Monday, June 02, 2008
Sunday Brunch
“We are all doing spectacularly well,” I declare with a raise of the icy glass.
We’d gone for coffee after brunch, but stopped at a bar instead of a café and ordered cocktails instead of espresso. I was deep into my third at this point, the early afternoon pouring hot over us as we sat and stared at passing strangers and reflected on how simultaneously odd and natural it was that school had ended a few years ago and that we were still all kind of together despite the jobs and break-ups and graduate programs that have been pulling us back and forth through time zones.
And yet here we sat in this nexus of a city, sipping and talking, as casually and comfortably as we’d had so many times in the past. We examined each other, commenting and complimenting on weight lost, new freckles, longer hair. We made fun of our quirky constants: Looney’s accent, my tardiness, Jeremy’s nose. We repeated jokes. Jeff did his Kramer impression. The ever-absent Elijah was summoned, as well as the other old friends: brisket and sickly-sweet Manishevitz and Jorge Ramos and strange roommates and Looney’s bourbon-soaked accent (yes, worth mentioning again).
“We’re 25 going on 50,” Jeff jokes; a fact effortlessly confirmed moments later when Looney mentions The Atlantic, William Jennings Bryan, and Bill Buckley all within one sentence and is met with a hearty laugh from the rest.
It didn’t matter that it had been so long or perhaps more since we’d seen each other. There was no need for catch up, really.
And Jeff noted that it felt like he’d been away for only a long weekend, and Looney and I murmur something about how we are happy and I think to myself how the little tricky months here and there just kind of seemed to have disappeared, melted away like the glistening drops of condensation slipping down the side of my glass.
We’d gone for coffee after brunch, but stopped at a bar instead of a café and ordered cocktails instead of espresso. I was deep into my third at this point, the early afternoon pouring hot over us as we sat and stared at passing strangers and reflected on how simultaneously odd and natural it was that school had ended a few years ago and that we were still all kind of together despite the jobs and break-ups and graduate programs that have been pulling us back and forth through time zones.
And yet here we sat in this nexus of a city, sipping and talking, as casually and comfortably as we’d had so many times in the past. We examined each other, commenting and complimenting on weight lost, new freckles, longer hair. We made fun of our quirky constants: Looney’s accent, my tardiness, Jeremy’s nose. We repeated jokes. Jeff did his Kramer impression. The ever-absent Elijah was summoned, as well as the other old friends: brisket and sickly-sweet Manishevitz and Jorge Ramos and strange roommates and Looney’s bourbon-soaked accent (yes, worth mentioning again).
“We’re 25 going on 50,” Jeff jokes; a fact effortlessly confirmed moments later when Looney mentions The Atlantic, William Jennings Bryan, and Bill Buckley all within one sentence and is met with a hearty laugh from the rest.
It didn’t matter that it had been so long or perhaps more since we’d seen each other. There was no need for catch up, really.
And Jeff noted that it felt like he’d been away for only a long weekend, and Looney and I murmur something about how we are happy and I think to myself how the little tricky months here and there just kind of seemed to have disappeared, melted away like the glistening drops of condensation slipping down the side of my glass.
Monday, May 05, 2008
I ain't freakin. I ain't fakin this
Sometimes I like to share my G-Chat convos. This is one of those times:
Scene: Discussing music playlist for my upcoming dinner party
me: I'm on isoHunt
searching for torrents
and always giggle when I come across these albums called things like
"Electro House you NEED 2007"
cuz let me tell ya...
I don't need no electro house
Monica: haha
what kind of music for Friday? the old standards (dean, frank)
me: I'm going to play **exclusively** only music from commercials--you know iPod ads and Mitsubishi commercials. Bands like the Ting Tings and Cat Power...maybe even that new Madonna song from the Sunsilk ad
Monica: haha
Feist?
me: I don't know what it's called. I just call it "that shampoo commercial song"
Monica: Why don't you throw in Of Montreal for their song that runs in the Outback Steakhouse ads (even though the lyrics were completely changed for the ad)? What lead you to this decision?
me: Well, there is just so much good music in advertising these days...
Monica: no kidding
me: i may even throw in a few of the old standards. You know, like:
"A dollop of Daisy...A dollop of DAAAAY-Sy"
Monica: haha
awesome
me: and 30 seconds of the aardvaark song
Monica: I know you love that damned aardvaark song
me: I do!
Monica: is it two double-as?
me: I do love it
Monica: or just one: "aardvark"?
me: Ahh...I just added it for good measure
Monica: one
me: It's "aardvaaark," actually.
Monica: thankfully, google chat has a spell checker
me: It's three and one double-A actually. Five total.
Monica: and ironically enough, google comes up as a misspelled word
me: no. firefox has a spell checker
not google
Monica: well, whatever
me: haha
i do love that itunes song
Monica: and it doesn't have 5 As...
me: "i ain't freakin I ain't fakin this"
Monica: haha
me: mmmmm that hasn't been proven yet, Moe
Monica: yeah - it's catchy
Uh, yeah it has
me: I should just play all Frank and Dean
and then slip that in randomly
and be like
"what? what's the problem? it's a classic!"
Monica: haha
go for it - it's your party
all right
have to get to work
me: ok ok
you go work
Monica: it's gonna be a loooong night
me: I'm going to blog this.
Scene: Discussing music playlist for my upcoming dinner party
me: I'm on isoHunt
searching for torrents
and always giggle when I come across these albums called things like
"Electro House you NEED 2007"
cuz let me tell ya...
I don't need no electro house
Monica: haha
what kind of music for Friday? the old standards (dean, frank)
me: I'm going to play **exclusively** only music from commercials--you know iPod ads and Mitsubishi commercials. Bands like the Ting Tings and Cat Power...maybe even that new Madonna song from the Sunsilk ad
Monica: haha
Feist?
me: I don't know what it's called. I just call it "that shampoo commercial song"
Monica: Why don't you throw in Of Montreal for their song that runs in the Outback Steakhouse ads (even though the lyrics were completely changed for the ad)? What lead you to this decision?
me: Well, there is just so much good music in advertising these days...
Monica: no kidding
me: i may even throw in a few of the old standards. You know, like:
"A dollop of Daisy...A dollop of DAAAAY-Sy"
Monica: haha
awesome
me: and 30 seconds of the aardvaark song
Monica: I know you love that damned aardvaark song
me: I do!
Monica: is it two double-as?
me: I do love it
Monica: or just one: "aardvark"?
me: Ahh...I just added it for good measure
Monica: one
me: It's "aardvaaark," actually.
Monica: thankfully, google chat has a spell checker
me: It's three and one double-A actually. Five total.
Monica: and ironically enough, google comes up as a misspelled word
me: no. firefox has a spell checker
not google
Monica: well, whatever
me: haha
i do love that itunes song
Monica: and it doesn't have 5 As...
me: "i ain't freakin I ain't fakin this"
Monica: haha
me: mmmmm that hasn't been proven yet, Moe
Monica: yeah - it's catchy
Uh, yeah it has
me: I should just play all Frank and Dean
and then slip that in randomly
and be like
"what? what's the problem? it's a classic!"
Monica: haha
go for it - it's your party
all right
have to get to work
me: ok ok
you go work
Monica: it's gonna be a loooong night
me: I'm going to blog this.
Labels: conversations, friends, music, parties, Sony Aardvark
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Reunited
For the past few months, I’ve been spending more and more time with an old friend of mine from high school. We’d been close back then, he being a prominent part of our nerdy, wonderful little group. College pulled us apart, though, and save for one or two dinners in the interim years, we really hadn’t seen each other since graduation.
It was Friday evening after a particularly boring week, when I was surprised to see the familiar name on my cell caller ID.
“So it seems that your blog has requested my friendship on MySpace,” he told me with a bit of a laugh in his voice.
“I didn’t even know that inanimate objects could create profiles!”
I cracked up and after chatting for a while, we made those tentative usually never actually happen “let’s grab drinks soon” kind of plans and hung up. Minutes later, the phone rang and it was him again.
“Actually,” he asked. “What are you doing now?”
Somehow, he convinced me out of my pajamas and into the shower, and two hours later we were sitting in a coffee shop downtown, enthusiastically catching each other up on the last several years of our lives. We spent a lot of time marveling over the way the hobbies and extra-curricular activities we had each been obsessed with at age 16 had now, nearly ten years later, become our careers. It was hours before I got home, coffee having turned into a movie followed by drinks and then a couple hours of just wandering around West Village side streets. Morning light was just starting to creep into the sky when I finally crawled into my bed, feeling happy at having found my old friend and still relishing in that familiar comfort of being around someone who knew you when your hair was always frizzy and your stupid knee socks would never stay up.
We found ourselves telling bits of that story again this past weekend as we dined and drank and dined and drank again with some of his friends and coworkers—a vibrant circle of clever, intelligent people that I’ve been openly coveting as my own for the past couple months. I was chatting with a girl sitting across from me when I heard him mention going to a concert I would have loved.
“Wait…wait…and you went without me?!” I exclaimed, a bit offended at the thought.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “This was a couple years ago. It was after/before!”
“After/before?” I asked, the sangria/blueberry stoli/wine combination I’d been imbibing all night lending obvious fuel to my confusion.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile, “after we met but before we met again.” My smile broke through then as I understood. “Ohhh…” I said with a boozy whisper. “I call those dark ages…”
It was Friday evening after a particularly boring week, when I was surprised to see the familiar name on my cell caller ID.
“So it seems that your blog has requested my friendship on MySpace,” he told me with a bit of a laugh in his voice.
“I didn’t even know that inanimate objects could create profiles!”
I cracked up and after chatting for a while, we made those tentative usually never actually happen “let’s grab drinks soon” kind of plans and hung up. Minutes later, the phone rang and it was him again.
“Actually,” he asked. “What are you doing now?”
Somehow, he convinced me out of my pajamas and into the shower, and two hours later we were sitting in a coffee shop downtown, enthusiastically catching each other up on the last several years of our lives. We spent a lot of time marveling over the way the hobbies and extra-curricular activities we had each been obsessed with at age 16 had now, nearly ten years later, become our careers. It was hours before I got home, coffee having turned into a movie followed by drinks and then a couple hours of just wandering around West Village side streets. Morning light was just starting to creep into the sky when I finally crawled into my bed, feeling happy at having found my old friend and still relishing in that familiar comfort of being around someone who knew you when your hair was always frizzy and your stupid knee socks would never stay up.
We found ourselves telling bits of that story again this past weekend as we dined and drank and dined and drank again with some of his friends and coworkers—a vibrant circle of clever, intelligent people that I’ve been openly coveting as my own for the past couple months. I was chatting with a girl sitting across from me when I heard him mention going to a concert I would have loved.
“Wait…wait…and you went without me?!” I exclaimed, a bit offended at the thought.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “This was a couple years ago. It was after/before!”
“After/before?” I asked, the sangria/blueberry stoli/wine combination I’d been imbibing all night lending obvious fuel to my confusion.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile, “after we met but before we met again.” My smile broke through then as I understood. “Ohhh…” I said with a boozy whisper. “I call those dark ages…”
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Not even the rain has such small hands, Part II
“No. Don’t go yet,” I say when he reaches for his shoes.
“Babe, I have to…” His voice and face are tired, but I ignore it.
“No you don’t. Not yet.”
I feel and sound like a petulant child, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m not ready for him to leave yet.
He sighs and sits back with the remote in hand, flipping through the previews on the OnDemand channel. He laughs at something and I smile, but nothing on the screen makes sense to me and for some reason seems only to make me feel more upset. I wordlessly take the remote from him and turn it off, replacing the cheery sounds with the crackle of the parts as they cool.
He takes my hands in his, commenting on their size. I line them across his palm like puzzle pieces, noting the way two of mine together barely make one of his.
“Not even the rain has such small hands,” I say. I explain before he has the chance to ask. “It’s from this E.E. Cummings poem—‘Nobody, not even the rain has such small hands.’”
That last line has always been a favorite, but as I say it, I understand why this is so difficult. I might be the one with the small hands, but it’s really him who has the ability to naturally unclose me, petal by petal, effortlessly slipping into those tiny spaces no one else can seem to find. And when he's gone? They close up again--empty and quiet until the next time he makes the trip over from his half of the world.
Another minute ticks by and I watch him shift. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s got his eye on the clock. My stomach suddenly starts to cramp—sharp pains that shoot up like knives and make it hard to breathe. I wince and tell him this.
“Is it from the wine?” he asks.
“No…I don’t think so. I don’t know what it is.” I’m lying, though. I know exactly what it is: my body is rejecting his departure.
I take a sip of water and lay down on the couch next to him. He’s allowed me a few more minutes and I take them hungrily. Lifting his arm, I slip my body under it, right ear pressed against his chest, within which a beat pounds steadily. I know that thump, having fallen asleep to its rhythm many times—nights, mornings, even one cloudy afternoon on the middle of a carpeted floor just inches away from a brownish wine stain.
I’m straining right now, wishing I could stop time or at least figure out a way to bottle this feeling of quiet contentment I feel only when he's around. Instead, I shut my eyes and lie still, breathing in the familiar soapy scent of his sweater. For a few more seconds, everything is in place. I’m afraid to move, knowing that once I do I’ll have to get used to missing him again. The task feels exhausting, unbearable, even. I want to say things, convinced that maybe if I just express this thing inside me just right, it'll make the moment easier.
I give myself a deadline. 30 more seconds, I think. In 30 seconds and I’ll get up and say good-bye…
I count them out slowly in my head, measured in time with the heartbeat in my ear. 28…29…30...
I wait one more beat before I tear myself away.
"OK," I say.
“Babe, I have to…” His voice and face are tired, but I ignore it.
“No you don’t. Not yet.”
I feel and sound like a petulant child, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m not ready for him to leave yet.
He sighs and sits back with the remote in hand, flipping through the previews on the OnDemand channel. He laughs at something and I smile, but nothing on the screen makes sense to me and for some reason seems only to make me feel more upset. I wordlessly take the remote from him and turn it off, replacing the cheery sounds with the crackle of the parts as they cool.
He takes my hands in his, commenting on their size. I line them across his palm like puzzle pieces, noting the way two of mine together barely make one of his.
“Not even the rain has such small hands,” I say. I explain before he has the chance to ask. “It’s from this E.E. Cummings poem—‘Nobody, not even the rain has such small hands.’”
That last line has always been a favorite, but as I say it, I understand why this is so difficult. I might be the one with the small hands, but it’s really him who has the ability to naturally unclose me, petal by petal, effortlessly slipping into those tiny spaces no one else can seem to find. And when he's gone? They close up again--empty and quiet until the next time he makes the trip over from his half of the world.
Another minute ticks by and I watch him shift. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s got his eye on the clock. My stomach suddenly starts to cramp—sharp pains that shoot up like knives and make it hard to breathe. I wince and tell him this.
“Is it from the wine?” he asks.
“No…I don’t think so. I don’t know what it is.” I’m lying, though. I know exactly what it is: my body is rejecting his departure.
I take a sip of water and lay down on the couch next to him. He’s allowed me a few more minutes and I take them hungrily. Lifting his arm, I slip my body under it, right ear pressed against his chest, within which a beat pounds steadily. I know that thump, having fallen asleep to its rhythm many times—nights, mornings, even one cloudy afternoon on the middle of a carpeted floor just inches away from a brownish wine stain.
I’m straining right now, wishing I could stop time or at least figure out a way to bottle this feeling of quiet contentment I feel only when he's around. Instead, I shut my eyes and lie still, breathing in the familiar soapy scent of his sweater. For a few more seconds, everything is in place. I’m afraid to move, knowing that once I do I’ll have to get used to missing him again. The task feels exhausting, unbearable, even. I want to say things, convinced that maybe if I just express this thing inside me just right, it'll make the moment easier.
I give myself a deadline. 30 more seconds, I think. In 30 seconds and I’ll get up and say good-bye…
I count them out slowly in my head, measured in time with the heartbeat in my ear. 28…29…30...
I wait one more beat before I tear myself away.
"OK," I say.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Not even the rain has such small hands...
I found myself quoting a line from this last night to a friend and haven't been able to get it out of my head since... I might have more to say about this later, but for now...
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
e.e. cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
e.e. cummings
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Putting it Down
I'm not quite sure why I've had such a hard time putting the words down lately. A friend asked me this over drinks one night not long ago. We'd finally managed, after weeks of conflicting schedules, to meet in the cool September evening on a street corner in Chelsea--a location chosen for no reason other than its equidistant proximity from her apartment and my office. Wine poured, cigarette lit, we launched eagerly into that scattered kind of catch-up people do when it's been much too long. Racing from my new job to her new-old boyfriend to the mutual friend in absentia and, of course, the book club that only lasted a couple weeks but which brought us together (in person) for the first time.
"I expected there to be something good like the last time," she told me when the conversation drifted (inevitably) to the blogs which we both had admittedly been neglecting as of late. A touch of disappointment was audible in her voice--or perhaps it was merely my self-imposed guilt. I knew what she was referring to and she wasn't the only one of my friends surprised to not have found anything "good" in the previous days.
"I know, I know, I know..." I said, nodding my head and taking a sip of wine. "Well my laptop isn't working..." I started with the usual explanation, but then stopped, my eyes fixed on the couples passing down the street--shirts tight, arms linked, oblivious to the world...details logged for some future composition. She's a writer too, and if not her then whom else to tell the truth?
"Really, it's just not ready to come out yet, I think. It's all there kind of building up, but I'm not quite sure how to write it..."
And I guess that's really what it boils down to. I've never been very good about writing every day. I'll try, working in spurts, but really preferring the haphazard midnight moments of inspiration. The funny thing is that I have the stories...I write them all out in my head, laying on my bed, watching the sunlit patterns on my bedroom wall. I work out the dialogue, the colors, the reflections, and shadows...all of it. I laugh or cry or simply revel in how raw it feels, but it's that final step--translating it all to paper (or the screen, in my case) that seems to evade me lately.
I've been here before, in this space between daydreams and storytelling, and I know that soon enough it will all come tumbling out and it will be good and I will read it and tweak it over and over again in that perpetual search for the perfect phrase.
"It'll show up in a couple weeks, I'm sure," I told her. A promise more to myself than anyone else.
"I expected there to be something good like the last time," she told me when the conversation drifted (inevitably) to the blogs which we both had admittedly been neglecting as of late. A touch of disappointment was audible in her voice--or perhaps it was merely my self-imposed guilt. I knew what she was referring to and she wasn't the only one of my friends surprised to not have found anything "good" in the previous days.
"I know, I know, I know..." I said, nodding my head and taking a sip of wine. "Well my laptop isn't working..." I started with the usual explanation, but then stopped, my eyes fixed on the couples passing down the street--shirts tight, arms linked, oblivious to the world...details logged for some future composition. She's a writer too, and if not her then whom else to tell the truth?
"Really, it's just not ready to come out yet, I think. It's all there kind of building up, but I'm not quite sure how to write it..."
And I guess that's really what it boils down to. I've never been very good about writing every day. I'll try, working in spurts, but really preferring the haphazard midnight moments of inspiration. The funny thing is that I have the stories...I write them all out in my head, laying on my bed, watching the sunlit patterns on my bedroom wall. I work out the dialogue, the colors, the reflections, and shadows...all of it. I laugh or cry or simply revel in how raw it feels, but it's that final step--translating it all to paper (or the screen, in my case) that seems to evade me lately.
I've been here before, in this space between daydreams and storytelling, and I know that soon enough it will all come tumbling out and it will be good and I will read it and tweak it over and over again in that perpetual search for the perfect phrase.
"It'll show up in a couple weeks, I'm sure," I told her. A promise more to myself than anyone else.
Labels: blogging, conversations, friends, Writing
Saturday, September 15, 2007
A Lucid Spoonful
Back in the spring, I took an incredible writing workshop that helped me figure out a few things about what I wanted (and needed) to be doing. I ended up taking some pretty bold steps soon after and I know that much of the clarity that I needed to do so came from the conversations and realizations that I made that day.
Classes are really only as good as the students in them make them out to be, and this class was no different. There were six of us, all women at different stages of our life, but with one very important thing in common--we all wanted to write.
One of the girls that I met that day is Paula. A brilliant writer and raw food chef, Paula has started a blog chronicling her research, experiences, books, and other things having to do with the intersection of food and culture--specifically the culture of France and America. I particularly love her reminisces about her time spent living at the bookstore Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. Woven throughout all these experiences is her interaction with the other key figure in her life--her omnivorous French husband.
You can read her artfully crafted words at: http://alucidspoonful.blogspot.com/
Classes are really only as good as the students in them make them out to be, and this class was no different. There were six of us, all women at different stages of our life, but with one very important thing in common--we all wanted to write.
One of the girls that I met that day is Paula. A brilliant writer and raw food chef, Paula has started a blog chronicling her research, experiences, books, and other things having to do with the intersection of food and culture--specifically the culture of France and America. I particularly love her reminisces about her time spent living at the bookstore Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. Woven throughout all these experiences is her interaction with the other key figure in her life--her omnivorous French husband.
You can read her artfully crafted words at: http://alucidspoonful.blogspot
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Kids, We Need Your Help...
Not long ago, blog rockstar I-66 and I met for the very first time in real life. A spectacular lunch (complete with deadly white chocolate martinis) was complicated only by a very strange, very confusing, possibly coded message. A message that we need your help with...
Earlier in the afternoon, I heard a great song playing in the restaurant. It was loungy and jazzy and had a sexy female vocalist. I asked our waitress if she could get me the name of the song and then promptly forgot about my request. A deadly martini later, she wordlessly slipped a folded message next to my plate. I-66 and I looked at it a bit nervously completely perplexed about what it contained. Once we opened it, we were even more confused. The note said this:
The problem. It's been over a week and neither one of us has been able to find this song. The puzzle is compounded by the fact that we can't really tell if "One Self" is the band or the song name. After various tricks and tries (including, apparently, a few spins through an anagram solver), we've decided to open the mystery up to our reading public.
So, your mission (should you choose to accept it): find me this song...
The winner gets a magazine subscription of his/her choice (to be selected from a list of the ones my company publishes). If the winner is in DC, then he/she will also get an added bonus courtesy of block rockstar....
Earlier in the afternoon, I heard a great song playing in the restaurant. It was loungy and jazzy and had a sexy female vocalist. I asked our waitress if she could get me the name of the song and then promptly forgot about my request. A deadly martini later, she wordlessly slipped a folded message next to my plate. I-66 and I looked at it a bit nervously completely perplexed about what it contained. Once we opened it, we were even more confused. The note said this:
Zo MCDE"What the...?!" It took us a few seconds to realize that the code was supposed to be the song and artist. It looked weird, but assuming that our beverages were adding to the confusion, I tucked it into my purse for later googling.
ONE SELF
The problem. It's been over a week and neither one of us has been able to find this song. The puzzle is compounded by the fact that we can't really tell if "One Self" is the band or the song name. After various tricks and tries (including, apparently, a few spins through an anagram solver), we've decided to open the mystery up to our reading public.
So, your mission (should you choose to accept it): find me this song...
The winner gets a magazine subscription of his/her choice (to be selected from a list of the ones my company publishes). If the winner is in DC, then he/she will also get an added bonus courtesy of block rockstar....
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
A Special Blogroll Announcement
One of my favorite bloggers--and virtual friends--is Matt from Deglazed. This morning, I received a (shameless) e-mail from him letting me know that his blog has been nominated for a 2006 Best of Blogs award in the category of Best Food, Wine, and Cooking Blog.
Deglazed, if you haven't already checked it out, is a wonderful collection of stories about life in the kitchen for a new chef. Matt is incredibly clever and his posts always crack me up. He also makes sure to throw in several of his (awesome) recipes and the occasional gratuitous jab at Rachael Ray (that alone being reason enough to check it out).
Go vote and then check out his blog. Hmmm...or maybe that should be the other way around? It's up to you...
Oh, and for the record, he asked for a vote, but this plug was all me... ;)
Deglazed, if you haven't already checked it out, is a wonderful collection of stories about life in the kitchen for a new chef. Matt is incredibly clever and his posts always crack me up. He also makes sure to throw in several of his (awesome) recipes and the occasional gratuitous jab at Rachael Ray (that alone being reason enough to check it out).
Go vote and then check out his blog. Hmmm...or maybe that should be the other way around? It's up to you...
Oh, and for the record, he asked for a vote, but this plug was all me... ;)
Monday, March 26, 2007
Cold feet
I don’t really want to write about the blogger meetup anymore. The moment was there, but I got busy and now it’s long since passed. It was fun. I’d spent most of the day anxious, nervous that nobody would show up.
“What if nobody comes?” I asked my coworker, an hour before the end of the day. I’d been bopping around the hallway all afternoon, incapable of focusing on the work I was supposed to have been doing. “What if it’s just me and this lame sign?” I asked holding up the bright red meetup sign that I’d printed out and glued to a manila folder. She laughed.
“That would be pretty sad...”
I checked my RSVP list for the fifteenth time.
It was the same panicky feeling I’d get on the days I hosted dinner parties in my apartment in Washington. I’d stand in my tiny kitchen in a sauce splattered t-shirt, hair piled on top of my head and my cell cradled on my neck. Something on the stove, something in the oven, something wiring in the mixer, and my knife poised over a pile of garlic cloves.
“Call Looney,” I’d tell the voice dialer.
“Did you say, “Mama”?” The sultry robot voice would ask.
“LOO-NEY. Matthew LOO-NEY.”
“What if nobody comes?” I’d ask him once I finally got him on the line. “Should I call Andy? Did Catherine say yes?”
Looney always had a way of calming me down. “People will come. It will be amazing. You’re great at this. Just relax.”
“You’re right,” I’d say, more as a way of reassuring myself. “Will you be here early? And can you buy a can of Fancy Feast?”
“What the hell is Fancy Feast!?”
“Cat food. I need to feed Anais. Oh and lemons too! And a couple loaves for the bruschetta, but not from Safeway. Their bread is gross.”
“Anything else?” He’d ask, calmly jotting down the contents of my scattered list.
“I don’t know… Maybe you’d better call me from the store,” I’d admit.
The parties were always amazing thanks to my friends. They’d arrive early, pour me a glass of wine, and scatter about like party elves taking care of the little details that always seem to fluster me. They knew that while I had no problem thinking up and preparing tapas for 30, I would invariably forget to buy toilet paper. They were experts at hiding baskets of folded laundry, hanging fresh hand towels, and arranging furniture. They lit the candles and patiently listened to the neurotic orders that I shouted from the kitchen.
“Alternate the votives,” I’d heard myself tell Jeremy and Erin as we prepped for my last party, gesturing with my elbows while leaving my hands buried in a bowl of sausage stuffing. “It’s supposed to be blue, green, violet, and repeat. But don’t light them until ten to eight.”
About 45 minutes before guests were set to arrive, they’d pull me out of the kitchen and push me into the shower. They were completely used to seeing me pop out just minutes later, wrapped in a towel and with wet hair dripping all over my shoulders asking about oven temperatures and checking on the time.
See that’s the thing about college friends. It’s that kind of intimacy born from four years spent in almost unhealthily close proximity. There are no pretenses, and they know what I need before I even ask. The minute they arrive, I start to calm down. By the time my guests arrive I’m fine, carrying around trays of hors d'oeuvres and catching up with the people I haven’t seen in a while. I forget the anxiety and remember why it is that I love hosting. But for those moments just before things fall into place, I’m glad I have such a solid group of friends to carry me.
***
“I’ll come with you,” my coworker told me when I again expressed my worry. “I’ll stay with you until someone arrives.” My nervousness went away the minute she said this. Anxiety gave way to excitement as I anticipated the evening ahead.
People did come. Ten of them, actually, and it went even better than I expected. I felt a little piece of myself come back, talking and laughing among a very random group of strangers. After a few mintues of conversation I found that I'd all but forgotten my earlier concerns.
Although they did all agree that the sign was pretty lame.
“What if nobody comes?” I asked my coworker, an hour before the end of the day. I’d been bopping around the hallway all afternoon, incapable of focusing on the work I was supposed to have been doing. “What if it’s just me and this lame sign?” I asked holding up the bright red meetup sign that I’d printed out and glued to a manila folder. She laughed.
“That would be pretty sad...”
I checked my RSVP list for the fifteenth time.
It was the same panicky feeling I’d get on the days I hosted dinner parties in my apartment in Washington. I’d stand in my tiny kitchen in a sauce splattered t-shirt, hair piled on top of my head and my cell cradled on my neck. Something on the stove, something in the oven, something wiring in the mixer, and my knife poised over a pile of garlic cloves.
“Call Looney,” I’d tell the voice dialer.
“Did you say, “Mama”?” The sultry robot voice would ask.
“LOO-NEY. Matthew LOO-NEY.”
“What if nobody comes?” I’d ask him once I finally got him on the line. “Should I call Andy? Did Catherine say yes?”
Looney always had a way of calming me down. “People will come. It will be amazing. You’re great at this. Just relax.”
“You’re right,” I’d say, more as a way of reassuring myself. “Will you be here early? And can you buy a can of Fancy Feast?”
“What the hell is Fancy Feast!?”
“Cat food. I need to feed Anais. Oh and lemons too! And a couple loaves for the bruschetta, but not from Safeway. Their bread is gross.”
“Anything else?” He’d ask, calmly jotting down the contents of my scattered list.
“I don’t know… Maybe you’d better call me from the store,” I’d admit.
The parties were always amazing thanks to my friends. They’d arrive early, pour me a glass of wine, and scatter about like party elves taking care of the little details that always seem to fluster me. They knew that while I had no problem thinking up and preparing tapas for 30, I would invariably forget to buy toilet paper. They were experts at hiding baskets of folded laundry, hanging fresh hand towels, and arranging furniture. They lit the candles and patiently listened to the neurotic orders that I shouted from the kitchen.
“Alternate the votives,” I’d heard myself tell Jeremy and Erin as we prepped for my last party, gesturing with my elbows while leaving my hands buried in a bowl of sausage stuffing. “It’s supposed to be blue, green, violet, and repeat. But don’t light them until ten to eight.”
About 45 minutes before guests were set to arrive, they’d pull me out of the kitchen and push me into the shower. They were completely used to seeing me pop out just minutes later, wrapped in a towel and with wet hair dripping all over my shoulders asking about oven temperatures and checking on the time.
See that’s the thing about college friends. It’s that kind of intimacy born from four years spent in almost unhealthily close proximity. There are no pretenses, and they know what I need before I even ask. The minute they arrive, I start to calm down. By the time my guests arrive I’m fine, carrying around trays of hors d'oeuvres and catching up with the people I haven’t seen in a while. I forget the anxiety and remember why it is that I love hosting. But for those moments just before things fall into place, I’m glad I have such a solid group of friends to carry me.
***
“I’ll come with you,” my coworker told me when I again expressed my worry. “I’ll stay with you until someone arrives.” My nervousness went away the minute she said this. Anxiety gave way to excitement as I anticipated the evening ahead.
People did come. Ten of them, actually, and it went even better than I expected. I felt a little piece of myself come back, talking and laughing among a very random group of strangers. After a few mintues of conversation I found that I'd all but forgotten my earlier concerns.
Although they did all agree that the sign was pretty lame.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Two corners in a circular room
Moe is one of my best friends. Three years apart to the day, we met when we were both employees of the same organization. To be exact, I was the administrative intern (read: jr. office bitch) and she was the Office Manager (read: sr. office bitch). In other words, she was my boss. She’ll probably be quick to regale you with stories about what a lousy intern I was. She’ll tell you that I hated filing, and spent much too much time blogging and Photoshopping* members of the Republican administration (and sometimes our bosses) into compromising, albeit amusing, positions.
It was my first “real” job, and the epitome of what a summer internship in Washington, DC should be. It was a sexy and silly blend of office politics and real politics, flirting and copious drinking. My memories of it are a blur of margaritas, late-night Metro rides, and men in navy blue blazers. I learned quite a bit that summer. I learned how to handle insurance claims, talk to senile Floridian donors, and score the coveted private back room at Capitol Grille. I learned how to mail merge, how to research and track Federal legislation, and that when a customer service rep reads you a confirmation code, he does not literally want you to write “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie,” on the envelope. I also learned that I hate administration, and that I will never, ever again take a job where I’m required to use Excel spreadsheets on a daily basis.
What I remember most, however, was the friendship I developed with Moe. The two lone girls in an organization dripping with Republican testosterone, ours was an easy and near-instant bond. We discovered our shared quirky humor one afternoon when our boss shut down the office so that we could all attend the premiere of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones (I should clarify that it was nerdy Republican testosterone). As we stood outside the Uptown waiting to get in, I glanced at a robin’s egg blue sign hanging above the store next door. “Moe, Moe!” I called to her while excited pulling at her arm. She followed my eyes to the sign and immediately burst out laughing.
Our boss rolled his eyes upon hearing our laughter (a familiar sound in the office). “What is so funny?” We didn’t even bother explain why we were laughing. We both understood that we were standing in front of the world’s most absurdly named establishment.
We were smart girls in ill-suited jobs. We were artists that stuck out from the Capitol Hill powersuit crowd. Moe is also a writer and a blogger, and it is her most recent post that provoked this bit of reminiscing. In it she recounts her awkward, youthful nerdiness. She writes:
"I had a specific outfit that I wore whenever we were going to the library. It involved a red, plaid, pleated skirt; penny loafers, a blazer, and a pair of my sister's old glasses that she used to read with. I didn't require corrective lenses at the time, but I desperately wanted them. They completed "the look" (I'm almost certain Alejandra will have a comment about this)."
She’s right. I do have a comment. An anecdote really:
Moe will probably note that in addition to my refusal to file things, I also liberally violated the accepted superior/subordinate relationship. Our bond was so close that I was never too shy to note when something she did didn’t quite meet my standards. “Moe,” I’d say to her as I walked into the office and saw her dressed in baggy jeans, platform flip-flops, and a t-shirt that said “Joe Mama” across the front. “You’re dressed like a 12-year-old boy! What the hell kind of a work outfit is that? I never want to see that shirt again.”
There were some days, however, when she would wear very cute suits to work. On these days, she would also wear a pair of very attractive black-rimmed glasses. They were impossibly cute, and when paired with the pencil in the hair bun, she looked like quite the stereotypical sexy secretary. All the men in the office agreed, and regularly complimented her on her choice of eyewear. One day, I wandered the four feet between my desk and hers and saw her sexy glasses on the desk. I picked them up, tried them on, and gasped.
"THESE ARE FAKE!!! YOU WEAR FAKE GLASSES!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, much to her chagrin. She scrambled to explain, but by then, all the men had come out of their offices and had learned the awful truth.
I still don’t think she ever forgave me for that one…
Check out The Garden State of Euphoria for more stories about the lovely Moe.
*activities for which I am actually handsomely paid to do today...
It was my first “real” job, and the epitome of what a summer internship in Washington, DC should be. It was a sexy and silly blend of office politics and real politics, flirting and copious drinking. My memories of it are a blur of margaritas, late-night Metro rides, and men in navy blue blazers. I learned quite a bit that summer. I learned how to handle insurance claims, talk to senile Floridian donors, and score the coveted private back room at Capitol Grille. I learned how to mail merge, how to research and track Federal legislation, and that when a customer service rep reads you a confirmation code, he does not literally want you to write “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie,” on the envelope. I also learned that I hate administration, and that I will never, ever again take a job where I’m required to use Excel spreadsheets on a daily basis.
What I remember most, however, was the friendship I developed with Moe. The two lone girls in an organization dripping with Republican testosterone, ours was an easy and near-instant bond. We discovered our shared quirky humor one afternoon when our boss shut down the office so that we could all attend the premiere of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones (I should clarify that it was nerdy Republican testosterone). As we stood outside the Uptown waiting to get in, I glanced at a robin’s egg blue sign hanging above the store next door. “Moe, Moe!” I called to her while excited pulling at her arm. She followed my eyes to the sign and immediately burst out laughing.
Our boss rolled his eyes upon hearing our laughter (a familiar sound in the office). “What is so funny?” We didn’t even bother explain why we were laughing. We both understood that we were standing in front of the world’s most absurdly named establishment.
We were smart girls in ill-suited jobs. We were artists that stuck out from the Capitol Hill powersuit crowd. Moe is also a writer and a blogger, and it is her most recent post that provoked this bit of reminiscing. In it she recounts her awkward, youthful nerdiness. She writes:
"I had a specific outfit that I wore whenever we were going to the library. It involved a red, plaid, pleated skirt; penny loafers, a blazer, and a pair of my sister's old glasses that she used to read with. I didn't require corrective lenses at the time, but I desperately wanted them. They completed "the look" (I'm almost certain Alejandra will have a comment about this)."
She’s right. I do have a comment. An anecdote really:
Moe will probably note that in addition to my refusal to file things, I also liberally violated the accepted superior/subordinate relationship. Our bond was so close that I was never too shy to note when something she did didn’t quite meet my standards. “Moe,” I’d say to her as I walked into the office and saw her dressed in baggy jeans, platform flip-flops, and a t-shirt that said “Joe Mama” across the front. “You’re dressed like a 12-year-old boy! What the hell kind of a work outfit is that? I never want to see that shirt again.”
There were some days, however, when she would wear very cute suits to work. On these days, she would also wear a pair of very attractive black-rimmed glasses. They were impossibly cute, and when paired with the pencil in the hair bun, she looked like quite the stereotypical sexy secretary. All the men in the office agreed, and regularly complimented her on her choice of eyewear. One day, I wandered the four feet between my desk and hers and saw her sexy glasses on the desk. I picked them up, tried them on, and gasped.
"THESE ARE FAKE!!! YOU WEAR FAKE GLASSES!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, much to her chagrin. She scrambled to explain, but by then, all the men had come out of their offices and had learned the awful truth.
I still don’t think she ever forgave me for that one…
Check out The Garden State of Euphoria for more stories about the lovely Moe.
*activities for which I am actually handsomely paid to do today...
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
They don't drink Fosters
I'd like to welcome a second transpacific blogger to my blogroll. Alaina, one of the cleverest girls I know, has started a blog to keep us all posted of her lives and times as an American grad student in Melbourne, Australia. If booze, sarcasm, and political incorrectness are your thing, then you are sure to love it. I'm also hoping for a healthy dose of gratuitous shirtless footy player pics (hint hint). The blog is called Laina Down Under, but it's the URL that makes me wicked happy. Find her at: wedontdrinkfosters.blogspot.com.
Labels: blogging, friends, half-naked Australians
Sunday, February 11, 2007
That blessed arrangement; that dream within a dream*
I've been trying to go back and tie up all my loose blog ends by completing and posting those entries that I'd left unfinished and stuck in draft mode. This is one that I started back in the Fall, and have only just now completed.
"Matching Christmas sweaters..."
Vanessa and I were sharing plates of homemade pasta at a little Italian restaurant near her office. She was temping and I had yet to start my job, so we took our time--dipping bread in peppery olive oil, sipping Chianti. The place was a rare find among the generic Lexington Avenue sandwich shops and make-your-own salad places. It's the kind of NY Italian you miss when you're far from home: checkered tablecloths, yellowing photographs of Sofia Loren, and the Best of Dean Martin swelling out over the loudspeakers.
We had been talking about our impressions regarding marriage. Neither one of us is ready to "go there" just yet; we each have a list of things that we'd like to accomplish first, and an idea of who we'd like to be as women before we're ready. Unlike those who rush about like the White Rabbit, afraid that they'll miss something, we're willing to take our time. This does not, however, preclude our willingness to talk about it. I was about to be a bridesmaid for the first time, and we were trying to figure out what exactly that thing is that makes two people say: "Yeah, it's you. It will always be you."
"I'm telling you...matching Christmas sweaters," Vanessa repeated. "That's what I think of when I think of marriage. Fuzzy yarn reindeer with little pom-pom noses. Ugh."
I laughed. "You guys will never wear matching Christmas sweaters. You know that... For me, it's more like always having someone to eat breakfast with on Sundays. You know, lingering over coffee and swapping sections of The New York Times."
Her face brightened and she nodded, "yeah, I do love Sunday breakfast with him."
The conversation drifted elsewhere, but later that afternoon I started thinking about what we'd said. I realized that the things we had each described had absolutely nothing to do with marriage itself. In fact, they were little more than decontextualized images symbolizing our respective fears and desires when it comes to relationships in general.
For Vanessa, it's the loss of individuality; her fear of one day not being able to recognize a self apart from her relationship. For me, it's the yearning for constancy; a desire to finally have the opportunity to build and grow a connection with one person. We both know and understand that marriage is much more than just the wedding, and certainly more than Sunday papers and--God forbid--matching Christmas sweaters, but it's still difficult to separate these ideas from the reality we both understand lies beneath.
*Come on now...what's the quote from?
"Matching Christmas sweaters..."
Vanessa and I were sharing plates of homemade pasta at a little Italian restaurant near her office. She was temping and I had yet to start my job, so we took our time--dipping bread in peppery olive oil, sipping Chianti. The place was a rare find among the generic Lexington Avenue sandwich shops and make-your-own salad places. It's the kind of NY Italian you miss when you're far from home: checkered tablecloths, yellowing photographs of Sofia Loren, and the Best of Dean Martin swelling out over the loudspeakers.
We had been talking about our impressions regarding marriage. Neither one of us is ready to "go there" just yet; we each have a list of things that we'd like to accomplish first, and an idea of who we'd like to be as women before we're ready. Unlike those who rush about like the White Rabbit, afraid that they'll miss something, we're willing to take our time. This does not, however, preclude our willingness to talk about it. I was about to be a bridesmaid for the first time, and we were trying to figure out what exactly that thing is that makes two people say: "Yeah, it's you. It will always be you."
"I'm telling you...matching Christmas sweaters," Vanessa repeated. "That's what I think of when I think of marriage. Fuzzy yarn reindeer with little pom-pom noses. Ugh."
I laughed. "You guys will never wear matching Christmas sweaters. You know that... For me, it's more like always having someone to eat breakfast with on Sundays. You know, lingering over coffee and swapping sections of The New York Times."
Her face brightened and she nodded, "yeah, I do love Sunday breakfast with him."
The conversation drifted elsewhere, but later that afternoon I started thinking about what we'd said. I realized that the things we had each described had absolutely nothing to do with marriage itself. In fact, they were little more than decontextualized images symbolizing our respective fears and desires when it comes to relationships in general.
For Vanessa, it's the loss of individuality; her fear of one day not being able to recognize a self apart from her relationship. For me, it's the yearning for constancy; a desire to finally have the opportunity to build and grow a connection with one person. We both know and understand that marriage is much more than just the wedding, and certainly more than Sunday papers and--God forbid--matching Christmas sweaters, but it's still difficult to separate these ideas from the reality we both understand lies beneath.
*Come on now...what's the quote from?
Labels: conversations, friends, life decisions
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
I like robots
I'd like to offer a quick note of explanation for my recent disappearance. Despite my original desire to make 2007 the year of diligent blogging, my "real" job somehow decided to make 2007 the year of "making Alejandra do a lot of work." I've been working on a few things, however, and they'll be up soon.
In the meantime, please check out some of the talent on the b-roll. I'd particularly like to direct you toward the newest addition: The Robots are Coming (which I've taken the liberty of marking with a "new!" sign). It's the work of a very good transpacific friend of mine--actually, my only transpacific friend (well, and Godzilla--but I'm not supposed to talk about that).
He--my friend, not Godzilla--has recently gotten into the blogging game and is chronicling his experience as an American in Tokyo. The blog is still young, but I sense good things. In fact, I expect them. I'm hoping that a few hits will encourage him to post more often as I really enjoy reading his stuff. There are also some great pics which he took himself and he promises that he will continue to only post original photographs, which I think is an especially nice touch.
So go check him out and then come back here tomorrow when I will hopefully have more of my prose up for your reading pleasure.
In the meantime, please check out some of the talent on the b-roll. I'd particularly like to direct you toward the newest addition: The Robots are Coming (which I've taken the liberty of marking with a "new!" sign). It's the work of a very good transpacific friend of mine--actually, my only transpacific friend (well, and Godzilla--but I'm not supposed to talk about that).
He--my friend, not Godzilla--has recently gotten into the blogging game and is chronicling his experience as an American in Tokyo. The blog is still young, but I sense good things. In fact, I expect them. I'm hoping that a few hits will encourage him to post more often as I really enjoy reading his stuff. There are also some great pics which he took himself and he promises that he will continue to only post original photographs, which I think is an especially nice touch.
So go check him out and then come back here tomorrow when I will hopefully have more of my prose up for your reading pleasure.
Labels: blogging, friends, Japanese monsters, robots
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Latina Fox Force Five
Saturday night turned out to be one of those unexpectedly wonderful nights. I hadn’t been planning on going out. In fact, all I was trying to do was get back home. I’d crashed at a friend’s place the night before and had that stale feeling you get when you sleep in your clothes and have to borrow other people’s toiletries. But Sara had called and said that she and our friend Lou were in town. They had driven up from DC to take a few salsa classes in the city, and wanted to hang out. Their class was scheduled to get out at 5 and I half-heartedly agreed to meet them.
We walked around the corner to 6th where we entered the first bar we saw—Rogue, a large, elegant sports bar with polished mahogany tables and HD plasma screens covering the walls. The Colts/Ravens game was on and the bar was filled—and I mean filled—with men. The three of us looked around appreciatively as we took note of the fact that we were pretty much the only females in the room.
Food was our priority, and we proceeded to order platters of wings, calamari, and something incredible called “Irish Nachos”—thin slices of fried potatoes covered in sour cream, cheese sauce, chives, and bacon. Sara got a bucket of Bud Lights for the table, and Ilana and Vanessa soon showed up from other parts of the city to join us. Within the hour, we were eating, drinking, and shouting at the TV like we knew what was going on (we clearly didn’t). Our waiter, Alex, took a quick liking to us. “You guys are going too slow,” he said with a wink as he brought us yet another bucket that we hadn’t ordered.
“You, sir,” I giggled while waving my beer in the air, “are a very good waiter.” He smiled and a few minutes later came back with a tray of tequila shots and a handful of limes.
A little while later, another group of women showed up. They were older—probably early to mid 40s—and decked out to the nines. I’m talking tight bedazzled jeans, leopard print halter tops with little velvet jackets, heels, and hairstyles that are best described as “coifs.” Their faces were caked with make-up and a cloud of perfume followed them wherever they walked.
They were clearly cougars on the prowl.
The girls and I watched them as they were shown to a table across from ours.
“Betcha they order Cosmos,” I said under my breath.
Within minutes, a round of pink drinks in martini glasses was brought to their table.
“Oh god,” Sara moaned.
We watched them for a little while the way one normally watches the Discovery Channel. There was something about their dress and movements that seemed so calculated, so desperate… Their eyes constantly searched about the room and they each took turns taking the looong way to the bathroom, prancing around the room in their stilettos and cackling loudly to each other. The majority of the men ignored them, keeping their eyes glued to the screen. After a while the women seemed to lose interest and left just as loudly as they walked in. The whole spectacle barely lasted 40 minutes, but we couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“It’s like they purposely came here because they knew it was game night. There can be no other explanation,” I said.
“It’s a little sad,” said Lou. We nodded in agreement and looked at each other silently, each of us thinking but not willing to say the same thing. Finally, Alex showed up with another bucket of beers. We each grabbed one and I raised mine up. “To not ending up like that,” I said. We laughed and clinked our beers, and joined the crowd in a cheer as the Saints scored.
*********
“You guys are like the Latina Fox Force Five,” said a friend when I recounted the story later.
“Yeah…except that Ilana is Jewish…” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but that’s her thing,” he explained. “You have knives, Vanessa has guns, and Ilana isn’t actually Latina. It’s kitschy…”
Obviously he was just kidding, but it felt like there was a little bit of truth to it. Together we were like a powerful little team. It’s really rare that I get to go out with a group of girls. It’s usually just Vanessa and me, rolling around my bed watching movies and drinking ginger tea. Occasionally we’ll venture out for a night of salsa dancing (OK so we’ve only done it once since I’ve moved back, but that counts!) or a “books and booze” night in the East Village, but most of the time we’re total homebodies who giggle and daydream and act the exact same way that we did when we first met ten years ago.
As much as I love our quiet nights, it felt good to be out for a change. We were totally relaxed—Sara and Lou were in sweats, Vanessa hadn’t washed her hair, I was all kinds of dirty, and Ilana—well, ok, Ilana looked pretty freaking amazing, but still… Unlike the other group of women, we weren’t there to meet guys or flirt. There was no pressure. We were just a group of girls, having fun and catching up. The irony is that even though we weren’t the least bit interested, suddenly all these boys were paying attention to us—several guys spent the night staring at our table and smiling at us, the waiter continuously lavished free drinks on us, and by the end of the night a whole table full of guys had sidled up near us and kept finding excuses to join in on our conversation.
Near the end, one of the guys asked what we were doing next. “Going home,” I said as I signaled Alex to bring me the check.
“Really?” He asked. “No party?”
“No party,” I replied. “We just want bed.”
We bundled back into our coats and walked out to Vanessa’s car. On the drive back to NJ I turned around and realized that Sara and Lou had fallen asleep in the backseat.
“They’re kind of like puppies, aren’t they?” I asked Vane softly. We giggled to ourselves and turned down the radio.
“Hey,” Vane asked. “Can we make ginger tea when we get home?”
“Of course,” I replied.
We walked around the corner to 6th where we entered the first bar we saw—Rogue, a large, elegant sports bar with polished mahogany tables and HD plasma screens covering the walls. The Colts/Ravens game was on and the bar was filled—and I mean filled—with men. The three of us looked around appreciatively as we took note of the fact that we were pretty much the only females in the room.
Food was our priority, and we proceeded to order platters of wings, calamari, and something incredible called “Irish Nachos”—thin slices of fried potatoes covered in sour cream, cheese sauce, chives, and bacon. Sara got a bucket of Bud Lights for the table, and Ilana and Vanessa soon showed up from other parts of the city to join us. Within the hour, we were eating, drinking, and shouting at the TV like we knew what was going on (we clearly didn’t). Our waiter, Alex, took a quick liking to us. “You guys are going too slow,” he said with a wink as he brought us yet another bucket that we hadn’t ordered.
“You, sir,” I giggled while waving my beer in the air, “are a very good waiter.” He smiled and a few minutes later came back with a tray of tequila shots and a handful of limes.
A little while later, another group of women showed up. They were older—probably early to mid 40s—and decked out to the nines. I’m talking tight bedazzled jeans, leopard print halter tops with little velvet jackets, heels, and hairstyles that are best described as “coifs.” Their faces were caked with make-up and a cloud of perfume followed them wherever they walked.
They were clearly cougars on the prowl.
The girls and I watched them as they were shown to a table across from ours.
“Betcha they order Cosmos,” I said under my breath.
Within minutes, a round of pink drinks in martini glasses was brought to their table.
“Oh god,” Sara moaned.
We watched them for a little while the way one normally watches the Discovery Channel. There was something about their dress and movements that seemed so calculated, so desperate… Their eyes constantly searched about the room and they each took turns taking the looong way to the bathroom, prancing around the room in their stilettos and cackling loudly to each other. The majority of the men ignored them, keeping their eyes glued to the screen. After a while the women seemed to lose interest and left just as loudly as they walked in. The whole spectacle barely lasted 40 minutes, but we couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“It’s like they purposely came here because they knew it was game night. There can be no other explanation,” I said.
“It’s a little sad,” said Lou. We nodded in agreement and looked at each other silently, each of us thinking but not willing to say the same thing. Finally, Alex showed up with another bucket of beers. We each grabbed one and I raised mine up. “To not ending up like that,” I said. We laughed and clinked our beers, and joined the crowd in a cheer as the Saints scored.
*********
“You guys are like the Latina Fox Force Five,” said a friend when I recounted the story later.
“Yeah…except that Ilana is Jewish…” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but that’s her thing,” he explained. “You have knives, Vanessa has guns, and Ilana isn’t actually Latina. It’s kitschy…”
Obviously he was just kidding, but it felt like there was a little bit of truth to it. Together we were like a powerful little team. It’s really rare that I get to go out with a group of girls. It’s usually just Vanessa and me, rolling around my bed watching movies and drinking ginger tea. Occasionally we’ll venture out for a night of salsa dancing (OK so we’ve only done it once since I’ve moved back, but that counts!) or a “books and booze” night in the East Village, but most of the time we’re total homebodies who giggle and daydream and act the exact same way that we did when we first met ten years ago.
As much as I love our quiet nights, it felt good to be out for a change. We were totally relaxed—Sara and Lou were in sweats, Vanessa hadn’t washed her hair, I was all kinds of dirty, and Ilana—well, ok, Ilana looked pretty freaking amazing, but still… Unlike the other group of women, we weren’t there to meet guys or flirt. There was no pressure. We were just a group of girls, having fun and catching up. The irony is that even though we weren’t the least bit interested, suddenly all these boys were paying attention to us—several guys spent the night staring at our table and smiling at us, the waiter continuously lavished free drinks on us, and by the end of the night a whole table full of guys had sidled up near us and kept finding excuses to join in on our conversation.
Near the end, one of the guys asked what we were doing next. “Going home,” I said as I signaled Alex to bring me the check.
“Really?” He asked. “No party?”
“No party,” I replied. “We just want bed.”
We bundled back into our coats and walked out to Vanessa’s car. On the drive back to NJ I turned around and realized that Sara and Lou had fallen asleep in the backseat.
“They’re kind of like puppies, aren’t they?” I asked Vane softly. We giggled to ourselves and turned down the radio.
“Hey,” Vane asked. “Can we make ginger tea when we get home?”
“Of course,” I replied.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Just Five More Minutes
It rained the first time he left--thick, gray sheets that fell heavily around us as we said good-bye under the art deco awning of the Hotel Monaco. The doormen politely averted their eyes while we kissed and [I] cried and stumbled through the words people say when they know they won’t be seeing each other for a long time.
I’d never experienced a good-bye like that—not when I left for college or went to spend my summers in Puerto Rico, not even when I moved to Italy for the better part of a year. To me it was no more realistic than a scene from a movie or a chapter in a book: the bespoke bellman, the rainy morning, the dark sedan waiting to whisk him off to the airport. It was classic film noir material—very “here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Except we were both wearing jeans.
I know it’s because I let him in—more quickly and more completely than I’ve ever let anyone else in before. I don’t write about him as much as I do my other friends. There are those that appear regularly—a cast of supporting characters complete with names, faces, and clever pseudonyms. And yet he remains nameless, an anonymous friend lurking in the shadows—an anecdote here, a dinner there, a cameo, a smile, a comment. I still don’t know why I chose to do it this way. I’ll say now that his absence from this blog belies his presence in my life.
This time, the good-bye was a little quieter. A different hotel. A different city. I sat on the bed and watched him while he gathered his things—the glasses I’d helped him pick out, the coat he’d worn the night we met, the wallet that recently replaced the rubber band he’d always used. Everything was familiar. Everything had a story. And as he sat down next to me and placed his arms around me, I realized yet again what computer nerds like me tend to sometimes ignore: no matter how incredible technology is at bringing us together, nothing compares to actually being in the real, physical presence of a person you care about.
I managed to hold my tears until after he left, crying silently in the quiet morning as I wondered how it is that in a world populated by billions there are just a few who can touch us like that. The night before I’d teasingly asked him, borrowing a line from E. E. Cummings (I sometimes quote poetry when drunk), “how do I prefer this face to another?” The reference was lost on him—I suspect he attributed my Yoda-like syntax to the vodka I’d consumed that night—but the question remains.
There is a part of me that wishes I’d kissed him a little longer or hugged him just a little tighter. A part that wishes we’d laughed, danced, talked, and joked just a little bit more. But I know that ultimately it would never be enough. It’s like when the alarm rings, and you find yourself laying there with everything feeling just so--the pillow soft, the lighting low, the comforter warm, and you think to yourself, “oh, just five more minutes...” But then you want another five, and another, and another, until you finally realize that though you can’t even seem to imagine making it to work, you need to get up and go about your day.
I’m sad right now. Like a drop of ink in a glass of water, his departure has flowed through me and altered the color of my day. I know that I’ve used a lot of words, but at the root of it, what I really mean to say is very simple:
I miss him. I miss my friend…
I’d never experienced a good-bye like that—not when I left for college or went to spend my summers in Puerto Rico, not even when I moved to Italy for the better part of a year. To me it was no more realistic than a scene from a movie or a chapter in a book: the bespoke bellman, the rainy morning, the dark sedan waiting to whisk him off to the airport. It was classic film noir material—very “here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Except we were both wearing jeans.
I know it’s because I let him in—more quickly and more completely than I’ve ever let anyone else in before. I don’t write about him as much as I do my other friends. There are those that appear regularly—a cast of supporting characters complete with names, faces, and clever pseudonyms. And yet he remains nameless, an anonymous friend lurking in the shadows—an anecdote here, a dinner there, a cameo, a smile, a comment. I still don’t know why I chose to do it this way. I’ll say now that his absence from this blog belies his presence in my life.
This time, the good-bye was a little quieter. A different hotel. A different city. I sat on the bed and watched him while he gathered his things—the glasses I’d helped him pick out, the coat he’d worn the night we met, the wallet that recently replaced the rubber band he’d always used. Everything was familiar. Everything had a story. And as he sat down next to me and placed his arms around me, I realized yet again what computer nerds like me tend to sometimes ignore: no matter how incredible technology is at bringing us together, nothing compares to actually being in the real, physical presence of a person you care about.
I managed to hold my tears until after he left, crying silently in the quiet morning as I wondered how it is that in a world populated by billions there are just a few who can touch us like that. The night before I’d teasingly asked him, borrowing a line from E. E. Cummings (I sometimes quote poetry when drunk), “how do I prefer this face to another?” The reference was lost on him—I suspect he attributed my Yoda-like syntax to the vodka I’d consumed that night—but the question remains.
There is a part of me that wishes I’d kissed him a little longer or hugged him just a little tighter. A part that wishes we’d laughed, danced, talked, and joked just a little bit more. But I know that ultimately it would never be enough. It’s like when the alarm rings, and you find yourself laying there with everything feeling just so--the pillow soft, the lighting low, the comforter warm, and you think to yourself, “oh, just five more minutes...” But then you want another five, and another, and another, until you finally realize that though you can’t even seem to imagine making it to work, you need to get up and go about your day.
I’m sad right now. Like a drop of ink in a glass of water, his departure has flowed through me and altered the color of my day. I know that I’ve used a lot of words, but at the root of it, what I really mean to say is very simple:
I miss him. I miss my friend…
Labels: friends
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Always Order Dessert
My friend Moe once remarked that she thought it was pretty cool that unlike just about every other woman she knows, I never complain about my weight.
"I've never heard you say 'Does this make me look fat?' or 'I need to go on a diet' or anything like that. You just always seem so comfortable with yourself."
"It's intentional," I replied.
I made a conscious decision a long time ago that I would never be one of "those girls." The girls who constantly count calories and base their self-esteem on the size of their jeans. I've never wanted to be consumed by that.
A couple years ago, a friend asked me to join her and her roommate at a Weight Watchers meeting. I was bored and curious so I went along. It was spring and Easter and Passover were approaching. The moderator started talking about the difficulties of sticking to a dieting regiment over the holidays. She mentioned something about how much she loved jelly beans. The statement sent a murmur around the room. One by one, the women started shouting out the things they were going to miss most....Cadbury Cream Eggs, coconut macaroons, marshmallow Peeps, chocolate bunnies...
It was insane. They were practically salivating as they went into explicit detail about the things they wouldn't be able to eat. It was like listening to food porn and I'm pretty certain that at least 50 percent of those women headed straight for the candy aisle at CVS the second the meeting ended. I, on the other hand, left with the intention of writing a one-act play about the experience.
I don't diet. I love food far too much to force myself into some kind of suffocating dining regiment. I eat when I'm hungry and I don't when I'm not. It's as simple as that. I don't deny myself the things that I really want and I won't settle for bland low-whatever substitutes. I love bread and real sugar and creamy, garlicky things. I dip my french fries in mayonnaise and put cream in my coffee. I love dark chocolate and cheese, and I enthusiastically nod yes when offered a dessert menu.
I try to go to the gym as regularly I can, but not because I want to look good; I go because it makes me feel good. I love Pilates and yoga, and the occasional spinning class. It's how I kill my stress and the bucket load of neuroses I carry around. I may have grown up in New Jersey and come of age in DC, but as far as my anxieties are concerned, I'm like a Woody Allen film on continuous loop. I guess I just realized that with as many things as there are to worry about, the difference between being a size 8 or 10 or 12 is the least of them.
I realize that a lot of this is really a reaction to my mother's attitude towards food. Chubby when young, she was teased mercilessly by her cousins and brothers. In an effort to squelch their teasing she started dieting and has never stopped since. My whole life I've had to listen to the "oh I can't eat that" or "I just need to lose 10 more pounds by Christmas." This morning, as I rifled through the fridge in search of something to drink with breakfast I wondered out loud why there is never any juice in our house. "Juice is all sugar. Sugar makes you fat. Drink something else," my mom matter-of-factly replied as she grabbed a bottle of water. I was tempted to pour myself a glass of wine in protest, but resisted and made some tea instead.
She needled me all throughout high school. Expressing concern about my weight and making comments about the things I ate. A consummate baker, there was usually a tray of something that I'd made sitting in the kitchen. My dad and brother loved it, but she would come in and pick up the cookie or brownie the way one might pick up a dead mouse and shake her head disapprovingly. The comments lessened once I left for college. The first couple years she tried to monitor my weight and gym attendance until she realized that she really couldn't control much from afar.
I'd all but forgotten about it until last month when she came down to DC to help me pack up my apartment. After a day of working, we took a break to eat dinner. She had a cup of coffee. I had buffalo wings and a Greek salad. She watched me as I ate the wings, pulling the meat off with my teeth and licking my fingers.
"I always feel so carnal when I eat these," I told her with a laugh. Her all too familiar look sliced into my mirth like a knife.
"What?" I asked, barely able to mask the irritation in my voice. She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Do you ever think about what a bombshell you would be if you were to lose 20 pounds? You would be beautiful..."
"I'm already beautiful," I replied, cutting her off. "And I hope you don't think that just because I'm moving home you can start that again." I turned away from her and towards my laptop where I rather serendipitously found an e-mail from someone who clearly agreed with me.
This is not what I'd been planning on writing about today. [And no, it's not what I did last Wednesday.] But it's what came to my mind after stumbling across this incredible post on another blog. In poetic language, the writer tells the story of a girl she grew up with who died from anorexia. She I found this passage particularly moving:
And so I try to surround myself with the friends who also believe this. The ones who know that, as cliche as it may sound, it really is what's inside that counts. The ones who think of a decadent brunch as an experience to share with friends and not as something they're going to have to make up for with extra time at the gym. The ones who don't spend all their time scrutinizing themselves in the mirror or discussing diets. The ones who always order dessert...
"I've never heard you say 'Does this make me look fat?' or 'I need to go on a diet' or anything like that. You just always seem so comfortable with yourself."
"It's intentional," I replied.
I made a conscious decision a long time ago that I would never be one of "those girls." The girls who constantly count calories and base their self-esteem on the size of their jeans. I've never wanted to be consumed by that.
A couple years ago, a friend asked me to join her and her roommate at a Weight Watchers meeting. I was bored and curious so I went along. It was spring and Easter and Passover were approaching. The moderator started talking about the difficulties of sticking to a dieting regiment over the holidays. She mentioned something about how much she loved jelly beans. The statement sent a murmur around the room. One by one, the women started shouting out the things they were going to miss most....Cadbury Cream Eggs, coconut macaroons, marshmallow Peeps, chocolate bunnies...
It was insane. They were practically salivating as they went into explicit detail about the things they wouldn't be able to eat. It was like listening to food porn and I'm pretty certain that at least 50 percent of those women headed straight for the candy aisle at CVS the second the meeting ended. I, on the other hand, left with the intention of writing a one-act play about the experience.
I don't diet. I love food far too much to force myself into some kind of suffocating dining regiment. I eat when I'm hungry and I don't when I'm not. It's as simple as that. I don't deny myself the things that I really want and I won't settle for bland low-whatever substitutes. I love bread and real sugar and creamy, garlicky things. I dip my french fries in mayonnaise and put cream in my coffee. I love dark chocolate and cheese, and I enthusiastically nod yes when offered a dessert menu.
I try to go to the gym as regularly I can, but not because I want to look good; I go because it makes me feel good. I love Pilates and yoga, and the occasional spinning class. It's how I kill my stress and the bucket load of neuroses I carry around. I may have grown up in New Jersey and come of age in DC, but as far as my anxieties are concerned, I'm like a Woody Allen film on continuous loop. I guess I just realized that with as many things as there are to worry about, the difference between being a size 8 or 10 or 12 is the least of them.
I realize that a lot of this is really a reaction to my mother's attitude towards food. Chubby when young, she was teased mercilessly by her cousins and brothers. In an effort to squelch their teasing she started dieting and has never stopped since. My whole life I've had to listen to the "oh I can't eat that" or "I just need to lose 10 more pounds by Christmas." This morning, as I rifled through the fridge in search of something to drink with breakfast I wondered out loud why there is never any juice in our house. "Juice is all sugar. Sugar makes you fat. Drink something else," my mom matter-of-factly replied as she grabbed a bottle of water. I was tempted to pour myself a glass of wine in protest, but resisted and made some tea instead.
She needled me all throughout high school. Expressing concern about my weight and making comments about the things I ate. A consummate baker, there was usually a tray of something that I'd made sitting in the kitchen. My dad and brother loved it, but she would come in and pick up the cookie or brownie the way one might pick up a dead mouse and shake her head disapprovingly. The comments lessened once I left for college. The first couple years she tried to monitor my weight and gym attendance until she realized that she really couldn't control much from afar.
I'd all but forgotten about it until last month when she came down to DC to help me pack up my apartment. After a day of working, we took a break to eat dinner. She had a cup of coffee. I had buffalo wings and a Greek salad. She watched me as I ate the wings, pulling the meat off with my teeth and licking my fingers.
"I always feel so carnal when I eat these," I told her with a laugh. Her all too familiar look sliced into my mirth like a knife.
"What?" I asked, barely able to mask the irritation in my voice. She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Do you ever think about what a bombshell you would be if you were to lose 20 pounds? You would be beautiful..."
"I'm already beautiful," I replied, cutting her off. "And I hope you don't think that just because I'm moving home you can start that again." I turned away from her and towards my laptop where I rather serendipitously found an e-mail from someone who clearly agreed with me.
This is not what I'd been planning on writing about today. [And no, it's not what I did last Wednesday.] But it's what came to my mind after stumbling across this incredible post on another blog. In poetic language, the writer tells the story of a girl she grew up with who died from anorexia. She I found this passage particularly moving:
I try not to comment on the way my friends look, their weight or their appearance. Not when they look good, not when they look thin. I try to tell them how happy I am to see them. I try to get them away, from the clubs and the gym and the pressured existence of Manhattan ambition. I try to laugh at their jokes, tell them how funny they are, engage their souls, connect. I don’t allow the gym clothes to hide the reality that my friend is becoming too thin. So thin that I need to reinforce through my actions that boys, and party dresses and the pursuit of glamour, adoration and the thinnes[s] reserved for the naturally petite is not what will make us feel full. I try not to read those magazines. I try not to stand in front of the mirror too long.I know that I'm lucky because I was blessed with a proportionate figure and attractive features, but I know plenty of girls who have similar or better figures than mine and yet have twice the insecurities. I'm not going to lie and say that there are never days when I feel unsure or doubt myself. Days when I don't feel that attractive or can't seem to find something to wear, but fortunately, they are few and far between. Most of the time I'm very happy with myself and know that while I may not fit the "ideal" magazine cover image, the whole package is pretty darn spectacular.
And so I try to surround myself with the friends who also believe this. The ones who know that, as cliche as it may sound, it really is what's inside that counts. The ones who think of a decadent brunch as an experience to share with friends and not as something they're going to have to make up for with extra time at the gym. The ones who don't spend all their time scrutinizing themselves in the mirror or discussing diets. The ones who always order dessert...
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Subway Stories
She stepped into the train at Times Square just a second before the doors shut. Wrinkled, obviously tired, and bundled in a heavy coat and scarf she headed straight for the open seat next to mine. In one fluid motion I placed my giant tweed bag on the seat and held up my left hand.
“Actually,” I said. “This seat is taken. My friend is just checking the map…”
She stared at me. Too shocked to register any emotion at first, her eyes slowly darkened. I matched her withering look with one of my own and kept my bag on the seat. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead moved on to the back of the car from where she continued to shoot me dirty looks and mutter under her breath. I summoned up my best “I was born in the Bronx and will cut you” look (not so easy when you’re dressed like a librarian) and stared at her until she stopped.
Vanessa came back from the map and sat down. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she said. “You realize that’s unheard of in this city…”
I burst out laughing. “Well, you said save your seat. So I did.”
“Very impressive,” said the man sitting to my left. Two guys sitting across from us shook their heads and laughed.
“Whatever,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, all the while feeling very pleased with myself.
“Actually,” I said. “This seat is taken. My friend is just checking the map…”
She stared at me. Too shocked to register any emotion at first, her eyes slowly darkened. I matched her withering look with one of my own and kept my bag on the seat. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead moved on to the back of the car from where she continued to shoot me dirty looks and mutter under her breath. I summoned up my best “I was born in the Bronx and will cut you” look (not so easy when you’re dressed like a librarian) and stared at her until she stopped.
Vanessa came back from the map and sat down. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she said. “You realize that’s unheard of in this city…”
I burst out laughing. “Well, you said save your seat. So I did.”
“Very impressive,” said the man sitting to my left. Two guys sitting across from us shook their heads and laughed.
“Whatever,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, all the while feeling very pleased with myself.
Labels: friends, New York, The Subway
Friday, November 03, 2006
Overheard in Brooklyn
On passing a boy of about 10 or 12 crossing Flatbush Avenue:
BFF Vanessa: You know, I've seen, like, three midgets already today.
Me: Um....yeah. Except that wasn't a midget. It was a small child.
BFF Vanessa: Well I'm not counting him...
BFF Vanessa: You know, I've seen, like, three midgets already today.
Me: Um....yeah. Except that wasn't a midget. It was a small child.
BFF Vanessa: Well I'm not counting him...
Labels: conversations, friends
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
An Open Letter to One Limb
Dear Matt,
What the hell happened to your blog? You used to be my favorite of my links (sorry rest of the b-roll) and then suddenly you disappeared. Now every time I click your link I'm redirected to a search page for "Craigslist Island Staten." What the hell does that even mean? Did a dyslexic townie in search of a new apartment hack into your Blogger account? I would have called you about this and asked personally, but I broke my phone last week and lost your number.
You have until the 15th of the month to either explain yourself or fix it. If you choose to ignore this message then I regret to inform you that I will have to delete you from my roll.
You will, however, always remain my second-favorite New York Republican Jew. (Mike Bloomberg of course being my first).
Sincerely,
Alejandra
What the hell happened to your blog? You used to be my favorite of my links (sorry rest of the b-roll) and then suddenly you disappeared. Now every time I click your link I'm redirected to a search page for "Craigslist Island Staten." What the hell does that even mean? Did a dyslexic townie in search of a new apartment hack into your Blogger account? I would have called you about this and asked personally, but I broke my phone last week and lost your number.
You have until the 15th of the month to either explain yourself or fix it. If you choose to ignore this message then I regret to inform you that I will have to delete you from my roll.
You will, however, always remain my second-favorite New York Republican Jew. (Mike Bloomberg of course being my first).
Sincerely,
Alejandra
Labels: blogging, friends, Open Letters
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