Posts from the ‘Small Tragedies’ Category

Feb 23

Emergen-C Isn’t Food

I have a very poor sense of portions and what’s normal, which is why I’ll never be wispy. I hate depravation. This morning I finally got around to skimming this week’s New York and became fixated on a few industry types’ eating diaries during Fashion Week (I was on the toilet while reading this, mind you, it was number one not number two. There was just something appropriate about expelling waste while reading such crap).

I was kind of appalled by the Elle editor’s regimen, but then I was like well, maybe that’s typical. I don’t really know, that’s not my world (though even the model ate some onion rings and rice krispie treat), I guess that’s how you stay thin. But only eating two ounces of ceviche (and knowing that you’d consumed two ounces) completely creeped me out.

I eat ceviche when I’m trying to be restrained and it’s lime-marinated fish instead of something fried, breaded or starchy. Like last night I was at Sofrito and skipped empanadas (which I might normally lean towards but I’d already eaten half a Margon cubano for lunch) in lieu of octopus salad. But I know I downed more than two ounces of the chopped cephalopod and I wasn’t bothered in the least. I proceeded to drink four glasses of Pinot Noir and then I cared even less.

So, I was very relieved when this afternoon I noticed Gawker and Gothamist had both called out this woman’s minimalist approach to dining. I can’t believe I’m relying on blogs as a window onto acceptable eating habits. Ok, so this style of eating is weird?

I actually do record (almost) everything I eat and drink because I’m one of those nasty point counters. Today was atypical because I stayed at home (since I start a new job Monday I thought I’d take off Thursday and Friday and be lazy and take care of odds and ends around the apt.) and I eat differently than if I was in an office. But so far I’ve had the other half of my leftover cubano from yesterday (I swear, it wasn’t as huge as a standard style Cuban sandwich so I didn’t feel so bad), ¼ cup white rice topped with chile radish, a handful of wasabi peas, two corn tortillas with a couple avocado and tomato slices and lots of black coffee and water. I guess I would call that a day if I were in the fashion industry but it’s only 6pm.

Around 9pm I’ll make Chairman Mao’s Red-Braised Pork (using ribs instead of belly) the cover star from my new Hunan cookbook and eat that with more white rice and leftover black bean chile Chinese broccoli from Tuesday night, while watching DVR’d Ugly Betty and The Office. And believe it or not, if I keep the pork to about six ounces I’m still within my point limit (I spent an hour on an elliptical trainer and lifted a few free weights so I could eat fatty pork). So there. If I’m lucky I’ll shed .25 pounds this week. No, the pound a month approach isn’t ideal.

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Feb 15

Heavy Hearted

This is the first year that I haven’t had any Valentine’s plans on Feb. 14 proper (though it’s still not too late for a Norbit viewing later tonight). I took James out to Ureña last night (my non-home computer crashes every time I try uploading my ever-so-important take on this restaurant) and he was intending to take me out to Moto tomorrow evening. But I’m starting to get scared with all this blizzard shit. Because I’m a nervous nellie, I checked all American Airlines flights from La Guardia to O’Hare today and they’ve been cancelled. If this shit keeps up till tomorrow morning someone’s going to be in a world of hurt (I haven’t decided who yet). It’s not like we can change our reservation on such short notice either (and I’ve wasted a lot of time crafting a jam-packed itinerary that includes deep dish pizza, carnitas, birria, brats and kugelis with detailed subways and walking directions). I’m very afraid that this is shaping up to be the worst day after Valentine’s Day ever.

My favorite illiterate romantic photo from yesterday's internets.

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Feb 6

NYC, We Have a Problem

I realize that over the years my focus has shifted. Lately, I write much more about food than I do about people and that makes me mildly sad. It’s harder to be candid in 2007 than 1997, and I don’t know if that’s a result of maturity or the evolution of the internet. Too many eyes, but there’s also more at stake. People just don’t appreciate bat shit behavior the way they used to, and NYC is surprisingly unforgiving of unprofessional quirks. Stalking and obsessing over humans is a surefire way to lose credibility yet scooping a new chef’s opening night menu or semi-scamming $320 dinners at Alain Ducasse is perceived as plugged in or hilarious (this New York Times article completely exemplifies why blogging about restaurants, particularly in a NYC milieu is so ick. Their whole M.O. is so not what I’m about that I don’t even know why I’m dwelling. It makes sites like Not Eating Out in New York even more relevant).

So, as I progress into object lover and lighten up with human fixations I’m thrilled to see that the delusional and lovesick still thrive in the rest of the country. I love today’s story about Lisa Nowak, a married astronaut who drove 900 miles in an adult diaper and disguise to kidnap the love interest of a fellow astronaut she believed she had a more than routine relationship with. Women like Lisa Nowak give me faith that the world hasn’t gone all effete and by the rules. Lisa Nowak could give a shit whether or not a restaurant is serving American prosciutto.

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Feb 4

R.I.P. Gray Cat

Of the many rituals and traditions that go along with Superbowl Sunday (actually, I didn’t grow up in a sports watching family and the only routines I’ve become acquainted with as an adult involve drinking too much and eating stuff like chicken wings and chili) euthanizing your cat is not one that I’m familiar with.

A little over a year and a half ago, James brought The Gray Cat back with him from his parents’ home in northern Virginia. It was his college cat that his mom and dad took a liking to in the early ‘90s and adopted from him. In ’05 his mom (who’s more than a little irrational and difficult) decided he couldn’t be in the house anymore. I think the subtext was that he’d been peeing on things, was likely sick and her husband had just got out of the hospital after a kidney surgery and couldn’t deal with another elderly unwell creature. That’s just my interpretation.

So, we got the unnamed cat who turned out to be diabetic and needed daily insulin injections (I don’t even want to think about my diabetic diagnosed cat back in Portland who has been subject to the tough it out approach for the last four years). He was rickety and had a hard time getting up and down the stairs and would howl to be carried but he didn’t seem like he was at death’s door either. But at 16 this year, I knew it was only a matter of time. I think I kind of hoped that one day I might find him keeled over in the basement closet (his little lair he liked sleeping in) so we wouldn’t have to deal with the inevitable decision.

But yesterday he couldn’t walk or stand up without falling over and he wouldn’t eat or drink. He was never sprightly but this seemed like trouble so we took him to the emergency vet, kind of knowing he wouldn’t be back. For like $3,000 they could do all these procedures, but essentially his kidneys had failed, neurological damage had set in and his mouth was filled with sores. It upsets me when people like a woman at my previous job spend oodles of money on things like canine chemo just to have the pet die in a month. It’s fucked up financially and emotionally. Everyone has to deal with people and pet death eventually.

They kept The Gray Cat (officially listed as Nikolai, which I guess was his real name that never stuck. I don’t know these things because I’m a bad cat step-mom) overnight and this morning James went back and had him put to sleep. It was more his thing than mine. I know it’s just a cat, and I didn’t even know him that long but it’s still sad. At least he made it to 16. He was old enough to remember crap like Color Me Badd and Paula Abdul before she was slurring on TV. I was reading a pet magazine in the waiting room and poor Detective Fred, the cat who was deputized for acting as a decoy in unlicensed vet sting last year, had been hit and killed by a car. What the fuck? And he was only 15 months old.

I don't generally anthropomorphize animals (though I love the concept applied to food) but for reasons I can't put my finger on The Gray Cat reminded me of this columnist at work, Neil Graves, who always comes into the library (I'm trying to find a photo, but no luck). This guy is kind of slow and deliberate, quiet with dry humor but it's not much his demeanor, he resembled The Gray Cat, strange as that sounds. Um, he's also African-American which amuses me because I've never really thought of felines as being one race or the other. Now, no one better get all accusatory because I think a black man looks like an animal.

People really have a way of making cat heaven look incredibly creepy. I hope The Gray Cat went someplace else (no, I don't mean hell).

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Feb 2

Sound Off

I thought podcasts and user generated content were all the rage (and stating that only reinforces how behind the web 2.0 revolution I am) but Fox 5 just discovered blogs this month. Except that they don’t quite seem to know what blogs are exactly. Perpetually brain damaged Rosanna Scotto (which reminds me—how old is Toni Senecal? Her face looks abnormally smooth and taut, while her neck is two shades darker and heading into wizened turkey territory. Sometimes when the light hits her at a certain angle she resembles Michael Jackson. Her age is suspiciously absent from her New York Times wedding announcement, too. And her currently being pregnant means zilch since the elderly are getting knocked up in 2007.) makes me violent every time she says, “send your blogs” during their Sound Off segment, which recently has covered very important topics like the sexy Harry Potter pics and whether The N Word should be banned (how it's possible to ban a word is beyond me). Two weeks ago sending viewer feedback via an email address was called, um, emailing. Last night I noticed they’d even designed a new graphic to reinforce this misguided concept. I work for Newscorp and I’m a researcher, perhaps I should get to the bottom of who decided that hitting send in Hotmail constitutes blogging.

On to print media. I’ve never understood why when you subscribe to a new magazine they invariably send you an old issue as your first. It’s now February so I don’t find it terribly useful to read about Christmas gifts, cute as they may be, in my recently received ReadyMade. I suspect this is an American bungling because I got my first copy of Olive, February issue, all the way from England in early January. Then again, I’m lucky if 60% of my subscriptions even make it into my hands. Sometimes I forget that Time Out New York isn’t bimonthly because I don’t think I’ve ever received four in a month.

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Jan 25

Duck for Cover

Poopoffwipes_1 After reading this Times article about magical thinking, it’s clear that I’m an adherent, irrational as it is. Yesterday I was minding my business near the Seaport (no, I wasn’t checking out the Will Smith shoot—I was trying a restaurant) when something flicked out at me from the corner of my eye. I’m a jumpy person so it made me twitch. I looked around and realized that I’d been shit on. There was a warm (I could feel it through the Kleenex) olive green streak that looked like it’d been piped out of a tiny cake-decorating tip. I couldn’t help but think this was a bad omen that was bound to mess up something. But the only important (I use the word loosely) thing on my horizon was an online Jeopardy contestant test (I actually did an in-person test in like ’99 and was rapidly eliminated. I think now they screen people before that stage) scheduled for 8pm.

I’ve generally had middling to poor luck over the years (I’m not just being negative. My mom even told me ages ago “you were born under a rain cloud” or “you’re followed by a rain cloud.” I’m not sure which, and have never understood memoirists who write paragraphs of decades-old dialogue—can they possibly remember word for word every conversation they’ve had? They’re totally making that shit up. Anyway, I don’t think parents are supposed to say things like that, but it’s no biggie since I’ve been spared from clichés like when are you getting married, when will I get grandkids, you could stand to lose a few pounds) and yet I’ve never been literally shit on before (well, there was an accidental incident with an old boyfriend but the feces didn’t make skin contact) so logically a bird pooping on me and messing up a test should have nothing to do with each other. In fact, it should be the opposite. A rare occurrence should engender another rare occurrence, if anything. Avian crap=blessing from heaven.

After eating the meal that was the original reason for heading to the Seaport, I noticed that I had streaks of shit all over the collar of my coat and that a wad had caked strands of my hair together. I started feeling less blessed.

And yes, I pretty much bombed my Jeopardy test. They don’t give you instant results but I’d be surprised of I got more than 60% of the questions right. But I did feel good about knowing that Belize is name of former British Honduras, which I just randomly learned a couple nights ago when I cracked open a musty 1968 volume of Latin America from the Time-Life Foods of the World series. I was struck by the colorful map inside because I’d never even heard of British Honduras. (Very unrelated: every so often I get traffic coming here searching for Honduran Pussy. Foul as I can be, I'm pretty sure I've never written about such a subject.) So, that was one less wrong answer out of 50. Thank you Time-Life and thank you loose-bowled bird.

It was news to me that bird diapers exist, but duck clothing? And I thought dogs had all the fun.

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Jan 18

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With a (back)Side of Bacon, Please

I was captivated by the photo used to illustrate today’s New York Times review of Porchetta. (I have no idea why I knew from a glance that the guy in the center is a writer/blog fixture because I don’t enjoy that sort of information. That’s what NYC will do to you.) What I was really trying to understand why they chose to use a picture featuring a girl with pants off her ass and an exposed thong. This restaurant is just a short walk from my apartment and has been on my mental to-try list for a few months, but now I’ve completely re-thought the whole thing. If I wanted copious amounts of human flesh with my meal, I’d go to recently opened Hawaiian Tropic Zone.

Backfat's nothing. It's the backside I'm concerned about.

Also, the irritatingly erudite (no, I didn’t have to look that one up) Times once again caught me with a vocab stumper: chilblains. What the hell? And the writer who used it was once my boss for like five months. Clearly, I learned nothing from that stint.

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Jan 12

Cat Fat Fever

Ok, I love cat crap but I’m no pet blogger. Yet I couldn’t help but be sucked in by a news teaser last night about a stray fat cat who was found stuck in a doggie door. He looked enormous and crazy so I had to learn more. Goliath, as he’d been dubbed, clearly hadn’t been doing without during his six months on the street. His original owner, who lost the cat while in the hospital for a lung transplant, (don't miss the heartwarming tidbit about how the feline would lie on his stomach and play with his oxygen tubes) was reunited after seeing Hercules (his real name) on TV.

The best part of the whole saga, which I later discovered, was where the cat lived: Gresham, Oregon (my hometown). I should’ve known. I’m not sure if this is a tale of NW kindness to the homeless (I’ve always been amazed at the number of panhandlers in Portland vs. NYC and the tolerance level. There’s not a lot of sympathy here—maybe that’s why they all flock to Oregon) or about Gresham generating fatness.

I was baffled that Hercules only weighed twenty pounds. James keeps insisting that my ever-growing feline must weigh twenty pounds and I refuse to believe him. I don’t know what to do with her. We leave the same food out for all of our cats, yet James’s two remain average sized. Why can’t Sukey control her portions?

I really fear that there must be a correlation between owners and pets weights. And the last thing I need is another diabetic cat. James is always trying to capture Sukey in unflattering poses so he can take photos, which while amusing, is mildly cruel. She looks ok when she’s sitting up but when she’s lying on her side she looks like a tubcat in training. At least chubby cats don’t seem to have poor self-esteem.

I bought a scale last week because I’m trying to be more diligent, and last night we got Sukey’s measurements: 21 pounds. What the hell? She was only 7 pounds when I got her (granted, she was still kitten-ish and malnourished). I can’t fathom that she’s bigger than Hercules. This somehow reflects on me. It’s a good thing I’m not a human parent or else my kids would get sent home with bad BMI report cards.

spring 2004

winter 2006

By the way, if you thought I was exaggerating about James’s mom always sending him home with atrocities from Marshalls, just witness these beauties that showed up post-Christmas. Meow.

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Jan 12

What are Words For?

Vocab I really should’ve taken those Reader’s Digest Word Power quizzes (The New Yorker’s got nothing on RD when it comes to hilarious cartoons) I’d entertain myself with while at my grandparent’s house more seriously. It’s starting to dawn on me how vocabularily deficient I am. This first struck me last year when that cat Molly got stuck in the wall of a West Village shop and the New York Times’s account used the phrase, “During the ordeal, the media hubbub grew apace, and cat agnostics grumbled about folderol.” Folderol? WTF? Is that sort of wordsmithery really necessary? And no, I didn’t know that folderol meant trifle or nonsense. I went to public school, duh.

The 2007 me is starting to look up words if I’m not 100% sure what they mean. It’s not terribly difficult since I’m usually reading on the computer and it’s not all that hard to type (or bookmark) www.m-w.com. So far I’ve looked up recalcitrant and I was correct, it’s akin to obstinate. Yesterday, I double-checked picayune and I was pretty right on, though I was thinking more tiny than trivial.

I was feeling fairly adept, and then I was slammed by ukase. I had no inkling. Apparently, it’s an edict or decree. I don’t even think I can or want to use that in a sentence. It sounds a little like urine and ketosis.

I know that my grammar is anything but ace. I mean, I only started using paragraphs last year (here, I mean, in the real world I’ve always used them). But every so often I have shameful realizations. Today it hit me that I’ve been writing hoards for eons when I mean hordes. I found five instances of the vocab crime on this site and changed them pronto, none of that pesky slash through business. 2007 is going to be a busy year at this rate.

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Jan 9

Where’s the (99-Cent) Beef?

The two closest work food options are making me angry. I don’t expect greatness, but I wouldn’t mind a little cheapness.

Wendys Last year around this time I was on a Wendy’s salad kick. That petered out, which is unfortunate since now there’s a Wendy’s in the concourse below my office building. I really felt like junk food last week and half the staff was still out for the holidays so I didn’t feel so self-conscious about smelly food. I thought I’d order value menu small fries and a jr. bacon cheeseburger. Cheap and not too gluttonous.

Now, I swear the Wendy’s near my old job had a 99-cent menu and I know for a fact there are ads currently running that are hyping up the 99-cent menu (heck, 99 is in the URL). So why did my jr. bacon cheeseburger on the value menu cost $1.99? Baked potatoes, chili, frosty–none of it was 99 cents. What kind of Rockefeller Center bullshit is this?

I know they used to (and probably still do) have tiny print at the bottom of fast food commercials where they’d say “prices higher in Alaska and Hawaii” and I’d feel bad for the statehood latecomers, but last time I checked NYC was still part of the continental United States. Ok, the website does say, “prices available at participating Wendy’s.” What’s the point of a promotion of no one participates?

Au Bon Pain has been causing similar pain. One of their only redeeming qualities was the 50% off baked goods after 4pm deal, which isn’t followed in the branch that’s in the ground floor of this same building. We get some sort of discount with our work IDs (which I only figured out a few weeks ago when I saw someone flashing their badge) but that’s not the same as a half off brownie. Whatever, I’m supposed to be cutting sweet junk out of my diet as of today, anyway.

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Posts from the ‘Small Tragedies’ Category

Emergen-C Isn’t Food

Heavy Hearted

NYC, We Have a Problem

R.I.P. Gray Cat

Sound Off

Duck for Cover

With a (back)Side of Bacon, Please

Cat Fat Fever

What are Words For?

Where’s the (99-Cent) Beef?

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101