's the best pizza in New Haven, thereby earning a place in Yalies' hearts, but I do know that it would not remotely distinguish itself on the streets of New York where there is just a lot a lot of really good pizza.

Nota bene: in addition to being "famous" for their regular original famous pizza, Frank Pepe is noted for it's clam pizza. I, myself, would never eat clam pizza, nor would I judge a restaurant on it's clam pizza because if you're a pizza place, first and foremost, you need to make cheese pizza. It is the barometer. If your cheese pizza is good, one may be tempted to try your other flavors; however, if you can't make a cheese pizza, I don't care how much crap you pile on another pie, you gave failed in my eyes. However, my friend Julie DID order the clam pizza. She was unimpressed.

Suing My Friends For Damages

2011-07-15T09:42:00.003-04:00

I've been a little under the weather this week, but thanks to the glory of Netflix on demand, I haven't been alone. Which brings me to the problem:

you people who have suggested I watch the series Damages must be seriously smoking crack!

I have now completed season 1 - and you might ask why I watched all the way through a season of something I didn't like. 1. I was bored. Seriously bored. 2. You guys said you liked it and I like and (mostly) trust you. So now that we've all watched season 1, I need to know what you liked about it. To help you formulate your answer, I will tell you what I didn't like about it.

1. There is not a single redeeming thing about any of the characters. Seriously. They all suck. I'm rooting for none of them. They are all legitimately BAD people. And not The Godfather bad. One-dimensional bad. Porno bad.
1b. Which made me (not a spoiler, you see it in episode 1) not at all sad that Rose Byrne's fiance got offed. Because he was a douche. Who was so clearly, stereotypically, threatened by his high-powered lady even before it was discovered her boss was a psychopath. He just sucked. Trust me, the fireworks that would have befallen this relationship had she been a rude bitch at a dinner party held by his Chief of Residents...

2. The Friends problem. The Friends could never have afforded the Friends' apartments. Never. The first-year associate and first-year resident were making 200K tops (I googled). They lived on Riverside drive in the 90s in what appeared to be at least a 3 bedroom pre-war apartment. Here you go 190 Riverside Drive and the too far north 222 Riverside Drive. I'll take the average: $3,399,000. EVEN IF Glenn Close got them a bitchin' deal or chipped in a mil on the down payment, they would still be in the hole over 14K/month on just the mortgage (assume the maintenance on a place like this would be in the neighborhood of 2500-3000). Or 17K/month all in. $200,000 salary after taxes = 120,000, give or take. 17K/month x 12 months = $204,000. See where I'm going with this?

Which leads to 3. If you have such an amazing house. I mean such a stellar deal of a lifetime house, wouldn't you LOCK THE @#&*()^$()&*($^)( DOOR?!?!?! Ok, I get people can be complacent about safety in a doorman building. After all, the doorman is there to make sure uninvited guests don't get in. But after, oh, I don't know, THE SECOND stranger ends up in your apartment, wouldn't you lock the door then? Or change the locks? Or both? I'm not saying creepy people couldn't still get to you, but they'd have to work at it.

I have as much sympathy for the victims of unauthorized home entry who don't lock their doors as I have for the victims of car crashes who don't wear their seatbelts. And these people went to many many many years of school (note: in addition to their 204K/year in mortgage and maintenance payments, one would assume that, together, they had somewhere in the neighborhood of 3-500K of student loan payments, just saying).

But the biggest gripe comes after watching more and more of the season. It's like one big M Night Shamalamalamalamalamalan movie. Oooh, everyone is involved, everyone is in on the conspiracy, trust no one, don't feed the gremlins after dark, it's a riddle wrapped within an enigma wrapped within a taco bell chalupa. Mwahahahahaha.

Adding more people to a conspiracy does not make the conspiracy more interesting. For an example of how to smartly add more people to a conspiracy, rewatch All The President's Men. Also, while watching, notice how assiduous Robert Redford is vis a vis door locking. You know like someone would be when freaky-ass shit keeps happening to him. Also, notice how shabby Robert Redford's apartment is.

So I don't get it, y'all. I've seen Glenn Close act better and be more convincing and have a haircut that looks less like she and Martha Stewart groom in tandem. That other guy, who's in all the tv shows, who's kinda cute, but always always flawed (wasn't he the guy from the O.C. who loses all his family's money?), isn't actually a good actor and, a la Clive Owen, only has that one face. Speaking of one-faces. Rose Byrne has one face as well. Eyes-staring-out, slightly-deer-like, but also in a way that is supposed to make you think all is serious and already figured out, face. Which is boring after thirteen episodes (two episodes). And you know what? As crappy as lawyers are, no one is this crappy. Suspension of disbelief when in the context of the real has to be at least a little believable. This isn't an alternate universe. This is Manhattan, circa 2007, and while there are lots of seriously bad stories one could find to tell, stories that would flip you out, make you reexamine your neighbors, etc. etc., this isn't one of them. This is too much. Too unbelievable. Too too too.

If I get sick in the future, I'll try my hand at Season 2, but only because a) I've already watched every single episode of Law&Order: SVU and b) No matter how many damned anime series Netflix adds, I won't be watching them!

Woah, Did You Miss Me?

2011-07-12T08:59:00.004-04:00

I have no good excuse. Maybe sun affects my ability to type. Then there's the pressure of needing something really awesome to come back with (which I don't have). And I don't really think either of us wants a digest version of the last 2 months, so I'll merely report on things from the past 2 days or so.

Issue #1: Fine, uncle, I give. The Du-Yos have, in fact, produced a baby that is teh awsum. I will stop making it about me and how old childhood friends' babies make me feel and instead say that seeing childhood friends interact with their very own My First Spawn is frickin adorable. For anyone (Antonio) hoping this puts us on Baby Watch, sorry: I like that after I hold others' babies for a while, I get to return them and not worry about fevers and developmental charts.

Issue #2: How often does a Facebook friend have to say some totally wacked out shit before you drop him/her as a Facebook friend? I understand that a varied social circle may be a good thing, but sheesh. Maybe I just don't personally air my wackiest thoughts on Facebook so I am more sensitive when I see people that do, but my fear is that what I'm reading (which is wacked out to me) doesn't even scratch the surface of their crazy, meaning I am secretly friends with someone insane.

Issue #3: Devoted partner and Amy intimated (said outright) that I do not need a large gravy boat shaped like a swan. Thoughts?

Issue #4: I am a 1010WINS addict for no better reason than I cannot stand listening to NPR and FM radio is a wasteland of the same 20 songs. As a result, I do get a disproportionate amount of my news from a 22 minute radio broadcast. But I do feel like the coverage is about as neutral as possible. So when I hear 1010WINS referring to things as "tax hikes" I get concerned.

Devoted partner has long said that Israel just has better PR than the Palestinians which is why it is politically inexpedient to EVER be seen to sympathize. I get that. I think the political right in this country whups the ass of the political left in the PR wars. Because 1010WINS, a neutralish deliverer of news, refers to the removal of tax breaks as tax hikes. Whatever you think of the move, you must know that it isn't a tax hike. Think of it like the end of the introductory period of your credit card. Your APR at the beginning was 9.0, but you knew when you signed up that the ACTUAL rate for the card was 18.0. When your year of 9.0 expires, you're not experiencing a rate hike, you're experiencing the end of your promotional period. A rate hike happens when your APR goes from 18.0 to 21.0, And yet the PR machine of the political right has EVERYONE talking about tax hikes. I'd respect it, if it didn't twitch me so hard. Forget about how I feel politically about this, it actually pisses off my proper-word-use node more. See also: pro-life is the opposite of pro-choice.

Issue #5: I must now admit that I am totally crushing on the royal couple. Cannot seem to get enough of them. Want her hair. And all her clothes. And want to buy devoted partner a dozen navy suits.

NY FGF 1312

2011-05-09T08:24:00.003-04:00

Though the calendar proves I am demonstrably an adult, I still play the license plate game on drives long and short. I am always amazed how, between my house and the Stamford Town Center 10 miles away, I can generally pick up at least 10 and often as many as 20 states - and not just because I-95 is a massive truck corridor. So it is always amusing to me how, on longer drives, the farther I get from NY Metro, the less diversity of state plates there is.

And I took some longer drives this weekend - to and from the greater DC area. By the long way. All of my mother's family lives in the Baltimore-Washington area and for years we have gone back and forth from NY Metro to DC Metro via the world's single least interesting corridor: I-95 between NY and DC. I mean the interminable part on the Jersey turnpike would be enough, but when you finally reach the Delaware Memorial Bridge, you're barely half way there. So in October, when we went down for my cousin's wedding, devoted partner and I tried something different: the long way. For road nerds, that would be I-95 to Newark, I-78, then PA 222 to PA 30 to I-83 and then I-695 to I-70 etc. etc. Google will tell you this adds anywhere from 30-45 minutes to your drive. Google does not tell you that even though there are some single lane bits in there, there is no pile-up by exit 8.

It is definitely longer IF the turnpike was never congested. However, the drive is gorgeous - through Pennsylvania farm and Amish country (the former does smell like cow poo, I mean a lot like cow poo, but it's bucolic), and, for the penny pinchers among us, CHEAP! The roundtrip via I-95 can set you back close to 60 bucks in tolls. This way: $13.45. That's one of the tanks of gas you'll need in savings.

But every route has its frustrating drivers. I'll attempt to spare you the by-now-unpleasantly-cloying description of where I learned to drive and how the rules of the road are better there, and instead point out the following to any of the people I shared the road with this weekend: if our route contains more than one lane and you and the car in the lane to your right are going the exact same speed, there is no reason for you to be in different lanes. I will grant you that speed limits do exist if you will grant me that they are considered guidelines, more than rules, to the majority of drivers, many of whom would enjoy getting in front of you. You have the power to facilitate this simply by moving to your right. Going the speed limit in the left lane when there is no traffic is just poor manners.

You know what else is poor manners? BMW 5-series with the drug-dealer tinted windows, NY plate number FGF 1312.

Dear sir, you seemed to be in such a hurry from nearly the PA/NJ border to the Jersey Turnpike toll entrance. I mean, the kind of hurry that would have led a casual observer to think that you were running for your life. Only in such dire circumstances would a man (and you HAD to be one) veer so dangerously in and out of lanes multiple times in an attempt to get ahead of all the other cars, even at the expense of those other drivers' lives. I mean, we all know that if there is already only one car length between cars, there is no room for your car to get in, but you had a different idea of the limits of geometry. The funny part was that the speed of traffic was about 76 MPH and for many miles. There was just no going faster. There was a critical mass of cars all progressing at the same speed and no break up ahead for a single driver to pull away. So, in point of fact, all of your life-threatening lane changing didn't get you ahead of anyone. You pulled in front of me, in the left lane, twice, then tried to better your luck and ended up behind me again and again.

Which is why what happened next is so perplexing. Once you got through the toll plaza at Newark and on to the turnpike north, you stopped. You were at the toll booth directly next to mine and then you were just in the right lane at 50 MPH, way below the average speed of traffic until I left you in my wake heading towards the bridge.

What gives? Why were you trying to kill your fellow motorists all along I-78 only to slow to a relative snail's pace once within spitting distance of home? It really did confound me. So much so that I decided to memorize your license plate so I could write about you today. Also, in preparation for the Next Big Thing, I have taken ownership of fgf1312.blogspot.com for the future home of the world's largest traffic griping website. In your honor. Because you scared a lot of people on that highway. Because you are a douche. With an ostentatious car. That isn't cool.

You know what's cool?

The guy in the vintage Corvette Stingray, color yellow. Driving in the right lane. On PA 222. Just being cool.

Our New Pet

2011-04-25T08:31:00.004-04:00

Ok, so perhaps we haven't house-trained him (her?) yet, and perhaps she/he is still afraid of us, but I am counting this little Easter miracle as our first pet. Because out of nowhere little bunny foo-foo showed up yesterday to share Easter greetings. And I loves him/her.

Now, don't get me wrong, I actually think rabbits make horrible pets because they smell worse than the 6 train in July, and they don't fetch, and they poop indoors, and a whole host of other things that make them infinitely less awesome than dogs, but if you'll notice, we don't have one of those either, so this will be our pet from now on.

So now the question of names comes up. Much as I don't like the name Hershey for a chocolate lab, I would like to steer clear of any cloyingly adorable and eponymous names for foo-foo (though I'm not opposed to Foo-Foo) like Senor Cadbury. Sadly, wikipedia just told me that, for years, I have not, in fact, known the German word for rabbit. The word I have known if for rabbit stew, so perhaps it is tacky to name our new pet after food. Though I really liked the idea of calling him/her Das Pfeffer (which I now know means The Pepper since Hasenpfeffer is German for rabbit and pepper which equals rabbit stew - stupid Germans).

And it just keeps getting worse. The Boy and I, as children, referred to the bunny monsters in The Legend Of Zelda as Hassenpfeffers, but now zeldapedia tells me their given name was Pols Voice. Which is so lame. I'm glad we referred to them as rabbit stew instead.

Hmmmm, but maybe Stew isn't a horrible name. Or Terrine. Terry for short.

Obviously I need help, and since devoted partner spied the-bunny-yet-to-be-named again this morning eating our shrubberies, he/she is here to stay and will need a name. All submissions will be considered.

What Passover Means To Me

2011-04-19T09:17:00.004-04:00

It may shock you to discover that I have some, erm, issues with my religious upbringing. Not shocked? Oh, well, I guess I don't do a good job of hiding it, what with my references to Zionist Summer Camp and the like. But I do enjoy a good Passover. For only some of the right reasons. It was a holiday that both my parents always got really into and, during my early childhood, one they shared with their friends, Jewish and non-Jewish alike. As we children got older and my parents made friends at synagogue, the seders became more a gathering of the people we saw every Saturday. This made my father happy because he didn't feel like he needed to explain things to the assembled crowd, but it made, and continues to make, me a little sad.

Let me examplify: for years, my parents had a crudely written handbook for our non-Hebrew speaking friends. It was a detailed transliteration of the songs so that our repeat guests could learn to sing along without learning Hebrew. I have such immensely fond memories of seeing their friends sing along with us because they could. It was an incredibly inclusive pair of evenings. I also remember how colossally pissed off my father was when the rabbi of our synagogue said that Passover shouldn't include non-Jews; livid, actually, would be how I would describe my father's response. But then, somewhere along the line, our seders, year after year, were composed of only Jews. And in all honesty, I think we lost something.

Now we split the seders. My parents do one and devoted partner and I do the other. My cousin and her four children have been coming for many years, and it is their only exposure to Jewish tradition. I imagine it can be boring. Because in those years when the seder was all synagogue people, we upped the Hebrew, upped our religiosity, and lost those little transliterated songbooks. Yes, the kids remember a little bit from year to year, but I must remember to ask my parents why they haven't resuscitated the books. For my teenage cousins, it might be just the thing to make them more active participants.

Our seder is a little different. It is almost entirely in English and I think that reflects our family of two, one who can read Hebrew and one who can't, far better. We read the story in its entirety, but I skip most of the singing. Devoted partner knows the blessing for the wine and has, over these many years, picked up a bit of song here and there, but I would say that out seder is more about assembly and less about ritual. I'm not doing a fish course this year because a) I hate making fish but also b) it's not part of our personal repertoire.

But why do I like Passover. It's not the text which I find simultaneously simplistic and deeply resentful; it's not the commemoration which, after years of indoctrination regarding All The Bad Things That Have Ever Happened To Jews And Which Will Happen Again Especially If You Marry Outside The Faith, has about as much import as a Nicolas Cage movie; and frankly, it's not the food - dietary restrictions based on uncorroborated mythology strike me as especially non-essential in my post-religious world. No. For me, Passover has always been about our family and our extended family of friends. About making and sharing a meal together.

Judaism is not an inclusive religion, just try to join up and you'll see. While eradication of a people based on the stuff they think is never the answer, and while Jews and the passover text make copious mention of how everyone was always out to get them, you have to remember that until the 20th century, Jews were the fundamentalist Mormons of the world: weird habits, cloistered, unfriendly to outsiders. I don't think that's reason enough to want to dispose of them, but it's not like 15th century Jewish communities were ever, "hey, we're having funny flat bread dinner tonight, wanna come over?" Also, when in conversation religion comes up, no one likes to hear you bragging about being God's chosen. Just saying.

So I try to ignore all that crap. I try very mightily to ignore the text that, in the face of current Jewish political practices, is so hypocritical as to make me wonder why no one else is mentioning it. I try to ignore the pages upon pages of sucking up to God. And instead I like to think of it as Stuff Jews Do: An Open House. Come one, come all, and let's sit around a table together and read a story. I'd probably also enjoy an evening of grape leaves, ouzo, and spanakopita while we read D'aulaires Greek Myths (no, I'd definitely enjoy that).

We have two first-time attendees to our seder and that makes me happy. I like that devoted partner and I have created a tradition where our guests don't have to pay to play. I don't know what we'll do if we make small ones (it occurred to me last night that I have no intention of wasting their neurons on learning a language as relatively useless as Hebrew, but that means I'll need to write up some of those transliteration songbooks), but I do know that I grew up in an environment where everyone was welcome at the Passover table and I'm immensely pleased that devoted partner and I continue that admirable tradition.

Where There's A Will, There's No Effin' Way

2011-04-15T07:55:00.003-04:00

In fairness, The Gap is liberal with its sizing.

Yesterday, a dress I had been lusting after went on sale and the store at the White Plains mall had one left in stock. In the size I wanted. Clearly the universe wanted me to have this dress. Now malls perplex and frighten me and I try to keep our interactions to a minimum, but since malls force you to pass by 1000 stores prior to arriving at the one you were searching out, I found myself in the Gap. Which was good because the Gap jeans I was wearing were officially getting too big.

I grabbed one size down from what I was wearing in every style and hustled into the dressing room. But there was a problem. The one size down from the style I was currently sporting went on without a hitch. You might think this is good, until you remember that jeans now have a bit of lycra in them and if it fits in the store, it will be hopelessly and oft-times irretrievably stretched after a single wearing (I know from experience that chucking one's too big jeans in a very hot dryer only stays the inevitable - that is throwing the jeans out - for a moment or two). With a mixture of disbelief and euphoria, I got the next size down. A size really only reserved for Kate-sized people and their ilk (as an aside, devoted partner and I have started referring to our combined weight loss as "we've lost a Kate"). But even the Gap salesperson agreed that these were the pants I wanted to buy. Because they were a little tight in the dressing room meaning they'd be good once a day's wearing had been accomplished.

I was a little giddy as I checked out, but also sanguine: after all if the Gap is saying that a size 4 is a 27" waist, then it makes sense that my 28" waist would snugly fit. It's just that I don't believe the real world has the same sizing.

So across the mall to the store where my dress was being held. Part of me just wanted to buy it and flee the mall (harder than it seems, actually, as the access to the parking garage is limited to only certain floors - it took me about 10 minutes to get back to my car), but I decided to try on the dress before buying it - especially as the last time I had tried this dress on, it was a size larger and I was only guesstimating that I would need the smaller size.

And then it happened. And dear readers, I can only imagine how bored you are by now. Please forgive me. It's just that I'm continually amazed by my body's changes. It really isn't bragging, and I hope it doesn't sound like it, it's disbelief. Because even when I dreamed of what smaller me would look like, she looked bigger than I am today.

So I had a little cry in the dressing room. Because the girl in the mirror wasn't fat. Not even a little bit. The girl in the mirror was normal. The girl in the mirror could choose to stop dieting right now and it would be fine. The girl in the mirror is losing another 8-10 pounds out of vanity, not necessity. It is, without reservation, BANANAS!

A Different Kind of Before and After

2011-04-14T10:13:00.002-04:00

Apparently, I don't look as good as I think I do without makeup. Here is me before my bridal makeup trial. No makeup whatsoever.

And here are the afters (in case you are, for example, a man, the difference between these is the shade of lipstick):

Let us, for the moment, ignore the fact that I seem incapable of taking a picture without my right eyebrow lifted. I am now willing to concede that having someone do my makeup for me might be worth the money. I very much like that Maria, my makeup woman, permitted me to let some of my flaws show. I didn't want to look like I had been airbrushed, I just wanted to look like a more polished version of me.

Now if only I could think of something to do with my hair.

The Time Has Come For A Reckoning

2011-04-11T08:31:00.003-04:00

I freely admit that I don't warm up to your friends all that quickly except in rare cases. For the most part, I hold you in such high esteem that there's a pretty insurmountable bar for the other people in your lives. It's not that I don't expect them to live up to it, it's just that you deserve the best and I feel antipathy towards those of your circle who seem unworthy of you.

Which is why I am proposing a cull. You see, in the past couple of weeks, a number of you have sent messages to a large group of your friends via Facebook. And a COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE NUMBER of those friends have had the poor taste to reply-all. To my mind, reply-all is the Hindenburg of our technological age: ambitious, but ultimately a complete and utter disaster. The only only only time I have ever used reply-all is at work when, for example, I receive an email addressed to, say, 4-7 people about something we're all working on that needs a response everyone can read, and I maintain that's the only time it should be used. If you send out an email that says, "does anyone know a good place to get a taco in St. Louis?" I don't need to see EVERYONE's response. Only you need to see that. So my getting 5-6 million responses that range from "El Tacqueria on 7th and Main" to "nope" to "i like tacos :)" makes me a little homicidal.

Why are your friends like this?

Are they mentally challenged? Blind, perhaps? Are they all such egomaniacs that they think their little responses are of interest to the rest of the distribution list?

I propose a test: send out a mass email or facebook message and see which of your recipients replies-all; then unfriend those that do, virtually and in real life.

It will make my life much much better, and it will go a long way towards ensuring that you surround yourselves only with those people worthy of your company.

I Touched Harry Potter

2011-03-29T09:05:00.003-04:00

The last time I went to a Broadway opening, I must admit was a tragedy. The show was, without reservation, excremental. It didn't take long for the wide-eyed child who delighted in A Chorus Line and Into the Woods to become a teenager and adult who would rather watch Papillon on TV than go see a Broadway musical. It is our uniquely American art form, but it ain't my cup of tea. This is probably sad for my father who delights in the American musical. Whether sheer nostalgia or a true love, or most likely a combination of both, I am the child of a musical lover. And I do feel bad stomping on his enthusiasm every time he asks if I would like to go see such-and-such a show with him.

Every now and again, though, I've relented. I even dragged devoted partner to the crapstorm that was Dracula: The Musical.

So it was with trepidation that I agreed to accompany my father to opening night of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying - a capital-M musical. It didn't help that none of my evening dresses fit. Ok, one fit. The one I wore. The one I originally wore to my brother's Bar Mitzvah and the only reason it fit me then was that I had spent the month prior suffering from a wasting disease that clipped 20 pounds off my frame and left me as naturally pale as most goths spend lifetimes trying to achieve.

My father looked dashing as ever in his tux and, this being one of his all-time favorite musicals, he was hyped up. I was cautiously pessimistic.

The show was fine. Listen, my expectations were way low. After all, normal humans do not communicate through song and since musicals are in English whereas most opera is in a language I don't understand, it's hard to ignore the overwhelming artifice. This show, however, was immediately saved by truly excellent set design. I know that sounds ridiculous, but the set, in its heavily Mad Men-ish, self-consciously retro get up set the stage, literally, for a production that I felt wasn't about to take itself too seriously. It was a period piece that didn't try to demonstrate rampant relevancy and also knew that it was a throwback. I felt winked and nodded at.

For a musical, there wasn't a lot of oversinging. As someone who can carry a tune myself, one of my biggest objections to musicals (and, frankly to the cast of Glee) is that the vocals are always always overstylized. I doubt seriously that any of the singers actually sounds like that. And since the result of their musical-theatre-voices is so deeply cloying, I have difficulty listening. Yes, this cast sounded like it was singing in a musical, but just a normal amount. And the book is funny. I laughed a couple of times. John Laroquette helped this since I find his deadpan amusing.

But I didn't catch myself, at any point, finding god simply so I could pray for the end of the show. And from me, that's a mark of distinct praise for the production. My father's client was very funny and this helped when I saw her later being able to honestly convey congratulations.

It was the after, though, that was just silly. The party, held at the Plaza, was so big as to be patently ridiculous. The production had something like 20 distinct producers, and there had to be over 1000 people at this party. When it comes to celebrity, I am the product of the massively jaded New Yorker scene that judges celebrities to be neighbors to the point of downright ignoring them wherever possible. Truth be told, there are only a handful of celebrities whose presence would deeply enthuse me: Tom Jones, Joan Collins, to name two (though I realized at the show that I would like to meet Sian Phillips, who played both Livia in I, Claudius and the Reverend Mother in Dune and who was married to Peter O'Toole, and who is generally awesome). So I guess my taste in celebrities is quirky. After all, a story I love to tell is being halfway through a conversation on the street with a very handsome man before I realized it was JFK Jr.

But I had promised my knitting group I was going to meet Daniel Radcliffe, so meet him I did (apologies to the many many many little girls who didn't get to, I think mine was one of the last hands this poor guy shook). Sadly, my heart was far more aflutter when I met Umberto Eco (Umberto, call me).

Later, at home, I remarked to devoted partner that the whole idea of the opening night party was yet another example of the self-indulgence of the performing set. I mean, when you finish a project at work, how often is there a huge catered affair to commemorate it? Yes, putting on a show is an endeavor, but it's also a job, and the idea that every successful job needs a party is, well, silly.

But I had a nice date with my dad, who still looked dashing as we sat on the stairs at Grand Central waiting for my train. It may have been 20 years since the first time he took me to an opening, but we were both wearing essentially the same thing, and I was just as pleased to be his date.

Before and Almost After

2011-03-25T14:33:00.003-04:00

I was going to wait and do this when the end arrived, but I was just looking through some pictures and needed to share. Please, however, do not construe this as a plea for accolades. The fact is: I should never have permitted myself to look like the "before" picture, so no longer looking like it isn't so much a triumph as a "d'uh, fatty."

But here is the before. Taken in 2008. Please note the food aggression in my eyes as I look at the cake (I think the more distasteful the photo the better able I am to convey the complete lack of okayness that is before):

MMMMMM yumyum cake. Yelena want cake. Yelena kill anyone who interferes with her and cake. Yelena eat cake. Omnomnomnomnomnomnom.

This photo was taken this week. Please note how there is no food in the picture. Also my head isn't in the picture, but I assure you it is I. See Mr. Sparkles?

As I dream of how good steak frites with some maitre de buerre would taste, plus about a half dozen eclairs, I look at these pictures. These pictures will get me through the next several months.

I hope you are amused.

Because It's More Fun Than Tablecloth Colors

2011-03-21T09:28:00.003-04:00

Given the number of changes that have occurred since we betrothed, I hesitate to say anything about our nuptials with certainty, but I think we have come to a decision on that most important of topics: the honeymoon.

If you've spent any time around us, you know that we're a little crazy when it comes to travel, a little adventurous, and a lot unconventional. This made the honeymoon decision a mite bit difficult. We pride ourselves on fairly frugal travel and a honeymoon does not lend itself to frugality. So, stepping into the world of imprecise math, we agreed that we would double the budget of our most expensive vacation to date, and that would be our honeymoon budget. Sounds about right, no?

This is, strangely enough, the one topic of conversation that we've had throughout the years. Yes, we were gunshy about getting married, but not at all gunshy about fantasy honeymoon planning. The usual suspects came up: the Maldives, Polynesia, but then when we start having to actually think about it, we realized that while we like the idea of one week at the beach, three weeks is pushing it. We just need more stuff.

When we have been to islands in the past, for a week, there has always come a time when we just had to get in a car and explore. Heck, when we went to St. Thomas for the weekend, we ended up hopping the ferry to St. John for diversion. The simple fact is, we like cars. Driving is relaxing for us. And you can't drive on an atoll. So, exit Maldives and Polynesia, and enter insanity.

We thought about Madagascar until I remembered that, in addition to some political instability, I was certain that I had read in National Geographic about how much of it was impassable. Armed with many positive memories of reading and rereading Redmond O'Hanlon's Into the Heart of Borneo, we started thinking about a trip to Malaysia. It would have stupid driving, lovely beaches, interesting culture, and that wow factor. We were pretty sold on the idea. But wanting options, we considered Myanmar. And, since it had always been my top honeymoon fantasy, safari in Africa followed by some scuba diving somewhere Africanish.

We entered the poorly stocked White Plains Barnes and Noble (remind me that I want to devote another post to the extreme differences between New York and suburban bookstores), grabbed as many books as we could find on our three potential destinations, ordered our fancy pants coffee drinks, and started to read.

At which point we discovered, or rediscovered, that different places have different weather. Since our last international trip to Nicaragua was such a monumental disaster, we were both very concerned about dedicating three expensive weeks to being rained on. And wouldn't you know it, November sees half of Malaysia in a monsoon. [INSERT EXPLETIVES HERE]! And Myanmar, as it turns out, has some issues of it's own, namely fuel rationing. You get 4 gallons of fuel per week and then you're getting the rest on the black market. And the books all said that if you were looking to dive the Myanmar territories, you were going to end up catching your boat in Thailand. [INSERT ADDITIONAL EXPLETIVES]!

Much as we like adventure, we didn't want this trip to be so adventure packed as to have us spending most of it haggling for fuel or avoiding mudslides.

Several years ago I had asked he-who-has-shot-animals-all-over-Africa where we should go and he said that if we only could go on one Safari in Africa, it had to be in South Africa. But devoted partner and I are avid nature documentary nerds, and the lure of Ngorongoro crater and the Serengeti was a powerful one. That was until we learned that the nice people of Tanzania really discourage self-drive safaris. I got some great advice from a former classmate who had honeymooned in Tanzania and looked over some tour companies and then went back to my fuzzy math and realized that there's a big difference between what you CAN afford and what you WANT to afford. We'd be going to Africa to see and do stuff and the organized safaris, even the private ones, put a premium on lodging and food - two things we would, if given the opportunity, choose not to spend on. I'm not saying we want to sleep in a communist-era poorly lit bunker (thanks, Nicaragua), but I don't need five-star accommodation while I'm on Safari. And I certainly don't need to spend for it. Even if it does look nice, I think we're more of a quantity vs. quality couple when it comes to travel.

So I googled DIY safari and found out that the nice people of Kruger National Park will welcome you in your own vehicle. You can stay in the park if you like, and there are many options for that, you can hire guides if you like, you can pretty much do what you like. I like. So then it was a question of where we go after we see our big five. Mauritius was a top choice because South African airlines fly there, but we checked out the diving and it's not brilliant (and, oh yes, it's not cheap). But look at your map and you will notice a little country quite near Kruger National Park that seems to have a lot of coastline. And our 50 Dives to Do Before You Die book mentioned something about Manta Rays. So much as we anticipate he-whose-country-used-to-own-this-country making fun of our choice to vacation in a former colony, we think we'll just take our car over the border to Mozambique, spend up a little on lodging, and dodge bull sharks in the lovely waters of the Indian Ocean.

This sounds like our kind of crazy. That being said, given border crossings, rental cars, and the out-there nature of the trip, I am seriously considering soliciting the assistance of a travel agent, despite the pride I take in planning our trips.

So while we still are iffy on appetizers, we are far less iffy on where we're going afterward. And frankly, the idea that our honeymoon will consist of an orgy of nature on land, in the air, and underwater, is pretty much perfect!

Biting the Cheap European Bullet

2011-03-16T08:11:00.001-04:00

Midway through week 3 of rifling through the goodwill bags looking for something I could get away with wearing, I caved and went to H&M. I simply had to admit that I had run out of clothing and that, despite the Saturday Night Live sketched of my youth advising me that most fit problems could be solved with "cinching," I had few alternatives to actually replenishing my wardrobe.

However, since I had been burned before and now have an unfortunate number of unsalvageable skirts in sizes I won't be again, I decided to do the honorable thing and go to the cheapest store in the mall to buy two things: one black skirt, one tan skirt. I figured between those and my one pair of jeans, I could be ok until June.

Oh dear, I forgot how unpleasant it is to shop at H&M. If attention deficit has a mascot, it would be this clothing store. I have a lot to say about "kids today," but if the layout of this store is any indication of how their brains work, please excuse me because I am way behind on my Mandarin lessons. There is no rhyme or reason to the store and no salespeople to answer questions. A reluctant shopper like me has to navigate by color.

And boy is this clothing cheap. I have shopped at H&M over the years for disposable clothing (and I was extremely sad to notice last summer that my favorite piece, a simple khaki skirt that had seen me through many an island vacation, was literally threadbare), but the quality is really appalling. Nevermind, I was there to buy temporary clothing. Something to get me from my current shape to my final shape without looking like I was wearing sacks.

And luckily, there were skirts. Mostly plain skirts. Tailored in such a way that not a centimeter of fabric was wasted. I gathered up as many as I could find in as many sizes as I could possibly be, and tried them on. For much of my life, I bought the smaller size as an aspiration and ended up squeezing myself into horribly undersized garments. Of late, I have attempted to correct these years of mistake-making and buy the size that actually fits. I considered this admirable until it dawned on me that I was, actually, losing weight and the clothing of right now only remained so about a month and a half. So I bought two skirts that barely fit right now, but that will fit perfectly in 5 pounds and won't stop fitting for another 15 or so - and that's about how much I have left to lose.

I hope when next I must wardrobe augment, I'm in the financial position to skip H&M, but for the moment, I am inordinately pleased that for $50 I can avoid looking slovenly and aesthetically lazy.

Pour Some Saccharin On Me

2011-03-11T09:05:00.000-05:00

This weekend, we will celebrate out 14th anniversary, and the last anniversary we'll celebrate unmarried. Strange to say, I have mixed emotions.

Yes, I am very much looking forward to being Mrs. Devoted Partner, but I've been saying for years that I don't like the idea of renumbering our anniversaries. October of 2012 won't see our first anniversary, it will see our 15 1/2, more or less.

Conventional wisdom, coupled with conventional scare tactics, dictates that Everything Changes (TM) once you get married. Obviously, I'm not buying that. And while it sounds pretty macho to say that we've been married in all but name for years, that does diminish the importance of deciding to legally wed, and I'm not into that either.

As we go through the massive checklist of wedding needs, I realize that the devoted partner moniker is more than just cutesy. For all the years when I felt the term boyfriend was insufficient and referred to him as my partner, apparently it wasn't just vanity. When we joke about being willful and stubborn enough to work through the problems we encounter in the future, beneath that joking is the knowledge that we have worked long and we have worked hard at this partnership and that's what will enable us to weather the unavoidable storms of a lifetime together.

Happy anniversary to my devoted partner from his devoted partner.

Unexpected Consequences

2011-03-08T08:30:00.001-05:00

At this time yesterday, I was merely excited to have finished my first self-designed sweater.

Today? Well today I have test knitters and patterns to write in different sizes. My little sweater got a really nice reception and other people want to make it. Imagine that!

I remember when I was in elementary school, the hot topic among educators was the achievement gulf in math and science between boys and girls. I went to a fairly stellar school that was both highly demanding and highly nurturing, but it was still apparent that, by the time students reached high school, math and science were a boy's club. And much as I wish I had been the exception to the rule, I wasn't. I made decent enough grades (ok, well maybe not in advanced chemistry, sorry Ms. N), but my heart wasn't in it. And it had been earlier on. Whether or not it was the style of teaching is something I don't feel fit to judge, I only know that if the choices were between Moby Dick and plotting something on a graph, I chose the former (even though I didn't actually like Moby Dick).

Fast forward to adulthood. An adulthood that did not have the benefit of a single math or hard science course in college. And where did I end up?

Computer programming. Soft, front-end computer programming, but computer programming nonetheless. Also confectionery, which any pastry chef will tell you depends more on science than creativity. And now, pattern design. While I'd like to believe that my shining prose will carry the pattern, the truth is that, provided the math is correct, no one will care about the flowery words.

This has gotten me thinking about math education because, in my wildest dreams, I would not have spent my adult life interacting in any way with math and science. I was going to edit books or magazines. Or write them. But logic loops, hygroscopy, and geometry? Please! Those things were for math people.

Now I deeply believe that applied math and science aren't worth a damn without the basics (I am a big believer in the basics: thou mayest not read Henry Miller if one has not read Chaucer first), but I wonder if my experience with math and science would have been different if the disciplines had been presented as not merely the precursors to careers in hard sciences. I'm not saying I might not have enjoyed the life of a nuclear physicist, I'm just saying it might have been a stretch. But I didn't know how big a part chemistry played in cooking until I had to start doing it.

And, forgive me, tenured English professors, but my brain has to work a lot harder with far more satisfactory results, when I challenge it with math and science. At this point I feel confident reading and understanding what I read, especially as much of that is subjective, but when faced with a problem that has a single solution? My mind delights.

Family Guy May Well Have Ruined Star Wars For Me

2011-03-07T09:43:00.002-05:00

Star Wars (the original, actual Star Wars) was on television last night, and since there was nothing else on, I watched intermittently. And great sadness filled my heart.

I have been quite vocal on my opinion of George Lucas and his inspiration-less greed (I believe my exact words on exiting the first Lord of the Rings was, "I hope George Lucas sees this and kills himself" in reference to how craptacular his cgi was in comparison), but I have maintained, with a manic fervency that the three original Star Wars movies shall never have an equal.

However, I deeply enjoyed, and repeatedly watched, the Family Guy sendups and I might be changing my tune. Obviously Seth MacFarlane is as big a fan as I am, and he somehow edited out all the boring parts, amped up the stuff we all find so funny about the movies, and created a work that rivals the original and takes less time to watch. As I was watching Star Wars, my mind kept wandering to Blue Harvest, remembering how funny such and such a scene was in the cartoon. I don't know how much of this is due to the deep and overwhelming ire I feel towards Mr. Lucas and the three new movies he made (to put this in perspective, I would rather watch the Matrix trilogy than the second Star Wars trilogy and, as we all know, Matrices 2 and 3 are unwatchable), and how much is real, I only know that I am currently more entertained by Family Guy Star Wars than actual Star Wars.

Sadly, this means I will be forever waiting for Family Guy to do, well, pretty much every other iconic film ever made. Family Guy The Godfather, Family Guy Lawrence of Arabia, Family Guy The Towering Inferno (ok, so I'm the only one who finds The Towering Inferno an iconic film, I can live with that), and this makes me wonder if I have been infected with the short attention span of the internet generation. I damned Audible, repeatedly, for having the cojones to sell abridged books, believing that abridged books exist for abridged humans, but what does it say about me that I prefer the 50 minute animated Star Wars?

Given, my affection for media, this will haunt me, at least until I'm distrac-

ooh, look, ponies!

Phase 1 Complete

2011-03-04T08:27:00.002-05:00

To the person who inquired about our potential wedding venue mere days after I inquired first, thank you for forcing our hand. Your inquiry allowed us to get off the mat and answer to something in the affirmative. Would we have made the decision anyway if given the traditional long mulling we give things? Probably. But now, thanks to you, we don't have to mull, we merely have to act. And I, for one, am glad about this. It is one less thing to think of.

But dear baby Jeebus are there just so many many many many other things to think about now.

I have really wanted to avoid overtaxing the blog with wedding planning, but it might become unavoidable as it does seem to require a dogged faithfulness. No sooner do you choose a date and a location then you have 9 million other things to think (argue) about.

So in this first iteration, I will discuss how my plan of having things simple has spiraled completely out of control.

The stereotypical representation of the bride has her agonizing over how to make things as special snowflake special as possible, taking things that are simple and making them complex. But don't let that fool you into thinking things are simple from the beginning. Apparently the Wedding Industrial Complex doesn't want things to be simple and the couple who is looking for simplicity will have to do just as much legwork as the couple who needs ice sculptures, chocolate waterfalls, and napkin rings with each attendee's name engraved on them.

Issue #1: Vows. We don't want to write our own vows. We want the traditional ones. In my head, I can hear them. On paper? Not a chance. Whether or not the vows in my head have ever been spoken, or whether I have created what I think are the traditional vows from samplings of other vows is yet to be decided, but a nearly exhaustive search of the internet has led me to the conclusion that we're going to have to write our own vows. And what I mean by that is take the bits and pieces from what the internet tells us are traditional vows, excise the god parts that make me crazy, and present whomever officiates with a script that must not be deviated from. I cannot stress enough that the one of the things that stresses me out most is the idea of extemporaneous speaking by strangers (and family and friends).

Issue #2: Registry. I didn't want one. I'm happy people will come and celebrate with us, and I'll be happy about that regardless of whether or not people bring gifts. The thing is, after over a decade of cohabitation, there's little, if anything, we don't already have. I look at making a registry as having to come up with things I want (and even when I try, it's like four things). Devoted partner suggested we register for careers. This caused much laughing. Now, don't get me wrong, I can come up with frivolous things I want, a PacoJet comes to mind (and it's come down in price; now it's only four thousand dollars), but let's be honest: I don't need a four thousand dollar ice cream maker. Not really. And come on, you've been to our houses throughout the years, do you really think we can handle having 100 dollar Waterford wine glasses? We have extra boxes of 1 dollar wine glasses in the attic to replace the ones we constantly break. We also wondered if we could register for a maid.

Along with the registry comes the wedding website. Which I also didn't want. There was a time, and we were all alive for that time, when there weren't wedding websites. We must have found a way to survive (wait, come to think of it, our Euro friends didn't have them). I know this comes from the Luddite who has no cellular technology to speak of, but I just feel like every decision brings us farther away from simple.

So now that we know when we're doing it and where we're doing it, the list of things that need doing has expanded geometrically. I apologize in advance that I don't know if I'll have other things to talk about as I have to bridezilla in reverse: excessively micromanage to make sure things stay simple.

Obligatory Post-Oscars Post

2011-03-01T08:15:00.003-05:00

I guess I should have done this yesterday, but I was sleepy - that thing really does go on, and I was a bit behind because my strategy is to DVR the awards and start watching 45 minutes in so I can fast-forward through the commercials which, on a side note, had some winners I was too lazy to fast-forward through (on a second side note: Mercedes has gone a whole new direction with its ads and I, for one, am loving it - the ad for the gullwing? ok, admittedly I have the hots for gullwings, but this was an awesome ad).

This was yet another year when I hadn't seen any of the nominees (because movie theaters really do prefer if you wear pants when visiting, and I prefer to watch my movies in a robe), but that doesn't stop me from enjoying the show. I can root for people merely based on my general feelings for them and not the quality of their work which, I would guess, I am not alone in doing. So let's start with what I didn't like:

#1: The kid who isn't Michael Cera. I watched the red carpet show and watched him being interviewed (he has no tv, he hates fame, he is really working the giant douche persona) and all I could think was, oh dear god get over yourself. If you don't want to be famous, go work as a cashier, or a mortgage banker, or an oil prospector; but since you decided to be an actor, STFU and be a good sport. Your ennui doesn't begin to approach compelling.

#2: James Franco. Yawn. Anne Hathaway should get down on her knees and thank you because you made her look relatively amazing.

#3: The ladies and their talking. Devoted partner and I fondly remember Sidney Poitier's honorary Oscar acceptance speech because it rocked. Like, I don't know, he had taken elocution and rhetoric at the University of Awesome. Everyone else, not so much. But as a woman, I take exception to actress acceptance speeches that hew more closely to prom queen acceptance speeches. Where's the dignity? Where's the gravitas? Why can't you ladies string together words into sentences that sound like you make your living from speaking sentences? The tittering, sobbing, and ohmygodeveryonei'veeverknownissothebest crap is tiresome. I think, maybe, Cate Blanchett can pull it together (I just checked, and she was pretty good, with some "ums," but overall well put together, so it can be done).

#4: Gwynneth Paltrow. In addition to being one of the ineloquent Oscar acceptees, she really needs to stop singing in public. She isn't any good. And she's so smug and self-satisfied that I just want to throw potatoes at her.

#5: Christian Bale. Your low-class accent is fake. I say it here and now. A) You are Welsh and you sound nothing like Tom Jones and everything like a character from Oliver! B) We all saw you in Empire of the Sun, you can talk like you don't have Yorkshire pudding in your throat. C) Has nothing to do with your fake accent, but please shave.

#6: Where was Jack Nicholson? He's always good for being the butt of a couple of hooker jokes.

And some things I liked:

#1: Alec Baldwin. I wish he was in everything.

#2: Mila Kunis's dress. Best of the night, I think.

#3: Aaron Sorkin's pre-planned, but still cute enough reference to respect and guinea pigs.

#4: Cate Blanchett's dress. Ok, I love her and she can do no wrong. She's like the anti-Paltrow.

#5: ABC's exclusive look at the green room. Ok, no, that's a lie. It was stupid and a time-filler and who cares anyway?

The Power of Repitition

2011-02-25T08:17:00.000-05:00

We have a rather limited set of television shows we watch with any regularity and this leads us to, when we fail to fast forward, see the same commercials over and over again. My guess is that were we to watch some other shows on other channels, our view of the world and the products it has to offer would change, but for now, I'm convinced there are only about a dozen or so things tv tells me I simply cannot live without.

And I'm a little concerned about a couple of them.

Ad #1: Remember in that movie The Devil's Advocate where then-unknown Charlize Theron goes shopping with the other lawyers' wives and the wives turn out to be demons with scary faces? Well, they found other women like that and put them in an add for the Trojan Triphoria. These hens cackle in a most unnatural way that actually frightens me. They are at a bridal shower and apparently all of them have purchased a vibrator for the bride-to-be. Now, I like to be as sex-positive as the next liberal elitist, but even I am a little confused as to the message of this one: hey you're getting married, you'll probably need these three identical vibrators to stay sane. It's all downhill from here. Your husband will be working late and you'll have to make do with chocolate bars and buzzing. But, no, the bride-to-be goes home and shows her husband that she got three identical vibrators from her demonic friends and he fist pumps into the air. Which I guess could also mean that he's pleased to be off the hook. And that a Trojan Triphoria is less threatening than the gardener.

On a side note, you cannot (repeat: CANNOT) purchase this item if you live in Alabama, Louisiana, Kansas, Mississippi, Texas, or Virginia (kudos, West Virginia, for being the more enlightened of the Virginias). That's right, you cannot buy this product if you live in those states, sorry Abby and Danielle. Apparently, only a doctor in those states is available to treat your hysteria.

Ad #2: It's a tough world out there. With so many vibrators to keep track of, what options are available to the working person who simply doesn't have time for anything? I mean, have you considered how much time and energy it takes to get a cup of coffee. Apparently, it is a huge investment of time and mental energy. After all, you have to make it and/or buy it. The modern American simply cannot expend this kind of precious time-ergy on coffee when 5 Hour Energy is just a sip away. If you've seen this commercial, you know how preposterous it sounds. The pursuit of a cup of coffee has been likened to the pursuit of a driver's license renewal. or a Russian bread line. You would be a fool to waste all of this time just to get coffee.

Except, wait. I drink an espresso that I make each morning. And Jamie has coffee religiously. Furthermore, Jamie's a dad now which surely cuts down on his available free time. I wonder how he manages. Oh, wait, no I don't. For the exorbitant price of somewhere near 30 dollars, Jamie invested in the space-age technological feat of the programmable coffee maker. In futureworld, Jamie sets up his coffee before bed and it brews itself in the moments before he wakes up, providing him with a steaming hot cup o joe when he trundles down to the kitchen. It's simply flabbergasting that this technology is available, but I guess, only if you have 30 dollars (note: about the same price as two weeks' worth of 5 Hour Energy). My process is barbarically longer: I wake up, I go to the kitchen, I turn on the espresso machine, I go to the bathroom, wash my hands, turn on the computer, and return to the ready-to-go machine into which I feed, in succession, two pods of espresso and hit a button. Each pod takes about 15 seconds to brew, so I might have to spend 1 minute total (it takes several seconds to remove the first pod, put it in the trash, insert the second pod, repeat, stir the sugar into the coffee, etc.) to get my coffee. Decadent time wastage, I know.

But somewhere, focus groups were consulted and much money was spent to air these commercials for some of the most important things in our lives: sexual stimulation and narcotic dependence. I really must be more vigilant about fast forwarding through commercials - imagine how much coffee and vibration I could have time for if I did!

Women's Issues

2011-02-16T08:58:00.000-05:00

Despite my best attempts to appear disinterested and aloof, I would actually confirm that women's issues are important to me. After all, I am a woman, and a highly opinionated one at that. Since devoted partner has shown a waning interest in my post-Law and Order: SVU tirades, I thought I'd widen my audience to talk about this recent news tidbit that has my proverbial panties in a bunch.

Let us dispense with the obvious: rape is horrible; there is no excuse for rape; no one should be raped; people who rape other people belong in jail. Have I covered my bases? Good. Let's move on, shall we?

Once upon a time, New York City was considered a dangerous place. People disembarking from elsewhere were to be on their guards or suffer the violent consequences. As a result, many many people were wisely suspicious. Since the city became one of the safest big cities in the country, it seems to me people have become lax in the common sense department. This woman, who is a victim, showed remarkably poor judgment and I think there should be some significant acknowledgment of that.

Issue #1: The woman in question is 27. Not a 16 year old runaway, nor a wide-eyed recent high school grad coming to make her way in the big city. This person is a grownup (I would also take the other two examples to task for their decision making, but I think it's important to highlight that this person is a de facto and de jure adult). While searching for an apartment she discovered that a strange man she had never met wanted her to live for free in exchange for cooking and cleaning. Yes, I know New York is expensive, but did nothing about this "free lunch" strike her as OMGDANGERDANGERDANGER?

Issue #2: Let's pretend that this arrangement seemed normal to her. How about when he offered to buy her plane ticket? Had she never watched a Law and Order, or CSI, or any crime show ever on television? Does she not have the internet? Or cable? Or, I don't know, access to a newspaper? I know she's from Wisconsin, but people keep telling me that just because a person doesn't live in New York, that person isn't doomed to ignorance. Does she not have family or friends who said to her, "are you out of your ever-loving mind? You are so totally going to be raped and likely murdered by a psychopath!" Or how about, "this sounds really really suspicious. Give me all this man's information and make sure you call me as soon as you get there to let me know everything is ok, or I'm going to call the police because if I don't hear from you withing three hours of your plane landing, you are likely dead." (Come to think about it, why didn't this happen?)

Issue #3: He let her leave the house to go to work! Now, I know that if the woman had gotten this far she was probably so mortified by her own words-can't-describe stupidity that she might have been embarrassed, but I would wager a little embarrassment is preferable to returning home to your rapist and the handcuffs he hooks you to the radiator with.

Words like empowerment get tossed around to the extent they mean very little now, but the woman's issue that is most important to me is making women less f#$%@%@3ing dumb. There is no excuse for this having happened (which doesn't excuse the perpetrator). None whatsoever. This is a case of someone being so irretrievably stupid that she risked her life for no reason. And I don't know where this stupidity comes from, but this is not an isolated case. Whatever the disadvantages of being the second sex, there must be some way to make women smarter. At least smart enough to not get into these kinds of situations. Violence against women can't be solved merely by making women smarter, but it can make THIS PARTICULAR VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN go away. Everything she did was stupid. EVERYTHING. And it makes me very very very ALL-CAPS mad.

And what really gets me is that this kind of story detracts from women victims who couldn't have prevented their victimization. This is a great story: salacious, tv-worthy (for the record, at this point in time if you are a poor woman from a developing nation and you DON'T KNOW that if you accept free illegal passage to this country, you are coming to be a forced prostitute, you are stupid too). Victimized women whose stories are more heartbreaking and less glossy get forgotten.

I'm sorry Miss Wisconsin had such a horrifying experience moving to New York, but Miss Wisconsin did everything in her power to ensure the horrifying experience. She did nothing to prevent it and now she'll probably get a book deal. For being stupider than your average urban 6-year-old who knows not to accept candy from strangers.

Say Yes to the Dress

2011-02-14T14:04:00.000-05:00

So, unexpectedly, I bought a wedding dress this weekend. I'm not going to tell you where, or what it looks like, but it was sickly inexpensive and almost fits the bill. What happened was this: I saw a wedding dress in a magazine article online and found out that a store in Manhattan might have one in something approaching my size for me to to try on. With mom in tow, we went to play dress up on Saturday afternoon. The dress was fine, but not what I was looking for. which was ok, it was just an experiment.

On a whim, I asked the saleswoman if I could see another model I had spied online - one I thought would be just the wrong look on me. She brought it in a size 2. So there was that to contend with. Mom and I just held the bodice up to me and then looked at each other in a kind of shock. We liked the look of this one. Unzipping the thing as far as it would go, we shimmied it on me (note to girls: getting into a size 2 dress when one is demonstrably not a size 2 is funny; ok, I lied. It was funny this time because my actual size, 10, is one I am eminently happy with; when I was a size 14, this would not have been funny and might have resulted in tears). Though the dress was angry at me for having attempted to wedge my hips into it, we could still pull it up so that it looked somewhat dress-like on. And we still liked what we saw. At which point the saleswoman interrupted us to bring in the same dress in a size 10 in black. This would have been useful to have before I needed mayonnaise or vaseline to help myself out of the size 2.

I tried on the black dress and again, mom and I were kind of stunned. This really very cheap dress was really very much fitting the bill. Now there's a little something it is now important to mention: my mother is going to make my wedding dress. After discovering that asking someone else to make a wedding dress is the same kind of financial investment as asking someone to sell you his second-hand car, I decided that I would prefer to have a second-hand car (or a trip for two to the islands) instead of a dress I'll wear once. My mother, who crafted such awesome pieces as my sophomore year and senior year prom dresses, stepped up, with some trepidation, to fill the void. With my labor coming at no cost, the only expenditure would be the fabric. And even if we bought medieval tapestries for fabric, it would still be less than what we saw at Sak's. The question remained: what kind of dress would I want?

Wedding magazines were zero help. I am not a Ukranian hooker, nor will I be auditioning for the ice capades any time soon, so most of the glossy paged advertisements weren't going to be of help. Things I knew I didn't want: tulle, lace, beads, rhinestones, feathers, hoop skirts, sequins, tiaras, wings, jacquard, or snow leopard pelts. This narrowed down my choices significantly. I don't want to worry about tripping on the dress, or the dress falling off, or the dress being too heavy. I just want a dress. A simple whiteish dress. And finding this, future brides, is not an easy task.

Because brides are princesses and should dress as such. Even if that means being immobile. We're just not going to be having that kind of nuptial affair, so I thought I should keep it simple. The saleswoman, however, was unmoved and briefly tried to upsell me some plastic blingy jewelery which I did my best to demure respectfully (though in my head I was thinking that anyone who wore those monstrosities could only be doing so ironically, and devoted partner has made copious mention of the fact he doesn't think irony is appropriate at our wedding).

So we bought the dress. As a prototype. I can't say I'm disappointed in this. It is true, we have two additional scouting opportunities coming up (it should be noted we still don't have a finalized wedding date or location, but the more things I can dispense with, the better). And the best part is, I felt like Yelena in the dress. One of the things that has been causing me heavy to oppressive anxiety is that notion that there's an expectation that I be somehow better than myself when we get married; that the bride is an idealistic object that has to be perfect. Whereas, I'm really keen on being myself, just properly washed, on my wedding day. This dress looks like something I would wear if we were going to opening night of the opera, or someone else's wedding (obviously not in white). That appeals very much to me and the [dreaded word] vision I have of my special day.

Darwin Awards: Yelena Edition

2011-02-11T10:20:00.000-05:00

I don't know if any of the chefs I apprenticed with ever read this, but if they did, they could attest to the fact that I was not the neatest cook in the kitchen. Flour on my face was frequently cited, and mocked. Devoted partner can comment, extensively, on the unique places I could get melted chocolate. Like my butt. Even though my butt is not exposed when I make chocolates.

I am in the process of making a bunch of confections for an event at ye olde alma mater and as I was stirring my molten caramel, it occurred to me that chefs wear those long jackets for more than just fashion. I was in a tank top, my limbs exposed to 2nd degree burn inducing hot caramel, when I realized that tank tops are my frequent top of choice in the kitchen. Part of that is surely due to the fact that in 2004 I bought pretty much every color tank top available at H&M, but the other part is that cooking is hot work. And yet, the bare arms do dare my chemical experiments to leap out of their pots and do me permanent damage. Which is also funny given my burn aversion.

Even as I deftly step away from the pot of caramel after the cream has been added, causing the cauldron to bubble dangerously, I don't think to put on more clothing. I don't think this has anything to do with a) a propensity for risk-taking or b) innate exhibitionism, but it does give me pause. I've seen some unpleasant kitchen accidents and their aftermaths, and I'm not entirely sure I would welcome a caramel welt on my tender arm skin.

I once thought that it would be a great idea to do youtube videos of myself in the kitchen. I think I'm pretty good at speaking extemporaneously; I'm not camera shy; and wouldn't everyone like to see a confectioner who gets chocolate on her butt? Now I'm glad that was one of many plans I never executed. My kitchen garb is simply not telegenic (devoted partner's sweats and natty H&M tank), and I generally wait until confectionary is over to wash my hair. Vanity aside, I just don't think it's fair to the public. Then there's the bad example I set for the children as I tempt the fate of grievous bodily injury which, should it occur, would result in additional bad-for-the-children language. And I'd have to keep my kitchen far more glimmery than I am wont.

So, I have no exciting video of myself hovered above a pot of boiling sugar - you'll have to use your imagination. When the inevitable happens, I won't whine about it because I will have well deserved it, but I'll definitely have pictures of my wounds for all to ogle.

Some Thoughts on Sport

2011-02-07T10:37:00.000-05:00

It was an unusual weekend in that I watched two sporting events on television. It is true that in my younger years, the Ewing/Oakley years if you will, I watched sports on television quite a bit. And then, well, the Knicks became unrecognizable and brought forth no necessary nostalgia. Sports on television were limited to the Olympics, the occasional late night world's strongest man, and the Superbowl - which we spend with Matt and his awesome friends every year (is it bad that I think my body is giving off a distinct fried chicken smell today?).

And the Superbowl this year was, I guess, good. I didn't notice that Christina Aguillera doesn't know the words to our national anthem, but I did notice that Fergie can't even sing. As for team alliances, I was reminded that the quarterback for the Steelers most likely committed a felony against a woman, if not by the letter of the law, certainly by the spirit, therefore rendering me a cheesehead for the day. Beer was quaffed, aforementioned chicken consumed. Good times.

But there was something distinctly unsatisfying about the game itself. I mean, it went on a very long time and the only salient details I remember today are that I should definitely eat more doritos, drink more Pepsi Max, and that the future member of the sex offender registry kept throwing the ball to the opposing team. And I blame this entirely on the sporting event I watched the day before.

France vs. Scotland in the Six Nations rugby tourney.

Which owned. Utterly.

I can easily trace my affection for the sport of rugby to the many Saturdays I spent in college watching devoted partner play it. Your dads might remember me as the girl on the sidelines in heels and a skirt - because I'm all about team morale. I also lived next door to rugby players, frequently killed brain cells with them, and stepped over their fetid uniforms on the way to the loo. Other than one homecoming game, I don't think I ever watched my college team play football because I was a fan of the rugby. And you should be too. Rugby is like football if football was awesome. And here are some of my reasons why:

the game clock pretty much doesn't stop unless someone is being taken from the field. That means for 80 minutes there's just a game to watch. It's fast paced considering the amount of time spent in Roman-style orgy pileups, and there's a lot of back and forth making it interesting. Also, without padding, helmets, and frequent pauses to thank jeebus for stuff, it's really really manly. And this is good for the ladies because rugby players (and I'll admit bias here) are seriously hot. I mean their bodies. Their faces I don't much notice because I am actively entranced by their thighs and calves. Which are on delightful display due to short shorts - not 1970s basketball short, but short. And the legs on these guys are unbelievable: sturdy tree trunks of legs. But, wait, it's not all hot and bothered fantasy on the field. These guys can run and they have to do it a lot. I can appreciate the punt return for a touchdown, but that guy who scored it hadn't really been running all that much for the previous 10 minutes of the football game. The runners in a rugby game run all the time. Even the big guys. And they run fast.

And for fans of MMA, ice hockey, and bum fighting, there is a lot of seriously excellent violence to be had on the rugby pitch. You pretty much get to kick the heads of the opposing team's players on a regular basis, and stomp on their ribs with your cleats. These things do not incur penalties, much like baseball players don't get penalized for frequent spitting. For fans of soccer (are there any?), it's like soccer only with hitting, punching, and, one more thing, oh yeah, action.

So Superbowl XLV, you just didn't measure up on the entertainment scale, even as we heckled sir-what-do-you-mean-no-means-no at every opportunity. The camaraderie and heavy dog petting (Chica, I love you), clearly outshone what was on tv. But as for you, Six Nations Rugby, we have a date next Saturday.

Something Unexpected

2011-01-31T08:40:00.000-05:00

You think you know someone inside and out, are pretty sure there are no new secrets to emerge, and poof: in the space of five minutes your preconceptions are dashed against the wall. There is a piece of devoted partner's childhood lore that he and a certain snarky Portuguese kid used to play a weekend sport together in their youth. Once a suitable amount of time has passed after the boys stopped playing the sport, snarky Portuguese senior recalled the hours he and devoted partner's father spent watching the boys and pronounced (sadly, accents don't come across in print), "you two were shitty!"

So imagine my surprise when we stepped out onto the ice at the Dorothy Hamill skating rink and devoted partner could, well, skate. Mind you, I'm not talking camelspins and triple lutzes, but damned if he didn't push off and confidently skate around that rink. Even backwards. Someone else, I'll give you one guess, began the afternoon clutching the side of the rink before muscle memory kicked in - and by muscle memory, I mean remembering how she can really only push off with her left foot. Clutching devoted partner's hand, I made it around the rink a couple of times before he claimed I was simply using him for momentum and left me to my own wobbly devices.

Now the thing it's important to understand about me and winter sports is that a) I'm not a fan of the cold; b) balance is not one of my more pronounce skills; and c) I have a massive fear of running over children. The several times in my life I have gone skiing, I maintain that the majority of falls taken were falls taken in the pursuit of not hitting a five year old who was confidently whooshing back and forth in front of me. Similarly, on the confined space of the ice rink, where many small ones are either learning or showing off, my lack of ability means I am forever petrified of running one over and severing his digits with my skate blade. Since I neither know how to stop short, nor really how to slow down, you can imagine the consequences.

But our afternoon of skating was actually lots of fun. True, I ruined it somewhat by attempting to talk about honeymoon ideas, but I didn't fall. And devoted partner impressed the poo out of me by his skating prowess - where prowess means he skated a hell of a lot better than I did.

Snowbound

2011-01-27T09:09:00.000-05:00

IMG_5456
Originally uploaded by reallyct

Trying not to go on and on about the weather this winter is an onerous task; after all, it does seem to be begging for attention. And today is no different. Except that today is different.

We were heartened this morning when we woke up to see that our driveway had been plowed - life would be normal. Until we realized that due to all the accumulation thus far, Devoted Partner's side of the garage was, well, blockaded by snow. True, our trusty snow removal man will be by later this morning to fix that problem, but in the meantime, offices needed to be reached. My car was used. And now I have no car. And not really a way to get the other car out of the garage (forgetting, for a moment, that the other car is a monster truck that I would be hard pressed to feel comfortable driving). But it seems that doesn't matter because Devoted Partner called from the office to tell me I didn't want to be out on the roads in any event.

And that's ok too, because I can't get into Manhattan anyway - the trains are down.

This is something I only thought about in the abstract: weather related imprisonment. It's just not a condition of the urban experience. Not really. I remember blizzards where streets were closed and subways were suspended, but some enterprising store owner still made it to his place of business which meant I could walk to his place of business and transact. Now I'm starting to realize that my snowboots are a) not 100% waterproof and b) not nearly tall enough to compensate for the snow drifts that are everywhere. So even if I wanted to walk the half mile or so for an emergency Snicker's bar or similar at the gas station, it would be an unpleasant walk - the kind of walk not even nougat can save.

I do not wish to jinx myself, but the saving grace of this winter's storms has been the resilient nature of the local power company. Whether through luck or extensive tree branch pruning, we have managed to keep power throughout all of the storms - which means that imprisonment in my home means eating of pantry staples and watching West Wing, not huddling freezing in the corner by the light of candles. However, I would like to lay some responsibility elsewhere, specifically on the gorp-y shoulders of LL Bean:

You people have been out of long underwear since November. You're LL Bean - long underwear is your bread and butter. What gives? I might, theoretically, enjoy kitting myself out for snow activities, but I'm not going to be able to because some of the basic prerequisites for such tomfoolery have been out of stock since before first snowfall. This may eclipse my frustration at the Gap for ever being out of stock on jeans. Get it together, LL Bean, it looks to be a very long winter.

Normal

2011-01-18T08:04:00.000-05:00

Ooooh, I've been waiting to do this post for a while. Say what you will about statistics and their motivations, today I'm on the side of arbitrary, unmitigated figures.

I'm normal.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and, frankly, that's uncharitable of you. But for the first time in my life since attaining adolescence I have a BMI (body mass index) that falls within the range of normal weights.

Translation: the government thinks I'm no longer fat. In fact, it thinks I'm no longer even overweight. I'd like to think that, overnight, this has eliminated all my chances of ever getting heart disease, but I'm no dummy, just a little high on the euphoria of it all.

All the months of privation, of chickenchickenchicken, of sweaty dreams of onion bagels seem to have done the trick. Oh, believe you me, there's more success to be had (when you've been doing this as long as I have, the idea of stopping before the end is anathema), but the successes from this point on will be in the normal range (and that's a 40 pound range, though let's not even joke about the absurdity of my hitting anywhere near the bottom of that range). Normal. Normal normal normal. Gee, I like the sound of that, and you have to believe that comes as a surprise to me, who has often prided herself on abnormality.

This trip has been the closest I think I'll get to traveling back in time. Every pound lost takes me back to the point when last I weighed what I weigh now. Want to know what year we're currently in? 1991. That's right, we're wearing flannel shirts chez moi and I think we also have a perm (sorry, Jamie). We're not even in high school. 2 more pounds and we're in 1990, and after that it's the great unknown (for the math geeks out there, the reason I wasn't "normal" then is that I was a little shorter). In 2 more pounds we're at a place never before, a weight that seems ridiculous to make past comparisons with because I was a child.

I know this is all far less interesting to you than it is to me, but thank you for letting me brag a little. It's actually less bragging and more shock. For while there's still tummy that needs toning and a waist that needs whittling, the strange person in the mirror doesn't look out of control. She doesn't look like someone who thinks a loaf of bread is a meal (though, god help me, I could mow a loaf of bread like nobody's business right now). This is unfamiliar territory and the view ain't half bad.

F U brisket cheese fries!

The Fish Resolution

2011-01-11T10:55:00.000-05:00

One of the dirty little secrets of my upbringing is that from birth to the time I moved out, we never ate fish for dinner. Not one time. The only fish that was ever in the house was gefilte for passover and lox on special occasions like my mother's birthday party. There was no tuna, no flounder, no bass, no halibut, nothing. Dinner was never ever ever a piece of fish. The reason, insane though it may sound, was simple: my dad didn't like fish. So we children grew up never eating it.

So I reached maturity without a taste for fish. In fact, given the two fish products ever in the house, I only understood fish as something deeply smelly and not really fit for ingestion. And, sadly, I still have significant lingering fish issues.

Issue #1: Fish is not meat. No matter how it's dressed up, no matter if it's a tuna steak, no matter, no matter, fish is not as substantial a protein as meat or poultry. My favorite way to eat fish? As a prelude to the meat course.

Issue #2: Eating fish in a restaurant is a far different proposition from eating fish at home. I estimate that for every pound of fish cooked in a restaurant a pound of butter is used. This masks the objective blandness that is fish. Fat makes everything taste good. At home, where I control what goes into the pot, pounds of butter are reserved for baking, pats of butter for cooking. I simply cannot, in good conscience, throw a stick or two of butter in a pan to cook a single fillet. As a result, my fish tastes like vaguely proteinaceous matter, while restaurant fish tastes like a butter delivery system.

Issue #3: Not so hot on salmon. Salmon is, for me, the fishiest of the fish. I can eat sardines and anchovies and mackerel, but salmon just makes me blanch. This complicates the cooking of fish as salmon is universally available where as, for example, monkfish is not. Smoked salmon? I won't even touch it. When we have it at parties I force devoted partner or my mother to be in charge of touching it.

But I know that fish is good for me, not fattening, and an important part of my cancer avoidance regimen. So on the list of slightly silly new year's resolutions was the resolution to eat fish a minimum of one time per week. After all it will break up the chicken monotony. Week 1 I cheated. I mean, I didn't really cheat, we ate a sea creature, but it was a scallop. I should mention that I 100% consider scallops to be food. I love scallops and I have some kind of minor superpower that enables me to perfectly cook them every single time. Of the under the sea creatures we eat, scallops easily make up 50-75%. My problem is that I honestly believe most fish doesn't taste like anything. Scallops taste like something.

So yesterday we had a cod fillet for dinner. Simply cooked in a pan with a pat of butter, a sprinkling of panko, thyme, salt and pepper. It tasted like, um, warm vaguely protein stuff with salt and pepper. And I am a confident enough cook that I know this is just what fish tastes like. I've had some better luck with mackerel, which is a stronger tasting fish, and if I was willing to salt my cod and add it to mashed potatoes with heavy cream, I know it would be quite tasty, but it would defeat the healthy motivation behind eating fish in the first place.

So much like a previous year's resolution of doing something every day for the entire year (if you know what it was, so much the better, but I'm not repeating it here), this is going to be one I just get through and hope that, as I explore additional fish and additional recipes, fish becomes something I enjoy and not something I take like vitamins.

NookBook

2011-01-05T11:35:00.000-05:00

So this was a good gift. My colornook is pretty much everything I could have hoped for. It enables my lazy by allowing me to surf the internet from the couch. It stores pdfs. I hear someday soon it might play video once the flash thing is sorted out. But the unexpected, though not to anyone else who bought it, bonus is that you can read books on it.

In my mind I am still the 16-year-old with dreams of high-minded academia; the girl who, frankly, didn't take nearly enough pictures of Kenya so that she'd still have enough for Italy not realizing that she'd probably get back to Italy far sooner than she'd get back to Kenya; the girl who thought she'd write on an old typewriter and one day make the move from paper to vellum. Which doesn't jibe at all with the reality of someone who has been on the forward side of computing pretty much from day 1.

Still there was that lingering prejudice that books must be paper; the reader must be tangibly invested in their smell; real reading is an experience that cannot be captured by the impersonal screen. Blah blah, blah blah blah blah.

Lies. All of it. Lies.

It's not like I haven't done the bulk of my non-book reading on the computer for some time now. I cannot remember the last time I bought a copy of The New York Times. Reading on a screen is the norm for everything but books. Which, as you know, take up a disruptive amount of space at our house.

But the prejudice persisted. I bought my first e-book because it was a book I knew I wasn't going to need to own in the flesh, Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. And then proceeded to read it in about a day and a half. Ooh how much fun is it to flick your finger and turn the page. While I was reading, I bought the old standby, a book I own in several different materials and languages, the always-present and frequently-read Foucault's Pendulum. But even then I could say I bought it because I already had the real version.

And then I needed a new book. I went to my reading list, selected an available title, downloaded, and read. Then I picked a book Devoted Partner wanted to read. And now I see the genius.

A lot of the books I read aren't keepers. I have a very long reading list and a lot of what I read disappoints me. And then I have the book. Lying around. Waiting to be donated, recycled, given away, etc. Yes, everyone who is about to pipe in with the novel idea of the library, I understand how one works and that I could borrow the book in question, but I don't know until I've read it whether or not I'll want to own it forever and borrowing it, reading it, liking it, buying it, seems rather a lot of coming and going - not to mention the library fees that will pile up during my indecision/laziness.

With color nook I get my instant gratification and, since there's internet on the thing as well, if I read a book I simply must fondle, I can immediately purchase it.

So now I'm changing my tune: bring on the chip in my skull, I'm ready.

Resolving

2011-01-03T11:08:00.000-05:00

As much as I like to feel immune from group-thought, I will admit that the new year inspires change in me. Some of the change is illogical - I know that no matter how many times the New Balance butt slimming sneakers are advertised on TV they won't actually slim my butt - and other is entered into in the spirit of renewal that a new year brings. 2011 will, of necessity, be momentous, and I have a lot of anxiety, both personal and logistical about that.

I think, though, that the idea of new year's resolutions is more about the thought process than the doing. I can certainly buy an elliptical machine and vow to use it daily, but the thoughts behind that possibility are more valuable. Identifying that exercise, though abhorrent to me, is something I should be doing, and identifying the reasons for the should is important.

Then there are the intangibles. Looking at who I am as a person and thinking about what changes will benefit me intellectually and emotionally. This is more challenging because the purchase of an elliptical can't get at the heart of these changes. Thinking about what makes me happy, what will make me happy, and what can make me happy, are thoughts that are often sabotaged by fear which in turn breeds inaction. Using the new year to jumpstart these thoughts is useful even if their fruit bears down the road.

I will do my best not to use this platform to babble too incoherently about wedding planning and weight loss, though both of those things will use some mental space this year, but I ask for some leeway when the musings hit me. For all the truth there is in how our lives have been married-like for some time, there is also truth in how actually marrying brings changes and challenges that we have, until now, been able to put aside. The less fleeting these thoughts are, the better I will be able to address them, and the less likely I will be to ignore them.

In the meantime, happy new year to you all.

The Crazy That Lies Beneath

2010-12-16T11:27:00.001-05:00

I think one of the advantages of being ridiculously wealthy (conjecture, I assure you as I am not) is that you get to a point where you can lose your mind publicly and it doesn't matter. It's what devoted partner refers to as FU money. Tom Cruise went absolutely retarded on national TV and we've all sort of just let it go now. Richard Branson routinely does crazy shit like piloting a rowboat from London to New Zealand and we just sort of shrug it off. If you watched The Colbert Report this week, you may have noticed a little tidbit on Ted Turner. If you didn't, I'll wait while you watch it.

Ok. Yes. Crazy. On the face of it. And yet so intensely brilliant. When you or I suggest that we buy the right to have babies from the poor, we sound insane, deeply unpleasant, and others ignore us. When Ted Turner says it, it sounds MASSIVELY CRAZY, and yet, this guy is a highly successful businessman, so you sort of assume he's thought about it. Which, in turn, leads you to think about it. Or about things like it.

As I am of the belief that we are merely a hop, skip, and jump from dystopia, I gave this more than casual thought, and discovered that, in theory, I wasn't completely opposed to the idea. And yet, much like the privatization of social security, it's just not practical right now.

Let me explain: let's say we allow all people to manage their own retirements. What percentage of those people, freed from the burden of forced savings, do you imagine will not save at all and end up at 70 without any money? 5%? 10%? I'll bet it would be higher. And then what? We're not really prepared to let people starve to death on the side of the road, so then the government would step in to take care of the people who need it; this, in turn, would cost money angering the very people who want to privatize social security. Similarly, the free marketers might see sense in the selling of reproductive rights. After all, if it's a saleable commodity, have at it. Oooooh, except, I'm not sure how they would feel about either a) government sterilization or b) arresting illegally pregnant women and terminating their pregnancies. We just don't do that sort of thing.

But I can definitely see a future where this sort of thing isn't frowned upon, and while I might not like to live there, it sounds like a fascinating place to visit. And I'll bet I run into Ted Turner there because this is a crazy man who is definitely going to be cryogenically frozen until they find a cure for being old. Maybe we'll grab drinks.

Xmas Dinner, Take 1

2010-12-14T11:22:00.000-05:00

Despite the years of hebrew school and zionist summer camp, there once was a time when our family celebrated Christmas. In grandma and grandpa's brick house on the corner lot. With a tree and lights and seasonally colored Hershey's Kisses in glass container's and carolers outside and chocolate mousse pie and aunts and an uncle and cousins. While my dates may be spotty, I think we did this yearly until a year or two after my grandfather died. We have pictures to prove it including one I wish I had to share of me in a pink cashmere sweater, pink and grey tartan skirt, with a pink wand - I was 6ish. Yes, our family also brought a menorah when the holidays overlapped and we were certainly not chomping down on bacon in the morning, but there was Christmas and I liked it.

Then there were the non-Christmas years. The stay in New York and see a movie on Christmas day years.

Then there were the in-law years. I went to church. Two years ago I fell asleep in church. After that I chose not to go to church (jewish folks: church is a lot like synagogue except in English and there's slightly less getting up and sitting back down).

But Christmas never recaptured those early years for me. Perhaps it's that devoted partner's family wasn't my family. And there are no small children which, though I despair of spending time with them in general, do add to the Christmaseyness of Christmas.

So this year, now that our families are soon to be joined officially, I requested that we host the Christmas meal. And by requested, I think I said something like, "that's it - I want US to do Christmas this year." But, you know, nicely. Not like some crazed shrew harpy. Honest.

And that brought me to the next obvious question: what to cook? But not really. I've known what I want to cook for Christmas dinner since 2005 when, in the john at Ed's house I paged through the December issue of Food and Wine magazine. There it was: the perfect Christmas dinner. My mouth watered reading about it. So when we started planning, the Food and Wine website was the first stop. Here, in fact. Do you not want to start eating this immediately?!?

I cut back on some of the three million dishes both for expediency and the simple fact that our Christmas dinner will be serving 8 (9? Stupid Kate), not 20. Also, my dad won't be eating a lot of this because of his dietary restrictions. I've ordered my roast and I know it will not be cheap, so we didn't want to leave its preparation to chance. Also, while I'm confident I can whip sweet potatoes on the fly, I was less confident with creamed carrots. So last night I made a single rib and some creamed vegetables. And I'm so glad I did.

My meat was delicious but decidedly medium - and we're a rare to medium rare kind of group. So now I can adjust cooking times. The vegetables were good, but our tastes run to the more intense, so I'll be adding more ginger and more horseradish and, in a nod to having something without heavy cream, I think we're going to saute the mushrooms in sherry vinegar instead. It was also useful from a timing perspective. Anyone who was at our inaugural Passover dinner may remember that we ate in the round because the meat took way longer than expected and I spent most of the meal in the kitchen with The Boy finishing the lamb on the stovetop. Now I know what can be made ahead of time (all initial vegetable cooking for example - if they get finished with the cream sauce, they will heat up again, and that cream sauce need not be made a la minute). And I just bought a chafing dish which will help immensely since I despise serving lukewarm food.

I'll give credit where credit is due, though, and the credit belongs to devoted partner. I absolutely tend to wing it on cooking, figuring stuff will be good enough, and it drives devoted partner crazy because sometimes I fail. Mightily. And while for some dinners, I think the pre-cooking is unnecessary, for this, our first Christmas meal, it made a lot of sense and I think it will prevent me from overcooking 200 dollars worth of cow.

Now if only he'd tell me what time his family is showing up, we'd be golden!

The Bachelorette

2010-12-08T11:30:00.000-05:00

or While the Cat is Away, the Mouse Will Build a Pillow Fort in the Living Room

Devoted partner and I are separated by a continent for the week and I have been using this time to really get in touch with my 21-year-old self. The 21-year-old who routinely forgot to go to class, ate doritos in a chemise while watching the next-door neighbors play Goldeneye, and considered a trip to Cumberland Farms worthy of the word 'trip.' The reversion began on Saturday when, while in Whole Foods I remembered I was cooking for one this week, I bought several different kinds of frozen hors d'ouvres and some pre-made chili. And let me tell you, eating chicken taquitos as dinner with no one around to wonder why is the t!ts.

And when there's no one around to judge your television watching, it is oh so easy to end up watching something truly vile. Picture the scene: 11pm, last night, me in yoga pants and a should-have-been-thrown-out-years-ago petit bateau t-shirt beneath my Dive Dahab hooded sweatshirt, and my shearling moccasins (blogger, I'm positive shearling is a word - that you think it isn't is troubling); I am eating ramen noodles - the actual ramen noodles we ate in college; and I am watching, for the first time, Bridezillas.

I know that my reluctance to experience the same pop culture as everyone else is troubling, but I assure you, I had never flipped to this show before. Because its very title is repugnant. I have also not seen any of the housewives for the same reason. Reality TV, in general, leaves me cold simply because of its caricaturish nature and utter lack of originality. Case in point: the last time I got really into a relationshippy reality show - and by really into I mean Jamie and I watched every episode maniacally giggling and drinking beer - was a one-season-only juggernaut of disaster called, I believe, Paradise Island. In short a number of married or nearly-married couples (6, 8, who remembers?) were invited to a sultry resort some place warm and promptly separated from one another. In come an equal number of, respectively, Hot Topic and Frederick's of Hollywood-type people who, for the remainder of the show, will attempt to hook up with members of the couples in an effort to see whose relationship is strongest and can withstand the promise of VERY MANY STRINGS ATTACHED sex with completely waxed strangers. It was the best piece of Rome is Burning television I have ever been privileged enough to watch. Nothing else comes close. Which is why I don't want it. That show was mean-spirited and end-of-days-y from the get go; the others try to have points and morals and tidy endings.

Much as I would like to say that my first viewing of Bridezillas won't be my last, I think, sadly, it's just not evil enough. I mean, yes, there's the evil aspect of knowing that none of the marriages will last, but that's just not evil enough. And yes, there is some small enjoyment that can be derived by watching women disintegrate before your eyes over trivial things, except that none of the women I saw last night was stable to begin with. Following a spoiled brat as she becomes more spoiled is hardly entertaining. Following a previously sane person as she spirals into chocolate fountain insanity? That I might watch.

On deck this evening in the Pillow Fort? A classic. I'll be viewing Airplane and snacking on either grape leaves or something unique from Trader Joe's.

Come home soon, baby. I'm obviously unable to care for myself in your absence.

The New Computer

2010-12-07T11:22:00.000-05:00

I think I've written before about how difficult I find it to part with a large sum of money; in fact I think it was in reference to the new computer I desperately needed.

Depending on how you define desperately.

And that was part of the problem: the computer worked, just slowly.

After much agonizing and way too many hours comparing things like bus speeds and pci slots, I bit the bullet before Thanksgiving and the parts started trickling in. Devoted partner spared me the effort of assembling the computer (though I did install my own dvd drive and OS which makes me not at all badass) and the disparate parts and their gigaherzes cohered into something that looks like your average Dell.

Then it was time to boot up and dive in.

First impressions: I do not love Windows 7, purely from a UI perspective. I don't like icons and shading and a computer telling me how I want things displayed. I want to tell it how to display things. Now we're early on in our relationship and I might be able to achieve the level of customization I'm looking for as time goes on, but as it stands, there's some work to be done.

The same cannot be said for the speed issue. I knew my old computer was slow. After all, it was a 5-year old motherboard maxed out on ram and a petrie dish of various active and removed virii, malware, and the like (now since eradicated with a wipe of everything so that Julie, its inheritor, need only experience slowness, not disease). The new computer is fast. Really fast.

The greatest example I can give is of the Adobe Lightroom functionality. Lightroom is a photo manipulation software package that LITERALLY took 1 minute per photo on the old machine just to import. Think about that when you think about the 300 pictures you took of your nephew's birthday party. As a result I didn't work on my photos much because I just didn't have the requisite 3 days I would need to get through them. New computer loads a folder full of photos in under 60 seconds. As a result, should you be so interested in the evidence of our least successful vacation ever, the Nicaragua pictures are now up. Amy says I should take down the one of myself at the end, but I think it's important that people realize just how sick I was on vacation. But it is not a pretty picture. At all.

Black plague photos aside, I now have a machine that works for what I need. I'm doing some things differently, though. I'm a great devotee of google docs and, as such, have not installed my MS Office (hopelessly outdated I'm sure). I'm also going to attempt to live without photoshop (but I know in my deepest of hearts that this will not last and I will be asking my soon-to-be sister-in-law to get me an educational copy ere long). I also didn't bother reinstalling many of my games. In fact I only installed one to test the graphics capabilities of my bangin' new graphics card. Instead, I'm merely reveling in the next 6 months of non-obsolescence and hoping that I don't have to buy another computer for another 7 years.

Anticipation

2010-12-01T11:56:00.001-05:00

Far be it from me to give Carly Simon any more airtime, but she seems to have cornered the meme-o-sphere on this word, and sadly, the word is apt.

Gift giving is tough in our family. Not because we don't want things, more because we don't want things that fall within the gift giving budget. My mental wish list has several sub $20 things - that new nail polish color, 12" circular knitting needles - and expensive things - furniture, electronics, trips to Thailand. In the middle there's not much.

So we've gotten in the habit of pooling financial gifts to come up with the thing we wanted - even when that means, like this year, my brother and I will be exchanging envelopes with the exact same amount of cash in them. And, in the spirit of making sure the thing I wanted wasn't sold out, I pre-ordered it and picked it up last night.

And now, like the adult I am, will stare at it in its packaging, until we open gifts on Christmas (the day we'll also be celebrating a very late Chanukah). Which will be very very difficult to do and draw on the reserve of willpower I am currently using to not eat.

Because the gift is a colornook.

That I want to open and play with and customize and mess with like the gearnerd I am.

But I will not, for I has adulthood. And I will spend the next (oh my god) month thinking about how much fun I will have with it in January. But if you have spent any time in a Barnes & Noble recently playing with the nook, you will know how much fun it is RIGHT NOW. My salesperson, Erika, helped me a great deal by refusing to open the packaging to put my anti-glare plastic thingy on the screen, saying that once the box was open, temptation would prove to great, but then she put the whole kit and kaboodle in a bag with photographs of the colornook in action on the outside.

So now I have a very compelling bagvertisement in my house that contains the very item the bag is bagvertising.

Fine. I'm going back to thinking about food and how much I'd like to eat some that isn't composed of finn crsips and chicken breast.

Why There Are No Pictures

2010-11-29T12:25:00.000-05:00

I really was prepared to have a photographic feast for you today. A welcome back from your holiday have a good laugh at me photographic feast. For, you see, on Tuesday last, my mother and I embarked on a ripe-for-comedy expedition to the Saks Fifth Avenue bridal salon.

And boy, did I have my arrows sharpened. First off, you need an appointment. You cannot just walk in and try on dresses as we had learned the week before (instead we tried on awesome cocktail dresses on the designer floor). You must meet with your bridal consultant to discuss your vision.

Example:

Bridal consultant: So what is your vision for your wedding?
Me: I definitely think my rear end should be fully covered by the dress.

I debated long and hard whether or not to simply lie to the woman and tell her that we were a) getting married at the Plaza and inviting 500 people; b) getting married at Neuschwanstein (I swear, if I actually just spelled that correctly without checking google - scout's honor - I deserve a Vera Wang gown); c) participating in a group wedding a la the moonies; or d) having a long and very religious ceremony for which my head, shoulders, ankles, cheekbones, etc. would need covering.

In the end, because I just don't like to waste my lying, I told the truth. When she asked me what shoes I might wear, I admitted that I didn't know if I would be wearing shoes, but pointed out that the shoes I had worn to the dress-up were the lowest heels I would be considering. When she asked me what my style was, I told the truth. I tried on exactly zero head-to-toe lace numbers. I said I liked simple, clean, and elegant. That I was unmoved by beads, lace, and tulle. That I wanted something cool.

So, now I have to interject and admit why there are no pictures, even though my camera was tucked into my handbag.

Somewhere in between the jokes and the self-consiousness, I kinda got into it. I found myself trying on dresses in styles I might actually wear. I found myself imagining myself wearing such dresses. And swilling champagne. And carrying my bouquet of wildflowers picked earlier in the day by my goddaughter. For literally the first time, I imagined myself a bride, and not just someone who was signing some papers and returning, pretty much, to the same life she'd been leading for the preceding decade.

Now you just know how I love being aloof. Sarcastic. Above the fray. It's my calling card. It allows me to be vulnerable and admit that I cry at the Folger's commercial they play around Christmas time where the armed forces son surprise returns for Christmas and wakes his parents up with a fresh pot of coffee. Now I will say that I was not nearly as emotionally moved by trying on wedding dresses as I am by that commercial, but I certainly wasn't as emotionally neutral as I had anticipated.

So I didn't want to have pictures posted here of things that might resemble what I might actually wear. The tryings-on suddenly had more importance than anticipated.

In fairness, armed with my newfound bridal enthusiasm, I made the mistake of dropping 10 bucks on a bridal magazine (trying to find the one whose cover offended me least). I won't be doing that again until Amy and Abby and I get together to page through many of them while bombed because literally nothing in the 400 page tome applied to me at all. I don't need to know what juicer to register for, nor am I concerned that my bridesmaids will suddenly turn into crazed harpies (especially since there is no wedding party to speak of), nor do I really think I need a crown. So, the majority of my distaste for the wedding industry remains intact.

But I don't have pictures. Because I realized I didn't want to spoil the surprise.

How's that for breaking news?

Incentives

2010-11-22T10:51:00.000-05:00

It should come as no shock to any who have been to our home that housekeeping is neither a talent I possess nor an avocation I pursue. Frankly, if you're coming over, there is a 100% chance that devoted partner and I have spent the previous 24-36 hours frantically sweeping up dustbunnies and hiding piles of clothing under the bed where we hope you don't look (also just shoving everything we can't be bothered to sort in the closet - in our previous apartment, you may have noticed that sometimes there was a handbag "locking" the closet doors; that was why). I simply don't enjoy cleaning and think it should only be done in dire circumstances.

Some things are different. Occasionally, after an especially failtastic jam-making session, the kitchen will see a wipe down. Actually, the kitchen is the area that gets most frequently cleaned because it gets most frequently dirty. And for a day or two after we change the sheets, we try to make the bed. But honestly, we're just getting back into it at the end of the day... I currently have about half a year's worth of magazines in both the bathroom and the kitchen that I am slowly going through to pull out the recipes and articles I want to keep thereby freeing me to discard the rest of the magazine, and I am creating a large bag of clothing for Goodwill, but I'm not going to tell you that we spend our weekends mopping things.

We simply do not.

But yesterday was different. Yesterday we went to the Container Store for such necessities as shower caddy, knitting caddy, bra caddy, and boxes. Armed with our haul, I set about organizing my underwear drawer (I give it a B: the bras sort of fit in the caddy, and the drawer sort of closes over it, but there's definitely room for improvement; still this solution is an improvement over the old chuck everything in a pile and fish out what you want on any given day plan). Then I installed our shower caddy (installed might be too ambitious a word for slinging a hunk of plastic over the shower head and making sure the little rubber bit went click).

Then I sorted my knitting. This was a biggie. At the beginning, I just sort of threw things into a basket - this caused knots. Then I started bagging things and putting them in the basket and when the basket became full, plastic bags would overflow onto the floor. But since the overflow was in the newly appointed knitting nook, I considered it ok. Well, the Container Store begged to differ and reminded me that for $20, I could have two new baskets to put things in. Ah, Container Store, how wise you are. So now there was the task of organizing the basket: projects I'm not really working on right now, active projects, and yarn for soon to be active projects. Sounds like a good plan. And it was right until the moment I realized I was missing two skeins of soon to be active yarn. Two expensive skeins. Two skeins I really really liked and didn't think I could easily replace.

So then it happened. The Tasmanian Devil-like exorcism of the office/library/guest bedroom and living room in an effort to seek out the skeins I was very much hoping had not gone out with the trash (in truth, the non-wet trash was searched as well). In a matter of 45 minutes, the cluttered office suddenly had floor space and the bed was home only to pillows, sheets, blankets, and the box we need to save to send back my ring for resizing. Dry cleaning bags, and packing material from discarded boxes, and the boot box I didn't need, and many many receipts that had escaped from equally disorganized handbags - all was discarded in an appropriate trash receptacle. Shoes were returned to or near to closets. Dirty clothing found the hamper. Coffee cups the sink.

And nothing. My yarn was nowhere to be found. Which is confusing for the following reason: I may be a slob, but I am an organized slob. Underwear is rarely found in the dining room, nor are plates found in the bedroom. Bills are in piles only in rooms where bills get paid. Dirty clothing is, for the most part, found in the bedroom. So my mess doesn't travel. This makes it easier to find the not-too-dirty-to-be-worn-again jeans and the lipstick I really like (hint: either in a TSA-approved bag in the bathroom, or in the zip side pocket of a handbag). I was a little despondent. More than a little. I was downright pissed. Even though I held out hope that it was somewhere. It's just that I had run out of somewheres where it could be.

It is possible that devoted partner suggested I check the yarn baskets again, but he might be making that up to make me look bad. I knew that the yarn was in a plastic bag that crinkled noisily and, several hours later, remembered that I had a not-working-on-right-now project that was stored in a bag that crinkled. And come to think of it, even though I had moved that bag while organizing, the project that was in it was very similar in color to the missing yarn and-

Yes. The missing yarn was in the bottom of that bag. It has since been moved to the soon-to-be-active basket and I am no longer making the sad face. Furthermore, the house is remarkably cleaner than it was this time yesterday. I'm thinking win all around.

Darwin Comprehension Fail

2010-11-16T10:39:00.000-05:00

Much like my complete inability to understand the great car equation, I frequently misuse, either intentionally or accidentally, Darwinian theory of natural selection. Oft times my mistakes are simply Lamarckian in nature, but other times, they're just utter fabrication yanked from the depths of a clearly troubled mind.

Take this morning, for instance. I arrived at the 125th Street subway station and was greeted by an unusual sound: good music. I seem to have particularly bad luck when it comes to subway music - the really disturbed people are always at my stations. 125th street has some regulars: crazy can't rap guy who makes up lyrics on the spot about the people who go by; mariachi-esque band that only knows two songs; sad lady with karaoke machine clearly not able to sustain Gladys Knight. I do my best to ignore these people and frankly, if it's a choice between them and the guy who shouts: "Jeee-Sus loves you. Jeee-sus is the love," I'm pretty hard pressed to pick a winner. But the guys this morning, a keyboard and a sax, were playing some pretty upbeat, not-at-all-off-key, happy music.

So I did something I never do: I gave them a dollar.

In the moment after this, I thought about why I had given them a dollar and realized, to my horror and great amusement, that I did so for reasons of natural selection. My reasoning was that if people gave the good subway musicians money, more good subway musicians would spawn and the crap musicians would be unable to respawn. Yes. I know. Utter shite. But I liked the idea.

Imagine if it worked that way. Imagine if you could control the quality of subway music, cab drivers, Starbucks baristas, simply through tip theory. Those who didn't earn enough tips would fade from view, taking their ilk with them, while those who earned many tips would prosper and thrive, bringing more of their like into the world. I think this development in not-at-all-science would be revolutionary.

And I do so like that it would have been my idea in the first place.

Even After the Explanations, I Still Think It's Wrong

2010-11-10T11:20:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: that blue box with the non-curving noodles and the cheese that was squeezed out of a packet? I've never had it. Add that to the list that includes Big Mac and is entitled: Yelena - Skinner Box Child. And before you go around accusing my parents of being hippies who deprived us of processed foods, let me remind you that our cereal consumption was obscene: froot loops, golden grahams, corn pops. No, we were deprived of Kraft Macaroni and "cheese" because it was a) entirely uneconomical and b) retarded. To my knowledge, you had to boil the noodles just as you would if you were making it from scratch. The only "time-saver" it afforded was that your cheese was already in goo form. WTF?!? I have no idea why people buy this crap.

This was brought into sharp relief this past weekend when I went to a truly awesome event at one of my fellow knitter's houses: a Pampered Chef party. If you are an urban gal, don't worry if you've never heard of this (though, since it's owned by Omaha's own Warren Buffet, I will guess that Amy has heard of it), it's a tupperware party of sorts. Your friend invites a person (woman) to her house to tell her friends all about the terrific things said friends can buy from the Pampered Chef catalog. And the catalog is filled with useful things like knives and pots and cutting boards and cookie cutters. While you're being pitched, you get fed recipes from pampered Chef cookbooks made with Pampered Chef mixes.

The pizza dough mix, while ridiculous to me (flour, yeast, salt...why do you need someone to pre-mix these items for you?), didn't get my panties in a bunch. After all, measuring is hard. I get it. (nb: I do not get it.) Then the dessert composition began. It was described as a chocolate tiramisu trifle. It started out well enough with the presenter whisking confectioner's sugar into mascarpone. Then things got ugly.

She added to the delicious and luxurious mascarpone Cool Whip and pudding mix. And then crumbled up brownie-like cake from, yes, a mix.

For me, this was an irony because as she was desecrating her mascarpone with cool whip, she was extolling the virtues of the Pampered Chef whisk and stainless steel bowls - 2 things that could be used to, I don't know, WHIP CREAM!!!!!

I have done it. It is annoying as all hell when you know that if only the mixer was working you could whip the cream in about 30 seconds. But there you are, in the freezing pastry kitchen whipping cream by hand - lots of cream. Way more than would be needed for a single chocolate tiramisu trifle. But you don't complain because hardcore mofos can whip their own cream.

Oh, wait, you're not a hardcore mofo? Sorry. Try this instead: pour cream into bowl of mixer; turn on mixer; wait 30 seconds; have whipped cream.

Cool Whip is made from orphan's tears. You know it, I know it, Kraft knows it (point of information: I have no idea what the cheese goo is made of - I'm guessing it's made of people). Cool whip should only ever be used ironically, preferably at the same party as cheese whiz and spaghetti-Os.

But I'm a working mom with 47 bratty kids and no time to do anything except sit on my couch and mow cool whip! you might say. I would then ignore you. Because I am not kidding when I say that, if you don't REALLY care about the consistency and perceived professionalism of the final product, whipping enough cream for one person/pie/trifle takes 30 seconds in a mixer. There will be no leftovers because every supermarket in America carries heavy cream in an 8oz. container. If you do not have 30 seconds to whip your own cream, you do not deserve whipped cream.

I had a fantastic time at the event. I bought stuff. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I thank our hostess.

But I cannot forgive the cool whip.

Chalk it up to my unconventional pinko upbringing.

Not All About Me

2010-11-08T11:36:00.000-05:00

IMG_2855
Originally uploaded by reallyct

Except the part where I woke up at 6:30am to drive into Manhattan to drive to Staten Island via New Jersey to return to Manhattan and find a place for my car to take a subway to Queens, etc. etc.

But the star of the day, in my eyes, was The Boy. Of 45,000, I only had eyes for him. Which was tough because there are a lot of not-unattractive people who run this thing. In good shape. Sweating. But, really, I wasn't paying attention to that because I was scanning the crown for 30-759.

Except when I was tearing up at the beautiful, inspirational runners who made Benetton ads look like so much uniformity. I shouted at the girl with the Moroccan flag shirt twice because I didn't think all that many other people would have been able to identify it and, without a place name or a proper name, it's hard for people to cheer for you. I loved all of the Gunthers and Hiros and Esmereldas and Yvonnes. I loved the people in funny costumes and the people running for charity and the people running for family members and with family members; the people for whom this was a first marathon, the people who were just married, the people who volunteer to accompany a disabled participant all 26.2 miles. I loved unexpectedly seeing a guy from my high school and screaming at him as he ran by; I loved how happy people looked when you called out their name; how grateful they looked when you did it as they were struggling.

Look at this to get your fill of how beautifully diverse in ethnicity, age, sex, place of origin, the marathon is.

I had never paid attention to one until last year when The Boy ran his first. I'm sorry I missed it before that. It is a terrific event and the camaraderie is palpably heavy. If you've never gone out and watched for an hour or so, please do yourselves a favor and show up next November. If you don't live in New York, plan to stop by your own city's marathon. And if you want to see a sampling of the 2010 marathon through my eyes (it's very Boy-centric), you can check out the photos.

Other Places

2010-11-04T11:34:00.000-04:00

IMG_2801
Originally uploaded by reallyct

Food issues aside, one of my favorite things to do in new places is stop by the supermarket. The world's travel writers have a million and one ways that visitors can dig on local vibe, but I have yet to see one emphatically suggest a sampling of local supermarkets - sure, they'll all tell you to hit the farmer's markets and bazaars, but I'm talking about the super pedestrian, industrial lighting, devoid of aesthetics supermarkets. I love them! I truly cannot go to a new place without stopping by a supermarket. When my parents were recently in Paris, my shopping list for them could be 95% dealt with at the Monoprix - a supermarket. Please bring sea salt and reusable shoppers.

I think you can tell a lot about a place from its supermarkets. Even in New York, the difference between shopping uptown and shopping downtown can alert the newcomer to micro-regional tastes (witness the tamarind vs. the dairy- gluten- taste-free crackers). So when we pulled off the road Sunday to grab coffee and carrots, I was thrilled to be taking in a little bit of the Pennsylvania/Maryland border culture as witnessed through the prism of the MegaMart.

And rewarded I was. For at the Halloween candy display, which we last-minute availed ourselves of for potential trick or treaters, I was overjoyed to discover Jesus Harvest Seeds.

It is important to note that the above package was ACTUALLY in the store. I did not mail away for this from some gag company. This is a product. People can buy it. At least at the Giant Supermarket somewhere in lower Pennsylvania.

And, as promised by the packaging, each snack-sized gem does, indeed, contain some scripture. I would have honestly crapped my pants had I ever received this as a child at Halloween! But apparently, not everyone in the country is as potentially bowel-incontinent as I.

I have oft been accused of having a warped view of The Rest of the Country, and some of that may be true. I enjoyed our time in the Carolinas greatly and could well see myself living there, but it cannot be argued that some cultural mores have varied levels of acceptance. And in Places Not New York, love of el Jefe, is an acceptable thing to shout from the rafters and plaster on your bumper.

I would venture to assert that ignoring these differences is just as dangerous as pretending they don't exist. But I will not lie: this sort of shit tickles me in all the right places!

Love and My Mother's African Violets

2010-11-01T11:27:00.000-04:00

My cousin, Alexandra, was married this weekend in Maryland. She and her husband Jeff put together a beautiful ceremony and quite enjoyable party and I was happy to be among my family - we don't get together as often as we should. I finally met the last of my mother's first cousins (there are a number of 1st removed, 2nd, etc. cousins that are difficult to keep track of) and I danced with my father and brother. The bridesmaid's were in a beautiful shade of pewter, the groomsmen wore truly excellent turquoise ties. The officiant was a "spiritual humanist." Good times.

One of the bridesmaid's read a poem during the ceremony about the importance of having a good foundation in your love and marriage to sustain you when the passion of being in love fades away. Unlike the vast majority of poem readers at weddings, this girl articulated her words and used phrasing so that it didn't sound like a test run at a robotics convention. Unfortunately, her excellent diction and treatment of the poem as poetry allowed me to really pay attention to the words (not well enough that I could find the poem on google, but well enough for me to remember how I felt about them). And I found I didn't like what the poem was saying.

Using a tree as the metaphor, the poem talked about needing deep, strong roots because you couldn't expect to maintain the beautiful flowers for a lifetime; that you should really love one another because it was inevitable that you wouldn't be 'in love' forever; that one day you would stop being in love with one another and the best that you could hope for was to still love each other.

*

My mother has about six African violet plants. These little guys are notoriously difficult to care for and have a high death rate. My mother loves these African violets and maintains them vigorously. When she is away, she writes a treatise on their care for me to follow: use only the filtered water, 1/2 c. for this plant 1/3 c. for that one, don't get water on the leaves. Even with all her careful consideration, some years the plants don't flower. Or she'll get one flower that will soon die, leaving just the leaves of her plant. Other years, all of the plants will flower, and she'll call me excitedly to tell me how beautiful they are and how happy she is that she got them to flower that year. I don't know how many years this has been going on, but she's added to the collection here and there, having started with a single plant.

*

I find that people are frequently too eager to forecast doom. We got engaged and a number of well-meaning people made jokes about Bridezillas, starting to simply hate little things the other person does, gaining weight, lamenting our decision to spend the rest of our lives together due to toilet paper shortages and burnt roasts. I hate to harp on this point, but it does bear mention that many of these people had been married a far shorter time than devoted partner and I have kept house together. And I don't think any of them did it to be mean. I think it's part of our collective zeitgeist: the henpecked husband, the wife frustrated by her mate's laziness, the joint deathmarch to the bedroom for mandatory 7-minute coitus. Whether or not people actually experience these things to the extent popular culture would have us believe, it is trendy to pretend as if this is just the way things are.

Devoted partner and I are not exceptional in our love. I would never even presume to think our love rated higher on the quality scale than anyone else's. I don't even think it in private. Our love is our love and is unique because it's ours. We have had a while to fall out of love with one another and rest on the laurels of the love we built behind the pomp and circumstance of in love; we've had longer to do so than most couples' marriages. Strangely, though, we haven't done that. We're not eagerly looking forward to our staid, sexless, tolerant years. Our 'Everybody Loves Raymond' years. Our 'at least we made children' years. I would unabashedly assert that I am MORE 'in love' with devoted partner today than I was in March of 1997. We've gotten better. There's more to be in love with!

*

Marriage shouldn't be a sturdy old tree stripped of blossoms, but strong enough not to be turned into kindling. Marriage is an African violet whose blooms are unpredictable. Some years the abundance of beauty could stop your breath, other years you just have to believe that there's more left for it to give. But to think that there's only one season for flowering is a thought bereft of hope. I wish that my cousin and her new husband will experience numerous flowerings for many many years, and that in between, they don't forget about the filtered water and the soil levels, and keeping the leaves dry. That even at the greatest heights of happiness, they make sure not to neglect the regimen that allowed that happiness to erupt. It takes work - take it from your older cousin - and it's not easy and it's not always fun.

And it's always always always worth it.

Fur is Fabulous, As Are the 70s

2010-10-28T11:31:00.000-04:00

Much to devoted partner's ~~delight~~ chagrin, I found a television channel that, at truly uncivilized hours of the day, shows old Charlie's Angels episodes. Now the DVR is packed with them. I am not a Farrah-come-lately in this matter. I have ALWAYS loved Charlie's Angels. Loved them as a young child, loved them as a teen, forever loved. Loved in a way I didn't love Love Boat or Dukes of Hazzard or any of the other similarly ridiculous shows of yesteryear. Charlie's Angels was special.

I covet (past/present/future) Jaclyn Smith's hair. If the genie came to grant me a single wish, I would seriously pause for a moment deciding between gobs of money and Jaclyn Smith's hair. Mostly because I'm not sure any amount of money will get me her hair.

And their outfits. Oh sweet jeebus. It was like Barbie writ large, but with guns. And judo. And the exceptionally tingle-inducing sound of John Forsythe's voice. Remember when Vanna White wasn't made of robot parts? And she wore spangly dresses and was resoundingly awesome? That's what the angels look like in every episode. And don't even get me started on their Mustang Cobras etc. In short, they can do no wrong. I am even generous with the later, forgettable angels in a way I have never been with the later execrable Timothy Dalton Bond (who starred in a Charlie's Angels episode, by the way, as the jewel thief boyfriend of Farrah Fawcett come back for a special guest star role).

As luck would have it, this week's assortment of reruns included a two-parter. Set in Vail. Where they skied in fur hats. Actually, the hat Sabrina wore is in my closet. I must remember to wear it more this winter. When they weren't in their ski garb, they were in the most fantastic assortment of 70s fur things. I wanted them all. Similarly, Helen Mirren wore a fur jacket in Red that fostered the same neediness within me.

I have only a passing consideration for living things - mostly the living things I like, so fur has never even registered on my list of things that are horrible. The differences among wearing fur, wearing leather, eating a hamburger, shooting at stray cats with a pellet gun, are small (you're welcome, AB). You should have seen me when we went to Montreal and to the fur store - I was seriously smitten with everything. It is my lifelong dream to own, and pull off, a muff. So seeing the wide array of furstrosities modeled by the Angels was and epic merge of two things I unashamedly love despite good taste.

And if you're really curious, or really bored, the nice kids at YouTube have a condensed version of the episode.

Fellini It Isn't

2010-10-26T11:25:00.000-04:00

For someone who has, in her life, taken great pains to appear smarter and more cultured than you, the evolution of taste takes its toll. The truth is, on any given evening, I would prefer to watch Dune than The Seventh Seal. In fact, on any given evening, I would prefer to watch Dune over most other things. I have a Dune problem. I'm going to attempt to not cast my lower-brow tastes in any kind of hipsterish rejection of the highbrow and merely say that after an adolescence of total modernist immersion with some Renaissance epic poetry thrown in for good measure, I'm ok with the fact that I can't stand the New Yorker and generally won't even read it on the toilet.

We saw the movie Red over the weekend and I loved it. Now my love of ensemble action-esque movies is nothing new. I have been a Poseidon Adventure, Towering Inferno, Murder on the Orient Express, etc. fan for many years. Little pleased me more than the original Ocean's Eleven simply because I hoped it was the start of more 70's-era ensembles of silliness. Red, which is decidedly lowbrow was a delightful romp with all the attendant irony I look for in such things. Also, Helen Mirren has a sick body. Sick.

But it dawned on me that maybe I have ever so little less to prove by my choice of media consumption. After all, as devoted partner notes, my humor tends towards the eight-year-olds never so apparently as when I'm watching Family Guy and laughing at doodie jokes. When I reach for a book to reread, it's true that it's frequently Foucault's Pendulum, but the others that get reread often are American Psycho and Tim Cahill's Road Fever. So it's not all semiotics and fancy words. I have tried, and disliked, many of the new guard of intellectuals, leading me to believe that what I'm looking for has changed, not merely that the new guard of intellectuals is a bloviating morass of mediocrity (see how I used really snooty words there?).

And, as is a case I have heard from other recovering, or semi-recovering, self-satisfied asshats, I'd rather read good non-fiction these days than mediocre fiction. Philip Roth, a shining example of self-satisfied asshattery, has become more of a punchline than a good read. After all, I know of no one other than Philip Roth as interested in Philip Roth's erectile dysfunction. Now, I'm not yet at the point where I salivate over the newest biography of a nineteenth century politician, but I don't discount the possibility that that time may come.

As for film, or shall I say movies, I never much went in for the idea of film as art and I'd much rather laugh at a movie than feel consternation at one. Again, a good documentary would serve me better than a mediocre thought experiment.

Now, I'm not over the hump yet. I will still disdain the bottom of the barrel with full voice. You need not worry about seeing me thumbing through Danielle Steele or any of the author's who have ads on the subways, nor will you catch me waiting in line for Jackass 3 or a Rob Schneider movie (were another to ever be made), but I'm just no longer interested in subjecting myself to what is cast as High Art for the sake of having experienced High Art. I've experienced a buttload of High Art and it's taught me that not all of it is actually good (I'm looking at you, D.H. Lawrence, you pitiable hack).

Devoted partner, on the other hand, is not off the hook for his choice of reading material, and frankly neither are you if I catch you reading a book about Vampires that wasn't written by Bram Stoker.

The Fruits of my Labor

2010-10-22T11:53:00.002-04:00

It was pointed out to me by Jen, a devoted reader, that I don't show you the photos of what I knit. This was sort of intentional as I know most of you could give a crap. But perhaps, you think it's odd that I would tell you about my digestive health and not my hobbies, and I can see the logic in that. So today, in honor of Friday boredom and lack of inspiration, I give you the past several months of sweatering.

Most recently finished.

Very tiny yarn, very tiny needles, took forever.

Impulse yarn purchase in Maine. Cozy sweater of which there will be more.

Tapping into my inner Renn Faire.

First attempt at lacy work.

So now you have proof that I waste my time hobbyistically. I'll try not to forget about your deep and abiding interest when next I finish a project.

Research in Mistranslation

2010-10-21T10:55:00.000-04:00

A Free Union and Familial Life:
Concubinage is a union made between two persons of the same sex or of different sexes who live as a couple. This union presents the character of stability and continuity. The rights and obligations of concubines are limited when compared to married people. The persons living in a free union are not subject, in particular, to the obligation of debts and assistance. In case of the decease of one concubine, the other does not inherit save for a testament in his/her favor.

Civil Pact of Solidarity:
The civil pact of solidarity is a contract. It is concluded between two physical persons for organizing their communal life. The two persons must be majors (it is impossible to conclude a pact of three person or more) of different or the same sex.

Civil Marriage:
Two people can get married in France even if they are not of French nationality on the condition that they are of different sexes and are aged no less than 18 years. The marriage is celebrated in the commune where one of the two future spouses has a domicile or a residence since at least a month of continuous residence at the date of publication provided by law.

Marriage Without Contract:
There are no formalities. This regime signifies that that which each possesses or owes before the marriage rests in personal property and the goods which he receives through donation or succession throughout the marriage. The product of work of each belongs to the community.

Marriage With Contract:
In the absence of particular formality, the spouses are subject to the regime and the rights of the commune called the regime of the commune property. If the spouses want to opt for another regime, they must pass a contract of marriage.

Food Obligation:
The food obligation and an aid of material which is due a member of a close family (ascendant, descendant) in the need and who is not in measure to assure his subsistence. His amount varies in function of resources of he who is demanded of lodging and needs.

Woolapalooza

2010-10-19T11:09:00.001-04:00

IMG_2733
Originally uploaded by reallyct

The first, and frankly most important, thing to note is that I emerged from my day at Rhinebeck very under budget. I treated the festival the way I treat the casino: take the money you're willing to lose IN CASH and do not, under any circumstances, get more. I also had a list of things I was looking for which kept me from the :SQUIRREL: effect.

The festival was huge. Way bigger than I had anticipated. Who knew so many people produced wool things?!? There were also tons of animals, including a for-sale border collie (see slideshow) that, despite the longings of my heart, remained for someone else to buy (intelligent Yelena knows that the border collie, while awesome, is about the highest maintenance of dogs and perhaps not suitable for the first-time dog owner). I also considered buying some goats. Especially after that Colbert Report report on how they can do my landscaping. But I like Pablo and I wouldn't want to put him out of a job (actual name of our landscaper is Pablo, please no one think I was making a generic Mexican gardener joke). Also I think goats might suck as pets. Though, on the plus side, if I got a lady goat, I could learn to make cheese.

And yet, amidst the sheer volume of things, I found myself rather, if not underwhelmed, undermotivated to buy. A lot of the yarn for sale was of the coarser variety than I am accustomed to, being that it wasn't very processed and kept a lot of the raw-wool essence that is especially popular with those enormous Scandinavian sweaters. Instead of shopping with my eyes, I was shopping with my hands. I'd reach into the hanks and if they weren't tactile-y what I was interested in, I didn't bother allowing myself to be seduced by color. Only if the touch was right did I then assess the colors. And, gosh, with few exceptions, there was little that leapt out at me as BOTH something I was in love with AND something that would be practical for a project I was going to make. There was lots of beautiful impractical stuff, don't get me wrong. But I was trying to be the kind of sanguine adult who makes responsible decisions.

I did have some unnecessary apple pie, though.

All in all, though, it was a simply perfect autumn day and I got lots of exercise walking from booth to booth to booth with Julie and Jen, my two fellow stich n bitchers, with whom I shared the day (thanks to the generous carpooling of Jen).

I think some of the pictures turned out quite well, though I'm still getting the hang of my prime lens. And next year, I think I might take devoted partner with me - if I can convince him to wear a kilt like some of the other boys I saw.

Going Round the Bend

2010-10-15T11:19:00.000-04:00

There are people who like beef, and then there are people who take weeklong intensive butchering workshops. I think this is true for many likes. You have the people who passively like, occasionally indulge, etc. and the people who make special trips to bizarre locales to share their enthusiasm with likeminded obsessives.

This Sunday, I join their ranks.

I am going to my first fiber festival. Yes. An entire day of yarn-related activities. I think this qualifies as a gross escalation of my hobby.

I'm going with two of my buddies from my Wednesday night Stich 'n Bitch. We will drive nearly two hours to Rhinebeck, New York, where we will encounter an orgy of fiber the likes of which mere passersby of yarn stores couldn't imagine.

And I've been in training.

I've not bought yarn, even stuff I really wanted, in preparation. I've treated the outing, financially, the way I treat a trip to the casino: money in cash, in hand, and not a penny more. No revisiting the ATM. No, "oh just one more pull of the slots." No rationalizations that I might never see the like of x again.

I go knowing that those I encounter might be of the variety of manic crafters that I poke fun at and, that by my presence, I count myself among their numbers. I hope that this experience will not be a lifechanging one that has me flitting about the nation in search of other fiber festivals, dragging devoted partner in tow like a dog to the vet.

Trepidation abounds, but I think I'm ready for this milestone.

See you on the other side of crazy.

The Little Things That Prevent Me From Being An Adult

2010-10-14T11:02:00.000-04:00

My aversion to showering is well-documented. This is a character failing I know. Most adults do not consider "took a shower" to be a milestone needing celebration. But I think it's important to note that it's not the shower qua shower that I object to, merely all the things showering implies: hair conditioning, exfoliation, combing of hair, application of various types of moisturizer - and that's on days when I don't suck it up and actually do my hair and makeup.

Our shower is perfectly sized, but short on storage. Since I have no special affection for the act of showering, I have done little to ameliorate this problem. As such, it is not unusual, especially during shared showers, for various wash items to fall to the floor: combs, body washes, conditioners, etc. And yet, as I attempt to embrace adulthood with all its hygiene requirements, I find that I would like to have more room for my stuff.

Oh who am I kidding? The entire bathroom could use some assistance. Neither of us is really all that keen on bathroom maintenance (see empty roll of toilet paper on the dispenser and active roll of toilet paper on the counter; towering stack of magazines; unused but unmoved cups; assorted daily items not replaced in medicine cabinet). I don't even grok this, which is what I found when I google imaged "Martha Stewart bathroom." Now, I also read the post that accompanied the picture of an impossibly groomed medicine cabinet (who does this?) in which the author admitted to being occasionally lazy, but her occasionally lazy and mine have two entirely different meanings.

I did, however, take solace in her 8-minute regimen. Take 8 and only 8 minutes to do something tidy. I like this in theory. Much like, "only eat until you're full," it makes a lot of intellectual sense. In reality, my full and other people's might be different, ergo I simply avoid eating altogether. I would very much like to become an 8-minute kind of person. Since the last cleaning of my kitchen (long long long long overdue) I have been wiping up when I see spots of stuff on counters and stovetops, so there might be hope, but amidst that hope is the stepstool with the stack of magazines that didn't fit in the bathroom perched precariously on the top step so...

I have been to many of your houses (I'm looking at you AMY) and I notice that they all seem well-kept. Do you have maids? Or do you actually take time to fix your own houses and how do you do this when the DVR beckons? Or the knitting site? Or, really, well, anything?

But this weekend we will pack ourselves off to the Container Store for 8 minutes of looking for bathroom organizers. And I will try very hard to spend 8 minutes actually unpacking and installing our purchases.

Mistakes Were Made

2010-10-13T11:54:00.000-04:00

On a crisp fall morning, when sloth was attempting to reign, devoted partner muscled us out the door and into Manhattan to visit the New Amsterdam market even though, as I said, I didn't need anything. He thought the act of simply doing something would be good for our constitutions and morale. Also, he wanted to take me to lunch at a rugby bar.

I'm pretty sure I learned about the New Amsterdam market from Clay and I decided it would be a good time to figure out how to use my prime lens and also check out the vittles. We could not have been blessed with a better day and after only 15 minutes, we managed to find parking near South Street Seaport, which is no small feat on a Sunday. The market was not what I expected. First off, I expected it to be IN the Fulton Fish Market, not haphazardly outside of it. And yet, and yet, someone looking for food and fun would not be disappointed.

Having now seen some farmer's markets outside of New York, I must say that while I applaud the greenmarket program for hewing to the ideal of 100% local 100% of the time, places like San Francisco, Portland, and frankly even Durham, North Carolina have markets where a person could theoretically do all of his shopping, not just the raw materials. And I like seeing what local food artisans are making just as much as I like to see what local farmers are growing. The New Amsterdam market, while small, had a decent combination.

There were people actually cooking things on site as well as people selling pre-packaged goodies like oils and candy. And there was glorious meat product. And that's where the problems started. Country pate? Clearly needed. Oh, no, and there are duck rillettes - absolutely needed. Devoted partner apparently needed cheese. And Scandinavian bread. I needed fancy caramels. And a bar of regrettable, half-a-bite-only, bar chocolate.

I like this market. I want to go back again and again.

Then we made more mistakes at the rugby bar where beer and shepherd's pie magically appeared. In my defense, I ate about 1/4 of what was put in front of me (rugby players need lots of food; more food than perhaps I would like to eat). The rugby bar was more of a slick Pacific rim bar/resto, but there was rugby on the TV and immediately after my telling devoted partner that all rugby players looked alike we had to suppress a giggle as one sat down next to us ably proving the point.

I responsibly froze the rillettes so that we could concentrate on the pate without distraction. But knowing there are delicious ducky wonders in my freezer is keeping me sane in these times of rice cake and chicken austerity.

It Gets Better

2010-10-11T10:30:00.000-04:00

These days I spend a lot of time in front of the computer crying. If you know me, you know it sometimes doesn't take much: the At&T and Folger's commercials are perennial crying favorites. I like to think emotional freedom is a trait I picked up at home: my dad's a good crier. We're all good criers. Some would say it's an ethnic thing, some would say it's political, I don't know what to think. I just know that it's always been ok to cry and that empathy was never greeted as weakness.

Well, for several years now, the internet has been trying to compete with TV for my tears and I blame Dan Savage. A couple of years ago it was this which just reduced me to a blithering mess. Upon rewatching, nothing has changed.

Now, more recently, it's this, the It Gets Better Project developed by Savage after a spate of suicides by gay or perceived gay teens. In an effort to give these kids some kind of support, gay adults, and quite a handful of straight ones too, have been making videos trying to explain that as crappy as adolescence is, especially if you feel on the outside of your society, it gets better as you get older and get to make your own decisions about where you live, whom your peers are, and how you want to live your life. To say this stuff is heartbreaking is a massive understatement.

However isolated I have ever felt (and I'll lump you readers in here with me - we're all super lucky), it doesn't even register on the same scale. While my immediate reaction involves fantasies of firearms leveled against those who disagree with me AND SIMULTANEOUSLY act against children whom they perceive as threats, my second reaction is just a sea of helplessness: all I feel that I have to give is money, and while I know the money is useful (donate here), I wish I could DO something. But all I have is compassion. I have nothing meaningful on which to draw and my rage isn't something I think would be therapeutic to share with people in real pain.

I try to understand how some people can be so utterly invested in the thoughts, actions, and lives of others; how they can think it matters so much that they would actively interfere in a stranger's life - I still don't get it. I mean, I've heard the explanations, but it has never rung true for me and so I don't even know how (other than with cleansing fire) to combat it.

So I'd like to thank the people who are making videos, who are sharing their lives with kids who think they have no life left to live. While I know emotion is preventing me from being as cogent as I'd like, I'm going to try and take a quiet moment to believe that not only will it get better for individuals, but for all of us; that we'll reach a time when this sort of abject hate is the exception and not the rule.

The Internet Is For, Well, You Know

2010-10-08T12:23:00.000-04:00

This morning, devoted partner and I shared a meaningful moment. If you're a couple, then I'm sure you'll know what I mean. Those unexpected times when your love calls out to you, something funny in his or her voice, and says those six words every lover wants to hear,

"I just saw Brett Favre's (rhymes with) sock!"

Eagerly, I took the stairs quickly, the surprise and anticipation in my voice, "really?"

Apparently, there's a new tactic in wooing that the kids (who the hell am I kidding, Brett Favre is like 108) involving photographing your junk and sending it along. I know that this must work since I am forever lamenting the lack of junk photos in my inbox and encouraging devoted partner, and really anyone else, to snap and send.

For a moment, let's just get the unspoken out there so that others may be spared: don't photograph your genitals. Don't! If you absolutely must photograph your genitals, do not ever email them anywhere. Ever! Unless your genitals are being photographed by Herb Ritts, you will not be pleased by what happens after others see the picture. I myself felt no compunction mocking Brett Favre's absolutely average genitals. And this was long before I mocked his motivation for photographing them in the first place.

And let's talk about that, Brett. I'm a woman. I like the genitals of men. Under no circumstances do I ever want to receive an email from someone I'm not already sleeping with (and frankly, I'm not that into receiving one from someone I am sleeping with as, presumably, I already know what they look like) showing a disembodied meat puppet. This is an ego thing, I guess. You think women don't care about the rest of you as much as they care about your vaunted pokey toy. This is a fallacy. And the only kinds of people who send these kinds of pictures are gross people with whom, if we weren't already sleeping, we certainly wouldn't start and, had we started, might consider stopping.

Flowers are nice. They say, "hey I'm interested in having a relatively meaningless casual affair with you based primarily on how you look in a cheerleading outfit" without, say, being disgusting. Now, I can understand if you gave her the picture so that she could supplement her income by selling it, but I think you missed out on the part of the equation that necessitated other people seeing it (I'm thinking your wife, kids, grade school teachers, etc. oh wait, Wikipedia also informs me you have a grandchild - kudos) if the young lady was to reap profits. Would it have not been easier to simply let 10 grand fall out of your pocket?

I am not the only one, Mr. Favre, who has now laughed not only at your grand scale stupidity, but also at your decidedly NOT grand scale Leaning Tower of Pisa. In fact we're laughing at you more than we did when you said you were retiring. We're laughing at you because dumb is funny and you seem to have gotten enough dumb to keep us entertained for quite some time.

My Pants Don't Fit

2010-10-06T09:52:00.000-04:00

I've been hiding this from you because gloating is unbecoming. But yes, my pants don't fit in the good way. As I am solidly at my senior year of high school fighting weight, I find myself tugging up my waistbands more and more. Today, for example, I have a serious case of saggy baggy elephant butt, and you know what? I'm sort of ok with it.

I'll tell you the secret, because I know you're dying to hear the magic weight loss formula that has permitted devoted partner and me to jointly lose over 60 pounds this year, but I warn you, it's complicated. A serious regimen that requires round-the-clock attention and management. The kind of thing that takes dedication and organization and whose publication will probably net me millions.

The secret to weight loss is

(drum roll)

(more drums)

(yet more drums)

not eating.

(cue awed gasps)

Yes, dear friends, the secret to losing weight is to stop stuffing things in your face. In fact, in order to cut weight, you should adopt an adversarial relationship with food. Food is the enemy, the Delilah to your Samson, waiting for an opening (literally) to derail you with its promise of delicious delicious fat. Do not succumb. Try to forget how delicious an entire loaf of pumpernickel raisin bread truly is. Also bacon. Also army-sized bowls of pasta. Also brownies. And ribeye steaks.

And I'll tell you why you must forget these things and here's where the real secret lies: rarely is what you're about to eat as good as you want it to be. The number of times I've looked longingly at a chocolate chip cookie or brownie and then remembered that 98% of the time when I would buy those things before, they were rarely as good as I wanted them to be is staggering. Macaroni and cheese is another. Sure, all macaroni and cheese is good enough, but very little of it is transcendent. And if I'm going to eat it, I want it to rock my world.

For example, this afternoon I'm meeting my former chef from db for a bite at the new Payard on West Houston. What? you say, you're going to a patisserie? Quelle temptation! Indeed it will be. But I will order what I want and proceed as follows: take one bite; if confection is remarkable, take 3-4 more; else, stop eating. You see? This kind of thing works if you remind yourself that you'd like to be able to reserve those cheaty calories on things that are really really phenomenal and that you can't do that if you cram mediocre fat into your piehole (pies are another category of things that rarely measure up to expectation).

I'm halfway there. Halfway to a weight I haven't been since puberty. A made up number, really. A guess as to what would be healthy and look good. And I'm halfway to it.

ChickenFail

2010-10-05T11:40:00.001-04:00

I have mentioned before that Dan is the motherplucking chicken whisperer. It may have been his beef that was served at Chelsea Clinton's wedding, but I feel his chicken transcends poultry in ways that are still not fully understood. I will not lie, though, these are not inexpensive chickens. In fact, given that you can probably pick up a purdue roaster for like $5 (honestly, I don't know, I've never had one) and Whole Foods will sell you a cooked one for like $10; Dan's are $7 a pound.

Believe me when I tell you (though, frankly, it's not important until next year since the chickens are done for the season) that it is worth $7/pound. Yes, there is something unsettling about not really getting change back from 30 bucks when you're buying chicken, but I am happier about eating this chicken than I am about eating 98% of the rest of the stuff I eat that I have decided price is unimportant.

For the most part the chicken comes to our house to be prepared in a most basic fashion. Specifically, the Amateur Gourmet's fashion. It has never not been good. Generally speaking it is out of this world. Two weekends ago it was exceptional, as were the veggies, fingerlings and cippolinis which were absolutely pwned by Maillard reactions.

This past weekend I bought my last chicken of the year. I even emailed Dan to make sure I could get my hands on one. Devoted partner and I decided jointly to try something new. He wanted something that utilized herbs, a more traditional recipe if you will, and I had seen a recipe that used root veggies in this month's Bon Appetit. It sounded fine. And as I had learned, it's really difficult to mess up Dan's chickens.

Until now, that is.

Scratch that, the chicken is fine, the meal sucked.

We threw out the pan juices that I was told to add lager to and reduce because the resulting concoction tasted exactly like skunked beer with meat in it; the root vegetables released too much water during cooking and as a result nothing caramelized and everything was bland. The saving grace? The cup or so of the previous week's pan juices that, when drizzled over this lackluster meal, went a long way to salvaging it.

I know every recipe won't be a winner, but this one was a real loser, the kind of loser that, coupled with my magazine malaise, is really taking Bon Appetit out of the running for renewal. I just can't believe that I messed up the recipe to such an extent that it was my negligence that made it taste bad. I think it was simply a crap recipe.

Tonight we'll give the folks at Saveur a try with a cardamom chicken curry. The chicken has been marinating in ~~salmonella~~ yogurt since yesterday, so if you don't hear from me tomorrow, you'll know why.

Ooooh. A good book.

2010-10-04T11:37:00.000-04:00

Whilst in Portland, the DuYos lent me a book. Now there needs to be some background to this. Once upon a time, JDuYo and I read most of the same books, eating up Auster and Delillo like any pretentious 15-year-old should. True, we occasionally disagreed, but for the most part, we were content to read and read alike. Then something happened: college. Maybe it started before college, but we were too busy to notice.

But on trips home during those four years, he kept talking about things like John Cheever and I kept talking about Gabriel Garcia Marquez. We both confessed to having tried the other's choice and having been mercilessly bored. Quelle horreur. When we roomed together after college, things got no better, for now we were set in our ways. Of 50 books read, perhaps 3 were in common, and we both just accepted that our tastes had irrevocably diverged. We tried not to make too too much fun of the other's preferences. That was difficult. Literary preference is only one rung down from sports team preference.

So eventually, we simply stopped recommending books to one another. After all, just because we didn't like the same books didn't mean we couldn't be friends. We should just avoid antagonizing one another with our tastes. Every once in a while we would hit upon something we both liked (though if I'm being honest, I can't remember the last one) and we could more often agree on what we didn't like - especially when it was the execrable work of former heroes.

But the book I was handed in Portland was handed over with a ringing endorsement and since I'll read anything, there was not reason not to begin David Beniof's City of Thieves.

Let's start off by saying I really liked this book. Thanks DuYos! And I'll tell you why. I think one of the points of divergence in our literary tastes has to do with protagonists and intent. My gauge is that JDuYo finds character to be kingly - even when said character is a middle class middle-aged white dude with no major problems. If the writer can capture the character brilliantly, it doesn't much matter if the character in question isn't that brilliant. I, on the other hand, thanks to a semester of Roth & Updike, no longer give a crap about the problems of the average white man. See also: Fight Club. I simply don't care. To me it's all so much blahblahblah. Now, in fairness, give me the average Indian man and I care. It doesn't make sense. It's just that the average Indian man is different - I don't know him - whereas I know the average 50-year old American or Brit.

My reading leans heavily towards the non-American or British author, excepting Colonial writers, because I'm reading to learn something I didn't know before. This doesn't always happen, but it's what I'm striving for.

Now Benioff is an American. A New Yorker. An easy mark to write Rothdike books. Yet he chose, for this story, the Siege of Leningrad among which to set his bildungsroman. Very well, I'm at least initially sold. I know less about the Siege of Leningrad than I know about Philip Roth's testicles ergo interest. And the story was good. And the characters believable not only for who they were but for who they were in the context of Russian characters. Benioff did a great job writing as if he was a Russian author. And as a great lover of Russian authors, that too held my interest. The book wasn't too long, something our young American writers are excelling at these days - it's fine if you're writing something like War & Peace, but a 600 page novel about how you can't finish your novel is really really really shite.

So I recommend the book wholeheartedly. And I'm ready for my own next recommendation!

iDone

2010-09-30T10:19:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time I was a loyal Apple user. The school was chock full of them and when it came time for your family to buy one for home, it was the obvious choice. Ed was the only person I knew who had a PC and DOS was frankly frightening. We started with the ridiculous Apple 2GS which became immediately obsolete due to the introduction and adoption of the Mac, rendering all Apple models about as useful to home computing as a toaster. College arrived, and with it, a Mac whose name I don't remember. This computer was fine until I started noticing devoted partner's PC. There was something, well, strange about it.

It was really really fast. It didn't need to allocate virtual memory to programs to keep them running at anything approximating reasonable levels. And while it was confusing to learn at first, I soon go the hang of it - what with the confusing start menu and such.

Then after college when my Performa (I just remembered) was more useful as a heating element than a computer, it was time to buy my own computer. Using my own money. And here's where things got interesting. For $1500 I could get a bottom-of-the-line Mac. Double that amount would get me a usable one. For $800 I could get a faster-than-the-usable-3k-mac Dell. Start taking guesses what arrived at the house!

That Dell lasted a good 5 years or so before it was time for an upgrade. This time, under the expert tutelage of devoted partner, I built my new computer. And continued to upgrade it with orphan parts until the present.

In the meantime, though, the folks at Apple had found a way to re-ingratiate themselves with me via the indispensable iPod. Sure, I was a late adopter because I couldn't countenance a $300 walkman, but the price came down, I had a birthday, and devoted partner swooped in the fill the MpVoid in my life. That was around 2005.

By 2008, the iPod was behaving very strangely. As in not working all the time. And then not working at all. But I really didn't want to buy another. When the nanos came out in all those pretty colors, I debated one, until I saw them in person. The colors were icky and shiny and not at all as lovely as they looked on TV or in print ads. Eff it, I said, I don't NEED an iPod, it's just nice to have.

When the DuYos moved out west, they had a sale of their old crap, including their first generation iPhones. I swooped one up thinking I could just use it as a replacement Mp3 player. That was a mistaken assumption. You see, without the AT&T contract, the iPhone is merely an ineffectual paperweight. Devoted partner again came to the rescue and spent the better part of the weekend hacking the iPhone so that I could use it to listen to music without paying AT&T for the privilege.

It also ran apps.

Delicious, unnecessary, and yet quite addictive apps. The iPhone and I had a good 6 months or so. And then the screen stopped working. Not entirely, just enough to make typing impossible. Apparently I had dead pixels. That's ok, it still plays music. But those apps were fun. I'm totally missing out on the cultural phenomenon that is foursquare.

So now what?

I could buy the silly new Nano for $179; the midrange touch for $299; the boring, app-free classic for $249; the monopoly-friendly iPhone for 50 bucks a month for the rest of my life; or the shiny and utterly useless, memory-insufficient iPad for $499 and up - unless I want to also give AT&T $50/month, in which case my iPad suddenly costs a minimum of $629.

Now, in a vacuum, some of these are not so much money that I would have to forgo food or rent, but while discussing it with devoted partner, I realized something: since 2002, he has owned 4 separate iDevices. FOUR. IN EIGHT YEARS. He has needed to replace his iThing every two years because the bloody things are totally unreliable. Funny, though, because the extra 60 bucks Apple asks you to shell out for extended warranty protection is good for how long?

2 years.

So I'm putting my foot down. I will not be buying a new iToy. Yes, I will snoop around the internet to see if there's any kind of wild scheme that would enable me to cure my current iToy of its dead pixels but, as cool as they are, I will not ante any more money into the gaping maw that is Apple. I didn't buy an American car because of the horror stories associated with planned obsolescence and my suspicions that Apple, too, employs that savvy strategy are going to prevent me from adding to their coffers either. I had my first digital camera for about 6 years before it stopped working, and I wasn't exactly gentle with it. The nice folks at Canon offered me a new camera for the same cost as the repair. You bust your iToy after 2 years (or 1 if you don't pay the extra 60 bucks) and it's another $300 out of pocket.

Canon will continue (and has continued) to get my business; Apple...we're breaking up.

Like Finding Kryptonite

2010-09-29T11:11:00.002-04:00

~~If you were a child of the 80s~~ If you were a child of the 80s exactly like me, two things were true: 1. CandyLand probably did exist and your crap parents just weren't telling you where it was and 2. You pretty much anticipated this kind of underground camaraderie to occur with frequency (NB: I realize this is a film made in the 90s, but taking place in the early 80s)

Now that I'm a grown-up, I understand that these youthful fantasies were arrived at after less than logical argument, but the little girl inside of me still hopes.

And, in fact, one frequently does encounter boisterousness on the subway, but the person singing out loud is either a) soliciting things or b) crazy. C'est la vie. Sometimes you want to shake your ass, but embarrassment prevents you. Also, if you're anything like me, the ass-shaking in question isn't exactly fly girl-ready.

Well, the other day, devoted partner showed me a video. Easily the best video I've seen since Oh, Son, Your Missus is a Nutter (worth watching, but there are bad words and adult humor if you're in on of those offices where people notice such things)

The song was so good, it made me spontaneously break into dance. So good that I gladly paid my 99 cents for the privilege of having it on my iToy. So good that I listened to it on the way to the station, walking from my car to the platform, and thirdly while on the train. It's the kind of song you can not help but tap your feet to.

Apropos of an earlier post this week, I am ready to declare a winner in the World Series of Poor Breeding that is the New Haven line. It's not gayporn guy, muddy feet on seat girl, nosepicker, doucheoncellphoneblabbingaboutderivatives, Fran Drescher soundalikes talking about how tacky cousin Morty's Bar Mitzvah was. No. All of those able contenders have apparently been left bloodied on the field of battle by

Excessive Foot Tapping.

I swear to effin jeebus, the overly tanned J Crew dad sitting behind me actually tapped me on the shoulder to tell me my foot tapping was bothering him. I stopped, obviously, but not before marveling at what does and does not pass for appropriate behavior. It also gave me powerful ammunition for the next time someone does something that bothers me: my foot tapping might well drive cellphonedouche out of his skull.

But that's not important. What's important is that I've won something. You might think it's not that special, but knowing that my, and only my, behavior was so detestable that it merited intervention is special to me. After documenting the truly tasteless behavior of everyone else, it's nice to know that it was I all along.

So rather than give a lengthy victory speech, I thought I would let the song that started this whole mess speak for me.

Fellow commuters, this one's for you (if your office is unfriendly to the f-bomb, please watch this at home - but WATCH IT, IT'S AWESOME):

Breaking Rule #1: Always Have Your Camera

2010-09-28T10:39:00.000-04:00

Because when you don't, it becomes impossible to document the 70ish man on the Metro North casually thumbing through gay pornography during rush hour.

I'd like to think of this moment less as a first amendment issue, clearly any and all persons have the right to look at as much gay porn as is possible, and more as an etiquette issue. Leaving aside, for now, that I would have been ejected from the train for going without a shirt while this man could look at pictures of men without pants and no one seemed to be in a tizzy, I would say that pornography, like cellphone arguments, singing along with your iPod, spitting, cutting your fingernails, and examining what you just picked from your nose are at-home activities.

Now I would wager that this particular individual was hoping dearly that someone would notice him - you don't just look at porn in public for no good reason and my contention is that he gets off on people knowing he's looking at porn in public. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that, by not alerting the conductor, I was somehow shirking a civic duty. Had he been sitting near anyone under the age of eighteen, I definitely would have gotten the conductor - because while I'm not a 'won't somebody please think of the children' kind of person, my guess is that any child would feel both extremely uncomfortable and paralyzed to act.

While in Portland, I came to the alarming (for a registered Democrat) discovery that to date, I have only ever voted for Republican mayoral candidates. Sadly, Giuliani left office on a one-way ticket to Crazytown, but that doesn't mean I didn't like him at the time - predominantly because he too seemed to value basic etiquette and was in the position to defend his position with a truncheon. While Mayor Mike and I certainly didn't see eye-to-eye on the whole no-smoking-near-anything crusade, I DO like that he felt he could do it. Smoking was his squeegee man.

But to rein myself in a little (sort of), I would say that I would be happier if we could deputize our Metro North conductors. The smile that breaks over my face when I overhear one of them telling a passenger to get his dirty feet off the seat borders on the indecent. These guys have to put up with all manner of things and it appears that, short of fare-dodging and public vomiting, they have little enforcement capability. Also, the pictures of that enforcement would be priceless!

Printout

2010-09-27T10:54:00.000-04:00

If you still read magazines, you've doubtless noticed the ads that essentially tell you print isn't dead just because the internet exists and the logic employed is convincing: real coffee didn't go extinct because of instant coffee etc. I am a supporter of print. Well, sort of.

The New York Times is something I may well never again subscribe to simply because the format of a newspaper has always been cumbersome. Since we are no longer a nation of hourlong breakfasts where mom and dad swap sections while sipping freshly squeezed orange juice, the idea of traveling with that behemoth that needs a Master's degree in origami to be utilized holds no appeal to me. Whereas the New York Times online allows me to cherry pick those things I'm interested in and ignore the rest. When they finally come up with a way to do micropayments, I don't think I'd be offended if I was asked to pay a nickel or dime per article I read.

But I subscribe to a frankly dizzying number of magazines. After all, when they tell you it's only a buck an issue, it's hard to say no to that. Currently on roster, I think, are the following:

Bon Appetit
Conde Nast Traveler
Food and Wine
Islands (this was an impulse purchase)
Martha Stewart Living
National Geographic
National Geographic Traveler

Now this is what the list will look like after non-renewing:

Food and Wine (75% chance)
Martha Stewart Living
National Geographic

Occasionally I have flirtations with Real Simple and Saveur, and while at the airport I enjoy picking up Afar, but since I now get so many magazines, I have come to the sad realization that they're all saying the same thing.

I am officially bored with: articles on food trucks, short ribs, Portuguese wine, Dubai, desserts made with cereal, hotels that cost more than 1K/night, "bargain" hotels that cost more than $300/night, recipes for green salads, how hot retro cocktails are, spiritual holidays, and how to cook things on a grill.

I would like to see more: excellent bed & breakfasts/small inns/tiny hotels under $150 (and I know they exist because we stay in them EVERY TIME WE TRAVEL), recipes involving game and how to cook it, suggestions for where to go next that aren't Jaipur, Croatia, Brazil, or Beijing, desserts that don't use enough sugar to turn you immediately diabetic, more technique and fewer 30-minute-meals, travel and kitchen tools that are a) practical (i.e. no Louis Vuitton steamer trunks or gold-plated chargers) and b) reasonably priced (ibid.).

But I know that I'm not going to get those things. So instead I'm going to pare down. Food and Wine is going to get another shot simply because once upon a time they had a Christmas issue that was hands-down the best collection of recipes I have ever seen (and quite probably my Christmas menu this year). National Geographic, while recently in a bit of a boring and/or preachy phase, generally bottoms out at a B+, and Martha Stewart because, well, it just combines so many elements of other lifestyle magazines in a terrifically entertaining way.

My favorite part of MSL is her calendar. Every month the magazine prints Martha's own to-do list and it is wonderful and aspirational. Not only do I wish I did that much horseback riding, but I wonder how one gets to the point where one plans on which day one will beat out comforters and lubricate door locks. I want to get to the point where I have a calendar like that.

So, magazines, when you wonder why you're losing readership, part of it is the internet - it might not have the same glossy appeal or ability to be read on the john, but it also isn't as full of 15-page advertisements for cruiselines designed to look like part of the magazine, and it doesn't have to be so repetitive. When I look back over the issues I have yet to throw out, I can't help but notice how the same they all are. Yes, tacos are in. So, too, is Paris (though I don't remember when Paris was out). There has to be someone on your staff who would welcome the opportunity to travel to and write about Gabon and someone who wants to debone a pheasant. These lifestyle magazines are about the people we WANT to be and know we aren't, so why not toss us a little more exoticism COUPLED WITH a little more we could actually do.

I like reading magazines. It's just I feel I've been reading the same one over and over again.

Practicing Self-Restraint

2010-09-24T13:00:00.000-04:00

Last year at this time we had just moved and were eagerly enjoying all the exciting things that the suburbs and Greenwich had to offer. Turns out there's not as much in the offering as one may have hoped, but the quality of life is a big plus. There is one little event, though, that merits mention: Puttin' on the Dog.

As you can see, we've been before. And while it's still a big N-O on the can we please have a dog front, that doesn't mean I can't handle myself in a mature fashion around dogs. I has grownupness!

Furthermore, one of the women from my knitting group will be there volunteering and I will be most pleased to introduce devoted partner to her - after all, he needs someone to blame for my strange fiber habits.

And of course there will be dogs. Lots and lots of dogs. Some in silly hats, I think. And the point of this post is to allow me to get all of my dogcrazy out ahead of time so that I may comport myself as an adult tomorrow. You know the kind of crazy that took these videos.

I know devoted partner and I shall own dogs one day and that tomorrow is not that day. So I will do my best not to whine, whinge, or any other wh-words. Cause I'm a big girl.

I'm Sure I'll Feel Differently If I Ever Have Some

2010-09-23T10:39:00.000-04:00

In order to fly out of the eminently civilized Westchester airport I made the concession that my flights to and from Portland would not be direct. I was ok with this as the price was the same as a direct from JFK and the connection times were reasonable. But sometimes simplicity is just not attainable.

I was scheduled to leave Thursday afternoon. I ended up leaving Friday afternoon and, trust me, this was the best of all possible scenarios. Combine FAA rules governing presidential visits and airspace with a thunderstorm of significant proportions and you end up with a plane waiting on the tarmac with sporadic air conditioning for nearly three hours. I'll have you know I was among the calmest people on board. I even wrote a letter to Delta telling them how well their people handled things. While the mumblers were carrying on about the ridiculosity of our being trapped in this maelstrom, I did some critical thinking.

The airport knew that there was going to be a mandatory closing of airspace and they rushed like hell to get all the scheduled planes out ahead of it. We would have been among them had it not been for one teeny tiny thing that in other circumstances would not have occasioned a three hour delay. There was a family with three small children who successfully convinced the gate agent that they could schlep all of their strollers on the plane; then they encountered our more vigilant flight attendant who told them that they must be out of their minds and that it was highly illegal to have their behemoth child carriers blocking the aisle of the plane (she said it way nicer than that). In the ten or so minutes it took to sort out that mess, we missed the window of opportunity to get off the ground before the airport was temporarily closed.

I'm not opposed to children qua children, but I'm really really opposed to being around them. In certain circumstances. Since, with the exception of a family's moving to a new home, there is no REASON why young children need to take planes, I'm at a loss to explain why so many do. Or rather why so many parents blatantly ignore the inconvenience their children are about to occasion and take them flying anyway. I read travel websites and know that whenever the subject of kids-only flights or adults-only flights or anything that infringes on the rights of our non-tax paying toddlers, eruptions occur. In a culture of entitlement, how could it be otherwise? I've started to consider just how much money it would be worth to me to travel on adults-only flights and I'm currently at $100. Airlines, take note.

But while you're noting that, allow me to make a possibly less radical suggestion:

CHILDREN SHOULD NEVER BE ALLOWED ON RED-EYE FLIGHTS

NEVER

On my return trip I was shocked and appalled to see not one but two very young children in the boarding area. If you must take your pre-verbal, pre-logic, pre-toilet-trained larva on a plane, what possible lapse of reason and etiquette prompted you to book your mewling progeny on a flight where EVERYONE ELSE ON THE PLANE WILL WANT TO SLEEP? I'm assuming you have to declare your infant when making a reservation and airlines should refuse to give you one if it's an overnight flight. This seems a no-brainer. And parents should exercise a modicum of good taste in never trying to book those flights. Your kid has a bad day and an entire plane load of people suffers. Why would you do this? How did it come to pass that you arrived at that level of selfishness? 100 businesspeople should lose a night of already uncomfortable sleep so that you can drag your kid cross-country? It just boggles the mind.

I'm not a parent and who knows if I will be someday, but I vow this to you, and waybackmachine will have it on record, should I be a traveling parent, you will not hear my child. If I MUST travel somewhere with little Ghengis, he will be appropriately, well, drunk. Yes, you heard it here. I will be doling out the thimblefuls of wine so that he may sleep, you may sleep, I may sleep. European wine producing countries routinely give their children little doses of wine and they haven't yet discovered that those children are horribly scarred, so I'm going to go with that. And I'm counting on you all to back me up when they arrest me!

Sympathetic Pregnancy Eating

2010-09-22T11:47:00.001-04:00

Portland is a food town. I know this because after three days there I think I ate everything Portland has to offer. I blame pregnancy.

Not mine, of course, my hostess's. The DuYo clan will become four (yes, I'm counting the dog) and I thought it would the height of rudeness to not eat for two as well while I was their guest. I didn't see a lot of hideously obese people wandering the hipsterized streets, but my guess is that either a) since no one apparently has a job, all may spend the hours not engaged in eating at the gym or b) everyone climbs Mt. Hood - a lot.

Having kickstarted my metabolism after several weeks of subsistence eating, I was pleasantly pleased to discover only a very little damage was done to my downward scale progression, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

The Portland Farmer's market might have beaten out the Ferry Market in San Francisco to be my favorite market. Primarily due to two things: the nectar-of-the-gods nectarine I ate there and the wild boar, hazelnut, and fig pate I bought from Chop Butchery. Frankly, if I could only eat those two items for, say, a month straight, I would not be disappointed. I look forward to returning to Portland to see the new DuYo when he arrives, but also, quite honestly, to spend more time at that market!

Naturally, when you think of Oregon, you think of southern food, so it would be no surprise to you that on my first night we went for southern food. Also of no surprise should be my ordering of the hushpuppies - though you should be surprised that I shared them. The next day found us lunching at the Grilled Cheese Cart (food carts are big in Portland, but unlike in New York the carts have fixed locations - no relying on the vagaries of Twitter and the parking cops here). I enjoyed the "grilled cheese" on sourdough filled with Colby cheese, cream cheese, roasted jalapenos, and tortilla chips, but couldn't resist only eating half the sandwich to justify my purchase of a second sandwich, The Elvis (grilled banana and peanut butter, natch), of which only half was consumed as well. This was followed, predictably, by dinner at Le Pigeon where I happily ate three courses (I should admit now that the reason some of these pictures stink is that this was my first ever time using a prime lens and I still have some kinks to iron out): pigeon on brioche with foie gras and a mache and grape salad, beef cheek bourgignon, and foie gras profiteroles. The next day, after merely scratching the surface at Powell's bookstore, we went to the downtown food cart agglomeration. Two city blocks of food carts. Do you know how difficult it is to make a decision like that? Which is why I wisely suggested we pre-eat some dumplings before getting Vietnamese. And after that, we had to go to Voodoo Doughnut, because there needed to be some food-related sightseeing. I ordered two donuts, and ate one (I like to have choices). It was sweet, disgusting, and eminently satisfying. I IMed devoted partner that we were in luck: Voodoo Doughnuts offers affordable legal wedding packages! Devoted partner directed me to the domain name I bought: nofatti.es.

Point taken.

I don't think I could live in Portland full time unless I also developed a taste for marathon running - perhaps my brother could live there, but then he'd have to develop a taste for hippies which is about as likely as the former.

To Portland. No, The Other Portland.

2010-09-16T11:04:00.000-04:00

Two Portlands in one month, who would have thought? I am off to visit the stately manse of the Du-Yos, bless their impending spawn, and try out my new rain gear.

Any last minute suggestions of where I should schlep them for my entertainment?

Recognizing The Signs

2010-09-15T11:44:00.001-04:00

We have animals. Lots and lots of animals. The spiders we've discussed. The hornets didn't make a big splash this summer. The bunnies? Skittering in the driveway. The coyote? On hiatus. The squirrels and/or opossums are making their ways in and out of the attic, but there are traps waiting for them there - sorry guys. Haven't seen the fox recently and we are pleasantly free of deer. The birds make a lot of noise, but I bear them no ill will. And the cats are easily frightened.

Or so I thought.

As I came outside to water my tomatoes and get the mail, I disturbed one of the unowned, possibly feral, cats that lives in a prefab rock outcropping off the driveway sunning on the front porch. He/she quickly made an escape, but didn't go far. Instead of peeling off immediately to the safety if his/her rock cave, he/she settled down on the walkway. And stared.

So I stared back. The cat was not mangy nor did it appear malnourished, leading me to believe it's getting food from somewhere (though we still maintain that raccoons are to blame for the occasional toppling of our garbage cans - I know it's just Greenwich, but it's effing wild kingdom out here). I don't know from cats since I am not their biggest fan, but this was one of the dark stripey kinds - the internet tells me it's most likely a tabby. This cat was clearly not happy to share my home space with me, but wasn't about to run away before he/she could determine if, perhaps I had kibble.

And damn me if I didn't think about it for a second. I had a brief moment of affection for my feral cat and thought it would be nice if he/she came back and had a bite of something I could find in my fridge (something that was not Jello sugar-free pudding). Then smart Yelena returned and remembered that the very last thing I would ever want to do would be to encourage more cats. And by feeding this one I would be, at least contributing to his/her ability to live and procreate, and at most be subject to him/her telling friends who would then also show up demanding non-Jello snacks.

So Mr./Mrs. Tabby was promptly shooed back to the rock cave and I was promptly relieved of any positive feelings toward the domestic feline.

Oh, and yes, AB, I know that a Neapolitan Mastiff would make short work of all my animal woes.

Come Ye, All Bandwagons, That I May Jump Upon Thee

2010-09-14T11:22:00.000-04:00

So, after merely two postings, I've already been taken to task for excessive engagement babble. Ok. I can take direction.

I have a bad habit of being among the last to read that book you just must read. Some of this has to do with my dislike of lugging hardcovers unless said hardcovers were penned by Umberto Eco or Milan Kundera, some of it has to do with what I call the New York Magazine Effect. If New York Magazine writes about the hot new place, it was always the general wisdom that the place was no longer hot. Similarly, if everyone is fawning over a book, I have suspicions as to the greatness of said book - I'm looking at you, The Corrections. Some of it is due to my well-documented snobbishness.

But I've been having some rough luck with books of late. Yes, the past two "modernist experiments" should have been a red flag from the beginning, and picking items willy-nilly from one's wishlist that one doesn't remember putting on there to begin with is possibly foolhardy, but I've felt roundly disappointed by most everything I've read lately.

Which is why, with beach time looming, I recently relented and bought the book everyone can't shut up about.

It went quickly enough that in the same weekend I bought the sequel and then, this past Friday night, bought the final book.

And here's what I can say: these books tell a good story and they tell it without the preponderance of cliche, bad writing, and grammatical errors that usually are part and parcel of the book everyone can't shut up about. In some ways, they're like Harry Potter for grownups: you don't need to expend tons of brain power, but you're happily distracted for the several hours it takes to read it. And in my world, if I can't find anything bad to say about a book (ok, fine, I knew whodunit in the first book very early on, but I'm not sure it was supposed to be much of a surprise), that's going to be good enough for me. Because I have a lot of bad things to say about a great many books (do not read Atmospheric Disturbances unless you are feeling especially masochistic).

Again With The Semantics

2010-09-13T11:11:00.000-04:00

Sigh.

And we were finally getting used to devoted partner. Ribbing and teasing aside, the moniker was both cute and apt and I think we all started to enjoy it - even devoted partner himself.

In the first of the lucid moments after what happened in Maine, I remarked that we would probably have to change his name to something else. So we cobbled together the approved words and then, as is our most annoying habit, attempted to tinker with their pronunciation: B-Trothed (pronounced to rhyme with the planet Hoth), fee-ank-ee. While I prefer the former, devoted partner rightly pointed out that our pronunciation of troth sounded way way way too similar to trough.

Point taken.

I find it personally interesting that, after sighing with discontent for many years about the inadequacy of the term boyfriend, I am resistant to applying our new terms - those that adequately describe our relationship. Contrary as I may be, I always thought this would be the easiest of the transitions; now I feel sadness in giving up 'devoted partner.'

And I wasn't the only one. While it will make introductions easier, as in, "I'm Yelena and this is my fiancee, [devoted partner]," we both decided that we like 'devoted partner,' and I'll continue to use it herein.

Picture > Words

2010-09-10T09:18:00.004-04:00

Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry For Posting Photos of Him Kissing a Camel

2010-09-02T11:32:00.001-04:00

IMG_2381
Originally uploaded by reallyct

While in Tennessee, we stayed at a B&B cum farm called Ocoee Mist. We affectionately termed it Llamatown due to the (unphotographed and kinda shy) llamas on premises. Also on premises:

two camels
some donkeys
a horse (maybe more)
a slew of goats
a potbellied pig
three dogs
a cat (or two)
two peacocks (one dead and stuffed, one alive and shy)
some parrots
some other birds not native to Tennessee
occasionally some guinea hens from the neighbor's farm

If this sounds a little crazy to you, let me assure you that it is. In the most wonderful of ways. I hope Kevin and Carole know they're a little eccentric and that if it ever gets back to them that I said as much that they take is kindly. Because they were amazingly nice people who ran a beautiful property and served one helluva breakfast, but it's not every day you encounter people with a hobby farm full of llamas, camels, and peacocks.

Mel the camel, took a special shining to devoted partner, even before we had the apples. My narrative couldn't possibly compete with the evidence, so please, enjoy the slideshow. In the interest of fairness, I included an unflattering picture of myself being gnawed by a donkey.

GSM: The (Long) Summary

2010-09-01T12:03:00.001-04:00

- This place is almost unspeakably gorgeous. It really doesn't ever stop being gorgeous. Yes, that as a trailer park, but look just behind it and pooppooppoop it's pretty. Also, there are quite a lot more mountains than I had thought - just tons of them really, and they actually don't all look the same. I know this because we pulled over at 75% of all scenic overlooks.

- Kudos to the national parks of Tennessee and North Carolina for having some of the best maintained roads we have ever been on. It can't be easy to keep mountain roads in such pristine condition, but we would have been hard-pressed to complain about anything we drove over.

- Southern people, you really are very very nice. Not every last one of you - devoted partner felt one of you may have judged our living in sin status and been less pleasant to us on that account - but for the most part you said hello and please and thank you and have a nice day with such alarming frequency that my jaded ears nearly wondered if it was a put-on. I think I'm more than a little in love with your gentility.

- But, holy crap, are you people ever fat! I mean orca fat. I mean in any given grouping of people, devoted partner and I were the slenderest. BY 100 POUNDS! We are not slender people. In any given grouping in Greenwich, we are the orcas, but you all (and I mean ALL of you until we got back to Charlotte where women in expensive running gear were athleticizing with their labradors) made us look like we had just emerged from the pages of SI. I thought I had an eating problem, but you guys are probably the least healthy people I have ever encountered. Your fatness was fascinating it was so, pardon the pun, larger than life.

- Which is at least a little understandable given what you all eat. Let us, for a moment, put aside the sheer bounty of your fast food (I had my first Arby's sandwich - it wasn't bad, I just didn't think it tasted like anything; on the other hand, Arby's, your curly fries and god help me banana split shake were a little piece of heart attack heaven), and go back to your indigenous cuisine: bbq. There was not a plate that was put in front of me that didn't contain food enough for two-three people. In my defense, I did only eat the amount I thought was food for one (except for hushpuppies which, as noted last month, are only really delicious in quantities above 10), and I was still too full. A pound of meat, no matter how tender, fatty, and slow-cooked, is still a pound of meat and is, as such, an unsuitable amount for one person to eat at a sitting unless said person is an Olympic athlete which, as I have just mentioned, not one of you is.

- My entirely unscientific survey of what bbq was available gives the nod to Old Hickory House BBQ Restaurant in Charlotte. While your bbq was not wholly Carolina authentic, it was tasty and your hushpuppies were, well, let's just say I'm thinking inappropriate thoughts about them right now. It's still no Allen and Son, which now that we have some comparables, is off the charts delicious, but as a last stop before the north and food privation, it was a delightful send-off. The wood-paneling was a great help to the ambiance as well.

- Also, if I can go back to the fat thing for a moment, it doesn't help that you consider paved walkways "hikes." Hike to the top of Mount Mitchell, read the sign. The hike in question was 250 yards of slightly inclined 10-foot wide pavement. Chimney Rock's Exclamation Point, the highest part of the park, was billed as a strenuous hike. We were advised against climbing to Chimney Rock and then trying to make it to Exclamation Point. Exclamation Point, while making one's heart beat faster, was reached by stair. Some ricketier than others, but stairs. Not a hike. A stairmastering. Perhaps if more of your hiking trails were hikey, you could eat your bbq and assorted fried comestibles with more impunity.

- But none of this should dull the message that you put on an excellent nature show. I saw a bear. Actually I saw two, but only one was slow enough to be photographed (like many of you, it was eating). I saw a deer run by the side of the road - which is exciting for a city girl like me. And, if you've been following my tweets, I saw devoted partner make out with a camel. This was a good trip.

And We're Off

2010-08-25T11:39:00.001-04:00

Great Smoky National Park, here we come! Finally figured out how to attach my tripod to my camera bag. The staggering array of printed material concerning planes, cars, and lodgings has been duly printed. I'm sort of packed. As is devoted partner. What remains is a little bit of personal grooming and to call a cab.

In the meantime, though, I thought I'd talk a little bit about food. And the little of it I've been eating recently. You see, the south is full of magical wondrous hideously fattening food of which I occasionally (fine, often) dream. Devoted partner and I, while making progress towards ultimate defatification, kind of slid a little there for a while. Back on the horse, I knew I had to make some serious progress ahead of this trip in order to enjoy pork and hushpuppies and pie without guilt. Now that the trip is upon us, though, I worry about my willpower - after all 12 hushpuppies tasted 12x as good as 1.

So I'm going to make a concerted effort to not clean my plate. I will order what I like and nibble at it, the way I see skinny people do (how do they do this?!?). I will remember that most pie is disappointing and not eat some that isn't stupendous - and only eat half of stupendous slices of pie. I will, while scarfing down pulled pork, remember that the reason it tastes so good is that it was cooked long enough that all the delicious fat had time to sink into the meat. And I will try my hardest not to mainline hushpuppies.

I'm at, what I like to call, a manageable weight right now. I look in the mirror and don't want to kill myself. All clothing that should fit does fit. I would like to not return home next Tuesday weighing five pounds more than I do now.

But then I remind myself that we signed up for a full day of rafting in August. Clearly there's A LOT of rowing in my future!

Monday Nopropos

2010-08-23T11:23:00.001-04:00

As we prepare for our slightly spontaneous must-use-vacation-days-before-September-1 vacation to the Great Smoky Mountains, I wanted to dispense with several items.

1. I'm not feeling a lot of love and support vis a vis this trip. To a person, everyone I have told about it, including my beloved sibling, has looked at me incredulously. "What are you going to do?" "Are you, um, outdoorsy?" "Why are you going there?" When I respond with the hiking/rafting/boating/riding we hope to accomplish, the stares become even more incredulous. Listen, I know that I take pride in my Gucci hiking slingbacks and in things like hot water and television, but I would like to remind ye of little faith and great mirth that devoted partner and I, despite our girth, are some pretty outdoorsy types. Offending one and all, devoted partner has been known to call me Action Jew (apologies to Eddie Izzard from whom we shamelessly stole), or if we are being athletic in France, Juif d'Action. In fact, if we can jump on a horse, get in a kayak, or get to the top of something really high, chances are we will. Now it's true, we will not be camping, and that was my decision, but it was prompted way more by the inconvenience of hauling camping crap on a plane than it was any abhorrence of outdoor sleeping. To say nothing of the fact that we have abandoned the sloth of the shore for the wet, oxygen toxicity of beneath the waves. In the future, perhaps a smidgen more benefit of the doubt would not be unwarranted.

2. While I still believe the best future for the MTA lies in Mayor Bloomberg buying it outright and running it like a business instead of a slush fund, I would like to commend the current thieves and criminals for installing, in some stations, the board that updates passengers on when the next train will arrive. Yes, other cities have had these for ages, but I say better late than never.

3. Devoted partner is a far better interweb miner than I, coming up with tons of funnies which he shares with me. I now share some with you and also a serious one courtesy of Antonio:
* Not about OJ Simpson, surprisingly
* Not statistically sound, but tee-hee
* Roger Ebert and I are mind-melding

Happy Monday!

I'll Show You Eating Local

2010-08-20T11:17:00.000-04:00

Flowers are lovely, what with their colors and scents; yet they are also in grave danger should they cross my path. I am a killer of flowers. It's not malicious, mind you, merely negligent. My poor mother, a great lover of all things floral, tries to help me with my black thumb by, you guessed it, bringing me flowers which, also guessing correctly, I promptly kill.

So what on earth could possibly account for the frank bounty of my small garden? It's that I can eat my garden. I have a vested interest in its health because it feeds me. And it has been feeding me quite well.

I started with some seedlings from seedsavers.org and I waited until May to nestle them in the dirt by our front door. And then I waited. And watered. And waited. And watered. My herbs I was less concerned with: herbs are weeds - they grow anywhere (not so interesting side note: I grew some black peppermint in a pot on my fire escape and really paid it little heed; so little, in fact, that when winter came, I didn't bother bringing the plant in - after all, it cost me like 3 bucks, I could buy another one come spring - after a winter during which it was snowed on and frozen, wouldn't you know it, the plant rose again come the warm weather). By the time we came back from Nicaragua, the plants had nearly outgrown their stakes. More, bigger stakes were purchased. Then the plants started flowering and then, about 2 weeks ago, there was fruit ready to be picked.

The most glorious fruit possible. Tiny Mexican midgets, blondkopfchen, black cherries, purple Cherokees, green zebras, stupices; all sweet, all scrumptious. My awe is disproportionate to the event in question given how long we humans have grown things, but I simply can't get over the fact that I have successfully not killed plants.

And last night, in an effort to pretend we're eating while not really eating, I made the following (I'll leave it to you to guess which item someone else was responsible for procuring, but mind you it was local too): broiled Spanish mackerel (too lazy to get out the grill) over oven roasted cherry tomatoes with a parsley and mint salsa verde.

We ate the things that came from our garden. The things I water and prune and worry over. And it tasted good and fresh and low-fat and all the things the locavores say it should taste like.

Next year I'm definitely branching out into more than tomatoes and herbs, but for now, for the next 6 or so weeks, I will be blissfully happy with just that.

Aside to Clay: thanks for the mention, but crap, I try to keep my own political ranting down to 3x a month or so.

Fundamentalism

2010-08-18T11:28:00.000-04:00

Last night, devoted partner and I read the first amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Yeah we knew what it said, just not the specific words it used to say it. After all, American history class is, sadly, eons ago, and I am an American, I get to take this stuff for granted.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Read it again to let it sink in.

This is truly the greatest gift we have given to civilization.

I might go so far as to say this is the greatest gift anyone has ever given to civilization, and you know how much I love the ancients, Rome and Greece.

So we've found something I'm a fundamentalist about. These words. All of them. Interpreted as broadly as possible. Forever.

People who attempt to abridge these words, narrowly interpret them, claim the authors of this document didn't really mean what they wrote? Those people are my enemies. And frankly, they are yours as well.

Messrs. Stewart and Colbert have done a much better job than I could hope to these past few weeks detailing exactly how preposterous my enemies are, but it doesn't blunt them.

We all poked fun at former president Bush the 2nd with his admittedly laughable you're either with us or with the terrorists because that's a binary equation that is logically unsound. But this one isn't: you either believe in every word of our first amendment or you believe in none of them. It's like being a little bit pregnant, it is simply impossible. Change, abridge, hem-and-haw, ignore, pass over, denigrate, disregard just one part of that comprehensive sentence and you negate the whole. The same sentence that allows you to loudly disagree with something someone else is loudly saying allows that person to say it in the first place. Opinions and feelings don't enter into it.

We, all of us, have these rights - even Scientologists and vegetarians - and if you're not willing to uphold these rights for everyone, to my mind, you're not really an American.

We as a country have made our fair share of mistakes, lo these 250ish years, but this one we got 100% absolutely right. Anyone who doubts that has completely missed the point. And while I will uphold his right to doubt, it's a pretty heavy irony; an irony that eludes so many (I have the right to say that this person doesn't have the right to say...wtf?!?).

Defending these words is the most important duty an American has and many Americans have died doing so. The trickle-down effects of its dilution are honestly too awful to imagine which is why I'll be sharpening my pitchfork for when the angry hordes collide.

I hope you'll be there too.

What I Learned This Weekend

2010-08-17T11:36:00.000-04:00

If I buy nothing else this autumn, I must have a camel coat. This important bit of information courtesy of Andrew, fashion designer and excellent Waldorf to my Statler. I spent the weekend in the Berkshires chez Amy ('s parents) and I must admit I had trepidation: after all, there were going to be an astonishing number of people with dietary habits I rebuke. Thankfully Andrew, while himself the possessor of food, shall we call them, peccadilloes, was content to use the energy he saved by not masticating meat and using it to be snarky with me about, well, everything. Apologies to our fellow guests.

The second thing I learned was that a dog, no matter how awesome, playful, gorgeous, fluffy, and big, does not quite replace a devoted partner. When I learned that the Greatest Bernese Mountain Dog Ever was joining us, I may (or may not have) squealed like a cartoon character, and while dog and I did some masterful playing, she just wasn't enough of a replacement for my awesome, playful, gorgeous, fluffy, and big human companion (Amy, please note the ultimate commas). That being said, I need a dog badly. Those things are awesome! Even Hogie, the smaller dog of oodle provenance, gets my heart pitter-pattering (also he is a surprisingly un-annoying small dog and quite adorable; also he does not bark).

But the final thing I learned was more a confirmation of prejudices long-held: vegetarians...WTF?

You know when you talk to vegetarians and they try to tell you that they have entrees just like normal people? It's a lie. Vegetarians do, in fact, eat like rabbits. They nibble from assortments of dishes that can only be described as salads. I don't know if eating 3 different kinds of salad at one sitting can be justified as a meal, I think it sounds a lot more like the unlimited salad at Olive Garden. And the salads all taste more or less the same. Which is understandable given the ingredient limitations (god help you if the people are also vegan). In the grand scheme of things, lentils and mung beans with tomato vinaigrette taste enough the same as rice with tomatoes in a lemon vinaigrette as to not really require two separate dishes.

When you see a plate composed of a quadrant for arugula, a quadrant for grilled vegetables, a quadrant for rice salad, and a quadrant for lentil salad it hits you that these people must be kidding. Now I am not as adamant about meat for every meal as devoted partner is, and quite frankly there is a lot in the pasta world that I enjoy meatless, but the above plate as your daily supper? Come on!

So, I'm sorry, god of tolerance, but I now have first-hand knowledge that the not-eating of meat is precisely the ridiculousity I always thought it was.

Where Does This Fall on the Adorable->Pathetic Scale?

2010-08-13T10:40:00.000-04:00

From time to time, people have remarked to us (or to me about us), that they find it strange how often devoted partner and I do separate things. Or how we don't call to check in on each other. Or how, except in very very specific cases, there is no resentment/jealousy/peevishness about the time we spend apart. But I still get a lot of, "what does devoted partner do/say/think when you do x?" I think that having independence makes us value our time together more, but it might not be for everyone. Still, the one thing we both rely on and look forward to is that last moment of the day when we're in bed together.

So, last night when I realized that, by virtue of dropping him off at the airport I would be sleeping alone, I was kind of sad. We really don't spend many nights apart - the last time was a year ago. And it was my first time sleeping alone in the house. The scary, poorly lit, no-one-can-hear-you-scream house. I locked the doors for the first time in a while.

Then, after watching Steel Magnolias (something I would probably not do if I was sharing the couch), I became listless. There was no one to bother. I went to Whole Foods to do some shopping for the weekend; I made an upside-down nectarine cake (much more like a tatin - it needs creme fraiche to cut the sweet); I poked around on the internet.

And then I changed into one of devoted partner's shirts, arranged blankets and pillows on the floor of the living room, and fell asleep watching tv. Now I can make up some bullshit about how we don't have a tv in the bedroom anymore and falling asleep to tv is a luxury I can only experience when I have the house to myself, but the truth is, I kind of didn't want to sleep in our bed alone.

I know. It sounds crazy. It sounds a little unbalanced. But our bed is where WE sleep. I don't know where I sleep anymore. I'll try to be a little more evolved come Sunday night; thank goodness Amy has given me a reprieve (and a spare bed) in the Berkshires for the weekend!

Just Because You're Paranoid...

2010-08-12T11:15:00.000-04:00

I think my mailman may be dodgy.

Perhaps it's that we watched the first two episodes of Rubicon the other day, but I'm starting to agree with the tagline: not every conspiracy is a theory.

For a moment let me digress to express initial disappointment with the Rubicon. Leaving aside the fact that the principal character is neither interesting nor handsome enough to draw me in, the whole of the first two episodes smacked way more of the lazy stylings of Da Vinci Code and nearly none at all of the hyperbright (and sexily accented) Foucault's Pendulum. For suspense writers, and would-be suspense writers, let me just give you a small piece of advice: if I know what your character will do or say next, you haven't really achieved suspense. And it doesn't have to be highbrow. Read Agatha Christie. Please. I really want to find new television to watch.

But back to my mailman. I'll admit from the start that I do not hold the United States Postal Service in high regard. Wherever possible I pay extra for the nice professionals at UPS or FedEx to bring me things. Sadly, they do not yet bring me things like magazines and bills. For these, and certain other things that are not offered to be shipped via organized companies, I must still rely on the pedestrian mail. While in Harlem, I was frequently heard yelling expletives at the lazy SOB mailman who would NEVER ring my bell or buzzer to ascertain whether or not I was home and able to receive my package and instead would just slip a notice into my mailbox. I didn't pay the postage for my packages to be delivered to your office, sir, I paid for the package to be delivered to my home. On the rare occasions when said package was actually brought onto the property (I maintain that the mailman didn't even bother with the packages, he simply left them at the post office and did his rounds with a stack of info notices), he would leave them with my criminal neighbors. Not cool.

Now in Greenwich where my neighbors are only white collar criminals and not really interested in pilfering my amazon boxes, things have slightly improved. Unless the mail is registered it comes to the house. Sort of. Usually it comes to the driveway. Specifically right in front of my garage door in a way that would prevent me from getting my car in the garage without running over my package. Now, you might think this is a minor concern, but it's not as though the mailman drives down my driveway. He parks his car on the street and walks. The distance to the garage door and to the front door are nearly equidistant, and yet the mailman never puts my packages in front of my door, always in front of my garage (except for when he shoves and mangles items to wedge them into my mailbox - nb books don't like to be folded like that).

And yet, miraculously, both the gentlemen from houses UPS and FedEx are able to reliably find my front door (where there is a porch of sorts where boxes can be neatly stacked). Somehow it hasn't eluded those nice men that there is a place where mail goes and it isn't in the firing line of my tires. How can this be?

Furthermore, I'm convinced my mailman doesn't actually come by every day. It is just too coincidental that at least two days a week the mailbox is empty (and neither of those days is Sunday) and at least two days a week it is jampacked so full that the door can't close. I just don't buy that coincidence.

So, federal government, if you're reading, I know you don't give the post office my tax dollars, but I do know that you lend it money. Lots of money. Likewise, I know the post office employs lots of people and you're not really interested in getting people out of jobs these days, but perhaps a compromise can be reached. Why don't you SELL the post office to UPS or FedEx? I know there will be some details that need to be worked out, not to mention that UPS and FedEx know just how unprofitable it is to deliver pieces of paper at 40 cents a pop, but maybe you could sweeten the deal with incentives (off the top of my head, I'm thinking a gas tax abatement). Then UPS and FedEx could train your postal employees (who make your TSA employees look like out-of-work nuclear physicists) and I could get reliable delivery of all of the things that come to my house.

It's just a suggestion.

The Ferry Crossing Problem

2010-08-11T12:00:00.001-04:00

I first encountered this logic problem in a book, probably sci-fi, probably in 4th or 5th grade, which is why it has made such a lasting impression. The long and short of it is there are 6 people, 3 good guys and 3 bad guys, and a boat that seats 2 people. Bad guys can never outnumber good guys and all the good guys need to get to the other side without the bad guys. How do you do it. I've always liked this problem even when, like this morning, I frantically IM devoted partner asking him what it's called (doesn't actually have a name), and if you don't want to take the time to figure it out, at the end of the post and after some carriage returns, I'll print the answer.

Now I like math and I like logic and I like to be smug about my skills in both. Which is why the personal ferry crossing problem that I am struck by is so horribly humiliating. And it comes up a lot.

I cannot cannot cannot wrap my mind around the math associated with two cars and two drivers and catch myself almost weekly abandoning logic in my mind for reasons I cannot explain. For some reason I find myself thinking: if devoted partner and I go to a bar in separate cars and I get too drunk to drive, devoted partner can drive us both home and then go back to get my car. I think this, in one way or another, ALL THE TIME. Take our upcoming solo airplane trips. I have thought: ok, I'll drive my car to devoted partner's office, then he can drive me to the airport in his car, and then take my car back home. I simply cannot comprehend that devoted partner is unable to drive two cars simultaneously while also being unable to understand why the idea begins in my head as a good one.

And frankly it's starting to drive me a little crazy. I mean even the dullest crayon in the box figures out AFTER A YEAR that two cars require two drivers. But then there's me, happily plotting impossible itineraries.

Solution
G=good guy
B=bad guy

First crossing: G + B
Return trip: G
Second crossing: B + B
Return: B
Third: G + G
Return: G + B
Fourth: G + G
Return: B

Commuting Nopropos

2010-08-10T10:36:00.001-04:00

Merely since yesterday I have encountered a startling number of commuting-related consternations, yet none of them really warrants a dedicated post. Therefore, please enjoy these four:

1. If your teenaged son has a learning disability/drug problem/run-of-the-mill teenaged angst issue, perhaps the best place to discuss with your older daughter how much you can't wait for him to get out of the house, how you're putting him on Adderall and how if he doesn't get into any college he'll have to go into the military and you don't want him fighting, is NOT the train. Kudos to your daughter for explaining that perhaps, prior to drugging your kid up, you might consider sending him to therapy - at least you didn't mess up both your kids. Also, if you're the guidance counselor at GHS where I now know this boy goes to school, please find him and give him some guidance.

2. If you absolutely must give someone instructions, over the phone, as to the precise precise location of the spare key he can find to gain entry to your house, you might consider giving such instructions sotto voce. See, the thing of it is, now that I, and everyone around you, know where your spare key is, you run a greater risk of someone other than the person you're speaking with finding the key and robbing you blind. It wouldn't really be all that difficult to sneak a peak at your license when you hand the conductor your ticket, nor for that matter would it be all that difficult to pickpocket you - especially were the robber a professional. Show a little discretion and you might get to keep all of your nice stuff.

3. It is politically incorrect to make fun of the sounds of foreign tongues - that's akin to making fun of the culture itself. However, if you are speaking English very loudly and it sounds like this or this, then I'm sorry, politically correct or not, I will not be able to stop myself from giggling.

4. If so few people ever help you get your stroller down the stairs that you looked at me with tears in your eyes as you said, "god bless you," there is something seriously wrong with everyone who isn't me. People, help women or men, frankly, get their strollers down the stairs. It literally took me 30 seconds and this poor woman reacted as if I had saved her kid from a burning building. Don't those subway ads say something about courtesy being contagious? Unless you are actually en route to save babies from burning buildings, you have the 30 seconds.

So, About That Whole Having Kids Thing...

2010-08-09T11:51:00.000-04:00

No, please sit down, nothing to announce here.

Except that my position on the theoretical little monsters might have softened somewhat as I came across something this weekend that might make them worthwhile.

Now I have made my fair share of fun at the idea of birth gifts, the expensive baubles some wives expect and some husbands supply to offset the physical discomfort of childbirth (btw, ladies, your asking for a diamond as reward for having a kid doesn't make having a kid seem worth it - after all isn't the kid supposed to be the reward?). I have scoffed and judged, but possibly merely on account of my relative ambivalence to jewelry. But I saw something I want. Something about as expensive as a diamond whatever, but eminently more practical vis a vis the whole if-I-have-kids-I-will-become-a-washed-up-sexless-stretchmarked-milkbag dilemma.

First some more preamble:

Preamble 1: I forgot about this item because it has been in the neighborhood of 20 years since I had seen the movie at which time

Preamble 2: I figured I would never ever leave New York and therefore would never be in the market for one.

I have informed devoted partner that the price for my safely releasing his spawn unto the world is this.

This is clearly the perfect Yelena car, Yelena being very very similar to Steve McQueen in badassitude. I saw this at an auto auction on TV and was struck dumb - or as devoted partner described it, I didn't say anything lewd about my intentions towards the car which is how he knew I was serious. This car has pretty much everything I could want: it's hatchback-ey (see also my devotion to certain Datsun Zs, VW GTIs, and the amazingly hideous awesomeness of the Porsche 944), it's speedy, and it's a simply gorgeous retro shade of metallic pine. I love this car so much that I wouldn't even consider painting it orange.

And, for the practical bit, no one in his right mind could accuse me of being a washed-up-sexless-milkmachine if I picked up my kids from school in this. I don't care if their slovenly friends can't fit in the car - I do not exist to be a dirty child delivery service. If each of two children has one friend over, we can all still fit in the car; I don't really want to be responsible for more children than that. Once upon a time the fantasy had me in a Karmann Ghia, but where that is a Barbiemobile, this is a car that hews much more closely to Pam Grier than Audrey Hepburn and, in the end, which do you think I want to be.

I can see that you miracle-of-life people out there might shudder at this craven consumerism, but it is just an opening salvo: who knows, I might be able to get the car without having the kids thereby sparing them the kind of mother who would use them as negotiating chips in the acquisition of a car.

Of Epic Battles

2010-08-06T12:50:00.000-04:00

Really, peaches people? I know there are a lot of you out there. Why within my own family both devoted partner and internets-savvy mom are partisans for the P-Party! I know matters of taste are exactly that, but I have to say, even after all this time and a fair bit of effort, I just don't get it.

Nectarines are WAY better than peaches!

I'm not even sure I feel it's a fair fight. Yes, in a vacuum, peaches are wonderful: sweet, summery, sweet, juicy, sweet. If there were no such thing as nectarines and peaches had only the plain black plum to fight in the stone fruit wars, then yes, viva peaches! But peaches DO have stone fruit competition: the apricot, the greengage plum (now in the market and many times this morning in my mouth and bag), not to mention the weird ones like the plumcot or the apricine or whatever Californians are doing to mate their fruits with one another today. Peaches, to my tastebuds, don't stand a chance.

And nowhere was that clearer than in last night's fruit salad (side note: gentlemen, why does fruit not seem like food when it's in the refrigerator in its whole form, but once sliced immediately becomes food?). When sliced and placed next to the nectarine, the peach's one-hit wonder of taste (sweet) was so achingly, painfully obvious, whereas the nectarine, which is sweet with a divine tangy bite, shone. Notice, if you will, that fruit juice companies frequently pair the peach with another fruit, mango or orange. Could it be that the frail peach is just too simple to stand alone and needs some acid from a friend?

And poor devoted partner, he'd eat peaches every day (provided said peaches were cut for him, see above), whereas I have, throughout the years, made him exactly zero peach pies and countless nectarine mascarpone cheesecakes (Amy, can I bring one next weekend?). In my market bag right now are four peaches: two yellow, two white so that I can make more fruit salad and we can bring it to the beach, but the peaches were purchased with a heavy heart: can a relationship survive this most fundamental of differences?

Perhaps we are saved by climate. The peach vs. nectarine wars are ephemeral, lasting a mere 6 weeks each summer, after which time peace reigns in a household that prefers tart apples to sweet ones.

Perhaps Not the Criminal Mastermind I Thought

2010-08-05T11:17:00.000-04:00

In theory, I think I would make an excellent superthief/superspy: moral relativist, flexible relationship with the truth, rationalizer. In reality, as devoted partner points out more often than I would like (though, to be fair, this is a stupid discussion to be having in the first place so perhaps he's right to put me in my place) I am not all that stealthy. I don't blend in with crowds and I haven't learned how to make myself forgettable (though I maintain that the cunning use of wigs would do wonders for my changling-ness). Also, and perhaps more troubling for the current monster.com resume I have in case SPECTRE is looking for new hires, is that there are certain scams, albeit minor ones, that just wouldn't occur to me, and I wonder if my big-picture attitude is hurting me or depriving me of lower-level experience.

Yesterday the conductor on my train, who I see at least twice a week, punched a ticket for me without seeing my train pass - several of the conductors do this because they recognize me (bad news for my covertness). This was all the more surprising because it was the first time in August I had seen him, meaning he had no guarantee that I had bought a monthly pass for August and I said as much to him, joking that had I known he wasn't going to check I could have saved myself some money. In reply, he told me that there had been a group of women who were regulars on his train that had done just that: they would buy their monthly passes and show them to him for the first week of the month; then, once they were sure he was going to punch tickets for them without verifying they had passes, they returned their passes for a partial refund and rode the rest of the month for free.

Leaving aside how rude that is - I don't know if conductors could get fired for that sort of thing - it's just the kind of petty crime I don't consider. I'm too busy wondering how far I could joyride in that Ferrari before apprehension and if I could find a way to talk myself out of it. And the sad thing is, as compelling a speaker as I believe myself to be, I absolutely FAIL at seeming pitiable.

I try not to speed beyond the average speeder in traffic because I know I'll actually get stuck with the ticket. Even if I was able to muster some tears for the highway patrol person, which I give myself about even odds for, I doubt I'd be believable, and this is a major failing in my criminal mastermind/secret agent ambitions. Women should be able to call on that, "I'm helpless/silly/don't know what I'm doing thing" at the drop of a hat. Feminists bear with me while I maintain that until we have salary parity it behooves us to use what ever tricks are at our disposal to level the playing field - consider the speeding ticket you talked yourself out of with eyelash batting as the first of many hundred dollars you are technically owed if that makes you feel better.

So, I'm checking local community colleges to see if classes are offered in this sort of thing because I figure, if I can't even scam Metro North out of $150, no one is going to invite me on that awesome diamond heist!

Shit My Mom Says

2010-08-04T12:02:00.000-04:00

First email: "Dear Yelena, Went to my "insert address" button and it came up saying 'you have no addresses in your book' Now I didn't do that!!!!!!!!!! so.....here's the recipe and could you please tell me your address again so I cab create a new book? [recipe redacted]"

Second email: "Dear Y, I plucking hate using e-mail to send A RECIPE Do you know how long it's taken me? And all that list shit and tab and enter and pluck pluck pluck....... anyway Arrange on a heated platter and spoon the sauce over top. I served with soba noodles, but you can eat it over a pile of shit, you computer junkie,,,,,ALL my love, mom Also, I type with so many mistakes that I spend half the time backspacing and correcting But I do know how to iron"

I wasn't going to post today, summer and all, but then this arrived and I had to share it. I think it pretty much stands on its own.

Of Orcas and Puppies

2010-08-03T11:38:00.000-04:00

Leave it to devoted partner to know the purported etymology of hushpuppies: to shut up the dogs, excess batter from frying fish would be tossed to them. Leave it to me to develop an immediate and unhealthy addiction to those delicious lumps of essentially fried cornbread.

Let me put the addiction in perspective: I eschewed home-made pie so that I could have more hushpuppies.

As an ignorant yankee, I was under the broad assumption that barbecue is pretty much the same from place to place - after all, it's just meat that's been cooked forever. Not so. Not so at all. Wisely, I schlepped us to Allen & Son in Chapel Hill because the internets seemed to enjoy it. There we ate, easily, the best pulled pork of our lives enhanced by some killer cole slaw. Now, if you're like we were, you're thinking, "what the hell could be so good about cole slaw?" I don't know. But I know this cole slaw was unbelievable! And the hushpuppies...? I could have eaten 50 (in reality, I limited myself to about a dozen).

Later when we sampled fast-food hushpuppies (cut us some slack, it was 2am) and later still when we dined at another bbq establishment, we realized the trip to Allen & Son was more than worthwhile - it was transcendent.

I briefly envisioned a world where I no longer cared how fat I became so long as I could guiltlessly eat pulled pork and hushpuppies. I would wear a tent and frost my hair and be deliriously happy - at least until my massive coronary. Instead, I turned to devoted partner and said that if we ever moved to the neighborhood, we would have to limit our Allen & Son consumption to once a month. But next time I will try the pie.

My first reaction to the greater Raleigh/Durham/Chapel Hill area was a positive one. We saw three separate farmer's markets Saturday morning, and two of them were pretty big and pretty diverse. The shoppers looked like just the kinds of people you'd expect would stand online for 3 dollar tomatoes, otherwise known as insufferable yuppies just like us. Getting around seemed easy enough. It was a favorable first impression marred only by the preponderance of housing developments which are a concept I don't quite grok, being a person interested in privacy. I was assured by locals that stand-alone houses exist in abundance, however.

And the people. Jesus, it was like meeting awesome aliens! They all were friendly and polite. They were everything my metro-north compatriots are not: door-holding, smiling-greeting, non-shoving delights! I don't know if it's in the water, or if the rude ones get turned into pulled pork, but everyone we met was friendly. So much so that I started noticing when people were merely normal-friendly as opposed to super-friendly.

And I truly think good ol' Marcel wouldn't have been such a consumptive killjoy had his madeleines been hushpuppies - the rhapsodic waxings of the latter can only be delivered with joy!

Surprisingly Less Vocal

2010-08-02T10:48:00.000-04:00

Devoted partner and I spent the weekend in and around Durham, North Carolina for our friend, Ariane's wedding. Obviously, of our adventures, there will be posts, but I wanted to concentrate today on the wedding aspect of the weekend.

Ariane is a performer from a family deeply into performing and with many deeply performy friends. Notably a passel of Gilbert & Sullivan singers. It is my personal prejudice that Gilbert & Sullivan singers take every possible opportunity to sing Gilbert & Sullivan and so I had some apprehension about the weekend. Also there were to be many many people who danced well at this wedding, distinguishing it from most weddings where no one can dance. Here I would be in the minority of no ones. (Also, I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but dancers are a fit bunch, which can hurt a bit in the self-esteem department for the slightly more rounded among us.)

And there was some singing. I'll admit, I was part of it, having been asked by the bride to be part of the chorale that took the role often given to the chamber musicians. But surprisingly little singing. There was dancing which, thank goodness, I was no part of at all. Instead we were treated to an incredible dance piece that, to my untrained eye, could only be described as human kinetic sculpture. And yes, there was a little bit of Gilbert & Sullivan. But a very little bit. And everything seemed to fit.

There are weddings that are ostentatiously unconventional where you wonder why the bride and groom felt they had to try so hard to be different and then there are weddings that are unconventional because the bride and groom felt a certain way about how they wanted a wedding to be. Yes, this was an unconventional wedding complete with no officiant and Krispy Kreme donuts in place of a cake, and every little quirky thing worked and made the whole seem natural and un-stilted. Of course these components were necessary, you would say, this is who the bride and groom are!

When we went out to get barbecue last night, then, we were excited to run into the other stragglers from the weekend. I like a wedding that gives guests a lot of time to get to know one another and through rehearsals and rehearsal dinners and weddings and after-weddings and brunches, we spent a nice bit of time with a new set of people. I don't know what brides and grooms hope their guests get out of the nuptial party, or if they think about that at all, but this wedding can be added to our fortunate list of weddings that were a pleasure to attend.

Speechless...Well, Not Really

2010-07-29T11:24:00.002-04:00

I like to think of myself as having a thick skin. Yes, there's a lot of really really bad stuff out there in the world, but I find little of it truly surprises me. And when it comes down to it, if I'm not surprised, I can't really be all that up in arms. After all, my Hobbesian view of the world anticipates truly bad stuff and considers it normal. But once in a while, something gets through and after reading the incriminating piece, I stand up from the computer and actually pace, feeling tears of rage well up in my eyes and the tiny particles of idealism I have left rupture.

And this one almost didn't reach me, a fact that my conspiratorial side is going to repress because it's not germane to the story, though I find it interesting that this didn't warrant a passing mention in the paper of record.

Read this. (Think the folks at the Guardian are a bunch of dirty pinkos? Fine, read this.)

No. Really. Read this. READ IT!

Seriously.

Then come back.

...

...

...

Now for the only important part of this case. The only part it seems both parties agree on: there was sex and it wasn't forced.

She says it. He says it. There was consensual sex.

After the fact, when she discovered he wasn't what she thought he was, it somehow morphed into non-consensual sex. The kind that sends people to actual prison where they can experience the gamut of non-consensual sex.

Now, before you reverse the ethnic makeups of this story and decide whether or not you think this argument would hold water then, please try, as I am DESPERATELY TRYING TO DO, to think about examples where race or ethnicity have nothing to do with it and ponder the validity of the following claims. It was rape because afterward I learned he was:

short

an a$$hole

a scientologist

a vegetarian

a meat-eater

a wwf fan

a bmw owner

a republican

a communist

in love with someone else

homeless

missing a toe

missing a kidney

not a member of mensa

not a graduate of an ivy

not a doctor

an undertaker

a gas station attendant

your best friend's ex-boyfriend from high school

Yeah. I'm done. This list could literally go on forever.

And before we get all high and mighty that this kind of nonsense would never happen here in our land of the free, let's make sure we truly believe it (he didn't tell me he was muslim/an illegal immmigrant/in favor of Obama's socialist policies). Cause I can't say with any assurance that I couldn't see some judge, somewhere in our great country pronouncing the same verdict which, while striking a vomit-inducing blow against equal rights SIMULTANEOUSLY weakens the definition of rape and, when the blowback comes, will negatively affect the actual victims of rape.

Rape is serious. And perilously open to interpretation. After all, if you punch someone in the face and later on that person discovers something about you he doesn't like or realizes he had one too many drinks, the punch doesn't suddenly become attempted murder. And as pissed off as I am at this woman and this judge, I am equally pissed off at women's groups who, in order to preserve the rights of actual rape victims, blindly side with any woman who changes her mind after sex and chooses to call what happened rape. Bad decisions are not actionable offenses. And, for all parties concerned, consensual sex after a 10-minute discussion in a convenience store is a bad decision. Women who don't own up to their own bad decisions shouldn't complain when they're not treated equally in other environments; after all, they just said they couldn't be held responsible for their decisions - they made themselves unequal.

Frankly, I don't even know what to do with this information. Yes, there's a lot of horror out there, but I expect most of it. In war, there will be war crimes. It doesn't make them any prettier, but it doesn't shock me to learn of them. This: a woman accusing a man (and a judge convicting him) of rape because she later discovered she wasn't keen on his ethnicity? Never saw it coming. Cannot even conceive of it. Which is my fault and naivete. But, jeez, what do I do now that I have this information? It turns out I bitch and moan and conceivably make myself ineligible for any job in the future that would find my opinions on this matter questionable.

I can only hope that when the dust clears, Saber Kushour has the mother of all civil cases against, well, anyone involved in his prosecution. After all, that's the American way!

I Hate Kate

2010-07-28T11:40:00.000-04:00

This is, of course, patently untrue. I love Kate. I love her like the little sister the boy would never let me dress him up as. I love her like the prettiest doll in my collection, the one I give all the nice clothes to. I love her greatly.

But she's not good for your wallet, that Kate.

Kate is the in-the-knowingest person I know which might not be saying much, but I would wager she is the in-the-knowingest person most people know. And yet Kate has timeless style. It doesn't hurt that she's simply gorgeous and looks good in everything and even when her hair looks like shit it still looks good.

However, Kate has a knack for introducing a person to needless things that fast become needful. For years, or at least since Giorgio and 7th grade, I wore men's Fahrenheit cologne. I know that now that seems frankly awful, and, frankly, when I smell it on someone else, I have to suppress a gag or two, but at the time it seemed like a good idea (see also Zima). I wore it throughout college and might have worn it still today had Kate not taken me to Barney's that one time in 1999. Damn you, Kate!

Now I am madly addicted and totally loyal to Creed's Neroli Sauvage (but don't buy me any now, I have 3/4 of a fresh bottle). What's the problem? you ask. Well, do a quick google search. Better yet, I will. And if you don't use it over the course of, say, 5 years, it does go bad. I don't actually know what perfume costs, I just know this feels expensive. Very expensive. And now, of course, very necessary.

So I was overjoyed when, for Christmas (Christmakah, whatever) Kate got me a gift certificate to a nail salon that specializes in some weird-ass gel stuff that's supposed to be better for your nails than polish blah blah blah. Not only do I rarely have my nails painted (because my lifestyle: cooking, knitting, etc.) is not conducive to maintaining a manicure, but also because such a uselessly trendy thing couldn't possibly be my bag.

When we went together a couple of weeks ago, it just got better. These women were charging upper class ladies of Manhattan upwards of $60 bucks to manicure their nails in, I'm not kidding, polyurethane. Also known as sealant. Also known as the stuff you can buy a gallon of at Home Depot for 8 bucks. Do you know how many nails you can paint with a gallon of anything. I half-giggled through the entire manicure because I thought it was such a gas that women were lining up to fork over 2x and more the cost of a regular manicure to have their nails painted by glorified contractors.

hahahahahahahaha

doh!

You see it's now been two full weeks. I have: knit, made 360 chocolates, washed countless dishes, stuck my hands in raw chicken parts, gardened, fumbled with pointy parts on my shoes, you name it. I have done all the things that generally render my manicure hideous in a matter of hours. Well, my polyurethane nails? Yes, obviously, they're perfect. Not a scratch, not a dent, nothing. Initially I was going to have them take off the polish (oh, did I forget this tidbit? They CHARGE YOU $20 TO REMOVE THE POLYURETHANE!) before the wedding I'm going to this weekend, but hell if they don't look just fine.

This is an awful conundrum. The reason I don't paint my nails is that it's not worth the trouble. But, while the polyurethaning process takes an ungodly amount of time, it really effing works! And yet I think I would sooner shoot myself in the face than spend $60 to have my nails painted and then $20 to have them unpainted (though I think if you do both at the same visit i.e. unpaint then repaint, it only costs $70. Only.) and that's without the tip. Do I really need to tip $12 on this? On the rare occasions I do get a manicure it costs $10 for which I am all too pleased to leave 20% - here that $12 ONLY COVERS the tip.

And yet, my nails look so so nice painted. And this is worry-free paint. I'm going to see what, if any, horrid damage the stuff does to my nails once it's removed before making any major lifestyle modifications but, damn you, Kate, you've done it again!