My sister hosted Thanksgiving this year in D.C. She lives in a tiny apartment so we all got rooms at the hotel around the corner. I lost the battle with G over not having the tv on in the hotel room, but to make up for it, we watched Martha Stewart while getting ready one morning.
Usually Martha's tips and "good things" verge on being too much work or else not as useful as she intends. So I was intrigued when she showed us how to cut open a pomegranate, extract the seeds and not end up looking like murderer. My way involves hacking it open and scooping out seeds directly into my mouth while standing over the kitchen sink. Her technique involved scoring the fruit, breaking it in half and then knocking the seeds into a bowl with a wooden spoon. Seemed easy enough! Two dozen bottles of wine and four days later we returned to Boston and, inspired by the bounty of Thanksgiving, bought a pomegranate. The finale of The Amazing Race seemed like a special enough occasion to try to 3 steps: I scored the fruit and tried to pull it apart-- no dice, and then the commerical was over, so I raced myself back to the living room. Would Kimberly finally lose it on Rob? Would we witness domestic abuse played out internationally? Next commercial: I just cut the fruit in half and started banging on the fruit with a wooden spoon to release the seeds. They clung for dear life. End of commercial, raced back to the living room. Why are the models so boring? Would they really win? Next commerical: started scooping seeds out with a teaspoon. Had to cut the fruit into more wedges to avoid the membrane. A pool of juice collected on the cutting board. Commercial ends and I lick juice off my fingers and bring the first "fruits of my labor" to G, who gulps them down without appreciation for all the work I've gone through. And why can't the Alabama ladies be a little more telegenic? They needed some PR-- I didn't want them to win even if it was for their kids. Final commercial-- I give up and start scraping the seeds out with my hands, over the sink. Juice has splattered on my clothes and the floor and the cats eye loose seeds suspiciously. All the seeds obtained, I meander back to the living room in time to see a CAB DRIVER take the models to the finish. Lame.
Not to be outwitted by a fruit, I decided to conquer The Persimmon. I purchased three, shrink wrapped in a Trader Joe's package. I tried a persimmon a few years back, before it was ripe, and was I felt like I ate a box full of chalk. Since then I've avoided that fall fruit. I let them sit on the butcher block a few days to make sure they were good and ripe. And then I let them sit some more. Finally, I tried one and my mouth did not pucker. I decided to let the remaining ones sit a little longer...G came home and said, "what are you going to do with those tomatoes?" "They're not tomatoes, they're persimmons." The next day, G said, "Aren't you going to use those tomoatoes for something?" "They're persimmons!! Fruit! It wouldn't hurt you to try one!" And still they sat, still ripening, more and more until G said, "Why are you holding on to these moldy tomatoes?" The truth is, I wasn't so impressed with the persimmon. Like the models, it was rather bland an boring, but held out, on the counter, for more than a week.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Fishtailed
Fall always brings out my nesting sensibilities and an instict to do things my foreparents did, like can fruits and veggies. Last year I made preserved eggplant and I decided to try drying tomatoes and preserving them with the peppers I grew this year. I dried one batch on tomatoes then, when it wasn't enough, went to the store to buy more. I read up on canning, so stuck them, the peppers and some garlic and herbs in boiling balsalmic for a few minutes, then sealed them in a jar with oil. I then submerged the jar in boiling water and oil started to leak out of the top...as I tried to pull the jar out with tongs, it slipped, splashing boiling oil and water in my face. Fortunately I didn't suffer any disfigurement.
I then moved on to preserving lemons, which seemed less risky-- no boiling. Just salt and lemon juice. I also made a sourdough starter-- so I have a jar of flour and water fermenting on my kitchen counter. This caused a sticky paste all over the counter and sink.
G brought a book of Israeli cooking home from the library and decided we should cook a whole fish. Where better to buy a whole fish than Whole Foods? G pointed a whole red snapper out to the fishmonger, who looked at my wary face and asked G, "Did you ask her about this? She's the boss." He told us he was African so knew about cooking a whole fish (and likely looked at me and ascertained my familiarity with whole fish was limited to an aquarium at the Chinese restaurant). I told him it was okay (head, tail and all) and that it was G's project. I went off to look at the imported cheeses. Anyway, $30 later we had a fish and cheese.
When we got home, G got to work. I made an orange-date cake while he prepared the fish. We used every kitchen appliance we have and the sink was full. We ate while watching "The Break Up". We both made sure we did the dishes after. I think there is an obvious evolution from canning/fishing/preserving: take out.
I then moved on to preserving lemons, which seemed less risky-- no boiling. Just salt and lemon juice. I also made a sourdough starter-- so I have a jar of flour and water fermenting on my kitchen counter. This caused a sticky paste all over the counter and sink.
G brought a book of Israeli cooking home from the library and decided we should cook a whole fish. Where better to buy a whole fish than Whole Foods? G pointed a whole red snapper out to the fishmonger, who looked at my wary face and asked G, "Did you ask her about this? She's the boss." He told us he was African so knew about cooking a whole fish (and likely looked at me and ascertained my familiarity with whole fish was limited to an aquarium at the Chinese restaurant). I told him it was okay (head, tail and all) and that it was G's project. I went off to look at the imported cheeses. Anyway, $30 later we had a fish and cheese.
When we got home, G got to work. I made an orange-date cake while he prepared the fish. We used every kitchen appliance we have and the sink was full. We ate while watching "The Break Up". We both made sure we did the dishes after. I think there is an obvious evolution from canning/fishing/preserving: take out.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Dude, Where's My Beer?
For his birthday this year, I gave G a tent. My mom completed the theme by giving him some mess kits and pans and a propane stove. In turn, he bought me a sleeping bag and we prepared for our first camping trip together. He found a couple campsites in the Berkshires so we decided to head west for the long weekend. As a nice coincidence, the Saturday was also the start of Sukkot. I'm usually able to eke out the basic meanings of Jewish holidays from G-- he can tell me if they are happy or solemn, but further info I usually have to figure out elsewhere. Sukkot is historical-- commemorating the 40 years the Isrealites lived in temporary shelters while wandering the desert-- and agricultural-- a harvest festival. So by assembling the tent we (sort of) fulfilled the command to dwell in a temporary shelter.
Camping and car trips mean for me a sort of primitive way of eating: Lipton instant soup, saltines, Vienna sausages. So I was perplexed when G favored steaks and fancy cheese. We had two nights, so we compromised. We had hamburgers and hotdogs the first night, and steak and grilled veggies the second. And of course, we agreed on beer and s'mores.
The campsite specifically instructed us to not have alcoholic beverages. And I would have thought the rangers would turn a blind eye (who camps without beer? It's the only thing democrats and republicans can agree). But not wanting to risk eviction, we imbibed discreetly. G had a beer in his hand when we decided to walk down to the wash house. He left the beer on the top of the car to return to later. After washing our faces and brushing our teeth, we returned and the beer...was gone! We used the flashlight to look around the car if it had fallen, but nothing! We recalled seeing a ranger drive past when we were at the wash house-- could he have taken it? We'll never know.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Fall Update
The early part of the fall has been busy. I turned 29, got a new job, and perhaps most importantly, got my hair cut. I also bought three hair products and dug out the blow drier a close friend gave me the day we both left for college, back in 1996. Doing my hair takes time, thus the lack of blogging.
The Summer of Svelte ended and I can proudly say that I can easily run 3 miles in a half hour (on the treadmill). But a recent run with Evil Twin #1 proved a challenge. She made me run up a hill and promised me a bench and water. There was no water. I had to stop frequently and she frequently had to slow down to keep pace with me. When asked to go running with a friend, you should ask yourself if said friend ran the Boston Marathon without stopping once. If the answer is yes, then perhaps consider going to brunch with that friend instead. I'd like to wish both Evil Twins (especially #2) good luck in the upcoming marathon.
G and I did another whirlwind trip to New York and this time brought a couple friends. We didn't get lost or fall into disagreement (although there was a close call when we still hadn't eaten lunch by 3:30). G and I will be going camping this weekend. This should certainly test our mettle-- if not the lack of facilities, at least the lack of a wireless connection. I'm sure we'll be fine. We'll resort to old school "reading" in the evenings.
Finally, I had to reveal a secret I'd been harboring to G. He likes to keep current of the cinema by watching previews and the new 007 was no exception. I had to confess I've never seen any James Bond movie to my knowledge. Perhaps I've spent too much time watching French New Wave.
The Summer of Svelte ended and I can proudly say that I can easily run 3 miles in a half hour (on the treadmill). But a recent run with Evil Twin #1 proved a challenge. She made me run up a hill and promised me a bench and water. There was no water. I had to stop frequently and she frequently had to slow down to keep pace with me. When asked to go running with a friend, you should ask yourself if said friend ran the Boston Marathon without stopping once. If the answer is yes, then perhaps consider going to brunch with that friend instead. I'd like to wish both Evil Twins (especially #2) good luck in the upcoming marathon.
G and I did another whirlwind trip to New York and this time brought a couple friends. We didn't get lost or fall into disagreement (although there was a close call when we still hadn't eaten lunch by 3:30). G and I will be going camping this weekend. This should certainly test our mettle-- if not the lack of facilities, at least the lack of a wireless connection. I'm sure we'll be fine. We'll resort to old school "reading" in the evenings.
Finally, I had to reveal a secret I'd been harboring to G. He likes to keep current of the cinema by watching previews and the new 007 was no exception. I had to confess I've never seen any James Bond movie to my knowledge. Perhaps I've spent too much time watching French New Wave.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
What I Did On My Summer Vacation, or, Hitchhikers of the World, Unite!
The day after the dead battery/birthday incident was only Wednesday-- still three full days left of Amazing Race competition until the elimination task (AKA back to Boston). While G caught up on some work at the local coffee shop, I read and did some laundry. So we were both ready to head back into Seattle by the early afternoon. Armed with the general address/location of some galleries, I drove us once again into the city, getting off in Pioneer Square to park the car. G's demeanor turned sour when he realized we were close to tourist central. But my main concern was not having to parallel park. Growing up in Wichita where there is never any need to parallel park, I never learned. So I pulled into the first curbside space I could find that required no reversing. There were other cars parked there, and we did look at nearby signs...it seemed okay to park. I paid for just over an hour and a half, giving us until 3:30 pm. We walked through the Public Market and down first and second aves. We walked into Belltown and through several galleries and unique stores. G was impressed by Seattle's cool nature compared to Boston's archaic demeanor and I chimed in that even the parking meters were progressive-- once you paid and stuck the sticker on your window, you could even move around as long as you were within your set time. We strolled back leisurely to Pioneer Square to where our car should have been parked. It wasn't in front of the pizza place, and my first thought was that we were on the wrong block...but there were no other cars and slowly we realized our car was gone. We looked at ALL the signs and determined it had been towed due to an obscure sign that said no parking between 3-6 pm.
Those that know me well know that in periods of stress or boredom I rip and chew my fingernails off. Needless to say my relaxing summer had given my nails a rest from their normal mutilation, until this week. After the dead battery I had no nails left to chew and helplessly asked G to call the towing company. He looked like he was ready to blow, just like the cartoon character whose face turns red and has steam coming out of his ears. He called, got the address (allegedly three miles away; too far to conveniently walk) and we started looking for a cab. Anyone in Boston can give a horror story about a crazy cabdriver, but we weren't even given this opportunity in Seattle as any cab that stopped refused to take us north. Tears were stinging my eyes and I was trying to figure out when, exactly, we had been cursed. We walked a block up to catch the traffic going north. No sign of a cab, but then like a ray of light from heaven, a city bus advertising "Fairview", the street we needed, pulled up. I asked the driver if he was passing the address we needed. "If you're willing to ride with me, I'm going there", he responded. G and I hopped aboard. The driver told us to pay when we exited and then also told us when our stop was approaching, pointed out the towing lot and smiled and refused to take our fare when we deboarded. "You'll be paying enough where you're going." Sure enough. $149 poorer, plus the $38 ticket (adding insult to injury), G and I collected the car and entered I-5. G wondered why we never have these problems in Boston. Our Amazing Race mission was obviously being thwarted. From here on out, we eschew the rental car and hitchhike. It will be faster and cheaper.
Those that know me well know that in periods of stress or boredom I rip and chew my fingernails off. Needless to say my relaxing summer had given my nails a rest from their normal mutilation, until this week. After the dead battery I had no nails left to chew and helplessly asked G to call the towing company. He looked like he was ready to blow, just like the cartoon character whose face turns red and has steam coming out of his ears. He called, got the address (allegedly three miles away; too far to conveniently walk) and we started looking for a cab. Anyone in Boston can give a horror story about a crazy cabdriver, but we weren't even given this opportunity in Seattle as any cab that stopped refused to take us north. Tears were stinging my eyes and I was trying to figure out when, exactly, we had been cursed. We walked a block up to catch the traffic going north. No sign of a cab, but then like a ray of light from heaven, a city bus advertising "Fairview", the street we needed, pulled up. I asked the driver if he was passing the address we needed. "If you're willing to ride with me, I'm going there", he responded. G and I hopped aboard. The driver told us to pay when we exited and then also told us when our stop was approaching, pointed out the towing lot and smiled and refused to take our fare when we deboarded. "You'll be paying enough where you're going." Sure enough. $149 poorer, plus the $38 ticket (adding insult to injury), G and I collected the car and entered I-5. G wondered why we never have these problems in Boston. Our Amazing Race mission was obviously being thwarted. From here on out, we eschew the rental car and hitchhike. It will be faster and cheaper.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
What I Did On My Summer Vacation Part II, or, How Not To Enjoy Your Birthday
The day after kayaking we checked out of our B&B and waited with the car on dock for the return ferry ride back to Anacortes, and then Seattle. The wait let us see some interesting "wildlife": the hippie mom who let her child run around the parking lot without shoes or socks, and who had a bumper sticker that read, "Magick is alive" and the jovial 65 year old man who the previous evening at dinner had been downing martinis like they were going out of style, and who thus looked a little worse for the wear.
We took the hour long ferry and deboarded around 12:30. It was an overcast day, so I turned on the headlights for the hour and a half drive back to Seattle. With a good portion of the afternoon remaining, we decided to brave the Seattle freeway traffic and check out Capitol Hill.
We crawled along, found parking and wandered the streets. Independent stores that would never be able to afford rent in Boston abounded, kitschy bars and seedy lounges beckoned. We entered one with a Mexican motif and asked what was on tap. Only Ranier (a kind of PBR equivalent) so G ordered us each one. I should mention that it was my birthday. We read the local papers and nursed our watery beer, then asked for the check. The bartender mumbled something about $3...G thought he must have misunderstood and so said, "No, I'll pay for both." The bartender said, "Sure-- they are $1.50 each-- it's Happy Hour!" G demanded to know what other specials we were missing out on then asked the barkeep to hit him again. We wandered out of the bar into the refreshing Seattle air and decided to head back so that we could enjoy my birthday dinner with my stepdad. I went to start the car while G finished a phone call...but the car wouldn't start. I made sure the key was in the right way and that all systems were go. And that's when I noticed the headlights had been left on. G and I exchanged angry glances and he tried to turn on the car while I called the rental agency who put us through to AAA. I was told someone would be by in "half an hour or less" and that I should remain with the car. G and I had reading material, but limited water and no snacks. My stomach started to growl. We played count the hipsters as they walked past and tried to find our Seattle area couple match. Forty five minutes passed and G went to scavenge for food. I called AAA again and was told they were delayed. I stared at the sunset behind the space needle through the rearview mirror. G brought back sandwiches and fries. After an hour and a half the AAA guy arrived, our car was jumped and we were reminded to just drive for half an hour to keep the charge. I smiled and turned on the car and that's when the gas light went on. G had that "I told you so" look on his face, because he had, in fact, told me that we should fill up with gas earlier. I didn't know if we could drive 30 minutes and then buy gas, or if we would run out. We took the gamble, found a station, turned off the ignition, bought gas and...the car started. We made it home, and my birthday dinner was at the breakfast bar; sandwiches, the salt from the remaining fries, and a bottle of bubbly found in the garage. In Amazing Race terms we were 0 for 2.
next...like a monkey hitting itself over and over, we take the car into the Seattle AGAIN
We took the hour long ferry and deboarded around 12:30. It was an overcast day, so I turned on the headlights for the hour and a half drive back to Seattle. With a good portion of the afternoon remaining, we decided to brave the Seattle freeway traffic and check out Capitol Hill.
We crawled along, found parking and wandered the streets. Independent stores that would never be able to afford rent in Boston abounded, kitschy bars and seedy lounges beckoned. We entered one with a Mexican motif and asked what was on tap. Only Ranier (a kind of PBR equivalent) so G ordered us each one. I should mention that it was my birthday. We read the local papers and nursed our watery beer, then asked for the check. The bartender mumbled something about $3...G thought he must have misunderstood and so said, "No, I'll pay for both." The bartender said, "Sure-- they are $1.50 each-- it's Happy Hour!" G demanded to know what other specials we were missing out on then asked the barkeep to hit him again. We wandered out of the bar into the refreshing Seattle air and decided to head back so that we could enjoy my birthday dinner with my stepdad. I went to start the car while G finished a phone call...but the car wouldn't start. I made sure the key was in the right way and that all systems were go. And that's when I noticed the headlights had been left on. G and I exchanged angry glances and he tried to turn on the car while I called the rental agency who put us through to AAA. I was told someone would be by in "half an hour or less" and that I should remain with the car. G and I had reading material, but limited water and no snacks. My stomach started to growl. We played count the hipsters as they walked past and tried to find our Seattle area couple match. Forty five minutes passed and G went to scavenge for food. I called AAA again and was told they were delayed. I stared at the sunset behind the space needle through the rearview mirror. G brought back sandwiches and fries. After an hour and a half the AAA guy arrived, our car was jumped and we were reminded to just drive for half an hour to keep the charge. I smiled and turned on the car and that's when the gas light went on. G had that "I told you so" look on his face, because he had, in fact, told me that we should fill up with gas earlier. I didn't know if we could drive 30 minutes and then buy gas, or if we would run out. We took the gamble, found a station, turned off the ignition, bought gas and...the car started. We made it home, and my birthday dinner was at the breakfast bar; sandwiches, the salt from the remaining fries, and a bottle of bubbly found in the garage. In Amazing Race terms we were 0 for 2.
next...like a monkey hitting itself over and over, we take the car into the Seattle AGAIN
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
What I Did on My Summer Vacation, or, Why the Amazing Race Will Forever Be Out of My Grasp
Having initially eschewed a vacation in order to save money, by mid-summer I knew I would need one badly, so G and I booked a trip to Seattle and the San Juan Islands. G is a good sport about visiting my family in Seattle, but I realized some ameneties to improve our independence were in order. So we rented a car and reserved some personal time in a B&B on San Juan Island, off the northern coast of Washington. When we picked up the sporty black Dodge Neon, we felt a freedom akin to a 16 year old getting her first set of wheels. I put previous bad experience with cars in Seattle (two parking lot fender benders 8 summers ago when I lived in Seattle) in the back of my mind and instead prepared for The Amazing Race.
Early Sunday morning, G and I set off for San Juan Island with the ferry schedule in our hand. We made excellent time, boarded the ferry and made it to the island by 10:15 am. We had no map nor directions to our B&B, but instinctively we found it! We then tooled around the island and found the British Camp where we hiked and ate lunch. After a nap at the B&B, we headed out again, G nearly dove into the 50 degree water, but then thought better of it. We saw about a dozen Orcas from the beach and then headed to an early dinner. We were feeling great and even managed to polish off a Netflix movie that night. We awoke early, had breakfast with another couple staying at the inn and then made it over to see about some sea kayaking. The woman we checked in with said she had room on the 10:30 if we could make it down to Snug Harbor. It was a beautiful day and we were excited about a new adventure. We saw the couple from breakfast at the harbor and the there were two other couples. We climed in our kayaks (G in back, me in front) and received our rudimentary lesson. How hard could it be? Paddle in unison and use the peddles to control the rudder-- press right to go left and vice versa. The tour guide told us all to stay together not only for safety, but also so we could hear what he was describing throughout the morning tour. We were off! G and I lagged behind, but at first I figured it would just take us awhile to get the hang of it. About an hour into it we were still behind-- the rest of the group frequently waited for us to catch up.
Guide to A and G: "This your first time doing this? You okay?"
A: "We're city folk, but I'm sure we'll get better."
We saw starfish, some harbor seals, paddled through a bull kelp forest (which slowed us down again!) and saw Victoria in the distance. Two hours into the tour I was getting worn out-- we kept zig zagging. With an hour to go, I figured we were likely (hopefully) going to paddle into another harbor and catch a van back to the original harbor. But then the tour guide told us it was time to head back.
Guide to A and G: "Where you folks from?"
G: "Boston."
Guide: "Hey--that couple's from New York! (yells over to NY couple that we are from Boston)"
NY couple: "Sorry! HAHA!"
G: "It's JUST A GAME! (through clenched teeth)."
This was probably the point where I realized we were not the fun loving hippies, but the annoying, fighting couple. G would whap me with sea kelp or poke me with his paddle, and I would yell back for him to focus on steering. He stopped steering and we started to head out to sea. I almost started crying and imagined having to be rescued and pulled back to the harbor by a rescue boat. It would be so humiliating. G put all his force into paddling. I started to feel faint.
We eventually made it back to the harbor. We were the last to arrive and I was thankful to be on steady ground. Perhaps we lacked the kayaking technique or should have been more coordinated, but in my mind I know what the real problem was. G and I had a defective kayak. It's really the only logical explanation. We headed to lunch and enjoyed sandwiches and beer in the sun. We may have lost this leg of the Amazing Race, but the week was just beginning.
next...taking the car to Seattle Part 1.
Early Sunday morning, G and I set off for San Juan Island with the ferry schedule in our hand. We made excellent time, boarded the ferry and made it to the island by 10:15 am. We had no map nor directions to our B&B, but instinctively we found it! We then tooled around the island and found the British Camp where we hiked and ate lunch. After a nap at the B&B, we headed out again, G nearly dove into the 50 degree water, but then thought better of it. We saw about a dozen Orcas from the beach and then headed to an early dinner. We were feeling great and even managed to polish off a Netflix movie that night. We awoke early, had breakfast with another couple staying at the inn and then made it over to see about some sea kayaking. The woman we checked in with said she had room on the 10:30 if we could make it down to Snug Harbor. It was a beautiful day and we were excited about a new adventure. We saw the couple from breakfast at the harbor and the there were two other couples. We climed in our kayaks (G in back, me in front) and received our rudimentary lesson. How hard could it be? Paddle in unison and use the peddles to control the rudder-- press right to go left and vice versa. The tour guide told us all to stay together not only for safety, but also so we could hear what he was describing throughout the morning tour. We were off! G and I lagged behind, but at first I figured it would just take us awhile to get the hang of it. About an hour into it we were still behind-- the rest of the group frequently waited for us to catch up.
Guide to A and G: "This your first time doing this? You okay?"
A: "We're city folk, but I'm sure we'll get better."
We saw starfish, some harbor seals, paddled through a bull kelp forest (which slowed us down again!) and saw Victoria in the distance. Two hours into the tour I was getting worn out-- we kept zig zagging. With an hour to go, I figured we were likely (hopefully) going to paddle into another harbor and catch a van back to the original harbor. But then the tour guide told us it was time to head back.
Guide to A and G: "Where you folks from?"
G: "Boston."
Guide: "Hey--that couple's from New York! (yells over to NY couple that we are from Boston)"
NY couple: "Sorry! HAHA!"
G: "It's JUST A GAME! (through clenched teeth)."
This was probably the point where I realized we were not the fun loving hippies, but the annoying, fighting couple. G would whap me with sea kelp or poke me with his paddle, and I would yell back for him to focus on steering. He stopped steering and we started to head out to sea. I almost started crying and imagined having to be rescued and pulled back to the harbor by a rescue boat. It would be so humiliating. G put all his force into paddling. I started to feel faint.
We eventually made it back to the harbor. We were the last to arrive and I was thankful to be on steady ground. Perhaps we lacked the kayaking technique or should have been more coordinated, but in my mind I know what the real problem was. G and I had a defective kayak. It's really the only logical explanation. We headed to lunch and enjoyed sandwiches and beer in the sun. We may have lost this leg of the Amazing Race, but the week was just beginning.
next...taking the car to Seattle Part 1.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Netflix
Zara recently emailed me to join her as a Netflix friend.
A: Yeah! Don't be intimidated by my massive list of foreign films.
Z: Don't be intimidated by "Kate and Allie".
Touche!
A: Yeah! Don't be intimidated by my massive list of foreign films.
Z: Don't be intimidated by "Kate and Allie".
Touche!
Monday, July 24, 2006
A Girl, the Internet and a Tape Measure, Or, My Own Personal Model
A rainy weekend in Boston provided the perfect opportunity to clean and catch up on chores neglected during the recent rash of good weather, which sent us all to outdoor locales. Unfortunately cleaning and chores also mean, "find a further way to procrasinate." Which is what I was doing when G asked me (computer and internet open, tape measure around the widest part of my abdomen), "What are you doing?!" Me (rolling eyes): "Taking my most accurate measurements."
Earlier in the week, I had been planning to svelte at the gym, but Rashmi called with an urgent request for help. Her reunion was Saturday and she needed an outfit. Fortunately shopping DOES count as cardio. We trekked to the Basement since I pooh-poohed the paltry recent offerings at H&M. But at the Basement Rashmi enlightened me to a feature on the H&M website-- a virtual dressing room! My "ohs" and "ahs" piqued the interest of a fellow shopper who timidly turned around and inquired what we were talking about. It sounded that fabulous. (I should note here that of all places in Boston, the Basement is the one where you can be most friendly and candid with your fellow shopper. The intimacy in the no privacy and poorly lit dressing room is testament to that. If you haven't brought along a friend or a sister, you are completely within your rights to obtain the opinion of woman next to you. You're both in your skivvies-- who's going to lie?).
Fast forward to balmy Saturday. I decided to try the virtual dressing room out. I chose my body type, hair color and length (even nose shape!) and then entered the specific measurements of my personal self. As Rashmi promised, a decent likeness was turned out!
I then proceeded to try on jeans (including skinny jeans, which I would never ever try on in real life), swimsuits, blouses and dresses. The program then told me the actual size I would want from the store. The upside to this? No eye-averting cellulite and perpetually flattering "virtual" lighting. The downside? No sister with whom to commisserate on mis-sized dresses nor fellow shopper to rally around a $50 jacket purchase. Until the virtual dressing room can recreate this sisterhood, the actual Basement will continue to be a very real destination...at least after the kitchen gets cleaned.
Earlier in the week, I had been planning to svelte at the gym, but Rashmi called with an urgent request for help. Her reunion was Saturday and she needed an outfit. Fortunately shopping DOES count as cardio. We trekked to the Basement since I pooh-poohed the paltry recent offerings at H&M. But at the Basement Rashmi enlightened me to a feature on the H&M website-- a virtual dressing room! My "ohs" and "ahs" piqued the interest of a fellow shopper who timidly turned around and inquired what we were talking about. It sounded that fabulous. (I should note here that of all places in Boston, the Basement is the one where you can be most friendly and candid with your fellow shopper. The intimacy in the no privacy and poorly lit dressing room is testament to that. If you haven't brought along a friend or a sister, you are completely within your rights to obtain the opinion of woman next to you. You're both in your skivvies-- who's going to lie?).
Fast forward to balmy Saturday. I decided to try the virtual dressing room out. I chose my body type, hair color and length (even nose shape!) and then entered the specific measurements of my personal self. As Rashmi promised, a decent likeness was turned out!
I then proceeded to try on jeans (including skinny jeans, which I would never ever try on in real life), swimsuits, blouses and dresses. The program then told me the actual size I would want from the store. The upside to this? No eye-averting cellulite and perpetually flattering "virtual" lighting. The downside? No sister with whom to commisserate on mis-sized dresses nor fellow shopper to rally around a $50 jacket purchase. Until the virtual dressing room can recreate this sisterhood, the actual Basement will continue to be a very real destination...at least after the kitchen gets cleaned.
Monday, July 17, 2006
First Job
My previous post hinted at some "firsts". One first I left out is one's first job. People rarely forget their first job, although it might be a more onerous, later job that better sticks in their minds. Technically my first job was in a school supply stockroom, with a friend of the family, for a couple weeks the summer before my freshman year of high school. We collated papers, used a shrink wrap machine to bundle colorful construction paper, ate at Johnnie's, and returned to my friend's house every day to go swimming in the pool. And I got a paycheck!
The next summer I was to obtain a not-so-cushy job, yet one that would serve me until I went away to college. Friends of the family (it's always about connections!) owned a Baskin Robbins franchise and my mom helped me draw up a resume and references. One afternoon in June I showed up, met Betsy, the manager and the rest was history. I learned to count change (it's unlikely any Zandrea! reader can recall the last time a clerk counted change back to you, but this is a skill I learned and still have), watched videos on the different types of ice cream desserts which could be prepared, learned not to let "unappetizing ice crystals" form on the top to the buckets of ice cream, and learned the proper way to scoop and weigh (for each scoop must not be over a certain weight-- money doesn't grow on trees, you know!). I was given a pink polyester polo shirt, was shown how to prepare and make waffle cones, clown cones and, eventually, make and decorate ice cream cakes.
An article in this weekend's New York Times reminded me of all this. While we weren't allowed all the ice cream we could eat, boxes of taster spoons lent themselves to near constant "quality control". If someone asked how was the chocolate mousse royale, it was my professional responsibility to give an honest answer, correct? My co-workers and I suffered burned fingers from the waffle cones, and the lingering smell of ice-cream, waffle cones and disinfectant (the store was mopped top to bottom each evening). We learned to read customers and could predict within three ice cream flavors what anyone would order. We raced to prepare treats for the regulars; a junior scoop of jamoca in a regular sized cup for elderly Bea, a jamoca shake for Jamoca Jim. When the phone rings, I still want to answer, "Baskin Robbins Normandy" and for years after I left, I hated to wear anything pink.
I don't eat a lot of ice cream now. But the refreshing taste of daquiri ice still sends me immediately back to high school.
The next summer I was to obtain a not-so-cushy job, yet one that would serve me until I went away to college. Friends of the family (it's always about connections!) owned a Baskin Robbins franchise and my mom helped me draw up a resume and references. One afternoon in June I showed up, met Betsy, the manager and the rest was history. I learned to count change (it's unlikely any Zandrea! reader can recall the last time a clerk counted change back to you, but this is a skill I learned and still have), watched videos on the different types of ice cream desserts which could be prepared, learned not to let "unappetizing ice crystals" form on the top to the buckets of ice cream, and learned the proper way to scoop and weigh (for each scoop must not be over a certain weight-- money doesn't grow on trees, you know!). I was given a pink polyester polo shirt, was shown how to prepare and make waffle cones, clown cones and, eventually, make and decorate ice cream cakes.
An article in this weekend's New York Times reminded me of all this. While we weren't allowed all the ice cream we could eat, boxes of taster spoons lent themselves to near constant "quality control". If someone asked how was the chocolate mousse royale, it was my professional responsibility to give an honest answer, correct? My co-workers and I suffered burned fingers from the waffle cones, and the lingering smell of ice-cream, waffle cones and disinfectant (the store was mopped top to bottom each evening). We learned to read customers and could predict within three ice cream flavors what anyone would order. We raced to prepare treats for the regulars; a junior scoop of jamoca in a regular sized cup for elderly Bea, a jamoca shake for Jamoca Jim. When the phone rings, I still want to answer, "Baskin Robbins Normandy" and for years after I left, I hated to wear anything pink.
I don't eat a lot of ice cream now. But the refreshing taste of daquiri ice still sends me immediately back to high school.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Library
There are many firsts you are supposed to remember: your first kiss, your first day of college, your first apartment, your first D (erm...) and a recent article even said most women remember their first purse (not me, but I do remember my first makeup-- a gift for 8th grade graduation). What I do remember is my first library card. I lived in Oklahoma City, and as soon as I was able to sign my name, I was able to have a library card. I remember frequent trips to the library with a "limit" on books imposed by my mom. Summer was the most fun-- tons of free time to read all the young adult fiction and then move on to the adult fiction. I remember some traumatic evenings at the library during elementary school "researching" countries like India (average temperature, major exports, type of government, etc.) from the encyclopedias and world books.
I prefered the library for pleasure, not for deadline.
The deadline fear and procrastination persisted through high school, then college. I always got my work in on time, but alas, the books did not always befall the same fortune, languishing on my desk, or perhaps in my bag. Once a fee was assessed, I quickly retreated from the library and to the comfort of bookstores-- the price was more than the fee, but at least I could keep the books.
In an effort to exercise restraint on my budget and also because I pass the Boston Public Library at Copley several times a week, and finally because summer makes me think of the carefree days of checking out and reading fifteen books a week, I decided to reactivate my long lost library card, pay whatever fees there may be, and take advantage of this great public good. I showed up with my drivers license and a current piece of mail a few weeks back. The gentleman immediately pulled up my name, quoted my address from college and informed me that I had a fine of $5. Plus I'd need to pay $1 to replace the missing card. I sighed and thought if the library can keep such detailed records over time, why is there such a problem catching terrorists?
The receipt printout of the overdue, but ultimately returned, books, showed about six books checked out in May of 1999-- books on global warming, national parks, ecotourism. I recalled the classes I was taking then, my junior year, and remembered the A's and B's I received. Good old library card.
I prefered the library for pleasure, not for deadline.
The deadline fear and procrastination persisted through high school, then college. I always got my work in on time, but alas, the books did not always befall the same fortune, languishing on my desk, or perhaps in my bag. Once a fee was assessed, I quickly retreated from the library and to the comfort of bookstores-- the price was more than the fee, but at least I could keep the books.
In an effort to exercise restraint on my budget and also because I pass the Boston Public Library at Copley several times a week, and finally because summer makes me think of the carefree days of checking out and reading fifteen books a week, I decided to reactivate my long lost library card, pay whatever fees there may be, and take advantage of this great public good. I showed up with my drivers license and a current piece of mail a few weeks back. The gentleman immediately pulled up my name, quoted my address from college and informed me that I had a fine of $5. Plus I'd need to pay $1 to replace the missing card. I sighed and thought if the library can keep such detailed records over time, why is there such a problem catching terrorists?
The receipt printout of the overdue, but ultimately returned, books, showed about six books checked out in May of 1999-- books on global warming, national parks, ecotourism. I recalled the classes I was taking then, my junior year, and remembered the A's and B's I received. Good old library card.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Svelte Challenge
A dinner with Zara last night had her asking, "what is a Summer of Svelte"? Well, Zara, here's your answer. About a month ago, I received this email from Liz:
In two to three business days your cushy lifestyle of eating apple pie in bed and watching the cats play tennis will end. You will be faced with the ultimate work out challenge: The Summer of Svelte -- a 15 week cardio, fat burning, muscle building contest.
Because the stakes are high (as many as 15 free drinks and possible bonus svelte challenge prizes), start stretching now, drinking lots of water and recruiting challengers who you can take down one-by-one with your stunning athletic abilities.
To help you win and ensure you are on your A-game, you will receive an official svelte package in the mail any day. This kit -- a fashionable, fun and inspirational bag of goodies -- is yours for free and includes everything you need to get started.
Are you ready?
Remember: You can do this. You are a star of track and field.
My Summer of Svelte package? A mix cd, Shape magazine, jumprope and a progress chart with foil stars...all in a brand new gym bag. I recruited Nora to be my local competitor and we've had 3 "challenges" so far. Week 1 was to do 10 pushups per day. I failed because I got a terrible cold that made it so I could only watch movies listlessly in front of the fan. Week 2 was to take the stairs whenever possible. This was good in theory, but the door to the stairs on the first floor of my office is locked, so that didn't really work. Week 3 was last week-- the 4th of July week. The goal that week was to just somehow counterbalance a week's worth of beer and hotdogs and break even at the end. This week's Challenge is to eat the FDA's suggested 5-7 servings of fruits and veggies per day. A food challenge, that's practically fun! Nora's response?
I feel sorry for anyone who goes against me in this challenge. Know why?! Because I'm a vegetarian and obsessed with fruits/veggies :)
In fact, I almost fell off of my chair when I found out how much Liz hates salads because I love them so much.
So far, so good. I've definitely had to up my intake. At 11 pm the other night I prepared strawberries and whipped cream.
In two to three business days your cushy lifestyle of eating apple pie in bed and watching the cats play tennis will end. You will be faced with the ultimate work out challenge: The Summer of Svelte -- a 15 week cardio, fat burning, muscle building contest.
Because the stakes are high (as many as 15 free drinks and possible bonus svelte challenge prizes), start stretching now, drinking lots of water and recruiting challengers who you can take down one-by-one with your stunning athletic abilities.
To help you win and ensure you are on your A-game, you will receive an official svelte package in the mail any day. This kit -- a fashionable, fun and inspirational bag of goodies -- is yours for free and includes everything you need to get started.
Are you ready?
Remember: You can do this. You are a star of track and field.
My Summer of Svelte package? A mix cd, Shape magazine, jumprope and a progress chart with foil stars...all in a brand new gym bag. I recruited Nora to be my local competitor and we've had 3 "challenges" so far. Week 1 was to do 10 pushups per day. I failed because I got a terrible cold that made it so I could only watch movies listlessly in front of the fan. Week 2 was to take the stairs whenever possible. This was good in theory, but the door to the stairs on the first floor of my office is locked, so that didn't really work. Week 3 was last week-- the 4th of July week. The goal that week was to just somehow counterbalance a week's worth of beer and hotdogs and break even at the end. This week's Challenge is to eat the FDA's suggested 5-7 servings of fruits and veggies per day. A food challenge, that's practically fun! Nora's response?
I feel sorry for anyone who goes against me in this challenge. Know why?! Because I'm a vegetarian and obsessed with fruits/veggies :)
In fact, I almost fell off of my chair when I found out how much Liz hates salads because I love them so much.
So far, so good. I've definitely had to up my intake. At 11 pm the other night I prepared strawberries and whipped cream.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Beach Vs. Pond
When I met G several years ago, I was introduced to Walden Pond. Walden entrances G about as much as it did Thoreau, although Thoreau's retreat and sactuary has been developed enough to now include a man-helped beach and a boat launch. G loves that the lake water is clean and warm enough to swim (unlike the chilly Atlantic, even in summer) and likes the trees, nature and peace that can be found at far ends of the pond.
Having grown up in the middle of the country where a vacation to the beach (either a loooong drive to the Gulf or a flight out to Massachusetts) was a luxury, I never take the close beaches nearby for granted and try to go every weekend in the summer, weather permitting. Two summers ago I assumed G would feel the same way. But the beach for him is a tempting, yet prohibitively cold body of water...and roasting in the sand amidst crying children and my own personal favorite, leathery Boston natives oiling their wrinkly dark skin, all while smoking cigarettes, causes him to be grumpy.
An article in last week's New York Times almost perfectly captured the eternal dilemma-- go to Walden or the beach? While To Beach or Not to Beach argues the merits of purchasing a second home either on the beach or in the mountains, on a lake, the sentiments behind each choice resonate clearly, 'Both money and memories have played starring roles in the vacation-home debate that has long occupied Tom and Kathy Kingston. "We've been happily married for 37 years," Mr. Kingston said. "But 30 of them have been spent debating the merits of beach versus mountains."' I identified with Ms. Fox: "Being the ultimate New Yorker, I don't have a driver's license, and my husband didn't want to be involved in my getting there," she said. "Even when we go to the beach as a family, it's always on a timer, and after a few minutes he starts to complain about being sunburned." G is well known for his propensity to get "cooked" and guards our water supply closely. But in the article, "Mr. Kingston will counter that there is more to do in the mountains — there's biking, there's hiking. If it rains at the beach, what can you do besides head for the movies?"
Since G and I don't even own our first home, so are clearly not in the leagues of those vying for a second, vacation, home, our main arguments can be reduced to scouring the weather-- if both weekend days are sunny, like this last one, we can go to the beach one day and Walden the other. That works much better than resorting to civil disobedience recommended by Thoreau.
--
http://zandrea.blogspot.com/
Having grown up in the middle of the country where a vacation to the beach (either a loooong drive to the Gulf or a flight out to Massachusetts) was a luxury, I never take the close beaches nearby for granted and try to go every weekend in the summer, weather permitting. Two summers ago I assumed G would feel the same way. But the beach for him is a tempting, yet prohibitively cold body of water...and roasting in the sand amidst crying children and my own personal favorite, leathery Boston natives oiling their wrinkly dark skin, all while smoking cigarettes, causes him to be grumpy.
An article in last week's New York Times almost perfectly captured the eternal dilemma-- go to Walden or the beach? While To Beach or Not to Beach argues the merits of purchasing a second home either on the beach or in the mountains, on a lake, the sentiments behind each choice resonate clearly, 'Both money and memories have played starring roles in the vacation-home debate that has long occupied Tom and Kathy Kingston. "We've been happily married for 37 years," Mr. Kingston said. "But 30 of them have been spent debating the merits of beach versus mountains."' I identified with Ms. Fox: "Being the ultimate New Yorker, I don't have a driver's license, and my husband didn't want to be involved in my getting there," she said. "Even when we go to the beach as a family, it's always on a timer, and after a few minutes he starts to complain about being sunburned." G is well known for his propensity to get "cooked" and guards our water supply closely. But in the article, "Mr. Kingston will counter that there is more to do in the mountains — there's biking, there's hiking. If it rains at the beach, what can you do besides head for the movies?"
Since G and I don't even own our first home, so are clearly not in the leagues of those vying for a second, vacation, home, our main arguments can be reduced to scouring the weather-- if both weekend days are sunny, like this last one, we can go to the beach one day and Walden the other. That works much better than resorting to civil disobedience recommended by Thoreau.
--
http://zandrea.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Wichita: The Next Hollywood?
Every now and again my hometown of Wichita, Kansas is featured in a movie. Perhaps with my upcoming high school reunion I was feeling a sense of nostalgia. So I rented a recent Wichita movie-- The Ice Harvest. Before I delve into a review, I'd like to note there are many conceptions (pre and mis) about Wichita. To clear some of these up: is Wichita a cow town? No. I suppose it used to be, but now it is a metropolis of half a million. There is industry and commerce. There are neighborhood swimming pools. There is a Starbucks. And yes, there are farms, but they are outside the city proper. Next...Is Wichita a red state? Yes! Conservative Christians run rampant. But there are at least some liberals...although many of us have moved out. Does Kansas have tornados? Yes...but houses with girls named Dorothy rarely land on witches.
The Wizard of Oz fixed Kansas (if not Wichita) in the minds of cineophiles decades ago, but alas, the current crop of movie offerings are nearly forgettable. Ten years ago Tim Burton directed Mars Attacks! It was filmed in Wichita and featured a big cast of A list actors including Jack Nicholson, Glenn Close, Annette Bening, Danny DeVito...I remember the call for extras and the excitement of the filming. In the end, the movie, clearly about martians, caused Wichitans to further defend themselves. It was a strange flop, now remembered only by cult fanatics.
Several years later, The Big Kahuna featuring Kevin Spacey and (again!) Danny DeVito was released. Although it got fair reviews, in the end was a character study of several salesmen and took place entirely in a hotel suite. I wasn't impressed.
Two duds, but the passing of the years must have made me forget that, so The Ice Harvest was sent to me by Netflix. A film noir starring John Cusick and Billy Bob Thornton, The Ice Harvest promised a dark comedy reminiscent of Bad Santa. It did take place at Christmas, and it was dark...but there were few funny moments. The premise: two guys embezzle 2 million from a local gangster. They need to get out of town alive with the money. It's a basic story line, but I never really understood the motivation, or why the two guys went in on it together. There is a twist at the end, and I did keep watching, but there was little to indicate this movie needed to take place in Wichita, save for a running riddle, "As Wichita Falls, so does Wichita Fall." In the extras commentary, the filmmakers joke, "who knows what Wichita looks like? No one. So we shot in suburban Chicago." They argued that for this movie, the set need be only any suburban landscape from which the leads needed to flee...still, if they had consulted anyone from Wichita, they would have been informed that no one goes to Citgo as a convenience store. You'd go to Quicktrip.
I guess Wichita doesn't lend itself to glamour the way L.A., New York, London or Paris do. Perhaps that's why the house in the Wizard of Oz was trying to get away.
The Wizard of Oz fixed Kansas (if not Wichita) in the minds of cineophiles decades ago, but alas, the current crop of movie offerings are nearly forgettable. Ten years ago Tim Burton directed Mars Attacks! It was filmed in Wichita and featured a big cast of A list actors including Jack Nicholson, Glenn Close, Annette Bening, Danny DeVito...I remember the call for extras and the excitement of the filming. In the end, the movie, clearly about martians, caused Wichitans to further defend themselves. It was a strange flop, now remembered only by cult fanatics.
Several years later, The Big Kahuna featuring Kevin Spacey and (again!) Danny DeVito was released. Although it got fair reviews, in the end was a character study of several salesmen and took place entirely in a hotel suite. I wasn't impressed.
Two duds, but the passing of the years must have made me forget that, so The Ice Harvest was sent to me by Netflix. A film noir starring John Cusick and Billy Bob Thornton, The Ice Harvest promised a dark comedy reminiscent of Bad Santa. It did take place at Christmas, and it was dark...but there were few funny moments. The premise: two guys embezzle 2 million from a local gangster. They need to get out of town alive with the money. It's a basic story line, but I never really understood the motivation, or why the two guys went in on it together. There is a twist at the end, and I did keep watching, but there was little to indicate this movie needed to take place in Wichita, save for a running riddle, "As Wichita Falls, so does Wichita Fall." In the extras commentary, the filmmakers joke, "who knows what Wichita looks like? No one. So we shot in suburban Chicago." They argued that for this movie, the set need be only any suburban landscape from which the leads needed to flee...still, if they had consulted anyone from Wichita, they would have been informed that no one goes to Citgo as a convenience store. You'd go to Quicktrip.
I guess Wichita doesn't lend itself to glamour the way L.A., New York, London or Paris do. Perhaps that's why the house in the Wizard of Oz was trying to get away.
Monday, June 12, 2006
World Cup
I guess you don't really know someone until you've been with them four years, or at whichever point in the four year cycle the World Cup hits. For myself and G, it's been nearly two and a half years and until a week ago I had no idea the lengths he'd go to watch these soccer matches. I think Americans equate soccer to the activity their kids play after school and on weekends (think Soccer Mom) and at some point the kids outgrow soccer, so that we can all be free to obsess about the Red Sox, er, I mean baseball, in general.
Boston is a cosmopolitan city, so even those of us who barely know the difference between a soccer ball and a whiffle ball are forced to notice the proliferation of World Cup media as of late. A few years back I lived in a building with a large Brazilian ex-pat population...I first understood the true fanaticism of the games when Brazil finally won-- at 3 am.
At any rate, G showed his European background by making plans with his Irish friend to meet at the bar on Saturday morning at 9 am. He tried to get me to go, but I'd already determined I wasn't getting out of bed for anything short of a national emergency on Saturday morning. And in fact, when 8:45 did roll around (after a night of dinner out, followed by drinks for Evil Twin #1's pre-departure to Japan), and it was rainy, I was surprised at G's determination to make it to the bar.
So what did I do, as a good American, while G was off drinking Guiness and eating blood sausage? What any good American would do. I ate apple pie in bed.
Boston is a cosmopolitan city, so even those of us who barely know the difference between a soccer ball and a whiffle ball are forced to notice the proliferation of World Cup media as of late. A few years back I lived in a building with a large Brazilian ex-pat population...I first understood the true fanaticism of the games when Brazil finally won-- at 3 am.
At any rate, G showed his European background by making plans with his Irish friend to meet at the bar on Saturday morning at 9 am. He tried to get me to go, but I'd already determined I wasn't getting out of bed for anything short of a national emergency on Saturday morning. And in fact, when 8:45 did roll around (after a night of dinner out, followed by drinks for Evil Twin #1's pre-departure to Japan), and it was rainy, I was surprised at G's determination to make it to the bar.
So what did I do, as a good American, while G was off drinking Guiness and eating blood sausage? What any good American would do. I ate apple pie in bed.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Summer of...
Even though I've been out of school for years, Memorial Day weekend still means the start of summer and all that entails-- sleeping in, a morning class of something, watching soap operas, heading to the neighborhood pool for a long afternoon, followed by dinner and iced tea out on the porch and running around outside until the late sunset. Unfortunately this is a memory and does not reflect a working professional's summer (fortunately my memory falls just short of remembering the grueling task of mowing the lawn in 100+ degree weather and other "God, Mom, please, no!" tasks presented daily in the chore notebook). A summer in Boston usually means staring out my work window, into the sunshine, waiting for the weekend when all manner of New England activities can be enjoyed (the beach! a clambake!)...and then sighing with frustration when the weekend yields two days and two nights straight of rain and only 55 degree weather.
Because summer is now only what we make of it, it helps to set specific goals. Last summer was the Summer of Evil Twin #1 and I hosted a series of teen movies (which I probably looked forward to more than I should admit). My sister has deemed this summer to be the Summer of Svelte. I'm awaiting my official package, but I believe it involves excercise competitions with one other person (perhaps someone you live with). At the end of each two weeks, whoever has best accomplished his/her goals takes the other person out for drinks. Unlike some people (you know who you are), I am not goal oriented, so really the motivation's (beer, really?!) got to be good. It's no use reflecting on the past, when ballet camp every morning and swimming every afternoon kept me in shape.
With less than 12 weeks left of "summer", it's time to start svelting...and drinking.
Because summer is now only what we make of it, it helps to set specific goals. Last summer was the Summer of Evil Twin #1 and I hosted a series of teen movies (which I probably looked forward to more than I should admit). My sister has deemed this summer to be the Summer of Svelte. I'm awaiting my official package, but I believe it involves excercise competitions with one other person (perhaps someone you live with). At the end of each two weeks, whoever has best accomplished his/her goals takes the other person out for drinks. Unlike some people (you know who you are), I am not goal oriented, so really the motivation's (beer, really?!) got to be good. It's no use reflecting on the past, when ballet camp every morning and swimming every afternoon kept me in shape.
With less than 12 weeks left of "summer", it's time to start svelting...and drinking.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Tales from the Fruitcart: Trouble Ensues When the Fruitcart is Forgotten
Liz reports on her day pushing the fruitcart, dispenses some career advice, and reminds us all of the importance of dressing appropriately for the occassion.
Twice a year every employee in my office (except the really important ones and the lowly ones who stuff envelopes in the printing room) dispenses free fruit to all the other employees. If done correctly this is an opportunity to "manage up" without looking like a brown nose and a chance to show how benevolent you can be to those who are below you (in my case, only the envelope stuffers are below me).
Despite knowing for weeks that today was my turn, I forgot to wear my cherry sundress or fruit shaped earrings, and instead am dressed in a ratty tee shirt and dirty jeans. Needless to say, this did not bode well for "managing up," although I fit right in with envelope stuffers.
Nonetheless, I tried my best and was all ready to be witty and cheerful and show off my "natural leadership skills" when I rounded the corner where our new CEO sits. But instead of pushing the cart with confidence and grace, I crashed it into her computer. This would have been bad enough, but it got worse when another employee, who sits across from the CEO, called me a "bad penny." The CEO said I could throw one of the tomatoes at her (which is an example of her effectively being benevolent to someone below her). I restrained the impulse to comply and, instead pretended to shoot the 'bad penny' person with a banana. I think this could have been "witty" except that I sort of stumbled backwards over some cords at the same time. So then I didn't know if they were laughing because I was successfully engaging in office banter, or because I tripped.
After failing at "managing up" I went to the fourth floor where the envelope stuffers reside and tried my hand at being benevolent. I was going along fine – telling them to take extra bananas or to try the grapes. I even picked up a paper plate that one of them dropped and handed them a new one. Then, as I was smugly leaving, thinking that I was a very nice fruit cart pusher, this guy with a limp had to chase me down because I missed him. To make matters worse, I think he'd been shouting at me to wait but I hadn't heard him (it is hard to hear down there with all the printing presses whirring), and another person had to flag me down for him before I realized what was going on.
I apologized, but this clearly did not compensate for the bad karma I had created for myself, because just as I was going into the kitchen to put the remaining fruit away and end my misery, I got stuck. This was no normal, fruit cart jammed in a tight spot stuck. Oh no. My belt loop got hooked on door handle so that I couldn't move away from the door. It took me a couple pulls before I realized what was going on, and then once I had, I had trouble wiggling free. Even though no one saw me (I hope) it was all very embarrassing.
So much for using fruit cart duty as a way to get on the "fast track" program and be promoted.
Twice a year every employee in my office (except the really important ones and the lowly ones who stuff envelopes in the printing room) dispenses free fruit to all the other employees. If done correctly this is an opportunity to "manage up" without looking like a brown nose and a chance to show how benevolent you can be to those who are below you (in my case, only the envelope stuffers are below me).
Despite knowing for weeks that today was my turn, I forgot to wear my cherry sundress or fruit shaped earrings, and instead am dressed in a ratty tee shirt and dirty jeans. Needless to say, this did not bode well for "managing up," although I fit right in with envelope stuffers.
Nonetheless, I tried my best and was all ready to be witty and cheerful and show off my "natural leadership skills" when I rounded the corner where our new CEO sits. But instead of pushing the cart with confidence and grace, I crashed it into her computer. This would have been bad enough, but it got worse when another employee, who sits across from the CEO, called me a "bad penny." The CEO said I could throw one of the tomatoes at her (which is an example of her effectively being benevolent to someone below her). I restrained the impulse to comply and, instead pretended to shoot the 'bad penny' person with a banana. I think this could have been "witty" except that I sort of stumbled backwards over some cords at the same time. So then I didn't know if they were laughing because I was successfully engaging in office banter, or because I tripped.
After failing at "managing up" I went to the fourth floor where the envelope stuffers reside and tried my hand at being benevolent. I was going along fine – telling them to take extra bananas or to try the grapes. I even picked up a paper plate that one of them dropped and handed them a new one. Then, as I was smugly leaving, thinking that I was a very nice fruit cart pusher, this guy with a limp had to chase me down because I missed him. To make matters worse, I think he'd been shouting at me to wait but I hadn't heard him (it is hard to hear down there with all the printing presses whirring), and another person had to flag me down for him before I realized what was going on.
I apologized, but this clearly did not compensate for the bad karma I had created for myself, because just as I was going into the kitchen to put the remaining fruit away and end my misery, I got stuck. This was no normal, fruit cart jammed in a tight spot stuck. Oh no. My belt loop got hooked on door handle so that I couldn't move away from the door. It took me a couple pulls before I realized what was going on, and then once I had, I had trouble wiggling free. Even though no one saw me (I hope) it was all very embarrassing.
So much for using fruit cart duty as a way to get on the "fast track" program and be promoted.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Weekend in D.C.
At some point we run out of excuses, that is to say, excuses that hold water, as to why we aren't updating our blog. It really boils down to an unlikely combination of business and laziness.
I was in D.C. this weekend visiting Liz and my mom. I witnessed first hand Liz trying salad. Some people take her forrays into salad eating too seriously. It's salad, people, not a psychological problem. That being said, she pulled the oldest manuever in the book on me-- the old bait and switch.
At brunch, on Sunday, where we've both ordered the mesclun greens:
L: Andrea, will you switch with me? Yours is smaller.
Me: Um, sure.
As we switch, Liz throws some salad on the ground, making her portion smaller yet. She caused a ruckus by asking the next table over for pepper for her salad. By the time this had all taken place, our entrees had arrived, so she could push her salad away without guilt. She later pointed to the salad on the ground and said, "Andrea, why are you dropping your salad on the ground? Maybe it's you who doesn't eat salad!" And of course the only person who mattered that day, Mother's Day, believed her and the whole charade. Sigh.
We went to the National Zoo to see the baby panda. I thought some people might have some questions about what to wear to the zoo (a la the turtleneck post) in order to impress the animals. If you have such a question, post below in the comments and I'll get back to everyone with some smart replies.
I was in D.C. this weekend visiting Liz and my mom. I witnessed first hand Liz trying salad. Some people take her forrays into salad eating too seriously. It's salad, people, not a psychological problem. That being said, she pulled the oldest manuever in the book on me-- the old bait and switch.
At brunch, on Sunday, where we've both ordered the mesclun greens:
L: Andrea, will you switch with me? Yours is smaller.
Me: Um, sure.
As we switch, Liz throws some salad on the ground, making her portion smaller yet. She caused a ruckus by asking the next table over for pepper for her salad. By the time this had all taken place, our entrees had arrived, so she could push her salad away without guilt. She later pointed to the salad on the ground and said, "Andrea, why are you dropping your salad on the ground? Maybe it's you who doesn't eat salad!" And of course the only person who mattered that day, Mother's Day, believed her and the whole charade. Sigh.
We went to the National Zoo to see the baby panda. I thought some people might have some questions about what to wear to the zoo (a la the turtleneck post) in order to impress the animals. If you have such a question, post below in the comments and I'll get back to everyone with some smart replies.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Amazing Race
I've often noticed that if I have to go without something, or give something up, I usually fare well and don't miss it-- it's never as traumatic as it seems it will be. I recently took a pay cut of 10%, but some twists and changes to my budget (and, um, the Lenten no-shopping fast) has actually put me in better financial state than I was previously. The same with tv. At some point in college (around the time my family moved and decided not to get cable) I gave up tv, and found that there were plenty of other things to do with my life, plus I didn't have to worry about conflicting a tv show with some other plan, and I didn't need to learn how to record a show. All was good until I started watching Lost with my roommates last year. It was captivating and it's return this year meant that I had standing plans with the tv on Wednesday nights. Once the evening was already blocked off, I realized the tv could be on before Lost, and no great harm would be done. And so it happened that G and I started watching The Amazing Race. I found I could somehow identify with the average couples participating in the show-- the young, nerdy couple, the mom and daughter team, the best friends who always wore pink...G and I would find ourselves asking, "What if we were on the Amazing Race?" We decided to test our mettle by taking a one-day trip to NYC last Saturday.
Challenge 1: Waking up at 5:30 to get on the 7:30 am bus to New York
Outcome: Success, and, due to remembering snacks, staved off grumpiness for a few hours
Challenge 2: At 10:30 am arrival, onset of grumpiness by A leads to quickly identifying coffee and breakfast
Outcome: Semi-success as Little Italy cafe served us a once frozen croissant, and charged us for the tip, but caffeine intake nipped grumpiness in the bud
Challenge 3: G's feet start to hurt around 1:30, in Union Square
Outcome: Success-- G brought now fewer than 3 changes of socks
Challenge 4: Identify and shop at store Mexx
Outcome: Failure! Address and cross streets A had written down didn't exist
Challenge 5: Identify restaurant for dinner with limited map
Outcome: Success, but barely. A hates asking for directions but finally capitulated to G's urging to call the restaurant. Restaurant was delightful, and drinks and apps refreshed our spirit.
We dozed off and on until we arrived back in Boston around midnight. A wonderful and full day was had by us both, as well as realizing that we could survive the Amazing Race after all.
Challenge 1: Waking up at 5:30 to get on the 7:30 am bus to New York
Outcome: Success, and, due to remembering snacks, staved off grumpiness for a few hours
Challenge 2: At 10:30 am arrival, onset of grumpiness by A leads to quickly identifying coffee and breakfast
Outcome: Semi-success as Little Italy cafe served us a once frozen croissant, and charged us for the tip, but caffeine intake nipped grumpiness in the bud
Challenge 3: G's feet start to hurt around 1:30, in Union Square
Outcome: Success-- G brought now fewer than 3 changes of socks
Challenge 4: Identify and shop at store Mexx
Outcome: Failure! Address and cross streets A had written down didn't exist
Challenge 5: Identify restaurant for dinner with limited map
Outcome: Success, but barely. A hates asking for directions but finally capitulated to G's urging to call the restaurant. Restaurant was delightful, and drinks and apps refreshed our spirit.
We dozed off and on until we arrived back in Boston around midnight. A wonderful and full day was had by us both, as well as realizing that we could survive the Amazing Race after all.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Club Rules
As I much as I love clubs (book club, cd club, etc.), I really despise grocery or pharmacy "clubs", where to get the sale price of an item, you have to dig and find the associated card. These are not clubs that require any outstanding qualification, they are merely vehicles used by the Man to track purchases. I usually either forego the sale price or ask the cashier to use his/her card.
Airline Frequent Flier clubs present a similar quandry for me, but the stakes are much higher. The allure of one day having a ticket to Hawaii just by flying to and from Boston and Seattle, or Boston and D.C. (many, many times) is quite a carrot. But the reality it this: airlines go bankrupt (four years of flying TWA in college with nearly enough miles to somewhere exotic...and bam, they're gone), the rules are arcane (travel must be completed only in months ending in "r"), and the prize itself elusive (as soon as you think you're ready, the miles have expired!). For the past 10 years I've been accruing miles (which means remembering my various frequent flier numbers, plus pins or passwords) on several different airlines, so that if they were all pooled together I could use them, but separately they are useless. Except for USAirways...the shuttle that transports me and my sister between Boston and D.C. several times a year. An astounding 35,000 miles had been earned and I decided to see if they could in fact be redeemed. As I clicked through the steps on the website to redeem miles for a ticket to D.C. on Mother's Day weekend, I surprisingly hit no snags. "This system might work", I thought. Soon enough, victory (really, a major coup!) was mine. I had an e-ticket sitting right in my email. The impossible has been made possible! I thought then that I'd use my coop card that very day to save $0.63 on groceries.
Airline Frequent Flier clubs present a similar quandry for me, but the stakes are much higher. The allure of one day having a ticket to Hawaii just by flying to and from Boston and Seattle, or Boston and D.C. (many, many times) is quite a carrot. But the reality it this: airlines go bankrupt (four years of flying TWA in college with nearly enough miles to somewhere exotic...and bam, they're gone), the rules are arcane (travel must be completed only in months ending in "r"), and the prize itself elusive (as soon as you think you're ready, the miles have expired!). For the past 10 years I've been accruing miles (which means remembering my various frequent flier numbers, plus pins or passwords) on several different airlines, so that if they were all pooled together I could use them, but separately they are useless. Except for USAirways...the shuttle that transports me and my sister between Boston and D.C. several times a year. An astounding 35,000 miles had been earned and I decided to see if they could in fact be redeemed. As I clicked through the steps on the website to redeem miles for a ticket to D.C. on Mother's Day weekend, I surprisingly hit no snags. "This system might work", I thought. Soon enough, victory (really, a major coup!) was mine. I had an e-ticket sitting right in my email. The impossible has been made possible! I thought then that I'd use my coop card that very day to save $0.63 on groceries.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Salad Days
Things have not been going so well on the salad front for Liz. Her update below...
Encouraged by the fact that I successfully ate two side salads (baby greens with blue cheese, pears, currents and vinaigrette) in the last two weeks along with a lunch salad (which, mistakenly included a hard boiled egg -- something I never have to do again), I decided to try a "savory dinner salad" Saturday night. This bold step forward in my summer of salads was a complete disaster and I am sure it set me back weeks in my learning-to-eat-salad endeavor.
It was absolutely AWFUL. Even though it was full of things I like (Cheddar cheese, carrots, chow mien noodles and fresh shrimp in addition to the questionable orange bell pepper and baby spinach spring mix) I could barely choke down two bites (I made a face and had to stick out my tongue -- much to Matt's amusement, but not mine). I had to retreat to the kitchen to fetch Ben and Jerry's Neapolitan Dynamite with which to cleanse my palate. Matt and I decided that it was the pepper and the Caesar salad dressing that I used -- which was too salty. It made the whole thing taste like sea weed. I even bought expensive Caesar salad dressing thinking it would be better than the regular wishbone or Safeway salad dressing. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I'm never eating Caesar salad again -- no matter what the Washington Post says about it ( http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/03/28/AR2006032800311.html). And, as a matter of fact, I am not trying anything new for the next week -- and maybe the next two weeks when it comes to salad type things -- including the allegedly 'crispy, crunchy' radishes in the fridge. YUCK.
Encouraged by the fact that I successfully ate two side salads (baby greens with blue cheese, pears, currents and vinaigrette) in the last two weeks along with a lunch salad (which, mistakenly included a hard boiled egg -- something I never have to do again), I decided to try a "savory dinner salad" Saturday night. This bold step forward in my summer of salads was a complete disaster and I am sure it set me back weeks in my learning-to-eat-salad endeavor.
It was absolutely AWFUL. Even though it was full of things I like (Cheddar cheese, carrots, chow mien noodles and fresh shrimp in addition to the questionable orange bell pepper and baby spinach spring mix) I could barely choke down two bites (I made a face and had to stick out my tongue -- much to Matt's amusement, but not mine). I had to retreat to the kitchen to fetch Ben and Jerry's Neapolitan Dynamite with which to cleanse my palate. Matt and I decided that it was the pepper and the Caesar salad dressing that I used -- which was too salty. It made the whole thing taste like sea weed. I even bought expensive Caesar salad dressing thinking it would be better than the regular wishbone or Safeway salad dressing. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I'm never eating Caesar salad again -- no matter what the Washington Post says about it ( http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/03/28/AR2006032800311.html). And, as a matter of fact, I am not trying anything new for the next week -- and maybe the next two weeks when it comes to salad type things -- including the allegedly 'crispy, crunchy' radishes in the fridge. YUCK.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Barney: And Interview with Nora
With the success (erm, sort of) of Nora's avocado plant, she moved on to a higher life form; a beagle! Nora volunteers at a weekly dog training class at the animal shelter and after working with this 6 month old beagle one evening, decided to adopt him. I asked her a few questions:
1. What made you decide to volunteer at the animal shelter?
I needed a new volunteer project and animals make everyone feel warm and fuzzy, I thought it would be good for the animals and for me.
2. Did your previous experience growing an avocado plant have any bearing on your decision to adopt a dog?
I don't have a lot of luck with plants, but I did get that little seed to grow, so it gave me hope that I could care for a living thing.
3. How is your avocado plant?
That said, the avacado tree is not doing very well. But I blame the weather, as it is a tropical plant. I do not blame me and lack of care/water...
4. What made you decide on the name Barney?
Barney the name was picked by Barry because his favorite book as a child was "Barney Beagle Plays Baseball". The other night I heard the two of them in the living room... the Red Sox were playing and Barry was telling Barney "Did you see that hit?" and "Wow, that was a good play, Barney!" I'm not sure if Barney gets the rules yet.
5. Do you ever listen to Three Dog Night?
I don't listen to 3 Dog Night often at all.
1. What made you decide to volunteer at the animal shelter?
I needed a new volunteer project and animals make everyone feel warm and fuzzy, I thought it would be good for the animals and for me.
2. Did your previous experience growing an avocado plant have any bearing on your decision to adopt a dog?
I don't have a lot of luck with plants, but I did get that little seed to grow, so it gave me hope that I could care for a living thing.
3. How is your avocado plant?
That said, the avacado tree is not doing very well. But I blame the weather, as it is a tropical plant. I do not blame me and lack of care/water...
4. What made you decide on the name Barney?
Barney the name was picked by Barry because his favorite book as a child was "Barney Beagle Plays Baseball". The other night I heard the two of them in the living room... the Red Sox were playing and Barry was telling Barney "Did you see that hit?" and "Wow, that was a good play, Barney!" I'm not sure if Barney gets the rules yet.
5. Do you ever listen to Three Dog Night?
I don't listen to 3 Dog Night often at all.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Tales from the Fruitcart: On Being An Adult
The editors have been busy with work and life. I saw Zara yesterday and she was sparkly and with perfectly coifed hair as always. We are both collecting tales to report, but in the meantime, here's an update from Liz, my sister, a reporter and employee of a company which itself employs a fruit cart to keep worker morale high. Looks like it's working!
So, as you may know, I have decided that this is the summer of salads and baseball. Two things I always think look good -- but then aren't when actually eat them or attend them. As you know, for years I have said there is no reason to learn to like either one of these things -- even though people informed me that when I am an adult I'll need to know how to eat a salad and go to a baseball game. Well. Here I am. "An adult." And, low and behold, I do need to know about salads and baseball because it is increasingly embarrassing to go out to a work lunch or function and be the only person who a) doesn't order salad and b) can't follow the conversation about the Nationals or the Red Sox or the Yankees. As a result, I fear I may be left behind professionally. (It is that whole social skills thing.)
I realized when I made this resolution a few weeks ago that learning to like salads and baseball may be easier said then done. As if by magic, while sat at my desk thinking about this instead of my actual work, the fruit cart came by with what else other than fruit? Cracker Jacks of course! It was opening day and the office was getting into the spirit of it with a fun afternoon treat. As I was mulling over my Cracker Jack prize (a weird portrait of Susan B Anthony as either a young adult or an old lady depending on how you folded the corners) I was inspired. People not only eat Cracker Jacks at baseball games, but they also drink beer! Why can't I just go to the game and drink and pretend to know what number 11 (who is only 21!) is doing. Well, I put this plan into action last week at an exhibition game at JFK and, other than the yucky hang over the next day, it worked out splendidly! Now that I know a baseball stadium is really just an overpriced sports bar with a cover charge this baseball thing will be a snap.
Salads, on the other hand might not be. I started small (putting four spinach leaves on my sandwiches) but now it is time to move on to 'real' salads. And, thanks to the fruit cart again, I successfully made my first dinner salad last night. The fruit cart inspired me yesterday afternoon because it had some of the first pears of the season on it. As soon as I saw them I knew I had to take one home to put in my salad, along with currents, blue cheese and pine nuts, to disguise the taste of my "spring green mix." It worked out very well, if I do say so myself! Even Matt congratulated me -- I ate all but one purple leaf without grimacing!
I let you know what adventures transpire when I push the fruit cart around the office in a few weeks. Maybe I'll get the ice cream fruit cart since it will be warm then! Fingers crossed. Everyone likes the people who bring non-fruit fruit carts.
So, as you may know, I have decided that this is the summer of salads and baseball. Two things I always think look good -- but then aren't when actually eat them or attend them. As you know, for years I have said there is no reason to learn to like either one of these things -- even though people informed me that when I am an adult I'll need to know how to eat a salad and go to a baseball game. Well. Here I am. "An adult." And, low and behold, I do need to know about salads and baseball because it is increasingly embarrassing to go out to a work lunch or function and be the only person who a) doesn't order salad and b) can't follow the conversation about the Nationals or the Red Sox or the Yankees. As a result, I fear I may be left behind professionally. (It is that whole social skills thing.)
I realized when I made this resolution a few weeks ago that learning to like salads and baseball may be easier said then done. As if by magic, while sat at my desk thinking about this instead of my actual work, the fruit cart came by with what else other than fruit? Cracker Jacks of course! It was opening day and the office was getting into the spirit of it with a fun afternoon treat. As I was mulling over my Cracker Jack prize (a weird portrait of Susan B Anthony as either a young adult or an old lady depending on how you folded the corners) I was inspired. People not only eat Cracker Jacks at baseball games, but they also drink beer! Why can't I just go to the game and drink and pretend to know what number 11 (who is only 21!) is doing. Well, I put this plan into action last week at an exhibition game at JFK and, other than the yucky hang over the next day, it worked out splendidly! Now that I know a baseball stadium is really just an overpriced sports bar with a cover charge this baseball thing will be a snap.
Salads, on the other hand might not be. I started small (putting four spinach leaves on my sandwiches) but now it is time to move on to 'real' salads. And, thanks to the fruit cart again, I successfully made my first dinner salad last night. The fruit cart inspired me yesterday afternoon because it had some of the first pears of the season on it. As soon as I saw them I knew I had to take one home to put in my salad, along with currents, blue cheese and pine nuts, to disguise the taste of my "spring green mix." It worked out very well, if I do say so myself! Even Matt congratulated me -- I ate all but one purple leaf without grimacing!
I let you know what adventures transpire when I push the fruit cart around the office in a few weeks. Maybe I'll get the ice cream fruit cart since it will be warm then! Fingers crossed. Everyone likes the people who bring non-fruit fruit carts.
Friday, March 24, 2006
"It's Zydeco, Matt!"
G and I trekked down to New Orleans this past weekend for a wedding. Having not been on spring break in six years, I mistakenly made the faux pas of wearing a black cardigan out the first night. My Miami spring break in college came flooding back to me as I had to reevaluate my going out clothes from Boston Conservative to New Orleans Fun. We arrived the night of St. Patrick's Day to a boisterous crowd of spring breakers and locals on Bourbon Street...and my mom who greeted us coming out of the wedding she was crashing at the hotel. With wine in her hand and beads on her neck, we foresaw a fun weekend, and headed out right away to join the fun.
The city of New Orleans still has a fighting spirit, if not hampered somewhat by post-Katrina beauracracy. There's rebuilding and jobs to be had, but a lack of housing for potential workers (and a half million residents who have not returned) have created an air of interrupted activity. For example, the toilet in our hotel room was broken and the first room we were given did not even have beds made (due to lack of staff), but we eventually settled in. Saturday morning we ambled over to the French Market for beignets and cafe au laits at Cafe Du Monde. Three powdered sugar covered beignets might not look like a lot, but by the time I finished the second one, I was barely able to carry on.
We trolled the streets that afternoon...the weather was balmy and music was everywhere. Even desolate and deserted areas were enlivened by music. We toured a mausoleum-filled cemetery and parks and galleries. Saturday evening was a pre-wedding party at the Rock N Bowl where we mingled with the bride's and groom's families, and again, my mom (upon meeting and introducing myself to someone, the response would invariably be, "Oh, you're Nancy's daughter!") and Marvin. We bowled, G for the first time, and snacked and drank beer, all while listening to wonderful local music. Later that night we went out in the French Quarter again, and ordered famed sazeracs.
Early Sunday was prioritized for eating and making sure we had real gumbo and/or jumbalaya. So we again started off with beignets, then made our way over to the Acme Oyster House with Lesley. Having recently got over a bad stomach virus, I opted out of the oysters, but did order the fried shrimp po-boy. We also had giant styromfoam cups of frozen margaritas and daiquiries-- more than we'd ever be able to fully consume. After lunch and a little more walking, we rested before the big event.
The wedding was beautiful and fun, with Caron and Tom reading their own vows. The judge who married them was brief but thorough and after the ceremony, the staff quickly set up dinner tables and the buffet. The band (again, wonderful New Orleans music) was already ready to go. We enjoyed the oysters rockefeller, blackened chicken, fried catfish and more gumbo! The band played and everyone (but Marvin) danced and had a great time. It's important to note that the mark of a good wedding must be realizing that you have to take your dress/suit to the dry cleaner AGAIN, even though you only wore it for 5 hours.
Our flight left early the next morning, so we said goodbye to the music, balmy weather and good food that night.
The city of New Orleans still has a fighting spirit, if not hampered somewhat by post-Katrina beauracracy. There's rebuilding and jobs to be had, but a lack of housing for potential workers (and a half million residents who have not returned) have created an air of interrupted activity. For example, the toilet in our hotel room was broken and the first room we were given did not even have beds made (due to lack of staff), but we eventually settled in. Saturday morning we ambled over to the French Market for beignets and cafe au laits at Cafe Du Monde. Three powdered sugar covered beignets might not look like a lot, but by the time I finished the second one, I was barely able to carry on.
We trolled the streets that afternoon...the weather was balmy and music was everywhere. Even desolate and deserted areas were enlivened by music. We toured a mausoleum-filled cemetery and parks and galleries. Saturday evening was a pre-wedding party at the Rock N Bowl where we mingled with the bride's and groom's families, and again, my mom (upon meeting and introducing myself to someone, the response would invariably be, "Oh, you're Nancy's daughter!") and Marvin. We bowled, G for the first time, and snacked and drank beer, all while listening to wonderful local music. Later that night we went out in the French Quarter again, and ordered famed sazeracs.
Early Sunday was prioritized for eating and making sure we had real gumbo and/or jumbalaya. So we again started off with beignets, then made our way over to the Acme Oyster House with Lesley. Having recently got over a bad stomach virus, I opted out of the oysters, but did order the fried shrimp po-boy. We also had giant styromfoam cups of frozen margaritas and daiquiries-- more than we'd ever be able to fully consume. After lunch and a little more walking, we rested before the big event.
The wedding was beautiful and fun, with Caron and Tom reading their own vows. The judge who married them was brief but thorough and after the ceremony, the staff quickly set up dinner tables and the buffet. The band (again, wonderful New Orleans music) was already ready to go. We enjoyed the oysters rockefeller, blackened chicken, fried catfish and more gumbo! The band played and everyone (but Marvin) danced and had a great time. It's important to note that the mark of a good wedding must be realizing that you have to take your dress/suit to the dry cleaner AGAIN, even though you only wore it for 5 hours.
Our flight left early the next morning, so we said goodbye to the music, balmy weather and good food that night.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Shopping, Food and Clubs
Aside from the normal attention to family, friends and World Peace, there are three things I hold dear: shopping, food and clubs. Shopping is on hiatus until after Easter-- I gave up non-essential shopping for Lent so I could better guage spiritual needs to worldly needs. So far it's been a week and I'm doing well, not feeling undernourished or overly deprived. It helps, too, that I recently got a pay cut at work.
The New York Times highlighted my other passions, sometimes in tandem!, very clearly yesterday, however. I was pleased to see not one, not two, but three articles on Trader Joe's! Soon a store will open in New York-- Bostonians had this to hold above New Yorkers heads for awhile, but alas, New Yorkers will soon enjoy this food shopper's paradise for themselves.
From one of the articles:
"Long before Trader Joe's went national, its inexpensive but unusual products — things like wild blueberry juice, Sicilian extra-virgin olive oil and frozen chicken-lemon grass spring rolls — inspired an intense following among American food lovers, rarely seen in the aisles of a supermarket.
The stores are small, the selection is uneven and the corporate culture can be described as dorky. But because its products are often not available anywhere else; because they mysteriously appear, disappear, then reappear on the shelves; or perhaps simply because they often taste very, very good, Trader Joe's has become tremendously popular among Americans who like to be entertained and educated by what they eat, as well as nourished by it."
The article also highlighted the making of the spicy Thai Chili Lime Peanuts-- a new household favorite for us.
The Times also featured an article on The Dames of Beef-- a group of 12 or so women in New York who meet once a month to get cocktails and eat at one of New Yorks older eating establishments (before it's demise, The Russian Tea Room came to mind).
This club has few rules, but one it does have is that one must be female. This pulled at my heartstrings for my love of Book Club, where just this past Friday we gathered to snack, drink Floot (a delightful sparkling wine beverage enjoyed out of a can and with a straw. It comes not from France, or even California, but Indiana. Which explains the can.) and play karaoke on Steph's PlayStation 2. Ahem, and discuss the book. Our club has remained female only for the past several years (we've had a few men, but they haven't stayed long) mostly because we read books of interest to woman and discuss things men probably don't care to discuss, or if they do, the prefer to in the company of other men.
The New York Times highlighted my other passions, sometimes in tandem!, very clearly yesterday, however. I was pleased to see not one, not two, but three articles on Trader Joe's! Soon a store will open in New York-- Bostonians had this to hold above New Yorkers heads for awhile, but alas, New Yorkers will soon enjoy this food shopper's paradise for themselves.
From one of the articles: "Long before Trader Joe's went national, its inexpensive but unusual products — things like wild blueberry juice, Sicilian extra-virgin olive oil and frozen chicken-lemon grass spring rolls — inspired an intense following among American food lovers, rarely seen in the aisles of a supermarket.
The stores are small, the selection is uneven and the corporate culture can be described as dorky. But because its products are often not available anywhere else; because they mysteriously appear, disappear, then reappear on the shelves; or perhaps simply because they often taste very, very good, Trader Joe's has become tremendously popular among Americans who like to be entertained and educated by what they eat, as well as nourished by it."
The article also highlighted the making of the spicy Thai Chili Lime Peanuts-- a new household favorite for us.
The Times also featured an article on The Dames of Beef-- a group of 12 or so women in New York who meet once a month to get cocktails and eat at one of New Yorks older eating establishments (before it's demise, The Russian Tea Room came to mind).
This club has few rules, but one it does have is that one must be female. This pulled at my heartstrings for my love of Book Club, where just this past Friday we gathered to snack, drink Floot (a delightful sparkling wine beverage enjoyed out of a can and with a straw. It comes not from France, or even California, but Indiana. Which explains the can.) and play karaoke on Steph's PlayStation 2. Ahem, and discuss the book. Our club has remained female only for the past several years (we've had a few men, but they haven't stayed long) mostly because we read books of interest to woman and discuss things men probably don't care to discuss, or if they do, the prefer to in the company of other men.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Moral Dilemma II
Zara and I met for a meeting of the minds last night. We ate sushi, caught up on life stories and reminisced about the past and the decions we'd made (such as spending one Valentine's Day together eating dinner at the Coolidge Corner Clubhouse; an odd choice such that not even we can recall why we would choose to eat at a sports bar anytime, but I'm sure blue cheese was involved on a salad or wrap, and that probably tipped the scales in favor of said eatery). We've remained friends throughout the years due to our consistent natures-- I can still regale her with a story of debauchery and she can still recommend very bad tv shows that I should (or maybe shouldn't) tune into. We were barred from the Gap, due to an early closing time (7 pm!) so couldn't fully relive our time spent in Coolidge Corner in years past.
I'd also like to post an update to Moral Dilemma. The other evening (the coldest evening of the year) I stopped in the Coop on my way home for a few dinner items, and toothpaste. As I checked out, I took the time to button my coat, put on my hat and gloves and then grabbed my bags of groceries. When I got home, I realized I had grabbed the bag of groceries of the guy behind me as well. It was all food that I would have picked out (feta cheese, grilled eggplant, candied pineapple...well, maybe not). I knew the right thing to do was to go out in the cold and return it, but I also figured he was long gone and the store had probably already remedied the situation. Still, it was a Monday night and there was a long week ahead for bad karma to catch up, so I asked G to drive me back and return the groceries. I went inside and the cashier said knowlingly, "oh, yeah, right." But having done that, the week has gotten progressively better...
I'd also like to post an update to Moral Dilemma. The other evening (the coldest evening of the year) I stopped in the Coop on my way home for a few dinner items, and toothpaste. As I checked out, I took the time to button my coat, put on my hat and gloves and then grabbed my bags of groceries. When I got home, I realized I had grabbed the bag of groceries of the guy behind me as well. It was all food that I would have picked out (feta cheese, grilled eggplant, candied pineapple...well, maybe not). I knew the right thing to do was to go out in the cold and return it, but I also figured he was long gone and the store had probably already remedied the situation. Still, it was a Monday night and there was a long week ahead for bad karma to catch up, so I asked G to drive me back and return the groceries. I went inside and the cashier said knowlingly, "oh, yeah, right." But having done that, the week has gotten progressively better...
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Moral Dilemma
After a Girl Scout troop meeting the other night, Rashmi and I encountered a Moral Dilemma. A woman was asking people to complete questionaires on moral decision making, after which they would receive $5. The woman was busy with participants, so we weren't asked, but just in front of us on the way out was another woman who dropped a pack of cigarettes without noticing. Rashmi and I looked at each other and decided not to alert the woman because we think smoking is bad. And we are girl scout leaders! But then I thought that we had become part of the moral decision making questionaire! 
Which is worse (or better)-- not alerting the woman of her dropped cigarettes and therefore perhaps saving her health? Or telling her, since they were hers and we saw her drop them?
Which is worse (or better)-- not alerting the woman of her dropped cigarettes and therefore perhaps saving her health? Or telling her, since they were hers and we saw her drop them?
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Experimental Food
It came to my attention recently that I missed out on an "experimental food phase" when growing up. I was at Rashmi's house eating Thai cookies when one of her roommates started reminiscing about her phase as one might reminisce about such childhood standards such as hour long recess and summers at the community pool. Rashmi jumped in saying that she used to eat bananas by peeling them, and breaking them into thirds and then covering them with chocolate chips or peanut butter or other toppings. One of her roommates described how to peel an orange so it looks like a man (I couldn't understand it). They both talked about peeling the banana the reverse way, so you have a "handle" to hold onto while eating it!
The next day I queried my friend Jane if she had an experimental food phase and she said she used to eat rabbit poo and make meals out of flowers and then in college would make sandwiches of candy bars and bread. I couldn't match that with anything! The only thing I could think of was eating dill pickle slices with lemon pepper seasoning when I was little, with my cousins and sister at my grandma's house. I asked G about his phase and he said (disgusted) that yes, in college he ate spaghetti. You mean like...? Yes, pasta.
Knowing I have a failing memory with things (no recollection of 4th grade at all!), I checked in with my sister. If I did, or didn't, have this phase, chances are that she would remember. She did recall the pickles and also said that we used to eat many kinds of jello salads at holidays and if that wasn't experimental, she didn't know what was. She said our parents were always good about letting us try new foods (I remember eating and loving escargot at my grandmother's house, as well as requesting lobster for my 8th birthday) so we likely had no need to "experiment" wildly. So, Zandrea! readers: what was your experimental food phase?
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
On The Town
Rashmi and I treated Jane to a night on the town this weekend as a sort of Bon Voyage before her two year stint with the Peace Corps in Africa. There are parts of the night that are rated R, or, at least should follow the credo, "What happens in the Copley Marriott stays in the Copley Marriott." But the majority of the evening followed the slumber party guidelines of youth with a dash of the old college "throw caution to the wind." The main focus was on obtaining, and preparing, the Trader Joe's snacks. It was also necessary to have four bottles of cheap champagne, overnight bags filled with several changes of clothes, makeup and swimsuits-- as we told Jane, bring whatever you will need for the next 20 hours.
The best part of staying in a hotel is a toss up between the swimming pool, the view of the city from 26 floors up and room service at 2:30 am. I lived in a hotel for a semester in college. It actually was indulgent: a queen size bed each for me and my roommate, our own bathroom, sheets and towels changed and washed regularly, free cable. We were afforded several additional luxuries due to the "hardship" of having to live at the hotel and not a dorm. We had free phone service and no security guard which meant friends from other dorms could come and go as they pleased.
As the night progressed we drank, talked, laughed, commiserated and divulged. We hit the bars around 11 and stayed until closing time at 2, when we came back and ordered a "medium" pizza (ie, 2 personal pan pizzas from Pizza Hut) for $21-- with the luxury to say, "put it on our room tab." We awoke the next day in disheveled clothes, dizzy and hungry...in other words, happy to have had a night full of stories to relate and recall in the years to come.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Ski Bunny
G took me skiing on Saturday. It was my Christmas gift and it involved me learning to ski (a new thing!). I grew up in flat Kansas so no skiing there, and then I just never went skiing in New England in the past 10 years. I was excited, but also a little nervous. The best way to combat public performance anxiety is by looking cute, so I paid a visit to Rashmi ahead of time to borrow ski clothes. She gave me two pairs of pants, a pair of ski gloves, a silky undershirt, a fuzzy neck thing she called a balaclava and a ski coat (I got to choose between red and white, and I chose red-- the better to identify me in case of avalanche). I felt well prepared to battle the cold, so when the temperature reached nearly 60, I was actually quite warm. I also wore my hair in two braids. We signed up for our lessons (beginner for me, and return to learn for G). We ended up having the same instructor, a (likely) 17 year old named Paul. The "polar kids" skied and snow boarded all around us and I fell, fell, fell. But just the first few times (poor Paul had to help me up each time). I tried to think of my yoga and core training for balance, but really, bending your knees and leaning forward isn't natural. We learned "small pizza"-- angling skis in to slow down and "big pizza" angling them in even more to stop. An hour practicing on Ollie's Area, we were sent off with our advancement cards and allowed to go to the beginner's slopes. 
G had many questions about the black diamonds and I could tell Paul was nervous and tried his best to dissuade G from such thinking. I myself would have been happy to stay on the little bunny hill, but the 5 year olds were giving me the evil eye. We moved on to the Easy Rider which looked like a much steeper hill. I did fine, though, remembering to turn, bend my knees, lean forward and keep the baskets of my poles back (but, as Paul told me, no need to keep them back under my armpits like a pro Alpine skier. Sigh.). I went down that beginner slope a few more times, successfully then decided to brave the ski lift with G, and go down the Sundowner. He told me that getting off was a little tricky, but he was sure I would be fine. But as we neared the top I didn't know exactly when to slide off, and waited too long, so I kind of had to jump, then went flying. It was a bad sign. Going down the hill was okay until G got ahead of me. I started accelerating, then panicking and I saw a non-snowy area just ahead! In order to stop I decided to fall over, which worked, but then there was no one to help me up. I had to propel all my 130 lbs up AND retrieve my poles by myself. I managed to get down another quarter of the hill to where G was, and then I fell again. My confidence was shot and I recalled my mom's story about skiing once in college: "I didn't like the skiing, but I liked drinking rum in the lodge." I didn't care so much about the rum, but I did want to sit down, take off the skis and drink a Coke. Later that afternoon I did a few more runs on Easy Rider, then called it a day. My shins were aching where they leaned into the boots. I have one more day with a lesson and after that...black diamond? Or back to the bunny hill with the 5 year olds.
G had many questions about the black diamonds and I could tell Paul was nervous and tried his best to dissuade G from such thinking. I myself would have been happy to stay on the little bunny hill, but the 5 year olds were giving me the evil eye. We moved on to the Easy Rider which looked like a much steeper hill. I did fine, though, remembering to turn, bend my knees, lean forward and keep the baskets of my poles back (but, as Paul told me, no need to keep them back under my armpits like a pro Alpine skier. Sigh.). I went down that beginner slope a few more times, successfully then decided to brave the ski lift with G, and go down the Sundowner. He told me that getting off was a little tricky, but he was sure I would be fine. But as we neared the top I didn't know exactly when to slide off, and waited too long, so I kind of had to jump, then went flying. It was a bad sign. Going down the hill was okay until G got ahead of me. I started accelerating, then panicking and I saw a non-snowy area just ahead! In order to stop I decided to fall over, which worked, but then there was no one to help me up. I had to propel all my 130 lbs up AND retrieve my poles by myself. I managed to get down another quarter of the hill to where G was, and then I fell again. My confidence was shot and I recalled my mom's story about skiing once in college: "I didn't like the skiing, but I liked drinking rum in the lodge." I didn't care so much about the rum, but I did want to sit down, take off the skis and drink a Coke. Later that afternoon I did a few more runs on Easy Rider, then called it a day. My shins were aching where they leaned into the boots. I have one more day with a lesson and after that...black diamond? Or back to the bunny hill with the 5 year olds.
Friday, January 20, 2006
January Blahs
I like this blog to be funny, as I know Zara does as well. So when life goes along, and nothing much funny happens, it's hard to find inspiration to write. Boston winters are usually about survival-- just before a predicted blizzard there is a run on Trader Joe's so citizens of this fair city can hunker down with their loved ones, watch a Pats game (they seem to play regardless of weather) and eat snacks until the eerie sound of snow plows and the stopping of falling snow indicates you can brave the outside and get on with your life. But this winter has been unseasonably warm-- we've had at least one 60 degree day and several 50 degree days. This can really only be explained by the fact that G and I got sleds for Christmas, and live conveniently near a hill, but no snow means no sledding.
Instead, we've been watching movies-- King Kong and Cache in the theatres, and The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill and endless episodes of Lost and Seinfeld at home. I also hung up curtains and built a kitchen island (if this were a funny post, there would be a joke about a pirate here). And, of course, kept up my battles with bureauocracies: Andrea 1, DMV O; Andrea 0, Post Office 2. Like I said, nothing funny there. Instead, I'll point out some of the funnier things I've read, recently:
The Meat Book
Usually hits the mark...McSweeneys
The Onion
Keep reading, with the hope that February will be more entertaining.
Instead, we've been watching movies-- King Kong and Cache in the theatres, and The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill and endless episodes of Lost and Seinfeld at home. I also hung up curtains and built a kitchen island (if this were a funny post, there would be a joke about a pirate here). And, of course, kept up my battles with bureauocracies: Andrea 1, DMV O; Andrea 0, Post Office 2. Like I said, nothing funny there. Instead, I'll point out some of the funnier things I've read, recently:
The Meat Book
Usually hits the mark...McSweeneys
The Onion
Keep reading, with the hope that February will be more entertaining.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Of Department Stores, Cooking, a TV and the Mail
Last year ended with a wave of self induced stress, but was followed by a delightful vacation home to Seattle. The vacation is followed by an unsolved mystery, but I won't go into details just yet...My mom loves everything Christmas, so the house was well decorated with trees and other decorations. The highlight of Christmas, of course, is opening presents. It is good to give AND to receive, so the day after Christmas my mom, sister and I got dressed up and headed downtown. As my sister's boyfriend noted, he knows of no other family who can spend an entire day opening gifts and then go out and shop more the next day. He may not know another family, but retail sales will show that there are, in fact, many families who do this. There was a Golden Era of Department Stores in the past-- ladies would dress up or families would go and get lunch at the cafeteria. We like to pretend that a day in the city is still worth more than the cost of one's purchases, so we fixed our hair, dressed in our nice clothes and reported to the Nordstrom's makeup counter to have our makeup and colors done. We followed this by lunch with cocktails and appetizers.
The theme of gifts received this year was Kitchen. A crock pot, panini press and kitchen island/butcher block were all received, in addition to many, many cookbooks. G decided that a perfect compliment to staying home and cooking would be a tv. I've been proudly stoic in my lack of this modern amenity the past several months. I've always felt that one can accomplish more (reading, excercising, seeing the city) without a tv, although I will admit to watching a plethora of movies. New Year's Day we headed to Best Buy, hungover, and purchased a tv. And this is where the mystery heads into full swing. Some background:
December 23:
Andrea to G: "Why aren't we getting our mail on time? Shouldn't we have received many, many more holiday cards? Why isn't my New Yorker here? And where are those blasted Netflix movies??"
Possible explanations: We aren't as well loved as we thought OR the postal carrier reads and delivers my New Yorker late, after reading it and disheveling it and devilishly keeps our movies from us. G goes with option 2 and calls the post office to complain.
Fast forward to 2006, January 3:
G to Andrea: "I'm sorry, I accidentally ripped the cover to your New Yorker. I'll tape it together and I'm sorry."
Andrea to G: "No problem, accidents happen." (then sees the REAL damage done, and NOT by G). "There are entire pages ripped out?!?! How can I read the short fiction? Or the review of the James Agee box set?" The destruction was unprecedented. I sent off a complaint to the postal service today, but my night was ruined. Did the postal carrier receive our initial complaint and sabotage our mail? OR, is the tv to blame...(because we have a tv, reading is rendered unnecessary, and the Powers That Be are punishing us).
The theme of gifts received this year was Kitchen. A crock pot, panini press and kitchen island/butcher block were all received, in addition to many, many cookbooks. G decided that a perfect compliment to staying home and cooking would be a tv. I've been proudly stoic in my lack of this modern amenity the past several months. I've always felt that one can accomplish more (reading, excercising, seeing the city) without a tv, although I will admit to watching a plethora of movies. New Year's Day we headed to Best Buy, hungover, and purchased a tv. And this is where the mystery heads into full swing. Some background:
December 23:
Andrea to G: "Why aren't we getting our mail on time? Shouldn't we have received many, many more holiday cards? Why isn't my New Yorker here? And where are those blasted Netflix movies??"
Possible explanations: We aren't as well loved as we thought OR the postal carrier reads and delivers my New Yorker late, after reading it and disheveling it and devilishly keeps our movies from us. G goes with option 2 and calls the post office to complain.
Fast forward to 2006, January 3:
G to Andrea: "I'm sorry, I accidentally ripped the cover to your New Yorker. I'll tape it together and I'm sorry."
Andrea to G: "No problem, accidents happen." (then sees the REAL damage done, and NOT by G). "There are entire pages ripped out?!?! How can I read the short fiction? Or the review of the James Agee box set?" The destruction was unprecedented. I sent off a complaint to the postal service today, but my night was ruined. Did the postal carrier receive our initial complaint and sabotage our mail? OR, is the tv to blame...(because we have a tv, reading is rendered unnecessary, and the Powers That Be are punishing us).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
