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Posts from the ‘Small Tragedies’ Category

Jan 4

Nu Shooz Redux

Ringing in 2005, I almost lost my shit at a party when someone put on Nu Shooz (scroll down to 1/2/05–I also just noticed that I resolved to eat more Japanese food in 2005, which I obviously forgot about since it’s been re-resolved for this year). December 31, 2006, The Whispers’s “Rock Steady” pushed me over the edge. This year it was a toss up between Jermaine Stewart’s “We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off” and “The Humpty Dance” for the crazy-making award. (Thank god for YouTube—linking to all these random videos used to be impossible. See, ‘00s are better than ‘80s.)

I’m not taking it anymore. There’s a for real 2007 resolution. Seriously, I refuse to attend any more parties playing bad ‘80s music. It’s wrong on so many levels that I shouldn’t even raise my blood pressure over it, but I’m trying to get at the root of why this drives me batshit. And I’m definitely not trying to posit that my anti-‘80s stance makes me cooler than anyone else (though I will say that I thought it was fun and novel to dress ‘80s for a Halloween party…in 1994).

I don’t know that anyone with media awareness actually thinks that NYC is the epicenter of creativity or cutting edge anything. And wretched party music is just one symptom. But there’s still this outdated idea that Williamsburg equals hip. I don’t know why young people who don’t work but have money would be hip but who am I to question the pervasive sentiment.

Me2007 Admittedly, the New Year’s Eve party I attended had a Madonna theme (which I didn’t realize initially. I blame the dire music situation dawning on me for my weird-eyed photo, but it's all I had to work with since I'm not much of a self-portrait type) so ‘80s music went with the territory. That just begs the question of why a Madonna party in the first place? I did notice that VHS or Beta (an 80’s derivative band) snuck into the playlist so whoever threw this party obviously owned music created in the ‘00s and chose to go with the tried (tired) and true.

But it didn’t stop there. Somehow I later ended up at Royal Oak, which has pained me on numerous occasions with crap like The Pointer Sister’s “Neutron Dance.” Before I could even get a drink, Eurythmics’s “Sweet Dreams” came on and I was like, “we need to leave now.” I was mildly hearted to see a decent proportion of thirtysomethings at Pete’s Candy Store around the block. The vibe was a little more inviting, and then, I shit you not, Eurythimics’s, “Love is a Stranger” started playing. I was practically bawling as the music progressed into U2 and Europe.

How can it be that Outback Steakhouse (Of Montreal), Sears (Spinto Band—I can’t find a clip of the commercial but the song used is “Oh Mandy”) Payless Shoes (Sambassadeur—also no clip, the song is “Kate”), Geico (Röyksopp) and countless others use cooler music to sell mediocrity than with-it people play in their own homes? People mock THIS type of music as Indie-Yuppie, crap Seth would love on The O.C. (I've never watched an episode in my life, yet I somehow know that this character is known for his adorable indie tastes. And yes, I know the show was just cancelled like today) or Zach Braff (don't watch Scrubs either) would put on a mixtape. I’ll take it. Please, just stop playing “Thriller.”

If youngsters have nostalgia for bad radio music, they should just go full throttle and blast 4 Non Blondes, Spin Doctors, Presidents of the United States of America, Blind Melon and Lisa Loeb. Stuff I wouldn’t go near last decade, but apparently the blinders of time make everything cool. Do you think that in ten years someone who was born in 1982 instead of 1972 like me will be subjected to Top 40 ‘90s music at every party and bar?

Of course there’s the strong possibility that I’m so freaking lame that I only frequent even lamer parties and bars. Please let me know where the secret parties and clubs are that play music created in this millennium, ok? And I don’t mean reggaeton, jeez.

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Jan 3

Food Felons

—Petit_fours I can totally sympathize with this “Sweet Tooth Bandit” who spent nearly $700 at Swiss Colony using a stolen identity. I used to become desperate and tormented every holiday season when the unsolicited Swiss Colony catalog showed up on the mail. I would longingly page through the wish book, coveting the petit fours with all of my grade school being. I never ever got a single item from Swiss Colony and now that I have free will (and better taste in confectionary) I feel less compelled to order anything. If there’d only been an internet in the early ‘80s, who knows what havoc I might’ve tried to wreak.

–It’s not every day that fried chicken brings out the firebug in people. I do love the NYC brand name bastardization process. Somehow Kentucky Fried Chicken (don’t forget the Kitchen Fresh Chicken fiasco) becomes Kennedy Fried Chicken and then JFK Fried Chicken emerges.

I discovered the regionally confused chicken Maryland when I was in Penang. I never ordered any, but it appears to be fried chicken served with fried bananas, fritters, fries and sometimes sausage or bacon. Does that scream Baltimore to you?

The unanswered question in this arson case is why a Twin Donut would be selling fried chicken at all. Franchises are so renegade in NYC–I recall there used to be a Blimpie that sold Thai food on the side and a Chinatown Popeye’s that hawked pork dumplings under the counter. I’m sure there are countless other examples.

–Ok, malnourishment isn’t a felony but if your eating disorder fucks up my commute something criminal just might happen.

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Dec 30

Soy Candle in the Wind

Cathy_1Don’t even go there. It’s a tired phrase that I try to suppress when it pops into my head, but is it possible that there is an original there and it’s the Atlantic Center Target?

Perhaps the saying should be literal rather than sassy. Really, don’t even go there, you’ll be sorry. Last Friday James turned around and left after getting scared shitless by the mayhem. I didn’t see what he saw, but attributed it to pre-Christmas madness. But that doesn’t explain the sickening chaos I experienced yesterday on a post-holiday Thursday (clearly, I never learn–it turns out that I had this exact same problem at exactly the same time last year). We usually go to New Jersey or Q ueens for our Target fix, so maybe this is standard practice in Brooklyn.

Do these people (yes, those people) not know what a Target is meant to be like? There’s supposed to merchandise on the shelves, not empty rows and so much crap on the floor or abandoned, filled shopping carts blocking paths that you can barely walk. There are supposed to be express lanes so folks like me with four items don’t have to wait behind families buying what looks like a month’s worth (I hope it’s a month) of cereal, soda, cookies and potato chips. There are supposed to be enough cashiers open so that lines aren’t twenty deep and winding all the way back to the refrigerated section.

I was watching Signe Chanel on Sundance channel the other night (I’ve been very, very bored this week. Apparently, so bored that I’ve only watched things on channel 101. I also watched the hilariously non-American, Da Kath & Kim Code, both episodes of not-that-entertaining One Punk Under God and so-so but wonderfully bleak, Jude, which is the type of thing I’d normally flip past. I will never be bored enough to watch Iconoclasts, however) and Oprah was at a Chanel show in Paris and some middle-aged socialite sitting next to her was talking to about her new country home in Pennsylvania and how horrible New York City had become. Oprah agreed and said something along the lines of “people don’t realize that it’s not normal to live like that,” implying that there are squalor-free places full of peace, quiet and natural beauty. I’m no fan of Oprah, despite being a fellow INFJ, but this Brooklyn Target is a shining example of not living normally.

I only went because I needed one item that I know they carry, and it’s the most accessible Target (it’s about a thirty-minute walk home). I had to find a replacement shaving cream for my Whish mishap. They have Sharps brand, which is not only considerably cheaper but had specifically been asked for. The Target in Las Vegas (yes, I go to Targets on vacation) had a well-stocked display of toiletries and beauty products for both genders. Brooklyn had one small section that was 75% empty, none of the signage matched where the items were placed and there wasn’t a single price tag to be seen. I was so irritated that I almost turned around and left but that would only be thwarting myself.

8bloodpressureI don’t understand people who say beta-blockers work for anxiety (or migraines, for that matter). I have them for high blood pressure and half the time I feel like I’m going to bust a gasket, I’m perpetually un-calm. I’ve been taking halves for some time but the past few weeks I’ve upped my dosage to wholes because I’m convinced that swarms of humanity are going to give me a heart attack in my thirties. I wonder if I didn’t take high blood pressure medication at all if I’d simply keel over from life’s little annoyances.

James likes smelly shit and cleaning products so I thought I’d peek at the dreaded air freshener aisle. I gave in to a new lavender and lemongrass Method soy candle, but I had to draw the line at the Method plug-ins. They have that eco-chic thing happening but I’m fairly certain the scents are still cloying and artificial (how do you make a natural scented candle, anyway? I don’t imagine these $50 numbers are much less artificial. Hmm, these scents are actually intriguing—I’m not sure what “english black tea and cedar, tangled with blackish seaweed absolute” or “scents of wood stock, 19th century lacquer and smoky gunpowder” smell like but I am curious)

I resigned myself to the snaking checkout line and when I finally go to the register my candle wouldn’t scan properly. “Do you know how much this was?” asked the fairly efficient, not ill-tempered cashier.

You never know how a store will handle price checks. Often it’s so ridiculously busy that they take your word if your quote sounds reasonable but Western Beef, no matter how long the line, will always send a human to check even it takes all afternoon. I feel guilty about trying to cheat, so I’m usually honest.

“I think it was $5.99.” I didn’t just think, I knew with 99% certainty. She scrunched up her face like that didn’t seem right. I got unnecessarily nervous (all I could think was please don’t get a price check because I don’t have the patience and as usual I’ll end up saying forget it and leaving the item behind) and was all, “do you think it’s higher or lower?” “That’s seems like too much for a candle” was the answer. I thought it was actually cheap for a candle, but whatever, and then I started worrying if $5.99 was actually wrong and I was now going to be overcharged. I checked my receipt on the way out the door and was surprised to note that I’d only been charged $2.99 for the candle. I felt very good about saving $3 and softened a mite (just a mite) about the horribleness of Atlantic Center Target. But you still might have to reward me with more than three bucks to return.

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Dec 28

Who Rules the Roost?

Christmas has come and gone and I’ve barely thought twice about it. What’s to say? I’m still not resigned to the fact that I have to work this week (and New Year’s Day but not until 4:30pm but it still kind of sucks. Perhaps knowing that I’ll have to function on Jan. 1 will prevent me from throwing up as I did Dec. 31, 2005, which set a miserable tone for all of 2006). I never realized how spoiled I was the past couple of years, getting the week off paid (both in corporate and academic jobs).

Rooster In case anyone was wondering what I got for Christmas, my mom gave some cash, a Starbucks card and assorted doodads. My sister got me a subscription to Olive magazine (which came with a free book, but it wasn’t Gastropub Classics, as is listed on their site but something about regional British food) and a handful of English Kit Kats because they’re tastier than ours (but still not as wild as Japanese pumpkin). James is out of town as usual since he’s the universe’s biggest mama’s boy, but he left presents that included a Fossil watch I said I liked in Las Vegas that I’m surprised he remembered, a Jeopardy-related book I’d never heard of and a laptop computer, which surprised the heck out of me because I hadn’t asked for one though I certainly appreciate it.

I’ve never owned a new computer in my life, and yet I’ve always managed just fine. I bought a used Mac maybe ten years ago, which I brought with me to NYC. The four or so PCs I’ve used since then have been obsolete machines “borrowed” from James’s places of employment. It’s funny that I was given an HP Pavilion because last week I read an older bit on Slate about the problems marketing these because they’re lacking a unique identity and “aren’t on anyone’s shopping list.” Apparently, they are in my household. I’d take anything as long as it wasn’t represented by that off-putting Mac guy.

I have it easier in the reciprocity department because I don’t have to come up with presents until the week after Christmas (and I don’t spend as much). I really hate shopping so I thought I was being wise ordering things online. I think the marked down (hmm….these were $88 when I bought them on Monday—I guess I got a bargain) Ted Baker pants will arrive tomorrow, I bought some artisanal sage honey at Stinky Bklyn (I don’t know why they spell it like that) in the neighborhood (I know, I get a computer and I give a jar of honey, but I’m being practical. Before he went out of town, James mentioned being out of honey. I don’t even care much for the stuff so I’m being self-less. Then I somehow ended up spending $37 on Serrano ham and two cheeses, which I’ve already eaten most of) then I ordered this shaving cream online because it sounded enticing and I was specifically asked for shaving cream.

Image_lemongrass01 It showed up yesterday and only after seeing the product face to face did I realize that it’s for women. Sure, the font, style and packaging seem a little feminine but it’s the ‘00s and men can embrace their softer side. Nowhere in the ad copy does it say that’s for women. The picture online blurs right where the word women appears in the phrase, “shaving cream for women.” I read initially read about this brand on New York’s website and they imply that it was a men’s product that “is a cult favorite with women.” What the fuck? No one says it’s FOR women until you see the jar in person.

It’s not like James isn’t used to be given things geared towards the other gender (I’m convinced his mother thinks he’s either a middle-aged women or gay with bad taste. She’s always buying him crap from Marshall’s like floral soaps, cookie jars made to look like French cafes, rugs adorned with country-style roosters [seriously, we have one of these sitting in front of our fridge this very second. My cat Sukey loves to "taco" area rugs. Taco-ing involves taking a crap on a mini carpet and then folding over the side so it looks like a tortilla shell filled with ground beef. I've been trying to get her to taco this rooster rug but she only seems to shit on items I cherish] pot holders shaped like tea pots, aprons and towels in patterns and colors no man would ever pick for himself. I’m scared to death to see what straight-to-the-trash-if-it-were-up-to-me shit he shows up with from his mom later this week) but I don’t want to push him over the edge. I guess I just bought myself a present. It’s nice stuff and they included lots of samples, but still. Now I have to physically purchase a new emergency gift on short notice.

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Nov 10

Home Turf

Community20involvement20logoFile this under Who the Hell Cares or Just Plain Petty, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m not community minded, particularly when it comes to cyberspace. Lord knows what most bloggers do in their real lives because I’m not friends with (m)any. And it's probably for the best that I remain in the dark because often the more I know, the less I like. Sometimes I do wonder with food blogs when the authors consistently visit high-end restaurants. I assume they’re either in the industry, well connected or just plain wealthy. Of course, for every L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon and Gordon Ramsey at The London (Ok, I’ve seen very little on that, give it a few weeks) chronicle there are countless praises for pizza and hot dogs.

Some would say that’s what makes this city great, something for everyone. Uh, the wonderful (financial) diversity. Fine. Maybe my taste is plebian and irrational but I don’t relish reading the food musings of someone who owns property worth $37.5 million. I’m not saying that multi-million-dollar homeowners are hideous folks whose opinions don’t matter, I would just prefer to read other things instead. It’s not envy; it’s nothing in common. Like is drawn to like. It’s not exactly a secret that Manhattan is filled with people who do quite well for themselves but I’m more drawn to people who struggle to pay triple digit rent. Ok, I’ll broaden my horizons because those paying $999 and under anywhere in the city are few and far between.

As a cranky aside, is $500 for an eight-person holiday party really cheap?

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Oct 24

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Applebees_1 Sometimes you must pay the piper for your shits and giggles, and Applebee’s recently got the better of me. I swear, eating at this particular chain twice in two weeks is not typical behavior. The NJ meal was just happenstance, no harm done. Last Wednesday, though, in a serious lapse of judgment I agreed to meet a former coworker at the Times Square location (I think the LeVar Burton-loving manager is finally on the outs. I like to believe that this turn of events coming a month after my departure is directly related to their inability to function without my presence) .

I know, I know, you get what’s coming to you by not only dining in the epicenter of Manhattan evil (no feeling eating good in this neighborhood) but choosing to do so at a tourist-gouging venue. I thought I was woman enough to handle it. And I did emotionally, but I paid a price, literally. (You thought I was cheap with my $5/day lunch budget before, but now I’m trying to cap it at three pathetic bucks. Lately, I’ve been subsisting Kashi TLC bars, green apples and baby carrots brought from home sometimes supplemented by $3.19 medium Au Bon Pain soup.)

What would you imagine one might pay for a cheeseburger and two margaritas at Applebee’s? If you guessed $47, then you’re a Rain Man and I'd like to punch you in your calculator craw.  And the cruel part is that you can view their menus by location on the website so it’s no secret that most Manhattan items are $6 more than their NJ versions. I would like to somehow hold Tyler Florence and his Huge Flavors responsible for this travesty.

I have a friend who was very disappointed that we never got to take advantage of Olive Garden’s $7.95 Never Ending Pasta Bowl promotion, which ended two Sundays ago and only lasted for about two weeks. Clearly, I was fool for passing up such well-priced carbs.

Photo of the other Times Square Applebee's (yes, there are two) from someone named Dawn Westlake.

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Oct 24

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Applebees_1 Sometimes you must pay the piper for your shits and giggles, and Applebee’s recently got the better of me. I swear, eating at this particular chain twice in two weeks is not typical behavior. The NJ meal was just happenstance, no harm done. Last Wednesday, though, in a serious lapse of judgment I agreed to meet a former coworker at the Times Square location (I think the LeVar Burton-loving manager is finally on the outs. I like to believe that this turn of events coming a month after my departure is directly related to their inability to function without my presence) .

I know, I know, you get what’s coming to you by not only dining in the epicenter of Manhattan evil (no feeling eating good in this neighborhood) but choosing to do so at a tourist-gouging venue. I thought I was woman enough to handle it. And I did emotionally, but I paid a price, literally. (You thought I was cheap with my $5/day lunch budget before, but now I’m trying to cap it at three pathetic bucks. Lately, I’ve been subsisting Kashi TLC bars, green apples and baby carrots brought from home sometimes supplemented by $3.19 medium Au Bon Pain soup.)

What would you imagine one might pay for a cheeseburger and two margaritas at Applebee’s? If you guessed $47, then you’re a Rain Man and I'd like to punch you in your calculator craw.  And the cruel part is that you can view their menus by location on the website so it’s no secret that most Manhattan items are $6 more than their NJ versions. I would like to somehow hold Tyler Florence and his Huge Flavors responsible for this travesty.

I have a friend who was very disappointed that we never got to take advantage of Olive Garden’s $7.95 Never Ending Pasta Bowl promotion, which ended two Sundays ago and only lasted for about two weeks. Clearly, I was fool for passing up such well-priced carbs.

Photo of the other Times Square Applebee's (yes, there are two) from someone named Dawn Westlake.

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Sep 22

Building Bridges

Tag2244Maybe it's age and the supposed wisdom that comes with it but I haven't felt like talking about myself much lately. That likely a blessing because I'd only bore you to tears. But this whole mess did originate as an online journal, not a happy go lucky blog, so indulge me for a post.

Recently I've been waking up feeling simultaneously blech and panic-stricken. It's probably normal to have bouts of self-doubt where you feel ineffectual and hopeless (though I bet these corporate goths never question themselves). The problem is that when you're busy and bogged down with a soul-crushing job you hate there's little time for dwelling. Now that I'm only working sporadically part time (just three days this week, probably more next week) I have the free time to do anything I'd like (I mean, creatively, not shopping, traveling or dining decadently, duh) but there's not an ounce of inventiveness in me. I'm as leaden and dull as a human can get and that's really annoying. I don't want to be the kind of person who needs a steady job to feel ok and secure. I've only been freelancing for a little over a week and I'm becoming all too keenly aware of my ingrained lack of self-motivation and direction. I'm so not a go-getter, I'm barely a get-out-of-bedder.

Free time is like that, though. If I remember correctly, I was unemployed in most of 2000 and 2003 and I didn't do shit. I have nothing to show for it except huge credit card debt (I think I'm trying to scare myself into action. Even though I know my short-term income will be spotty I went nuts on Sunday and paid off one of my credit cards [I have three] with the smallest balance, which was around $2,500. I might be hurting for that $2,500 at some point but I just couldn't stand having it around anymore and I was racking up a $50 or so monthly finance charge). And I know that I'm capable of more than shit. I swear, this is why people have children. At some point people just give into their mundane-ness and pin their hopes on the next generation. It's the circle of life(lessness).

I'm really jealous of passionate driven people because I swear if someone told me that I could do anything for a living that I wanted to (unrealistic or not), I'd be stumped. There was some promo for I don't know, maybe PBS, where a kid who was maybe ten was obsessed with building bridges. He wrote letters to companies, his family visited an engineering firm while on vacation (the staff even presented him with a bridge cake) and now he's all gung ho on doing well in school and taking the right courses in college. How do you get so set and focused like that, as a tot, no less? I don't begrudge those bridge-building types, I'm in awe. It's the ones who succeed because they've always been surrounded by financially supportive families that disturb me.

I feel paralyzed by the '00s and I'm sick of looking at and keeping up with food writing/blogging. I don't even like food writing. Everyone knows everything and it seems impossible to have a new thought. Or maybe I just don't have any. Every day a new site sprouts on the amateur front as well as the pro side (The Times recently went bloggy, then last week defunct print mag Chow launched The Grinder and New York started Grub Street). I can't keep up with all this shit and watch TV too. Yesterday, I was trying to come up with fresh pitches (I can usually rely on the section of the NY Post that I write for, for select items, but am trying to expand my scope) and getting exasperated because I'm not an insider or connected in any way to the food scene and I hate networking so it's hard to grab trends first (actually, I think this is a NYC dilemma because everyone is so hyper critical and snarky and the standards are insanely high. It got me thinking that I should look at markets outside of the city). I don't even know that I want to write about food, at least not in the precious produce fixated or family traditions ways that are pervasive and currently admired. (From this week's papers: Vegetable Love, Requited, Back to the Ranch, When Life Gives You Apples, Make Pie. Hmm, now that I'm looking The Chicago Tribune has some nutty stories about taste testing chain pizzas and how McDonald's might start serving breakfast all day. Weird place, that Windy City) I want to write about fun things. NYC is many things, but a funny city it is not.

Here's an example of how much things have changed in the last ten years. Before the Food Network hit big and everyone became an expert via blogs, writing about food wasn't terribly trendy. When I first moved here, I recall seeing Pete Wells's byline in Time Out New York quite a bit. He's become prolific and well-respected since then (and recently ruffled countless food bloggers' feathers when he essentially declared most of them a waste of time, which I'd actually agree with even though I'm also guilty of near-daily drivel. I'm not a food blogger, though, and I don't document my meals because I'm an aspiring food critic. It's just a compulsion that occurred to me around 2000, the same geeky impulse that had me tracking Henry Thomas's every move as a twentysomething and writing reviews of every Ray Bradbury short story in a notebook as a teen.) Now he's about to become the editor of the New York Times's dining section, which most would agree is a pretty big deal. So, I searched the Time Out NY archives to see what sorts of food topics he covered in the '90s and it was very telling.

The first piece I found was from 1996 and was about where you find restaurants with fireplaces. There's no way in a million years that anyone, including Time Out NY, would accept that idea today. It's way too simplistic and there isn't any newsy, hot trend angle. It's just, hey, it's cold out, here's where it's cozy. I also found another about where to eat in Coney Island, which I suspect would also be a no go today. Coney Island isn't as creepy (well, my sister's husband who apparently loves Wales, thought it was depressing if that means anything) and off the beaten path as it used to be. I'm not saying New Yorkers go their in droves, but now they have the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Siren Festival, and all sorts of urban renewal in the works. What's uncharted now? The Bronx and Staten Island definitely don't make it into many food sections. Hey, there's an idea…

Anyway, enough boo-hooing and overthinking. Whenever I get into a slump a little old fashioned cyber stalking always perks me up. I put my newly gained news library sleuthing skills to work and deduced that the guy I stalked in college who broke my heart (I still feel an itty bitty pang when I think about it) must've finally broke up with his girlfriend (wife?). They moved into a house she bought in 1994 and it appears that he moved into an apt. in S.E. Portland in 2002. There aren't any records for her with a newer address than the original N.E. Portland house, which I guess could mean that she's living with him and not on the lease but that doesn't really make any sense. Part of me would love it if their relationship dissolved because I firmly believe that everything eventually falls apart for everyone even though I really, really want to believe in true love forever. I mean, eight years for a college-started relationship is long is enough (though he was 24 and she was three years older, not exactly spring chickens, which is strangely NW). When I got out of Portland in the late '90s I was scared of all the settling down mid-20s freaks buying houses, gardening, microbrew drinking, dog walking and the like. Of course, now I'm re-facing the same issues a decade later which was bound to happen because 30s are all about that stuff. Talk to me in my 40s when I'm a real crab.

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Sep 16

Turning Over a New Leaf

Spinach The week before last James brought home a giant (like practically five pounds) bag of spinach from Rossman Farms, the ghetto produce stand down Third Ave. I agree that $2.99 for that many greens is a bargain, but I hate waste and there's no value in buying food you can't possibly use. (When I was a kid, my grandpa would do things like buy cases of canned water chestnuts at grocery outlets because they were cheap even though no one in my family really ate water chestnuts. As a teen I decided to try one of his donated old cans of clam chowder as an after school snack and let's just say that is possible for canned food to expire. The contents had turned pinkish and smelled piney and medicinal, which was only enhanced as I warmed it up.) I made four calzones one night, he made creamed spinach another and that only used up half the bag. By that point I was already bored with spinach.

I was going to say that we had spinach coming out of our asses, then last night we were picking up jerk chicken at Peppa's after watching Half Nelson (there's something about harrowing drug movies that makes me want to use drugs rather than stay away from them. The only part of the movie that made me sad was that he let his cat die) and there was a news blurb about the e coli spinach outbreak, so apparently sick people literally had spinach coming out of theirs. Uh, and died. I was like "see, that's what happens when you go overboard with packaged spinach." I totally cheated death. Or at least violent diarrhea.

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Sep 5

Pie Holes & Scallywags

So, I don’t watch or read the news for a few days while I’m out of the country (ok, just Montreal) and the first item I’m hit with is the Crocodile Hunter getting stabbed to death by a stingray? Jesus, I really need to be more plugged-in while on mini vacations. This aquatic mishap only reinforces what I’ve always suspected, that sea creatures, especially rays (The other night I got sucked into a fluffy HD show [you know, hour-long nothings created to simply show off high definition images] about giant manta rays and got the crap scared out of me) are up to no good.

The past week has been shocking and pleasing with the weather bizarrely going down to morning 60s (unfortunately, it’s still humid enough to induce mild sweating). It’s what September should bring. Of course I somehow forgot that September also brings screaming schoolchildren feet from the open window next to my bed. The kids are so damn rowdy they make me nervous and I’m not the one with back to school jitters. There appeared to be two groups this morning: comfortable horse playing types who seemed to show up alone and the skittish kids with parents in tow, trying to convince them that school is going to be fun.

I still can’t figure out what grades attend the public school across the street. There are little little kids being handheld by grownups and then there are girls who have enormous butts and boobs barely contained by their ill fitting jeans and tee shirts. (I know girls mature faster and that supposedly puberty is striking earlier as kids ingest more hormones and crap in their food, but I still don’t think seven-year-olds look that outré yet.) Seeing the chaos and tumult of the Brooklyn public school almost taps into my distrustful NW roots and makes me see the beauty of home schooling.

AwesomepbjLast night we made the mistake of stopping at a Friendly’s (I knew we should’ve gone to Bennigan’s instead) in Latham, NY (a few miles north of Albany where our favorite Wal-Mart ever resides). We were trying to get back to NYC by midnight and being made to wait nearly an hour for nothing special sandwiches was agonizing (and then to add insult to injury, James was given the Alpine Chicken Sandwich instead of the Grilled Smokehouse BBQ Chicken Sandwich. It sucked that the service was so slow because I was horrified/fascinated by the purple and brown Awesome PBJ Sundae but there was no time for ice cream). I kind of felt bad for our waitress because she seemed genuinely sweet but dangerously un-smart. And then I overheard her talking to an elderly couple about her two-year-old and the girl looked about 15, 16 tops, so then I didn’t have the heart to be harsh about the atrocious service that she was subjecting our entire half of the restaurant to). Our only entertainment was the freak show family taking up two booths in the back. The boys were emotionally damaged and pounding on each other and crawling around on the floor despite being at least six years beyond the rug rat stage. One daughter was troublingly larger than the rest of the children. Her arms were as big as my thighs and I don’t have lean legs. But it wasn’t their physicality that weirded me out, it was their peculiar use of the English language. 

My back was to this family so I could only hear, not see what was going on, but I heard a little girl’s voice yelling in a wavering tone, “you’d better shut your pie hole.” Pie hole?! I’ve been known to use the endearing phrase, but I wasn’t aware of its popularity with the under-12 set. Later, one of the boys started calling one of his siblings a “scallywag” and I was like what sort of rift in time did I just fall through? When the older boy was chasing the younger one who’d stolen his hat, he was threatening, “You're going to pay, punk!” I’ll admit that’s not as strange, but I was convinced “dirty rat” or “fink” were the next insults coming. I swear these were home schooled kids, there was no other explanation.

So, we drove up to Montreal first thing Saturday morning and came back last night. It’s a long drive in the best of circumstances, maybe 7.5 hours, but yesterday we were completely traumatized waiting over two hours in line to cross the border back into the U.S. I could’ve dealt with the sitting still in traffic for 15 minutes at a time, five miles back from the check point, but we hadn’t predicted such a long wait and our ¼ tank of gas began depleting. The gas light came on while we were in a deadlocked jam. I was totally panicking because there wasn’t a shoulder and you couldn’t turn around. People were already going nuts and getting out of their vehicles and just wandering or sitting on the side of the road from boredom. If our car stalled and we blocked one of the two lanes that were already crammed with cars, someone would kill us. I’d be pissed if someone was so retarded as to not fuel up before getting into such a situation. All I could think was how we might have to push the car five miles, which could work because it was flat terrain and autos were only moving inches at a time anyway. After an hour or so, I saw an Esso sign in the distance and we were able to putt to the last exit before customs. Uh, but it was a diesel-only station so we were screwed.

Luckily, from taking this side detour we were actually able to circumvent like 30 minutes of traffic and popped back on the road way ahead of the game (we accidentally figured this out, but a lot of NJ drivers were pissing off the stuck cars by doing this aggressive pull around trick). We stopped at the Duty Free and put a shot glass full of accelerant we’d bought at Wal-Mart on the way up, hoping that it would boost the gas fumes we had left (rather than dilute the precious remaining drops) to get us over the border where there were real gas stations.

I almost started crying when I realized the guy manning our line was checking everyone’s trunks in front of us. This farcical war on terror is too much, like this was helping anything. I was exasperated with spending 2.5 hours trying to go a few kilometers and more wound up that they were going to confiscate our raw milk cheese and horsemeat (don’t cry, the Quebecois don’t—they sell it at mainstream grocery stores) we’d purchased. Through some miracle, we were believed when we said we only bought clothes and chocolate. I also bought K-Tel disc High Voltage at Village de Valeurs (I couldn’t believe Montreal had the Value Village chain, which I thought only existed in the Pacific NW) to replace an unreturned copy I lent years ago, but didn’t feel the need to disclose that C$1.49 acquisition.

Anyway, Montreal was fun, though I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Food-wise I hit the biggies like St-Viateur Bagel and Schwartz’s for viande fume/smoked meat. We tried Canadian chain St. Hubert in the suburbs (I still can’t figure out how they can call gravy bbq sauce) and had a dating anniversary dinner at Anise. It’s very strange that Montreal’s flavors seem to be anise and cardamom, at least on this visit. At the restaurant, a namesake anise pod is nestled in each place setting and cardamom played a strong role in a few dishes. I was convinced that our hotel soap was also cardamom scented (though I can find no substantial evidence on the Roger & Gallet site) and wanted to do an interactive tasting where you’d wash your hands and then eat the little almond cookie laced with cardamom presented at the end of Anise’s tasting menu. Yesterday, I went to Genevieve Grandbois to buy fancy chocolates for my mom’s birthday and cardamom was the flavor of the week. I also just noticed they have a star anise graphic on their webpage. What gives with all the spices?

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