Posts tagged ‘Small Tragedies’

Jul 28

Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?

Because I've included a frightening day of the birthday photo for at least the past few years, I feel compelled to continue the tradition despite going against better judgment (I mean the sweaty/greasy face factor-it's a problem with summer birthdays). So, now you know what 34 looks like. I was hoping the bout with bad skin and my digestive tract would be it, but now it seems like memory loss is settling in too. Somehow I forgot my wallet at home today, which only became apparent when I went to get something to eat for lunch and didn't have it on me. It's wasn't the end of the world (I bummed $6 and got a Subway turkey and provolone sandwich. I don't think Jared eats them with cheese, but how much fat can a little processed slice of dairy product really contain? Oh, it's right on the napkin-two cheese triangles have 3.5 grams of fat and 40 calories. Don't you love nutritional info printed right on the napkin?) but it seems very stupid, even kind of stupider than forgetting keys and being locked out. Then, as I was about ready to leave work I started giving back the $2 I had leftover from my borrowed lunch money and it occurred to me that I used the last $2 on my Metrocard this morning so I wouldn't even be able to get home on it. Thank god I'm a cheap luncher or else I would've been stuck, penniless in midtown like when Jane Curtain on Kate & Allie got treated like a homeless person after she left her purse in a cab. Of course that scenario would never happen today because Allie would have her trusty cell phone or Blackberry on her.

I was taken out to Cookshop for my birthday, and it was very solid and enjoyable. It was food food, if that means anything. I got some cash from my mom and a Chococat bag and that box of See's candy that gave me gut trouble and a used book, Before You Say "I Quit!" I got a little cash from my grandma too. I usually use her funds to buy a sandwich or two for lunch. Sandwiches of the fancy ilk, non-Subway stuff like the pulled duck confit one (the description cracks me up with its specificity and I don't know whey they spell out three but not seven: three sprout salad, 7 minute eggs, young pickles, sweet garlic-Pommery mustard dressing, ciabatta) I had Wed. from Starwich. That thing was pure fat and I didn't need a nutritional content napkin to tell me so. James gave me a Sephora gift certificate and Fodors and Let's Go Barcelona guides. I also got a Barcelona guide Le Cool from my sister. Unfortunately, I won't be able to completely read up on the city by next Thurs. when I head out.

I'm so so inexplicably exhausted and I don't think it has anything to do with aging. Maybe it's the weather, maybe I'm under the weather, it might be this job which I need a vacation from desperately even if it's only a week and a half. I'm finally starting to get excited about getting out of the city.

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Jul 25

Soup du Jour

Ok, what needs to be said about your own birthday? The less said, the better, I suspect. I will say that yesterday I woke up with acne-esque pink mounds all over my face. I was never zit prone as a teen and haven’t had problems as an oldster, so this was unexpected and not cool. I thought I was being smart by starting to wear tinted moisturizer rather than foundation and powder since it has been so disgusting and humid, but my light cosmetics plan must’ve backfired on me. Neutrogena can go to hell.

Soup Then, I was a block from work, on my way to get sushi for lunch and I started to spontaneously “poop soup” (I told you I'm starting to warm to Rosie). This must’ve been payback for using that phrase last week amongst company that hates bathroom humor and told me to stop and I wouldn’t. I won’t go into the detail (you know, job prospects and all) but it pretty much was what it sounds like. I actually think it was an unfortunate side effect of binging on birthday See’s candy that I’d ravaged like a wild animal the night before. Apparently, at 34 you begin losing control of your bowels and get hit with the bad skin you thought you managed to avoid in high school.

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Jul 20

August is the Cruelest Month

Closed_sign I don't know when I got to be so particular about planning vacations. I never even took vacations for a good majority of my life (well duh, I just answered my own question–that's why I'm so obsessive with making the most of my time off). Growing up, we might annually go to Canon Beach for the weekend and rent a cabin from an old couple from church. We went to Disneyland twice and Canada once. That's about it. Oh, in '85 I drove with my dad and sister (my mom stayed home) to northern California to visit some of his relatives that we rarely saw.

Surprisingly, two of these California cousins (who are closer to my mom's age–their kids, my second cousins, are teens and twenties) are coming to my sister's wedding, which is kind of odd, though not in a bad way. Odd, because I've seen these relatives maybe three times in my life that I'm old enough to recall. I did see them once as a grade schooler, once as a young teen, and then again in 2004 when my dad was in intensive care. That's it. They are the few semi-well-adjusted relatives I'm aware of on my dad's side, though I don't know much about the progeny of my father's eight other siblings.

Now that getting out of town is close enough to get excited about–two weeks from today–I'm ironing out details, making restaurant reservations (or rather forcing James to call since he can handle rudimentary Spanish and I'm useless. I'm really convinced that Asia is an easier travel destination than Europe. But then, I just have a weird Asian fetish and am admittedly lukewarm on much of European culture. As far as continents go, I would prefer visiting South America or Australia over Europe.) and getting really disappointed.

It wasn't my idea to go to Barcelona in August, I was just trying to squeeze in a fun side trip from Wales. As it turns out, the entire freaking city is practically closed. Goddamn lazies. I'm trying to cram as much goodness into my lame eight days off work and these people are out of commission for an entire month. Almost every place I want to go to is closed for the month of August. Yeah, I'm being a crybaby, but if I'm going to pay over $900 just to fly to the U.K. and blow good money on blah B&Bs and eat so-so food, I want the rest of my vacation to bend to my will.

I'd wanted to try Cinc Sentits for modern cuisine, Enric Rovira for chocolate, Papabubble for pretty handcrafted candies and Quimet i Quimet for tapas. None of these places will be open. I had to work my way down the list of must-dos. But really, third best will likely wow me since I'm hardly a first hand expert on Spain's nueva cocina.

On the bright side, my first choice restaurant El Celler de Can Roca in Girona (about an hour out of Barcelona) will be open and we got reservations. I've never followed the whole Michelin star thing, but I've definitely never eaten in a two star European establishment (they don't even have twos or threes in Barcelona proper). I would've gone the three star route, but I've heard better things about Can Roca in comparison to nearby restaurants, Sant Pau or Can Fabes, and reservations are kind of out of the question for El Bulli. I think they were always tough to get, but with the recent mainstream attention the establishment has been getting in the U.S. it must be even harder now.

Ok, enough boo-hooing. I have to go watch Henry Thomas in tonight's episode of Nightmares and Dreamscapes: From the Stories of Stephen King on TNT. James and I are taking bets on how many minutes he lasts before getting killed off. It's going to be hot.

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Jul 10

Precociousness in the City: Part 2

I was waiting for those panini boys to show up in the New York Times and now I can finally rest easy. And what a whopper of a title: La Dolce Vita, Never a Hard Sell.

I've always assumed that the paper is filled with so many of these isn't-that-curious slices of life stories is because a good number of their writers (freelance and staff) live in Park Slope/Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill (I have one in my building). To be fair, this was in The City section, which is precisely intended for such nichey articles, as it's only included in the NYC-area print version.

From what I've heard, the editors do look favorably on missives from lesser known neighborhoods since they're harder to come by (I used to occasionally rack my brain for good Sunset Park scoops, but I don't have a newsy bone in my body. I find those kinds of articles hard to come up with, which is why I have a day job). I guess a glut of Times caliber scribes just don't live in or have awareness of Canarsie or Corona, though this week they did have tales from outposts like Soundview (Bronx) and West Brighton (Staten Island).

As an aside, read my take on the White House Sub Shop, which serves the anti-panini.

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Jul 6

American Independence

Fourth of July has always been one of those marginal holidays to me. Maybe a notch or two above Arbor Day or Administrative Professionals Day, but kind of in the same lackluster category as New Year’s Eve. I was just happy to have four days off, even if it meant doing absolutely nothing. But by Sunday I started feeling antsy so James and I decided impromptu to do an overnight Atlantic City mini-trip. Never mind that all the planners (which normally includes myself. It pains me not to have an itinerary mapped out. I’m currently working on my Wales/Barcelona list for next month) had already snatched up all prime and/or reasonably priced rooms. (You don’t even want to know how many hundreds of dollars we had to cough up to stay at the mediocre boardwalk Holiday Inn.)

As it turns out Atlantic City was a good bet (oh, I’m funny) as the casinos apparently shut down today. I’m not a gambler by any means, but there are other benefits to an AC trip like really good submarine sandwiches (which I’ll detail in a later post) and the enormous self-confidence boost that comes with an excursion outside of NYC. I don’t mean to be completely cruel, but once you break the hour’s drive circumference in any direction people start looking different, and not necessarily for the better. If you ever feel like shit and/or become consumed with self-loathing, simply take a day trip and suddenly you will begin feeling stylish, attractive, svelte and fit. The amount of burnt sienna tanned cellulite bulging out of denim shorts (and not just on overweight women), fanny packs, pajama bottoms as pants, canes, walkers and motorized scooters were quite the eye opener and put me off of buffets for life (ok, a month).

They even have these seemingly pointless rickshaw contraptions on the boardwalk where two people can sit in a small boxy carriage and are pushed by another human who is merely walking. This arrangement confused me greatly, but that could be my NYC need for quickness and efficiency clouding my vision. I guess this manpowered vehicle isn’t intended for fast transport, but for sightseeing while resting your feet. And to be fair, a great number of them were inhabited by Asian couples, but there’s something grotesquely American about not just using your god-given limbs to walk.

By Monday, we were really starting to feel vitriol towards these people because they represent a highly irritating conundrum. All of these sluggish folks move about a millimeter per minute and form a massive human obstacle course. I’ve never seen such confused tortoise-like movements. But once these same fleshy zombies get into their SUVs they drive like freaking Mad Max maniacs. I can’t even count how many times we were tailgated, honked at or had headlights flashed at as while we were driving 80 miles an hour. Just to be a pain and give the comatose-while-on-land a taste of their own medicine, James started driving exactly the speed limit and not letting angry drivers pass. It would’ve been amusing if I wasn’t so afraid of ending up as a road rage victim. I think the same courtesy should be extended to fat ass pedestrians. If they don’t pick up the pace or get the hell out of your way, then they should be harassed mercilessly. Do unto others, correct?

I’m trying to figure out if middle Americans (for lack of a better term—perhaps mid-Atlantic Americans is more apt in this instance) are oblivious or empowered. Like would all of these mushy midriff-barers be embarrassed if they saw themselves on What Not to Wear hidden video footage or would they be like, “fuck off, I can wear whatever I want to.” I can kind of respect the unconventional/ballsy attitude because at least it shows self-awareness.

In this same vein, I’ve recently softened on Rosie O’Donnell (who’s always been right up there with Bill Cosby and Robin Williams in my annoyance pantheon) because at least she seems to be semi-conscious of her image and can laugh at herself (though it’s hard to understand why she thought playing a retard was a brilliant career move). Um, if her poetry is any indication: “i have no sense of style – at all i wear basic lizzie chic i dress like turtle from entourage.” I mean, she knows she dresses like a chunky guido and that’s funny.

So, we lost a little money, didn’t see either Pat Benetar or Eddie Money, who were both playing Sunday night, ate massive subs and Vietnamese food, avoided the beach altogether, went to an outlet mall and Wal-Mart, saw Bobby Flay (I can’t see him and not think of this horrible Food TV commercial from a few years ago where some dude type guy squawked, “Everybody likes Bobby Flay.”) inside his new restaurant that was still closed to the public at the fancy Borgata casino, and ultimately ended up feeling fairly good about our lot in life. I think I got a new perspective on American independence, for better or worse.

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Jun 23

Pressed Sandwiches are the New Lemonade

If you’re not from around here and/or you don’t quite get why I get irrationally irked by neighborhoods like mine full of educated white people with babies, dogs, SUVs and holier than though attitudes (I guess I’m a relatively schooled Caucasian, who is occasionally self-righteous—it must be the accoutrements that turn people into beasts because, you know, I'm completely un-beastly) all you need is this one photo (ok, there are two).

Ok, now do you get it? How can you live in a world where precocious children set up panini stands on street corners? I'm not even going to get into the sitar. Just imagine these rapscallions as adults. I genuinely fear my golden years when these tykes and their progeny become our nation’s movers, shakers and decision makers. I’d better start being nicer to old people or else the circle of life will come around and bite me on my wrinkled ass. I do like panini, though.

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Jun 14

Early Bird Special

Oh my goodness, my early to bed, early to rise and then exercise plan is not having the intended effects at all. I had visions of rising an hour earlier and after 30 minutes on the elliptical trainer and a shower (I'm a night bather) I would be amazingly energized and refreshed. Instead, I woke up with that tired gritty eye feeling and it never dissipated all day. I've had bloodshot eyes and have been groggy since 6:30am and it's now 8:10pm. So, not revitalized. I had even poorer concentration skills at work, was hungrier and sweat even more than normal on my way to work. I'm going to keep at it for the rest of the week in hopes that my body will acclimate, but I see sleeping in till the last possible moment, working out a few nights a week and going to bed with wet hair in my future.

In fact, I'm so exhausted that it's all I can do to type the following link about the Cheesecake Factory from this week's Time. If I went to Yale and knew how to write journalistically and published in mainstream newsweekly magazines, I would totally want to write about Cheesecake Factory (though, apparently, one needs an unusual name for this gig. Oh, and to live in Park Slope. I was curious about a name like Jyoti Thottham, so I looked it up. If you ever see a one-line writer's bio that claims the author lives in Brooklyn, you're guaranteed it's Park Slope. Jyoti lives right near those Grand Army Plaza arches at the top of Prospect Park.). No commentary from me, this quote sums it up, "With its kitchen-sink menu and gargantuan portions, the Cheesecake Factory is big-tent cuisine at its most expansive. It is a restaurant where everything is included but nothing is authentic." In other words, no mint in the summer rolls or anchovies in the puttanesca, but you'll get large servings of said blandness. I actually plan on a C.F. excursion Saturday while at the Menlo Park Mall in Edison, NJ on a suit-seeking mission. It's not every day you get to eat fried macaroni and cheese on top of marinara.

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Jun 8

Nothing Suitable

Why are women's suits so goddamn ugly? Unless you have a couple thousand dollars to spend and are a size 2, you're shit out of luck because it's poly-blends and weird silhouettes otherwise. It's tricky enough trying to find something stylish and inoffensive in any size, but once you get into the plus territory it's big, big trouble. Whatever you do, don't get fooled into clicking on womensuits.com (well, you can just this once). I never even knew there were categories like Church Ensembles and Mother of the Bride. The website claims that the beauty on the left can't be done justice in a photo. Maybe I should check it out in person?

And the whole misses/women thing is confusing. You'd think misses would be large sizes because it sounds so hideous, but it's not. Women's means large which makes no sense because aren't most adult females women, regardless of size? I guess the opposite is juniors, which is an odd moniker too.

You might imagine why I'd want/need a suit, I don't know if I need to spell it out. Can you imagine showing up anywhere, let alone a highly competitive/conservative organization dressed like this? Actually, if you're a corporate librarian you might. In fact, it might just give that extra edge and I'll fit right in. Billowy and blue is just my style. If that's not dressing for success, I don't know what is.

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May 10

The Company I Keep

Though it’s doubtful, perhaps I’m maturing or getting taste, but the clothes are crap everywhere I look. Ok, I only looked at New York & Company but even amidst their mediocrity I often find one or two reasonable items (seriously, no one believes that I’ve actually unearthed unhideous duds there). Not so, recently.

I think it’s the midtown dilemma. Something that would be $9.99 in the boroughs (or the rest of America) seems to stay at $39.99 at this location. This shiny, newish NY & Co. lacks the chain’s major calling card: the sloppy sale rack. No one shops at the former Lerner because they actually love the clothes. At any Brooklyn branch, the full-priced front displays are desolate with just a lone security guard milling around. The crowds are all crammed in the back where the marked down stuff is.

Not only was former stalwart NY & Co. a bust when I paid a visit last week, but my go-to cheap shoe store, Strawberry, a couple store fronts down, had been decimated, it was just a shell. Not that I mind having that lame excuse for a Strawberry put out of its misery. I only went twice since setting up shop in this part of midtown and both excursions were beyond fruitless. The stock was depleted and miserable, and now I know why. Boo to the east 50s—Bloomingdale’s is no substitute when I need a cheap and borderline tacky fix.

New York & Company * 715 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

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May 3

Nine Lives

Catimage Lately when I get up in the morning, The Gray Cat is sitting on the temporarily gray (we still have the winter slipcover on—summer is turquoise) couch upstairs, which is good because it means he’s agile enough to get up the stairs. For a while he didn’t come up unless he was carried. I think the Gray Cat is 15, pretty old for cat, (I just realized my Portland cat, Li’l Smokey, is 11 now, which is crazy because she was like three when I moved to NYC. Er, I suppose that makes me eight years older, as well. My mom hasn’t mentioned her recently, which I hope doesn’t mean that she’s no longer with us, so to speak) and diabetic and I have this fear that I’m going to find him one day keeled over in the closet or sprawled out stiff on the sofa. I mean, he seems lively enough, but it crosses my mind. I was glad to find him awake this morning.

As I headed to the subway, my eye was caught by a make shift sign and a candle shrine on the metal fence of the apartment around the corner. I was hoping it wasn’t what I suspected it was. I totally started bawling (well, tearing up) when I saw the cat memorial for Angelica, the friendly little gray kitty who (I think) lived in the building with the wrought iron fence. I say I think because I never saw anyone feeding her or letting her in, but she had a collar (that I swear read Angelica, despite the R.I.P. sign saying Anjelica. The herb or Ms. Huston?) and wasn’t out in the middle of winter. She was almost always somewhere on our corner, behind a bush, lying on the sidewalk, hiding under a car, and would follow you around and roll around on her back until you pet her. She was one of the selling points of our apartment I was struck by how quiet and quaint the neighborhood was (never mind the BQE), tame enough to foster a resident outdoor cat. Plus, I liked the idea of living on Henry St.

When we first moved in I thought she was an outgoing stray. The pre-gentrifiers in our building (we were the first to move into the remodeled, likely-doubled-rent first floor apartment. Eventually, the upper three units were upgraded and re-inhabited with respectable folks) would leave paper plates with cat food in our yard for her. This stopped once our building filled up with fussier tenants, the kinds who worry about attracting rats and having junky overgrown patches of weeds in front. Once we felt bad for the cat because it was cold and it seemed like she wanted to come inside, so we brought her in and she totally freaked out and hid under the bed and hissed at Caesar, the only cat we had at the time. When I first saw the sign in the distance with her photo on it, I was hoping it was just a missing poster and that maybe someone else had simply smuggled Angelica into their apartment. No such luck, she probably used up her nine lives many times over.

I don’t know why a dead cat makes me so sad. It’s a fact of life. Now that I think about it, as a kid our cats came and went. One got hit by a car, one who knows, another was creepily found lifeless on the sidewalk on Halloween. Some wandered off never to be seen again, some mysteriously vanished, likely at the hands of parents who carted them off to the pound. Not a lot of sentimentality in my family. It bothers me more as an adult than it did as a youngster.

On my way out the door this morning, I debated whether or not I needed my camera in my bag, and took it out because it was too heavy (no, I don’t have a miniscule sleek model, and certainly no camera phone). Besides, I’m too self-conscious to snap photos in public half the time. But I kind of wish I’d had it to capture the cat shrine. Maybe after work, if I don’t feel too weird about it.

Angelica2
Would spray painting rest in peace my nigga Anjelica be a wholly inappropriate response?

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Posts tagged ‘Small Tragedies’

Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?

Soup du Jour

August is the Cruelest Month

Precociousness in the City: Part 2

American Independence

Pressed Sandwiches are the New Lemonade

Early Bird Special

Nothing Suitable

The Company I Keep

Nine Lives

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101