Time for Stew
The temperatures have dropped to the 50’s overnight and the time has come for
stew!
The Queen of Comfort Foods is about to make quite an entrance for dinner tomorrow night. It is spicy and hearty, with lovely chunks of beef and potatoes, onions and pureed peas. A huge pot of it that will last for a couple of days!
Confucius Day
Today is Confucius Day, below is one of his Analects:
The Master said,
"He who exercises government by means of his virtue
may be compared to the north polar star,
which keeps its place and all
the stars turn towards it."
And I’d like to add,
“Unless he who exercises government is a dimwit
and therefore little more than a Black Hole of Despair,
which sucks all hope and life, intellect and charm into the abyss
and turns the Universe into a chaotic model of hell,
especially if he digs his heels and claws in his own faulty rhetoric and all
the stars are too inept to go supernova and allow the light of truth to set things right again.”
I admit I’m not quite as remarkable a philosopher. To be fair, I’m like one-sixteenth Chinese. I make these comments because they seem appropriate, it felt right, particularly because the very things Confucius stood for are being violated and soiled. We live in a society that claims to honor personal and
governmental morality, correctness of
social relationships,
justice and
sincerity. We are failing in so many ways. I don't want the soap box but nobody will take it! Not seriously.
We need a leader. And right now, Stephen Colbert is looking better and better.
Welcome!
On this day, Google turns 8. I remember sitting at this computer engineering consulting firm way back then, and reading about this really neat search engine from these two geeks at Stanford and signing on to do beta towards faster and better access to instant knowledge. Ahh, those were exciting days!
On this day, Helena of Sydney is born into the world. Born on Google Day! This kid's gonna be one cool geekerina.
These two, otherwise unrelated events, making the world smarter, prettier, cooler and happier. Congratulations, Larry, Sergey, Alison and Benjamin. And thank you for sharing your joy!
The American Dream Dies on the R Train
I sat next to a Wall Street stiff, thirty-something and wearing a suit that retails for more than I earn in two months, smugly reading his Journal. We had already sneered at each other before we shared the bench. We had a momentary class struggle, but since we were both using public transportation it was not much a battle.
A small cadre of teenagers, late for school, milled by the door when one spotted an ad for
110 Livingston Street. It has units “starting in the $400s” the ad announced. Suddenly the noise level and the excitement went up to eleven! “Man, $400 a month. That’s sweet, man. And, it’s all new.” Another one chimed in, “And it’s a new building so maybe they include like electricity and that stuff.” “Utilities,” helped one of their cohorts.
I was having convulsions. Mr. Wall Street and I caught each other’s eye and we bawled. It was a wonderful bonding experience. As we both gasped for air, I said, “
You tell them!” More laughter. He shook his head as he wiped the tears off his face, “No!!!
You tell them. They won’t believe
me.”
When I was able to compose myself a bit, “Psst!” I caught the attention of one of them. He eyed me suspiciously. I waved him over. He looked skeptical. I smiled and waved him again. He, amazingly, came over and I stage whispered, “That means in the
$400,000 range. Three zeroes after that number there.” He did his best impression of Buckwheat.
“Yo!” The rest was a tirade of Brooklyn-conjugated vulgarities to convey to his compadres that the poster did not constitute truth in advertising. And just there, on the R train, the American Dream died…
Of deathtraps and Mondays
My elevator buddies are this sweet family that rides from the subway to street level almost every morning. The father works in Downtown Brooklyn and he drops off his second grader and pre-schooler son and daughter. This morning the boy read out loud the warning sign and asked his father why we couldn’t ride the elevator in case of a fire. The father started to answer and very discreetly lowered his voice as the part of the actual danger came up. The boy was understanding it all too well and blurted out, while elevator moved swiftly towards its top flight, “Is that when you die?” These are words nobody needs before their second cup of coffee. Especially when trapped in a crowded metal box. I don’t think I helped the situation by cackling while our fellow passengers stiffened and felt a chill up and down their spines.
Don't Ask, Don't Tell: Just Do It!
Secrets are dangerous because they have an annoying tendency of getting out – which probably explains that whole sins of omission thing.
I know more things today than I did last night or this dawn when I went to bed. Things kept from me to protect me. Things I don’t want to know. Things I wish I did not know.
Too fracking late now…
Life is full of dirty little details. I’m not sure that I can add any wisdom to this tidbit, but then I’m not sure that it is necessary or even possible.
I begin the week then with a revelation that isn’t even mine but it feels appropriate here: ignorance is bliss! Oh how I long for the days when I knew nothing about nothing. Those were the days. This week I will fantasize about full frontal lobotomies from time to time, until acceptance kicks in. Or until I block out the entire memory of everything I learned today. Acceptance or denial, I’ll take whichever comes first. I’ll be on E-Bay looking for a shroud of amnesia.
Get your sexy on, baby!
I have been hearing Justin Timberlake's single for weeks now. Catchy, but not a future classic by any means. All this time, I was under the impression it was a woman singing. Then Justin did Letterman. I laughed through the whole performance. One of my coworkers, who has it on her cell phone, put it perfectly when she said he sounded like a drag queen on it. A few nights later, we were watching one of the late night talk shows and the host was lamenting the state of a world in which Justin Timberlake has the number one album on Billboard. Mom, very nonchalantly threw this priceless line at me:
“It’s not that they love Justin, you know. He’s just the anti-Federline.”
Mom: Pop Culturist Extraordinaire!
Extending an olive branch
Some neoconservatives have gotten their thongs in an atomic wedgy over the naming of dwarf planet Eris. They’ve taken the Party line that if you are not with us you’re one of those other things and I am afraid that the divisions created by the subsequent perceived hurt feelings might very well fell our great Republic. Trying to heal one nation and Mike Janitch, I offer an olive branch (which means a peace offering and nothing sinister at all). In order to achieve this, I have rejected the given names of the largest celestial bodies in our solar system (which has been renamed as well) on purely moral grounds – which makes me right because Jesus would want it that way. And Eris too.
If Congress can change the name of French fries to pander to the neocons, I can change the names of the planets. For I, too, am a uniter not a divider. Celestial bodies were originally given Greek names. When that Empire started to crumble, the Romans Latinized everything. America is at the forefront of, well, everything, so we should be able to do whatever we want. To begin, I have changed the name to the solar system to
“The Beltway” in honor of the most powerful loop in the planet and the rest of the bodies within it follow suit by honoring the great men and women who exude American Pride – because jingoism is red, white and blue, baby!
The
Sun shall henceforth be known as
Dick Cheney because he is at the center of all things GOP and it seems appropriate. It’s a bit more in your face than Dick has been in his career, but it finally calls him out on his influence for the last few decades regarding the state of the Beltway.
The
Moon conjures up visions of nakedness and that is un-American (ask the FCC), so we will rename that body “Ash” – not after the Pokémon trainer but the Patriot
John Ashcroft who saw some and purchased an $8,000 curtain to cover up the exposed titty of the “Spirit of Justice.”
Ceres is an obscure object that most people don’t even know is a dwarf planet in the Beltway. This can be corrected with one fabulous name:
Condoleeza!
Eris. The grief and strife she has created! The association to anything Trojan conjures up birth control and, worse, reproduction rights and the pro-choice movement. All this can easily be countered perfectly thus:
Ann Coulter.Pluto has been demoted to dwarf planet but secretly we all count it as part of the original lineup. Similarly, its new name belongs to a statesman like no other – even Mr. Spock asserted that to his greatness – even if circumstances may make it seem like his luster may have been dulled by scandal. No, it and he remains a misunderstood genius. This planet is now
Richard Milhouse Nixon.
Jupiter was Zeus, the father figure of the Greek pantheon of gods. Therefore, it makes perfect sense to rename it
Abraham Lincoln. ‘Nuff said.
Saturn, with its flashy Hollywood, special effects rings is practically screaming
Ronald Reagan. Its rings will now be known as Nancy Reagan’s Family Values Jewels.
Mars, the god of war needs and of fictional, terrifying little green men needs serious rehabilitation as has been experienced to Senator
Joseph McCarthy – whose patriotism was misconstrued as war-like zealousness.
Uranus. This poor planet has gotten enough double entendre jokes at its expense that might, unfortunately, conjure the specter of same sex marriage and gay rights. So to end that madness, I have renamed it Jedgar, after
J. Edgar Hoover because only a being bereft of common sense buys the red dress rumors.
Earth, our Great Mother, will be known as
Bar Bush. No longer earthlings, we will be known throughout the Universe as Bush Babies of the Beltway. It feels more compassionate, doesn’t it?
Venus was a challenge. Venus was a skank. I borrowed a page from the Ronald D. Moore playbook (he made Starbuck a girl on Battlestar Galactica). To salvage our brightest little planet’s rep, I have chosen the brightest star in post-9/11 politics:
Rudy Guiliani. Sure, he cheated on 2 of his 3 wives. But to be fair, the first was his first cousin and the marriage was annulled, so technically it doesn’t count. Besides, who hasn’t cheated on a cousin? He has yet to cheat on the third wife, so really it was a one-time infraction. Hate the game, not the playah!
Neptune had an on-going battle with Zeus for divine supremacy and this fact alone made his name change obvious:
Alexander Haig.
Mercury is more complicated even for the tiniest planet. It needed something that bridged the old with the new. I think the solution is absolutely brilliant. Hermes to the Greeks was the father of three sons that made the naming of this planet a cinch. He fathered Pan, a musical goat-like being known for his unbridled male sexuality. Abderus, who met a horrible fate and was eaten by horses and in whose honor had a town named after him – though the air around it made its residents stupid. And finally, there was his progeny with Aphrodite, Hermaphroditus. My choice? The man who, though petite, has a large voice, has Disney-character features and has been appointed to the Committee for People with Intellectual Disabilities.
Clay Aiken.
That’s my contribution to peace, my brothers. Consider yourselves embraced!
A graceful segue this ain't
I came out of the train station and was confronted with camera crews, extras “protesting” in front of Borough Hall and a lot of production folks. Of course, it is at times like these that the truly provincial around us get easily outed. A woman who works in my building came up behind me and sounded alarmed, her eyes darting up and down Court Street towards the Bridge,
“Oh my god, what happened?”I looked around and pointed at the racket by the giant stars and stripes hanging by the old entrance,
“That? They’re filming.” She wasn’t getting the industry talk,
“Filming what? What’s happening?” I felt it was my duty to put her at ease,
“That’s not a real news truck, those are not really cameramen, the protesters are actors and the giant Paramount Pictures trailer over there should cover the rest.” She laughed nervously as she realized it was some show biz thing.
“Well, what do you think it is?” I saw the gay and lesbian signs and although the studio trucks said otherwise, I just didn’t care anymore,
“CSI: Brooklyn.” (Because
Law & Order: Fughedaboutit seemed obnoxious, okay! Geez…)
Later during lunch another co-worker and I met up on the first floor of our building.
“Sooooo, did you see him? Did you see him??” I had no idea what she was speaking about,
“Who?” “Oh my god, Adam Sandler!” Suddenly it felt like my life had turned into a bastardized Larry David teleplay –
who the hell puts an exclamation point after Sandler?
The Wedding Singer, the
King of Queens and the Whore/Black Sheep from
Seventh Heaven are filming scenes for the upcoming piece of crap
“I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry” in downtown Brooklyn today.
Jive Talkin'
I mentioned
Molly Ivins when writing about Ann Richards, who was laid to rest this weekend. I knew she would write a column about her friend and I finally read it tonight. It contains some hilarious anecdotes. She repeats her Mrs. Myles story. I repeat her because my entire day was a nightmare – I spent it in a futile attempt to trudge my way out of a mountain of paper. I was a lonely, old and tired bureaucrat and right now I’d rather think about myself in a better light, even if only by association.
Enjoy the story as I repeat the affirmation,
“I am not a sellout in a rot!”
At a long-ago political do at Scholz Garten in Austin, everybody who was anybody was there, meet-in' and greetin' at a furious pace. A group of us got the tired feet and went to lean our rears against a table at the back wall of the bar. Perched like birds in a row were Bob Bullock, then state comptroller; moi; Charles Miles, the head of Bullock's personnel department; and Ms. Ann Richards.
Bullock, with 20 years in Texas politics, knew every sorry, no-good sonofagun in the entire state. Some old racist judge from East Texas came up to him: "Bob, my boy, how are you?"
Bullock said: "Judge, I'd like you to meet my friends. This is Molly Ivins with the Texas Observer."
The judge peered up at me and said, "How yew, little lady?"
Bullock: "And this is Charles Miles, the head of my personnel department."
Miles, who is black, stuck out his hand, and the judge got an expression on his face as though he had just stepped into a fresh cowpie. He reached out and touched Charlie's palm with one finger while turning eagerly to the pretty, blond, blue-eyed Ann. "And who is this lovely lady?"
Ann beamed and replied, "I am Mrs. Miles."
Fenster and the Undead come together
I’ve always been impressionable and I’m okay with that.
I started the evening watching the WB’s farewell broadcast – not all of it, just
Angel and
Buffy. We ended the night with
Shaun of the Dead. So already my mind was working over time with the
undead and the bloody.
The night was one of those uncomfortable psychotic rollercoaster trips that started hot and humid. So I got up and turned on the fan. But then I was too cold, so I grabbed my comforter. Then, I found myself too hot. The night turned into the sleep-deprived version of a French farce.
I finally managed to sleep a full 2 hours uninterrupted from 2:38 to 4:44 a.m. But there was a price. The zombies were after me; there was blood (no biting though, just scratches and bruises). When they finally cornered me and I couldn’t get away (I was probably cocooned in the comforter and couldn’t move),
Benicio Del Toro magically appeared with two metal rods and started kicking ass.
He killed all the zombies and I’m sure I should have been grateful. But then I started making out with the man. That’s twice in like 6 years. I have not been able to decide for the last decade or so whether that’s erotic or repugnant. All I know is I awoke startled and my first conscious thought, at 4:44 a.m. mind you, was, “Ugh, dude you were tonguing
Fenster!”
I have no inkling why or where the heck Benicio came from but I’m off monster movies for a while now.
Salma Redeems Herself on the Sabbath
We settled in Saturday night to watch “
Frida.” Salma Hayek accumulates like a million brownie points to forgive every bad movie she has ever made with this one. Julie Taymor proves her artistic brilliance by matching Frida’s passion for color and having an eagle eye for cultural detail beyond reproach. The hospital scene after the bus accident is surreally perfect! The
soundtrack is pretty cool too, including songs by one of Frida’s former lovers.
At the time we had no idea that we were coming upwards a six-decade anniversary of the accident that turned Frida Kahlo’s life around, which happened on September 17 in 1925.
There is a sweet web page that chronicles Frida’s life in self-portraits at
Frida by Kahlo: A Story in Self-Portraits. There are also a few pages of the exhibit at the
Tate Modern – including a guided tour of her parents’ house in Mexico. Finally, there is a fantastic section in the PBS website that served as a companion piece for the documentary “
The Life and Times of Frida Kahlo.”
Sunday we will cap the weekend with “
Shaun of the Dead” because it seems like a fitting end to a most freakish week.
It is a Discordian World, After All!
Today, we
Discordians rejoice for 5 reasons. (It’s always 5 things or 5 other things. These things always come in 5…)
Planet Xena has now been officially named and her name is Eris.
Eris, of course, is the goddess of strife – she of the Golden Apple of Discord and twin to bad boy of the underworld
Ares.
I was excited that there would be an overabundance of nerdy press coverage and I attacked the Internets with gusto! I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, it was so much better than I could imagine! I figured I would make the rounds through a myriad of scientific publications, NASA and astronomy lab sites. That’s pretty sweet right there. But instead, I was immediately drawn to the
Bad Astronomy Blog, Phil Plait discusses how
Mike Janitch’s blog had an entry claiming that the naming of the dwarf planet and her moon,
Dysnomia (Eris’s daughter and spirit of lawlessness) was a slanderous jab at the present administration and current world affairs, by conspiracy nutsy 9/11 theorists and commie pinko California hippies who believe in evolution. “The names have ulterior motives behind them,” Janitch wrote in his blog as he complained that he was being ridiculed for his dissenting view. A commentator responded that this was not case, but rather that he was “being ridiculed because your ‘reasoning’ is of the tinfoil-hat variety.” It is absolutely hilarious!
"The only obvious thing is that they were taking a cheap shot at world affairs. Why assume the anti-war vibe? Because of Michael Brown's own statements, coupled with the fact that he is from the California Institute of Technology.. located in far west Moonbat country, the 9/11 timing, and the fact that the name had to be picked by Michael Browns team BEFORE the Pluto planet vote."
Whereas I was looking forward to overdosing on Science, Discover, Nature and publications of that ilk, this was more like a bastard distillation of Mad, George, Spy, Omni and the New Republic.
Brooklyn: birthplace of the extreme grandma
Speaking of vivacious silver foxes...
I took the express bus home last night. It’s a lovely trip on those big buses – they’re clean and cool (warm in winter), with huge and plush seats, and an awesome view. And the ride? Smooth!!! I took it to its second stop in Brooklyn and stopped at the regular bus stop to ask an elderly lady if the B9 stopped there. It did. The lady, a silver haired fox in her late 70s, and I struck up an easy, neighborly conversation.
She complained that hoodlums would loiter behind her building, demanding five-dollar bills in a threatening panhandle. Once, rather recently, one of these young men demanded her money (and this is horrifying because it is a few feet from the police station). She said,
“No!” He then had the temerity to inform her,
“You know, I could just kill you.” But this is a Brooklyn Silver Fox, she looked at him and said,
“I’m old, I’m going to die soon anyway. But I can really hurt you.” I’m not entirely sure what happened next (on his part), but I can tell you that according to Foxy, she took a strong hold of her purse with one hand and her cane with the other and, in her words,
“I got him where it really hurts.” She nodded to no one in particular, as if reiterating and justifying her own indignation. Then she stage whispered to me,
“You do know where to really hurt a man, don’t you?” That hiccup of an echo and the accompanying tiny tremor felt on Third Avenue in Bay Ridge last night, around 7:28 p.m., was just me cackling like a little witch...
See? This is why I will
never leave
Brooklyn. Fughedaboutit, I love this joint!
Good night, Sister Woman
Ann Richards passed away tonight.
The first female governor of Texas, she celebrated her achievement by wearing a tee shirt that read: "A woman's place is in the dome." Asked what she’d done differently if she had known she was going to be a one-term governor, she replied: "Oh, I would probably have raised more hell." She had one of those laughs that was careless and full of joy, raspy and earthy. Molly Ivins' collection of columns "Molly Ivins Can't Say That, Can She?" includes several hilarious anecdotes that vividly illustrate her wit and charm. If you ever read it, I suppose all I have to say is, "Hello, I am Mrs. Miles" and send you into fits of hysterics.
She was vivacious with a devil-may-care glint in her eye. She was witty and extremely funny, superbly intelligent and articulate. I can say a great many things and I could bitch about a few others, but I’ll just say that the world will be a smaller place without her exuberant presence in it. I will let her speak for herself by paraphrasing part of her commencement speech at Mount Holyoke a decade ago:
The first rule in life is: cherish your friends and your family as if your life depended on it...because it does.
Number two: Love people more than things.
Number three: Indulge the fool in you. Make time now for play, for the impractical, for the absurd, and make it a rule to do it. Not just every now and then. Let your heart overrule your head once in a while. Never turn down a new experience unless it's law or it's going to get you in real serious trouble.
Number four: Don't spend a lot of time worrying about your failures. I've learned a whole lot more from my mistakes from all of my successes.
And number five: Have some sense about work. No one ever died muttering, "I wish I had spent more time at the office."
Coming Home.
The anniversary of the week is deeply ingrained in my brain, the last two entries notwithstanding. I am not heartless, nor have I ever taken what happened lightly. I prefer not to think about it. That’s not true either, it’s never too far from my mind.
In 2001, I was in grad school and going to my marketing class, when I crossed into the East Village off Broadway, I always looked south. It was a reflex. Especially in the early evening, when the sky would turn shades of orange, pink or lilac and the
reflection off the towers had this charming and hypnotic effect. But suddenly the familiar wasn’t there and just when you thought you’d managed to push it out of your mind, you’d remember they weren’t there anymore and why. And an icy cold would rise within you and then an infernal heat and a pain so inconsolable that you’d think you could shatter like glass.
The one thing I have been grateful for in the last 5 years is that I have, for the most part, been able to remain in Brooklyn. I have avoided most trips downtown. Tomorrow, I have an off site event smack in the middle of Wall Street, down by the
Charging Bull.
This isn’t irrational fear that something “bad” might happen. If it does, I’ll deal with it crisis-by-crisis, minute-by-minute. That’s not even a consideration. This is fear of facing that uglier monster, the one that attacked me in my kitchen that night when I smelled the smoke coming from lower Manhattan and I heard the fighter jets flying over my head and a thousand faces of death flew by in my head and I sobbed. This is the overwhelming sadness that comes when reality is irreparably broken. I have avoided lower Manhattan and Ground Zero for as much as I can. Tomorrow I can’t. And I have to remain calm and clear headed for my presentation.
I don’t like feeling this fragile. I’m not a wilting flower, dammit!
What would you do for the perfect shoes?
I used to own this really sexy pair of 1950s black stilettos that I miss more than I can tell you.
They were these black suede, four-inch pumps, with a steel tip heel. They were magical shoes. I put them on and suddenly I walked like a lady. The courage found at the bottom of a snifter of cognac was also found as I slipped those babies on. They felt like a second skin – I could run, dance and walk straighter with those shoes on than barefoot! Sometimes, I would dress around my shoes. They were superhero shoes: I was invincible babe in hot shoes!
I had a memorial service for them when the time came for them to go to the big garbage dump in the sky…
I need to purchase new shoes. No more heels for me, though; and no Jimmy Choos because I’d have to do illegal things for it. Might be worth it. No. I couldn’t, could I?
Of all the differences between men and women, I think this one is fundamental: men rarely get sentimental about their footwear.
Memorial Bandwagon
September 11, 2001 was the most surreal and terrifying day of my life. The range of extreme emotions and confusion that inhabited my soul that day left me numb.
I have always been more than a little suspicious of organized memorials and other bandwagons. It feels like the last four years we have been moving closer to white sales and yet another excuse for a day off from work and one more barbeque to end the season. The Sunday paper had a 64-page supplement to commemorate (though that seems like the wrong word here). There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s the advertisements within, the ones that make me cringe in their sedate corporate image way. “We’re not selling anything, just mourning with you. U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! We’re Number One! Remember our brand fondly.”
I have nothing constructive to add, just an uncomfortable feeling about the entire day and its aftermath.
Tabula rasa
I started looking into alternatives for medical insurance. Government programs are out of the question because, according to them, I earn enough to handle it on my own. The low income programs available in the city exclude me for the same reason. Free medical care is available if I'm willing to travel to questionable neighborhoods and pretty sad hospitals outside my immediate area. There are some low cost programs that I can't afford. Maybe if I can get a loan, I could pay the premiums. Let's just say that Canada is looking better and better by the nanosecond!
There is a solution I simply don't know about just yet.
It's just so that nothing can ever be easy. Medical care, preventive or emergency, shouldn't be this difficult. It should not cause anxiety. Having access to medical care should be no more extraordinary than getting an education. I shouldn't have to consider which bills not to pay so I can cover my ass!
I should have married a doctor. I dated a pre-med virgin at Stony Brook during my freshman year. Mea culpa for not following through, I suppose.
When at the Brink, CALL: (212) 556-1234
There is this priceless sequence on
The West Wing’s pilot where Leo McGarry (John Spencer as the Chief of Staff) is having a fit because the puzzles editor at the Times has taken liberties spelling Ghaddafi and thereby ruining his possibilities of solving and enjoying said crossword. He is dead serious when he orders his assistant to please call the editor of the New York Times crossword to inform him that 1. it is spelt with an “H” and two “D”s and 2. isn't a seven letter word for anything. Then, he does something we have all wanted to do--he CALLS!
"Seventeen across is wrong... You're spelling his name wrong.... What's my name? My name doesn't matter. I'm just an ordinary citizen, who relies on the Times crossword for stimulation. And I'm telling you that I've met the man twice and I've recommended a pre-emptive Exocet missile strike against his air force, so I think I know how..." Leo pauses and looks at the phone then hangs it up. He turns to C.J., who had come in while he was talking. "They hang up on me every time."
It was a hilarious, LOLROF moment—if you have ever been driven to the brink yourself by
fucking Will Shortz!
The New York Times puzzles editor is a much hated personality around the house. Last night he almost received a “WFT?!” call (not to mention that his parentage came into serious question, again). The gimmick was a series of numbers as clue (
Spoiler Alert: you had to enter the digits on a calculator, view them upside down and translate the symbols to its corresponding letters
End Spoiler).
It favored a special kind of geek, so I figured it out. Still, it was pretty obnoxious. Almost as obnoxious as his sports-themed puzzles that favor jocks; especially because we all
know jocks are so brilliant and free with those things people string together to like talk and stuff…
Dear Mr. Shortz:
Suffer chronic diarrhea, Will, and never sleep!
Bitterly yours,
The High Priestess of the Temple of Doom and her Mother
P.S. Just be thankful we’re not Roma.
You always suspected this...
I’m sorry, I love you all but I am basking in the glory of Mom’s company right now. I do have something for you.
Apparently, if you make faces at a monkey, it will return the gesture. How this affects the whole evolution thing, I do not know. But I thought you’d like to know this… You can read about it
here, and even see a couple of videos.
Think of this: that scientist gets paid for this! Your job sucks...
Mom is Home: YAY!
My bus line has decreased service and my evening bus has been scrapped and the earlier bus leaves earlier. So after a long day, I had to wait for the bus. It was the longest trip I can ever recall. Then I realized that this new schedule means I get to miss the cross-town connection. Oy!
I almost skipped home I was so giddy. As I approached the house, I was looking wistfully up at her bedroom window. The light wasn’t on. No Mom.
I considered hanging out on the stoop and wait for her, because surely she’d be home any minute. As I was pondering this, I noticed the yellow cab. A yellow cab in Brooklyn is about as unusual as a hairy, 7-foot-tall, white guy with wiry hair walking down the streets of
Yokohama. Then I saw her distinctive salt and pepper hair getting out of the cab. It was really cool! There was a tenor sax palying in my head and everything.
We chatted up to a hot cup of coffee and some absolutely sinful brownies. It was so easy and relaxed, a natural and joyous event. I'm as happy as that baby in the photo!
Thank you
Jet Blue for bringing my Mommy home safe. She recommends it, even the odd
blue potato chips.
It smells like Wednesday
Right now the entire house is permeated with a heavenly aroma of slow cooked garlic, parsley, scallions, pepper and a touch of lemon juice. To me that bouquet means Wednesday.
Chicken in green sauce is one of the recipes Mom and I clipped from one of the Wednesday food sections eons ago. It’s the easiest thing to make. It works better with legs and thighs because it will stay on the stove for about an hour, under a low flame and a smidgeon of oil. Atop the chicken goes a healthy bunch of parsley, scallions, pepper and as much garlic as you can stand. We tend to slice the garlic, but you can leave it whole. Cover and go do something fun. In about an hour, the chicken will run clear juices, the herbs will have wilted and the garlic will be soft and malleable. The herbs get separated and thrown in a blender to chop; then the liquid is added and blended (add salt and additional pepper at this stage but sparingly). You will likely make a mess. Call yourself a cook and forgive yourself, then wipe the green sauce off the wall.
The sauce will be different every time you make it – because you will have more parsley or more scallions, or because the chicken might render more or less liquid, or because it is more humid, or because of your altitude… It will be rich and delicious and smell amazing no matter how thick or runny the sauce is! It goes well with rice and pasta, with potatoes, anything that will soak up that green sauce. And the sauce makes a great base for a hearty soup. Every green will be different and beautiful, sometimes silky and others velvety. Each time it will bring comfort to your nose and palate, a little happiness in a
simple dish.
It smells like Mom is home.
Happy!
Tonight, for the first time since Mom left for Puerto Rico, I went into the kitchen and felt the magic of cooking. Cooking for me is artistic escape. But I found during this period that it simply isn’t the same to cook for one -- that's just a chore. The actual joy is to do it for someone else. The magic is to offer a dish to someone else and experience her delight.
It’s one of the greatest selfless acts, because you don’t do it to hear that it is good (you know whether you are a good cook or not). It’s about providing pleasure and sharing the moment.
The pretty plum tomatoes held up nicely and I made a sauce with diced ham, capers, sautéed garlic and onions, lots of red pepper flakes, and fresh dill. I’m keeping some culinary secrets up my sleeve, but I guarantee you that those ingredients will marry into an enchanting mixture.
Understand that what will make it remarkable is that Mom is coming home on Wednesday!
Not only did I get my kitchen mojo back, I am one happy baby girl. (Yeah, yeah, I'd grow up but then I'd just be ordinary...)
Happy Birthday, Leonard!
Some people are memorable. I declared undying love to him with the words, "I will always cherish the initial misconceptions I held about you." He was a great friend and the grandest fantasy of my life. Below, I paraphrase what I wrote about our first contact...The first time I met him was on a Thursday. It was February, and it was cold and crisp outside, nice and warm inside.
I'd like to say that I didn't take notice of him. But that'd be lying. I saw him -- as soon as we walked in. I watched him move... He walked very self-assuredly, and had noticeably good posture. His moves were precise, quick, and yet somehow graceful and refined in a stoic sort of way. And he looked damn good in a tux.
He took my hand and kissed it. I believe his first words to me were, "The pleasure is all mine."
He was charming, witty and in every way a gentleman.
He looked like a young Christopher Walken.
He rocked my world.
Cooking for shock value
This being a Sunday, I spent some time watching the cooking shows on PBS. After I went out for a walk and picked up the Sunday paper – so Mom can get her NY Times crossword puzzle fix when she returns next week – I settled with a ham and provolone sandwich (with scallions in the mayo) and a strong cup of coffee.
It was late and this was the last show of the day, New Scandinavian Cooking with a female host. Last week she did something that made me shake my head and turn the channel. Whatever it was, I thought it was gross.
This week she was making Swedish meatballs. Nothing really earth shattering there… Then she started searing scallops. She lay then atop a bed of edible flowers – mustard and horseradish. She began to make vinaigrette out of the pan drippings. This seemed like it was going to be pretty cool, so I started to pay attention. And that’s when she did it!
She threw blueberries on the hot pan. The rest is a blur (dried blueberries) as I fought my way (leeks) from under a mountain of Sunday paper (butter) crap announcements, desperately (rock salt) looking for the remote control, while I screaming in agony, “Eeeeewwwwwwwwwwww!”
At last, with remote in hand, I clicked to move on to another (any other) channel and she was spooning this blueish-purple over glob the scallops. Oh, dude!!! I almost passed out.
Family matters
The last time I saw my cousin she introduced me to her husband. It felt slightly awkward because everybody else in the room and I had a history, but this man was no one to me. I wanted to be polite to the man in his home, but he wasn’t talking. He was nice enough, I suppose, just not altogether present (if you know what I mean).
She then mentioned something about their wedding and said, “Oh, you should have been there…”
Without thinking, I replied, “I wasn’t invited.”
The men embraced silence.
She was visibly annoyed, “Sorry!” She didn’t mean it and it was quite obvious. The men shifted in their seats.
“Oh, no, it’s perfectly okay,” I said and the men in the room became very interested in the commercial on the giant television. “I didn’t expect an invitation.”
She shot me an evil sneer, “Oh?”
“I have never been invited to any of your weddings.”
The first one, to her boy’s father was a rushed event and I understood. The second planned wedding didn’t happen because the groom was killed in an auto accident, but I wasn’t told until he died. I found out about the last one because she called and announced she was pregnant and about to pop.
I think it’s their anniversary this week.
A Liberating Imbalance
Okay, that was a scary entry last night . . . but I had nothing!!! But that is what was honestly on my mind a better part of the day. It’s not always pretty, fun or resulting in good cooking. Of course, I have a feeling that it is far less dramatic than the panicky, knee-jerk paranoia I tend to go for as a rule. Besides, it’s a lot funnier when I overreact.
It’s more likely that I just hit
perimenopause – ah, womanhood! Admit it, guys: you envy us. The onset of hormonal imbalance is liberating!
In my family this is a special time when we also begin to experience the lovely side effects of either a hyperactive or
underactive thyroid. Both sweet, sweet disorders. And a chance to get pumped full of drugs! But seriously, narcolepsy is a better alternative because no matter how annoying it gets, there is no way it will ever require surgery or that it will cause cancer or make your bones turn into a lattice of flimsy threads perilously holding your frame together.
I choose to joke about it but I do realize how screwed I am either way – especially as I am a walking time bomb without medical insurance. I hate doctors. And I especially hate being at their mercy because my body refuses to act right. The next few weeks are going to be torturous as I try to figure out how I’ll manage the situation. Expect drama, and not the fun kind. See? This is just one of the reasons I feel justified in hating my family. And yet another reason why I always felt the gene pool ends with me. Who needs this shit?!
On the other hand, I can drop this whole nicey-nicey, Mother Earth, Zen-thing I’ve developed for the past few years; go back to being a Bitch and blame it on hormones.
It’s called biology, pal!
Narcolepsy is a Bitch!
I was having a conversation today. The other person turned around for a moment and when she returned to our conversation, I was fast asleep.
This has happened before, on and off for the last decade or so, and it has been happening with a growing tendency in the past six months.
I always assumed it had something to do with my allergies because these episodes are more prominent in my life when I am off antihistamines. Like a migraine, it starts with the rumblings of a sinus headache, it progresses to a point where my neck seems incapable of holding my head upright, I get the vivid sensation of short circuiting and I have to fight to keep my eyes open and then I am hit with “lost time” – because I can’t say that I am aware I have gone bye-bye. There are times when I find myself in the middle of some routine task and not knowing what just happened, where I am or how I got there – and it takes me minutes to realize that I have just awakened.
There’s more, in varying levels of
terrifying; not to mention painful, I have found myself face down on top of my keyboard one time too many. And then for hours try to figure out why my jaw hurts
(How in the hell did I do that to myself?).Apparently, my life just isn’t interesting enough. I can’t afford to have anything else that’s chronic. Hell, I can’t afford the crap that’s already been diagnosed! Then again, good choice about never learning to drive: turns out I really would be a menace on the road.
The temperatures have dropped to the 50’s overnight and the time has come for stew!
Today is Confucius Day, below is one of his Analects:
On this day, Google turns 8. I remember sitting at this computer engineering consulting firm way back then, and reading about this really neat search engine from these two geeks at Stanford and signing on to do beta towards faster and better access to instant knowledge. Ahh, those were exciting days!
I sat next to a Wall Street stiff, thirty-something and wearing a suit that retails for more than I earn in two months, smugly reading his Journal. We had already sneered at each other before we shared the bench. We had a momentary class struggle, but since we were both using public transportation it was not much a battle.
My elevator buddies are this sweet family that rides from the subway to street level almost every morning. The father works in Downtown Brooklyn and he drops off his second grader and pre-schooler son and daughter. This morning the boy read out loud the warning sign and asked his father why we couldn’t ride the elevator in case of a fire. The father started to answer and very discreetly lowered his voice as the part of the actual danger came up. The boy was understanding it all too well and blurted out, while elevator moved swiftly towards its top flight, “Is that when you die?” These are words nobody needs before their second cup of coffee. Especially when trapped in a crowded metal box. I don’t think I helped the situation by cackling while our fellow passengers stiffened and felt a chill up and down their spines.
Secrets are dangerous because they have an annoying tendency of getting out – which probably explains that whole sins of omission thing.
I have been hearing Justin Timberlake's single for weeks now. Catchy, but not a future classic by any means. All this time, I was under the impression it was a woman singing. Then Justin did Letterman. I laughed through the whole performance. One of my coworkers, who has it on her cell phone, put it perfectly when she said he sounded like a drag queen on it. A few nights later, we were watching one of the late night talk shows and the host was lamenting the state of a world in which Justin Timberlake has the number one album on Billboard. Mom, very nonchalantly threw this priceless line at me:
I mentioned Molly Ivins when writing about Ann Richards, who was laid to rest this weekend. I knew she would write a column about her friend and I finally read it tonight. It contains some hilarious anecdotes. She repeats her Mrs. Myles story. I repeat her because my entire day was a nightmare – I spent it in a futile attempt to trudge my way out of a mountain of paper. I was a lonely, old and tired bureaucrat and right now I’d rather think about myself in a better light, even if only by association.
I’ve always been impressionable and I’m okay with that.
We settled in Saturday night to watch “Frida.” Salma Hayek accumulates like a million brownie points to forgive every bad movie she has ever made with this one. Julie Taymor proves her artistic brilliance by matching Frida’s passion for color and having an eagle eye for cultural detail beyond reproach. The hospital scene after the bus accident is surreally perfect! The soundtrack is pretty cool too, including songs by one of Frida’s former lovers.
Speaking of vivacious silver foxes...
Ann Richards passed away tonight.
The anniversary of the week is deeply ingrained in my brain, the last two entries notwithstanding. I am not heartless, nor have I ever taken what happened lightly. I prefer not to think about it. That’s not true either, it’s never too far from my mind.
I used to own this really sexy pair of 1950s black stilettos that I miss more than I can tell you.
September 11, 2001 was the most surreal and terrifying day of my life. The range of extreme emotions and confusion that inhabited my soul that day left me numb.
I started looking into alternatives for medical insurance. Government programs are out of the question because, according to them, I earn enough to handle it on my own. The low income programs available in the city exclude me for the same reason. Free medical care is available if I'm willing to travel to questionable neighborhoods and pretty sad hospitals outside my immediate area. There are some low cost programs that I can't afford. Maybe if I can get a loan, I could pay the premiums. Let's just say that Canada is looking better and better by the nanosecond!
I’m sorry, I love you all but I am basking in the glory of Mom’s company right now. I do have something for you.
My bus line has decreased service and my evening bus has been scrapped and the earlier bus leaves earlier. So after a long day, I had to wait for the bus. It was the longest trip I can ever recall. Then I realized that this new schedule means I get to miss the cross-town connection. Oy!
Right now the entire house is permeated with a heavenly aroma of slow cooked garlic, parsley, scallions, pepper and a touch of lemon juice. To me that bouquet means Wednesday.
Tonight, for the first time since Mom left for Puerto Rico, I went into the kitchen and felt the magic of cooking. Cooking for me is artistic escape. But I found during this period that it simply isn’t the same to cook for one -- that's just a chore. The actual joy is to do it for someone else. The magic is to offer a dish to someone else and experience her delight.
Some people are memorable. I declared undying love to him with the words, "I will always cherish the initial misconceptions I held about you." He was a great friend and the grandest fantasy of my life. Below, I paraphrase what I wrote about our first contact...
This being a Sunday, I spent some time watching the cooking shows on PBS. After I went out for a walk and picked up the Sunday paper – so Mom can get her NY Times crossword puzzle fix when she returns next week – I settled with a ham and provolone sandwich (with scallions in the mayo) and a strong cup of coffee.
The last time I saw my cousin she introduced me to her husband. It felt slightly awkward because everybody else in the room and I had a history, but this man was no one to me. I wanted to be polite to the man in his home, but he wasn’t talking. He was nice enough, I suppose, just not altogether present (if you know what I mean).
Okay, that was a scary entry last night . . . but I had nothing!!! But that is what was honestly on my mind a better part of the day. It’s not always pretty, fun or resulting in good cooking. Of course, I have a feeling that it is far less dramatic than the panicky, knee-jerk paranoia I tend to go for as a rule. Besides, it’s a lot funnier when I overreact.
I was having a conversation today. The other person turned around for a moment and when she returned to our conversation, I was fast asleep.
