What succinct signage. Why sugarcoat things?
Friday, November 30, 2007
Perfect for the Office Holiday Party
I was thinking of making cookies for the office holiday party. And thanks to Hollaback Girl, I've found the perfect cookie cutters.
http://gizmodo.com/gadgets/naughty-cookies/these-christmas-cookies-have-been-bad-very-very-bad-328633.php
I see a visit to HR in my future.
http://gizmodo.com/gadgets/naughty-cookies/these-christmas-cookies-have-been-bad-very-very-bad-328633.php
I see a visit to HR in my future.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Declan
My friend Mary Catherine Full of Grace is the proud owner of a perfectly delightful child. On November 24th, he turned five. I've had a post celebrating this devilish, charming imp's entry into this world in a draft file since that day so that I could include a photo. Alas, all the photos that I have were lost in a recent involuntary purge of these computer files, so I can't fully illustrate his fair haired mischievousness. And what's more, I don't want to wait another day without marking this milestone.
When MCFOG found she was pregnant, she called me to tell me the news. I remember the day perfectly. I was in my Manhattan office in Midtown. It was the occasion of my birthday--my 40th. While I had no qualms turning 40, I was, on that day, turning over some regrets in my mind. Specifically, I regretted that I had passed this milestone without the benefit of having had children (and the realization that I would probably not have children); that I was not yet a Vice President at work (a milestone that was important to my Dad, who at that time was still living); that my family was predominantly in California and that I was far away from them; that I could probably never wear a miniskirt or go braless in public ever again; that AARP would be sending me mailings in a decade...there were quite a few thoughts in my mind that day.
When MCFOG called me, I was thrilled for her. She had always wanted to have a child. Her nature is nurturing, warm and fun--a very model of mother material. Her little bundle of joy (that would be the fellow named Declan) showed up around the time of Thanksgiving dinner. He showed up a little early but as is the hallmark of his effusive nature, he livened up the joint.
I first met him when he was a few years old. Giggly and rambunctious, he had a head full of MCFOG colored curls. He was initially tentative but before long, he was my best buddy. He said curiously astute and imaginative things. He displayed an affection towards people that represented his inquisitive mind, good manners (always saying "Ma'am" and "Sir")and kind disposition. I quite liked this little fellow.
My next meeting was this past May for the wedding vow renewal of MCFOG and Dr. Doolittle. The little man with his curls had become more intricate in his curiosity and imagination and affection. He graciously gave up his room to me during my stay and he bunked with his step-brother next door. The first morning staying there I awoke and as I craned opened my eyes, I saw a small wide eyed moppet flying towards me. He came inches within my face and said in breathless anticipation, "Whatcha doing?" "Get in here and cuddle with me," I said, patting the bed next to me. And he did. So I ventured, "Declan, what are you doing today?" He stopped and seemed to think deeply. "Well," he started quite seriously, "there is a lot of work to do today. There are lots of bugs that need tending to." "I see. what else?" "Daddy needs my help with things." "Why, you're very handy. I'm sure your Daddy appreciates your help," I exclaimed. "Yes, ma'am." he answered. He has the whiff of a southern accent and he's as sweet as a piece of pecan pie--how can you not be charmed?
On the day of the wedding, there were a lot of things transpiring all at once. Clear in my mind was Declan's determined desire to wear his Spiderman Halloween costume for the wedding. MCFOG let him wear it after the rehearsal dinner and he was very attached to it. In the end, she got him into his little kilt and proper Scottish kit, but as soon as post wedding pictures were taken, this little force of nature was racing around the reception in super hero mode. Like a pied piper, he led the joyous pursuits of the other kids, their wedding finery a bit disheveled as they romped in the tall grass of The Doolittle acred estate.
I can't believe he's five now. He'll be ten soon enough. Then 20. But why rush it? For now, I like the way he grins broadly like he's tickled utterly pink when you say something he thinks is funny. I like the way he calls me "Aunt Mikki." I like the way he puts his little hand on your cheek to show he likes you. I like the way he embraces the genuine values in a young boy's life: checking out the biological attributes in the creek in the back yard, waging war on the insects that dare crawl into the family homestead, his unbridled pleasure running in circles in the pasture. It reminds us (even those of us past 40) how sweet the simple things in life really are.
On the occasion of this recent milestone in his young life, I celebrate this boy who captures all the best characteristics of both his parents and with the wonder only meant for the innocent.
When MCFOG found she was pregnant, she called me to tell me the news. I remember the day perfectly. I was in my Manhattan office in Midtown. It was the occasion of my birthday--my 40th. While I had no qualms turning 40, I was, on that day, turning over some regrets in my mind. Specifically, I regretted that I had passed this milestone without the benefit of having had children (and the realization that I would probably not have children); that I was not yet a Vice President at work (a milestone that was important to my Dad, who at that time was still living); that my family was predominantly in California and that I was far away from them; that I could probably never wear a miniskirt or go braless in public ever again; that AARP would be sending me mailings in a decade...there were quite a few thoughts in my mind that day.
When MCFOG called me, I was thrilled for her. She had always wanted to have a child. Her nature is nurturing, warm and fun--a very model of mother material. Her little bundle of joy (that would be the fellow named Declan) showed up around the time of Thanksgiving dinner. He showed up a little early but as is the hallmark of his effusive nature, he livened up the joint.
I first met him when he was a few years old. Giggly and rambunctious, he had a head full of MCFOG colored curls. He was initially tentative but before long, he was my best buddy. He said curiously astute and imaginative things. He displayed an affection towards people that represented his inquisitive mind, good manners (always saying "Ma'am" and "Sir")and kind disposition. I quite liked this little fellow.
My next meeting was this past May for the wedding vow renewal of MCFOG and Dr. Doolittle. The little man with his curls had become more intricate in his curiosity and imagination and affection. He graciously gave up his room to me during my stay and he bunked with his step-brother next door. The first morning staying there I awoke and as I craned opened my eyes, I saw a small wide eyed moppet flying towards me. He came inches within my face and said in breathless anticipation, "Whatcha doing?" "Get in here and cuddle with me," I said, patting the bed next to me. And he did. So I ventured, "Declan, what are you doing today?" He stopped and seemed to think deeply. "Well," he started quite seriously, "there is a lot of work to do today. There are lots of bugs that need tending to." "I see. what else?" "Daddy needs my help with things." "Why, you're very handy. I'm sure your Daddy appreciates your help," I exclaimed. "Yes, ma'am." he answered. He has the whiff of a southern accent and he's as sweet as a piece of pecan pie--how can you not be charmed?
On the day of the wedding, there were a lot of things transpiring all at once. Clear in my mind was Declan's determined desire to wear his Spiderman Halloween costume for the wedding. MCFOG let him wear it after the rehearsal dinner and he was very attached to it. In the end, she got him into his little kilt and proper Scottish kit, but as soon as post wedding pictures were taken, this little force of nature was racing around the reception in super hero mode. Like a pied piper, he led the joyous pursuits of the other kids, their wedding finery a bit disheveled as they romped in the tall grass of The Doolittle acred estate.
I can't believe he's five now. He'll be ten soon enough. Then 20. But why rush it? For now, I like the way he grins broadly like he's tickled utterly pink when you say something he thinks is funny. I like the way he calls me "Aunt Mikki." I like the way he puts his little hand on your cheek to show he likes you. I like the way he embraces the genuine values in a young boy's life: checking out the biological attributes in the creek in the back yard, waging war on the insects that dare crawl into the family homestead, his unbridled pleasure running in circles in the pasture. It reminds us (even those of us past 40) how sweet the simple things in life really are.
On the occasion of this recent milestone in his young life, I celebrate this boy who captures all the best characteristics of both his parents and with the wonder only meant for the innocent.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Hit The Road
There were some intriguing travel ideas highlit in today's edition of Daily Candy. Just reading these exotic concepts made me want to pack a months worth of disposable underwear, a swim suit, a parka, a passport, a little black dress, lots of Euros and then call the month of December a long lost weekend. A girl can dream.
Join me in this sweet musing. This courtesy of the bards at Daily Candy:
Contrary to pop culture belief, you don’t need a souped-up DeLorean to travel through time. You can teleport to a different era with a healthy sense of adventure. And maps. Lots of maps.
Stone Age
Anatolian Houses, Cappadocia, Turkey
Adventure: If you never thought living in a cave could be fun, you’ve obviously never lived in one with a minibar, LCD TV, fireplace, and Jacuzzi.
Act Your Age: Sip from the resort’s wine fountain, then tour the luxe suites embedded deep in a surreal volcanic landscape. (Yes, a fountain of wine.)
Ice Age
Ice Hotel, Quebec, Canada
Adventure: Go green (and a little blue) in a hotel rebuilt every year from 15,000 tons of snow and 500 tons of ice. Hot water included.
Act Your Age: For the ultimate winter vacation, dog sled by day and sip cocktails from ice glasses by night; then retire to your arctic sleeping bag.
Medieval
Ashford Castle, Cong, Ireland
Adventure: Live like royalty in a 13th-century castle located on Ireland’s second largest lake, deep within 350 acres of wooded parkland.
Act Your Age: Daily activities include falconry, archery, and clay shooting, as well as a full-service spa. Enjoy haute cuisine in the George V dining room and nightly sing-alongs in the dungeon pub.
Age of Enlightenment
Hotel de Filosoof, Amsterdam, Netherlands
Adventure: Engage your mind in 38 rooms inspired by different philosophers. (In the Descartes suite, you think, therefore you snooze.)
Act Your Age: Breakfast is served with an inspirational quote of the day. Contemplate your existence with a drink in the library or a discourse in the private garden. Try not to reverse all that intellectual progress with Amsterdam’s locally grown.
Wild West
Pioneertown Motel, Pioneertown, California
Adventure: It’s Wild West living at the motel that once housed the stars of Westerns (The Cisco Kid, Hopalong Cassidy) filmed there.
Act Your Age: Pick up your horse at the corral in the morning for a leisurely ride along desert trails. Giddyup back in time for whiskey, staged shoot-outs, and stargazing. BYO cowboy.
Space Age
UNA Hotel Vittoria, Florence, Italy
Adventure: Florence may be the center of the Renaissance, but this hotel pays homage to the future of design.
Act Your Age: Lounges offer giant spiral seating for two, and guest rooms are outfitted with black leather checkered walls with inlaid fiber-optic lighting. Modernism isn’t for the bashful: Bathrooms are encased in crystal, prizing form over function. Don’t forget to rent a Vespa — some things never go out of style.
..so who's with me?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Going Up
Boy, you hear some strange shit in elevators these days.
It's probably because here we spend so much time getting from our homes down to the ground, from the ground up to our work, back down to the ground to get to lunch, maybe back up a new elevator to get to a client meeting, throw in an odd escalator to get to subterranean transport levels and let's not even discuss the dozens of stairways one must traverse to get anywhere. This damned place was made for up and down transport.
We spent the better part of travel time waiting for elevators to arrive at ground level to whisk us upwards (unless inpatient disgust forces one to schlep one's fat ass up six flights of stairs instead). Elevators seem to take an interminable amount of time and they move with snail like speed. I have often thought the second coming of Jesus Christ himself would be faster than the elevators in my apartment building. And He probably will be.
Still should you be one of the stalwarts that can wait out the ground floor arrival of an elevator, you usually will be gifted with some kind of intriguing exchange between friends or even more probably, between complete strangers.
Two examples from today:
On an elevator in an office building, a group of men are huddled together talking about football.
Man One: If Manning doesn't get it together for Sunday against Chicago, we're fucked.
Man Two: Minnesota turned the tide. New York teams suck.
Man Three: My friend has some beer flavored candy from Germany. He calls them Jolly Ranchers for men.
Man Two: That's awesome, dude.
On the crowded elevator in my apartment building tonight. I get in first and am closest to the control panel so I ask all inhabitants for their floors so that I may press the button on their behalves. We ride up one floor and I notice there is a strong smell. It could be fried food; it could be a really odoriferous fart.
We get to the second floor and a man clutching a plastic bag says, "Are you wondering what that smell is?"
Silence.
I respond with a smidgen of sarcasm, "Yes, don't keep me hanging. I have only one more floor to go!"
"It's the best take out ever from a southern place called Bama at 153rd and Amsterdam."
"Sounds like good eating," I say sweetly as I maneuver my way out of the elevator. Another man squeezes out behind me.
As the door shuts, the man who exited the floor with me said (slightly under his breath as he walked down the hall) "Smells like someone took a shit in that bag."
We're all friends here.
It's probably because here we spend so much time getting from our homes down to the ground, from the ground up to our work, back down to the ground to get to lunch, maybe back up a new elevator to get to a client meeting, throw in an odd escalator to get to subterranean transport levels and let's not even discuss the dozens of stairways one must traverse to get anywhere. This damned place was made for up and down transport.
We spent the better part of travel time waiting for elevators to arrive at ground level to whisk us upwards (unless inpatient disgust forces one to schlep one's fat ass up six flights of stairs instead). Elevators seem to take an interminable amount of time and they move with snail like speed. I have often thought the second coming of Jesus Christ himself would be faster than the elevators in my apartment building. And He probably will be.
Still should you be one of the stalwarts that can wait out the ground floor arrival of an elevator, you usually will be gifted with some kind of intriguing exchange between friends or even more probably, between complete strangers.
Two examples from today:
On an elevator in an office building, a group of men are huddled together talking about football.
Man One: If Manning doesn't get it together for Sunday against Chicago, we're fucked.
Man Two: Minnesota turned the tide. New York teams suck.
Man Three: My friend has some beer flavored candy from Germany. He calls them Jolly Ranchers for men.
Man Two: That's awesome, dude.
On the crowded elevator in my apartment building tonight. I get in first and am closest to the control panel so I ask all inhabitants for their floors so that I may press the button on their behalves. We ride up one floor and I notice there is a strong smell. It could be fried food; it could be a really odoriferous fart.
We get to the second floor and a man clutching a plastic bag says, "Are you wondering what that smell is?"
Silence.
I respond with a smidgen of sarcasm, "Yes, don't keep me hanging. I have only one more floor to go!"
"It's the best take out ever from a southern place called Bama at 153rd and Amsterdam."
"Sounds like good eating," I say sweetly as I maneuver my way out of the elevator. Another man squeezes out behind me.
As the door shuts, the man who exited the floor with me said (slightly under his breath as he walked down the hall) "Smells like someone took a shit in that bag."
We're all friends here.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Stormy Monday
Oh for the love of sweet screaming Jesus, you knew it had to happen, right?
The last few weeks have been seamless. Few conflicts have arisen, no crisis or traumas to muddy the general calm of the day. Even the commute has been tolerable as much as those things go. Personalities have been managed. Pleasantries exchanged with shiny, happy people My general demeanor has been cheerful. Life's been just grand.
Then you have one of those really shitty days. Like today.
It should have been a sign of things to come when I had one of those nights that felt as if I'd sat wide awake all night even though I did actually sleep at some point. As I prepared to go to work I could heard sheets of rain pounding down on the air conditioning units mounted in the apartment windows. Having just spent $50 on a blowout on my hair, I was determined not to show up at the office looking like a two dollar hooker on a bad night. The few umbrellas at hand were clearly not up the task of hair protection given the copious rainfall and wind. This called for desperate measures. A clear produce bag from Westside Market inverted and trimmed along one seam should give me enough protection to get from my apartment to my parking garage intact; I'd have to demonstrate enough bravado to make it look normal. I wrapped it around my head with a flourish one might use in donning a Hermes scarf. Which would have worked if the words "Westside Market" hadn't been stretched across my forehead. It served its purpose although I swear a burst of steam escaped from my head when I actually unwound the plastic. And I did scare the hell out of the garage attendant.
Once on the road, the traffic snarled through the Bronx. Trucks plowed through large puddles of standing water making visibility a challenge. One of my wipers was gimpy and it streaked the windshield. Every radio station I put on was playing a song by either Daughtry or Nickelback and I am sick to death of both. I had to resort to a Barry White CD. There's something very perverse about listening to Barry grunt and groan in silky sheet bliss while idling in diesel fumes.
I finally arrived in Connecticut and saw the beacon of salvation: Starbucks. Pulling into the lot it was clear that there was no absolutely parking available. A series of maneuvers and vehicular do-see-does had to be undertaken in order to exit the lot (while accommodating the crusade of SUVs entering the lot). I should have given up, but so great was my need for that liquid crack that I ended up parking on the street a block away. As if on cue, on exiting the car the rain commenced. Without the benefit of my Westside head gear I suffered some follicle distress--maybe on the four dollar hooker level.
I arrived at the office and maneuvered my bags, the crap umbrella and the oversized cup of coffee out of the car. Reaching for my security pass, I nearly dropped the coffee and in an effort to contain it, a generous portion of it spewed forth draping a section of my right hand. I hope the woodland creatures of the surrounding forest were the only ones who heard me then declare, "Goddammmotherfucker! SHIT!" It was 8 am. I hadn't even walked in to work yet.
Once I entered the lobby, I saw the area had been decorated in holiday cheer--a festive wreath, a small decorated Christmas tree, miniature poinsettias. I immediately felt distressed at the absence of a menorah. I made a mental note to bring this up to the facilities manager.
I walked into my office. The bright red foliage which populated the view has completely disappeared; the trio of trees are bare and bereft and their glorious leaves have shed seemingly overnight. In fact almost none of the trees in the office park have retained any leaves whatsoever--the parking lot is blanketed by the last gasp of autumn's finery. The old cemetery dominates the view now...which I would have admired save I can not focus my vision. I have white flashes in front of my eyes which denotes the onset of a migraine.
I took two Tylenol and a big slug of coffee. And so the day begins.
The migraine only intensified by 9 am so I took two more Tylenol. I entertained the notion of eating something to ease the impact of the tablets on my stomach but the notion of any foodstuff made me nauseous. In fact, I felt so nauseous by the time of a 9:30 conference call that I mapped out where I could prudently vomit should I need to (I also located the "mute" function on the phone should a quick reaction be necessary).
The day went from bad to worse. There were many phone calls. There were many issues to attend to. A couple of problems demanded resolution. I've tabled the menorah dialogue for another day. The migraine settled into a low dull throbbing behind my ears where it remained all day, intensified particularly by a conversation with a colleague who has a tendency to shriek when she speaks. On my last conference call of the day I looked at the clock balefully, longing for 5:30. When it finally came, I had an empty stomach, a throbbing scalp and a head full of hooker hair.
This should be the end of the story but come on, people. It's pouring rain on a Monday right and everyone wants to get home. I pulled into the garage at 7:40 pm, delirious and practically speaking in tongues. Now it's evident that the garage attendant is really freaked out by me, Christmas tip be damned. Tonight--rightly so but at least I had given up my plastic headgear.
And how was YOUR day?
The last few weeks have been seamless. Few conflicts have arisen, no crisis or traumas to muddy the general calm of the day. Even the commute has been tolerable as much as those things go. Personalities have been managed. Pleasantries exchanged with shiny, happy people My general demeanor has been cheerful. Life's been just grand.
Then you have one of those really shitty days. Like today.
It should have been a sign of things to come when I had one of those nights that felt as if I'd sat wide awake all night even though I did actually sleep at some point. As I prepared to go to work I could heard sheets of rain pounding down on the air conditioning units mounted in the apartment windows. Having just spent $50 on a blowout on my hair, I was determined not to show up at the office looking like a two dollar hooker on a bad night. The few umbrellas at hand were clearly not up the task of hair protection given the copious rainfall and wind. This called for desperate measures. A clear produce bag from Westside Market inverted and trimmed along one seam should give me enough protection to get from my apartment to my parking garage intact; I'd have to demonstrate enough bravado to make it look normal. I wrapped it around my head with a flourish one might use in donning a Hermes scarf. Which would have worked if the words "Westside Market" hadn't been stretched across my forehead. It served its purpose although I swear a burst of steam escaped from my head when I actually unwound the plastic. And I did scare the hell out of the garage attendant.
Once on the road, the traffic snarled through the Bronx. Trucks plowed through large puddles of standing water making visibility a challenge. One of my wipers was gimpy and it streaked the windshield. Every radio station I put on was playing a song by either Daughtry or Nickelback and I am sick to death of both. I had to resort to a Barry White CD. There's something very perverse about listening to Barry grunt and groan in silky sheet bliss while idling in diesel fumes.
I finally arrived in Connecticut and saw the beacon of salvation: Starbucks. Pulling into the lot it was clear that there was no absolutely parking available. A series of maneuvers and vehicular do-see-does had to be undertaken in order to exit the lot (while accommodating the crusade of SUVs entering the lot). I should have given up, but so great was my need for that liquid crack that I ended up parking on the street a block away. As if on cue, on exiting the car the rain commenced. Without the benefit of my Westside head gear I suffered some follicle distress--maybe on the four dollar hooker level.
I arrived at the office and maneuvered my bags, the crap umbrella and the oversized cup of coffee out of the car. Reaching for my security pass, I nearly dropped the coffee and in an effort to contain it, a generous portion of it spewed forth draping a section of my right hand. I hope the woodland creatures of the surrounding forest were the only ones who heard me then declare, "Goddammmotherfucker! SHIT!" It was 8 am. I hadn't even walked in to work yet.
Once I entered the lobby, I saw the area had been decorated in holiday cheer--a festive wreath, a small decorated Christmas tree, miniature poinsettias. I immediately felt distressed at the absence of a menorah. I made a mental note to bring this up to the facilities manager.
I walked into my office. The bright red foliage which populated the view has completely disappeared; the trio of trees are bare and bereft and their glorious leaves have shed seemingly overnight. In fact almost none of the trees in the office park have retained any leaves whatsoever--the parking lot is blanketed by the last gasp of autumn's finery. The old cemetery dominates the view now...which I would have admired save I can not focus my vision. I have white flashes in front of my eyes which denotes the onset of a migraine.
I took two Tylenol and a big slug of coffee. And so the day begins.
The migraine only intensified by 9 am so I took two more Tylenol. I entertained the notion of eating something to ease the impact of the tablets on my stomach but the notion of any foodstuff made me nauseous. In fact, I felt so nauseous by the time of a 9:30 conference call that I mapped out where I could prudently vomit should I need to (I also located the "mute" function on the phone should a quick reaction be necessary).
The day went from bad to worse. There were many phone calls. There were many issues to attend to. A couple of problems demanded resolution. I've tabled the menorah dialogue for another day. The migraine settled into a low dull throbbing behind my ears where it remained all day, intensified particularly by a conversation with a colleague who has a tendency to shriek when she speaks. On my last conference call of the day I looked at the clock balefully, longing for 5:30. When it finally came, I had an empty stomach, a throbbing scalp and a head full of hooker hair.
This should be the end of the story but come on, people. It's pouring rain on a Monday right and everyone wants to get home. I pulled into the garage at 7:40 pm, delirious and practically speaking in tongues. Now it's evident that the garage attendant is really freaked out by me, Christmas tip be damned. Tonight--rightly so but at least I had given up my plastic headgear.
And how was YOUR day?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Oh, The Horror
I live in fear of having one of those days where I will have a complete lapse of judgement, don some appalling fashion choice and have my portrait snapped and uploaded to this reader hall of fashion shame. There is some truly horrendous shit here. Hopefully, we don't recognize anyone (and God help them if we do).
http://donts.glamour.com/?gallery=Worst%20Don%27ts&gallery=Worst%20Don%27ts&s=galleries&cmd=view&sort=dont&;maxrating=5
http://donts.glamour.com/?gallery=Worst%20Don%27ts&gallery=Worst%20Don%27ts&s=galleries&cmd=view&sort=dont&;maxrating=5
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Discourse
So this really happened today.
I decided to make Fang a big Italian dinner tonight. His request was utterly nondescript, so I decided to make use of what proteins I already had at hand (that would be some dazzling sweet Italian basil sausage). I went to the Upper West Side, a recyclable Trader Joe's bag in hand, and stocked up on savoy cabbage, leeks, a very fresh Italian fontina cheese, a sturdy baguette, garlic and other sundry produce items. I bought some miniature pink lady apples, blueberries and a packet of filo to concoct a dessert. I even brought a festive container of crumpets for breakfast. I'm a four course girl.
My attempt would assume the following steps: brown the sausage, soft cook the leeks, cook down the cabbage with some chicken stock, salt, pepper and add in the penne. Add loads of fontina. Heat the bowls, dose up and serve with a powerful Cabernet.
It sounded good. Now I needed to find the right wine.
I toddled six blocks to the wine purveyor at 79th & Broadway. I walked in, loaded down with my groceries. I bade the vendor good day and asked that I might put down my bags and leave them whilst I shopped for my wine. He approved and here's where the notable conversation began.
There was a tall 30-something African American man paying for a bottle of wine at the counter. He caught sight of me parking my groceries and he yelled out to me.
Man: What you got going on there, mama? You doing some cooking?
Me: (a little startled) why, yes. Yes, I am.
Man: I see some french bread. You making garlic bread? What are you cooking?
He seemed almost intense. But he was also very cute.
Me: (approaching him) Do you really want to know?
Man: That's why I asked you. I really want to know.
I describe the meal I want to make. He smiles broadly.
Man: Did you just make that recipe up, baby? Are you Italian?
Me: No.
Man: Jewish?
Me: No.
Man: Spanish?
Me: Yeah...no.
Man: What are you?
Me: Well, I'm one of those big mixes of nationalities.
Man: Of that big mix, which one are you?
Me: Polish, I guess.
Man: Polish?! What does a Polish girl know about Italian food? Is that why you're using cabbage in Italian food?
Me: I guess. Everyone likes cabbage, no?
Man shrugs. Then he gives me a sweet smile.
Man: You look Swedish to me.
Me: Well, I am part Danish..
Man: You have a husband?
Me: Last time I checked.
Man: Because if the husband doesn't like cabbage, I do. And if he don't want the dinner you're fixing up, I do.
Man signs his receipt. He takes an additional piece of paper from the cashier and writes something down. He hands me his phone number. His name is Devon. He winks as he gives me the number. Lord have mercy.
The minute he left, I wrote this conversation down. Word for word. And yes, he did use "mama" in his opening line. So retro and so perfect and so appealing coming from such a cute man.
I select a Coppola reserve Cabernet and a Paso Creek Merlot. The cashier in the store is laughing about our exchange.
And well, dinner went over well, too.
I decided to make Fang a big Italian dinner tonight. His request was utterly nondescript, so I decided to make use of what proteins I already had at hand (that would be some dazzling sweet Italian basil sausage). I went to the Upper West Side, a recyclable Trader Joe's bag in hand, and stocked up on savoy cabbage, leeks, a very fresh Italian fontina cheese, a sturdy baguette, garlic and other sundry produce items. I bought some miniature pink lady apples, blueberries and a packet of filo to concoct a dessert. I even brought a festive container of crumpets for breakfast. I'm a four course girl.
My attempt would assume the following steps: brown the sausage, soft cook the leeks, cook down the cabbage with some chicken stock, salt, pepper and add in the penne. Add loads of fontina. Heat the bowls, dose up and serve with a powerful Cabernet.
It sounded good. Now I needed to find the right wine.
I toddled six blocks to the wine purveyor at 79th & Broadway. I walked in, loaded down with my groceries. I bade the vendor good day and asked that I might put down my bags and leave them whilst I shopped for my wine. He approved and here's where the notable conversation began.
There was a tall 30-something African American man paying for a bottle of wine at the counter. He caught sight of me parking my groceries and he yelled out to me.
Man: What you got going on there, mama? You doing some cooking?
Me: (a little startled) why, yes. Yes, I am.
Man: I see some french bread. You making garlic bread? What are you cooking?
He seemed almost intense. But he was also very cute.
Me: (approaching him) Do you really want to know?
Man: That's why I asked you. I really want to know.
I describe the meal I want to make. He smiles broadly.
Man: Did you just make that recipe up, baby? Are you Italian?
Me: No.
Man: Jewish?
Me: No.
Man: Spanish?
Me: Yeah...no.
Man: What are you?
Me: Well, I'm one of those big mixes of nationalities.
Man: Of that big mix, which one are you?
Me: Polish, I guess.
Man: Polish?! What does a Polish girl know about Italian food? Is that why you're using cabbage in Italian food?
Me: I guess. Everyone likes cabbage, no?
Man shrugs. Then he gives me a sweet smile.
Man: You look Swedish to me.
Me: Well, I am part Danish..
Man: You have a husband?
Me: Last time I checked.
Man: Because if the husband doesn't like cabbage, I do. And if he don't want the dinner you're fixing up, I do.
Man signs his receipt. He takes an additional piece of paper from the cashier and writes something down. He hands me his phone number. His name is Devon. He winks as he gives me the number. Lord have mercy.
The minute he left, I wrote this conversation down. Word for word. And yes, he did use "mama" in his opening line. So retro and so perfect and so appealing coming from such a cute man.
I select a Coppola reserve Cabernet and a Paso Creek Merlot. The cashier in the store is laughing about our exchange.
And well, dinner went over well, too.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
All American Eating
So I'm in Queens today with the trio of Aunts for Thanksgiving. Fang's cousin Basia says, "I'm giving up the pomegranate juice that I drink because it's apparently manufactured in China." Really? That's peculiar...that it's manufactured in China, that is. She continued, "I looked at the label and it's made in China. God knows what sort of chemicals they use on the fruits and vegetables there." "DDT!!!" yells Ciocia B from the kitchen, "they use DDT on the produce and put lead into the toys and ship it to America. Why can't these manufacturers use products from the good old US of A?"
Who knew this would become the theme of the day?
Basia also mentioned she had found out her bitter cheery juice that she bought in a bodega on the East side was made in Serbia. Aunt Fran said the oranges she bought were from Africa. Even the turnips used in the mashed turnips served with dinner were from Canada. Apparently Canadian manufactured products were considered to be acceptable because "Canada is a very clean and sanitary country."
It's curious to me that in New York that you get a lot of everyday fare from overseas. I grew up in California's central valley, the very hub of agricultural goodness. The produce was bountiful and natural. We had fruit and nut trees in our backyard and you could pluck fresh oranges and peaches as they ripened on the branches. I remember the way they tasted in their unsullied state. In my wildest dreams I wouldn't have imagined that the strawberries we'd buy in the summer would come from growers in Costa Rica. I mean, Watsonville, California was a lot closer and it is a region noted for their strawberries.
Over thanksgiving dinner tonight, no less than five root vegetables were represented sur la table. We believe these (with the exception of the turnips) were American grown. This led into a discussion about garlic and ginger in the grocery stores being Chinese imports (and the lead/DDT thing again).
As least the dessert was homemade although I can't verify the origin of the ingredients. Maybe it's better that way.
Who knew this would become the theme of the day?
Basia also mentioned she had found out her bitter cheery juice that she bought in a bodega on the East side was made in Serbia. Aunt Fran said the oranges she bought were from Africa. Even the turnips used in the mashed turnips served with dinner were from Canada. Apparently Canadian manufactured products were considered to be acceptable because "Canada is a very clean and sanitary country."
It's curious to me that in New York that you get a lot of everyday fare from overseas. I grew up in California's central valley, the very hub of agricultural goodness. The produce was bountiful and natural. We had fruit and nut trees in our backyard and you could pluck fresh oranges and peaches as they ripened on the branches. I remember the way they tasted in their unsullied state. In my wildest dreams I wouldn't have imagined that the strawberries we'd buy in the summer would come from growers in Costa Rica. I mean, Watsonville, California was a lot closer and it is a region noted for their strawberries.
Over thanksgiving dinner tonight, no less than five root vegetables were represented sur la table. We believe these (with the exception of the turnips) were American grown. This led into a discussion about garlic and ginger in the grocery stores being Chinese imports (and the lead/DDT thing again).
As least the dessert was homemade although I can't verify the origin of the ingredients. Maybe it's better that way.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Everyone Likes Pie!
My brother used to say the only decent pie in the world contained hair. He's a nasty bastard. I don't know much about hair pie but I do know this. Show up on someones door with something reeking of some fruit stuff or sweetened vegetable usually garners you entrance.
For this year's Thanksgiving, I conjured up a homemade recipe of a pecan pie and a pumpkin pie. I know, people. Quel Pedestrian Still, as middle of the road as it may seem, it garners a chair at the table. And baby's gotta eat.
Here's my secret ingredient in the pecan pie.
I know. It's ever so obvious.I do hope the doorstep of a home in Woodside, Queens, New York will be accommodating.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Perfect Bachelor Finale
I just started watching "The Bachelor" this season. Here's the cushy preview to the finale. And despite the hearts, flowers and swooning violins, how did the show actually end? The Southern gent blew both girls off. Now that's how a brother scores a little hooch without getting wrangled in. There's a poetic justice to that somehow.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The View From Here
One of the truest pleasures of going to work is the view from my office window. It was delightful in spring and awash in green in the summer. Yet nothing compares to the beauty of the autumn. This is the view from one of my windows. A trio of aged trees are brilliant with red foliage. If the sun is out, the reflection of their fiery finery colors the hues of my walls. It is simply breathtaking.
I decided to document this phenomenon today as the season grows short. On the drive North this morning, I drove through a mix of snow and rain. The temperatures have dropped. Winter has decided to intrude on this lovely period of leaf evolution and I expect she will be a tempestuous thing this year. The robust red trio will soon be bereft of their wardrobe and my view for the next four or five months will be the antiquated cemetery that flanks this office park (which actually looks quite charming when covered with the Winter snowfall).
For the time that remains, I intend to cherish the color of nature's flamboyant parade. How can you not?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Fine Line of Sexual Preference
My brother, a straight married man with a preference for Asian and Latina women, was misquoted in the local San Francisco media this week. The quote made the assumption his preference tended toward men. In one of those moments that are often utilized in a movie scenario, a miscommunication resulted in a plethora of ribbing from his colleagues and he'd had one miserable week. You just have to laugh. God knows I did.
I spoke to him today and he's bearing up well. As twins, we both suffer the odd perception that we prefer the same sex. And while we're both totally comfortable with the same sex, we ultimately both have preferences of the opposite sex.
I do appreciate women. I find them physically attractive, fascinating and intriguing. This would make me the ideal lesbian save one key element--I miss The Dick. I admit it. There is nothing more exciting to me than a raging hard on. A man may be a dullard but a coupla inches of hard throbbing business has me utterly... It's true, as sad as that sounds.
I like the way a man smells. I like the bulk of their arms, the awkwardness of their gestures, the squareness of their features. There is something about a man that thrills me.
I've never been with a woman. A roommate in college tried to persuade me but without the package, I could not commit. That's just me. And she was a lovely girl.
Despite the fact, women still seems to like me. And I like the attention. I suspect that an indulgence with a woman would result in an utterly satisfying experience. Yet in the end I still need The Dick.
My favorite reality show (besides "Project Runway") is on MTV. "A Shot At Love With Tila Tequila" features a bi-sexual My Space celebrity enjoying the attentions of men and women vying for her affection. To date. many of both sexes have been eliminated. Those who remain contain a weird selection of men and skanky women. And a firewoman whom I find strangely gorgeous. Dani is butch and more masculine than most of the men. Yet she seems down to Earth and in her masculine way, quite appealing.
Maybe we're meant to be sexually confused in life. I wonder.
I spoke to him today and he's bearing up well. As twins, we both suffer the odd perception that we prefer the same sex. And while we're both totally comfortable with the same sex, we ultimately both have preferences of the opposite sex.
I do appreciate women. I find them physically attractive, fascinating and intriguing. This would make me the ideal lesbian save one key element--I miss The Dick. I admit it. There is nothing more exciting to me than a raging hard on. A man may be a dullard but a coupla inches of hard throbbing business has me utterly... It's true, as sad as that sounds.
I like the way a man smells. I like the bulk of their arms, the awkwardness of their gestures, the squareness of their features. There is something about a man that thrills me.
I've never been with a woman. A roommate in college tried to persuade me but without the package, I could not commit. That's just me. And she was a lovely girl.
Despite the fact, women still seems to like me. And I like the attention. I suspect that an indulgence with a woman would result in an utterly satisfying experience. Yet in the end I still need The Dick.
My favorite reality show (besides "Project Runway") is on MTV. "A Shot At Love With Tila Tequila" features a bi-sexual My Space celebrity enjoying the attentions of men and women vying for her affection. To date. many of both sexes have been eliminated. Those who remain contain a weird selection of men and skanky women. And a firewoman whom I find strangely gorgeous. Dani is butch and more masculine than most of the men. Yet she seems down to Earth and in her masculine way, quite appealing.
Maybe we're meant to be sexually confused in life. I wonder.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
32 Ounces of Joy
You know, if you're going to give in to the calories that equate a classic steak meal, you ought to give in to a meal at Peter Lugers. Peter Lugers is amongst the best steak houses in the region (although I'd rank Keen's in Manhattan a close second). They say the Brooklyn location is the best. I would have liked to offer debate on this point but the Brooklyn location is booked up until next May. So we went to their newest location in Great Neck, New York (this is on Long Island--Caryl knows where this is).
We went in already prepared to order. We decided to split a Caesar salad. Four slices of the bacon appetizer at $3.00 a slice (and hello--let me repeat: BACON appetizer). The classic 32 ounce porterhouse for two (that includes the bone, let me add). A side of classic German potatoes. A side of creamed spinach. A bottle of pinot noir. OK, now we can eat!
The Caesar salad is frankly, pretty average. Which is disappointing. Most steakhouses nail the classic Caesar. However, the pinot is sublime. It is perfection.
The bacon makes me want to slap my ass and call myself Sally. Fucking A. This is swine at its finest (despite the weirdly phallic photographic look of the remains here).
The meat arrives, already sectioned from the bone and sliced. The waiter doses my plate up like I am a child.
After sampling the fare, I have a distinct opinion on the foodstuffs before us. The meat--ordered medium--arrives at the correct temperature, but is a little tough in texture. And dare I say, under seasoned? I even try some of the famous Peter Luger steak sauce to add some flavor. The potatoes were well done and lacking in seasoning, so I had to add salt. Fang told me they were classic kartoffel, but these were like dry home fries. The creamed spinach had a smooth texture and nice flavor, but it begged a dash of freshly grated nutmeg. I think that would have perfected this dish. I even told the maitre'd the same thing when we left, but I had the distinct feeling he really didn't give a shit about my recommendations. And why should he? The dining room was packed and they'll never want for customers.
In the end, it was a fine meal and the service at the hands of our Eastern European waiter was superb. But for a $200 meal, you'd want a bit more flavor in the end product. Right?
I know. I'm going straight to hell.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Got It Goin' On
This has just about summed up the last few days. The home computer has apparently crashed (thank you 12th hour wireless). Work is a series of campy dramas. Fang is not speaking to me. Life is just bad. At least Bret's got it going on.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
And They Said It Wouldn't Last
Today is my wedding anniversary.
Fang and I have been married for 15 years, although it has to be a most unconventional marriage. I guess if it works and in its way it does, that's all that matters. Reflecting back on that day 5,475 days ago, it's evident that our wedding set the stage for our curious years ahead.
I don't quite know why we actually did get married. As unromantic as it may sound, I recall the real reason was rooted in tax reasons. We'd been living together for nearly five years, perfectly content to continue doing so. We had combined income and had jointly purchased things like real estate. Concerned about the community property issues in California and pressured by a friend from Texas concerned about our mutual inability to commit to marriage, we decided to legalize a union that California would recognize as common law in a year or so anyway.
I'll never be a girl who'll be a bride in layers of taffeta. We didn't want a wedding. We didn't want the church. We didn't want tens of thousands of dollars of expense and the silly hoo haw that went along with it. So we found the best solution for the kind of people we are.
We eloped to New Orleans.
I had a business trip planned there at that time. We flew out a few days early and applied for a license. We made an appointment with a justice of the peace and spent the evening before at Preservation Hall, knocking back a beer and listening to blues. The prescribed day was a Friday (yes, Friday the 13th). We both wore black suits and I wore a dramatic black picture hat that would knock your eye out if you got too close and copious ropes of pearls. In the taxi on the way to the judge's office, the radio blared Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." We considered it a good omen. The judge was late, having imbibed of the grape heavily at a luncheon. His wife and daughter were there (OK, they worked for him) and stood in as our witnesses. And after he pronounced us married, the judge looked at Fang and said, "And now that you've married her, boy, I sure hope she can cook."
Freshly wed, we ventured out into the crowded New Orleans streets. I wanted a wedding picture--something to document the day. We went to Pat O'Brien's, a famous watering hole noted for their potent cocktails and roving photographer. There, we took our official wedding photo while hoisting aloft 19 oz. Hurricanes in commemorative glasses.
And that was about that.
I don't really talk about my marriage on this blog. In truth, I really don't want to and outside of this little slip into sentimentality brought on by what some would consider some sort of milestone, I don't intend to. Some things need to remain a mystery. Let's leave it at that.
Fang and I have been married for 15 years, although it has to be a most unconventional marriage. I guess if it works and in its way it does, that's all that matters. Reflecting back on that day 5,475 days ago, it's evident that our wedding set the stage for our curious years ahead.
I don't quite know why we actually did get married. As unromantic as it may sound, I recall the real reason was rooted in tax reasons. We'd been living together for nearly five years, perfectly content to continue doing so. We had combined income and had jointly purchased things like real estate. Concerned about the community property issues in California and pressured by a friend from Texas concerned about our mutual inability to commit to marriage, we decided to legalize a union that California would recognize as common law in a year or so anyway.
I'll never be a girl who'll be a bride in layers of taffeta. We didn't want a wedding. We didn't want the church. We didn't want tens of thousands of dollars of expense and the silly hoo haw that went along with it. So we found the best solution for the kind of people we are.
We eloped to New Orleans.
I had a business trip planned there at that time. We flew out a few days early and applied for a license. We made an appointment with a justice of the peace and spent the evening before at Preservation Hall, knocking back a beer and listening to blues. The prescribed day was a Friday (yes, Friday the 13th). We both wore black suits and I wore a dramatic black picture hat that would knock your eye out if you got too close and copious ropes of pearls. In the taxi on the way to the judge's office, the radio blared Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." We considered it a good omen. The judge was late, having imbibed of the grape heavily at a luncheon. His wife and daughter were there (OK, they worked for him) and stood in as our witnesses. And after he pronounced us married, the judge looked at Fang and said, "And now that you've married her, boy, I sure hope she can cook."
Freshly wed, we ventured out into the crowded New Orleans streets. I wanted a wedding picture--something to document the day. We went to Pat O'Brien's, a famous watering hole noted for their potent cocktails and roving photographer. There, we took our official wedding photo while hoisting aloft 19 oz. Hurricanes in commemorative glasses.
And that was about that.
I don't really talk about my marriage on this blog. In truth, I really don't want to and outside of this little slip into sentimentality brought on by what some would consider some sort of milestone, I don't intend to. Some things need to remain a mystery. Let's leave it at that.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Such Little Persuation
It had been a long day at work today, chock full of meetings and conference calls and occasions that involved reasonably articulate discourse. At the end of such a mentally demanding day, I should have done something beneficial to further my restorative well being: A brisk walk in the fresh evening air. An hour of kick boxing. A thoughtful corner alone in a cafe with the OpEd section of The New York Times.
Oh, I am so weak. I went out with Jewels instead.
It took so little to change my purposeful post-work objective. Jewels meandered over to my desk and said, "What are you doing after work? Want to go for a snort somewhere?" All virtuous considerations were immediately deserted. I slung my briefcase over my shoulder, looped my arm through his and we were off like a prom dress.
We found a dark bar on 7th Avenue and settled onto some high stools. A Ketel One for Jewels with copious olives. I had a lemon drop martini. Some sage once said martinis are like women's breasts--one is never enough and three are too many. I agree so I limited my consumption tonight to one. It is Monday and I have a long week ahead. Yet sipped slowly, it was just enough to take the edge off the day.
We talked about people we knew and the new shows opening on Broadway (mixed reviews for Mel Brooks' "Young Frankenstein" by the way, people. Save your money). We talked about dogs and vets; plans for the holidays and getting older. We both burst into a song or two. We debated the merits of brunch. Jewels regaled me with the experience of taking clients to The Chocolate Show at the Metropolitan Pavilion over the weekend (I am not a fan of chocolate so the notion of being trapped in a space overwhelmed by the sights and smells of copious fudge almost made me throw up in my mouth a little). We ordered a plate of nachos and used our hands to eat it. With Jewels, double dipping is perfectly acceptable. And to cap the evening, Jewels did his imitations of Mamela and The Glamazon. This is affectionate mimicking to be sure and it's absolutely dead on. I almost fell off my stool.
A most acceptable start to the week.
Oh, I am so weak. I went out with Jewels instead.
It took so little to change my purposeful post-work objective. Jewels meandered over to my desk and said, "What are you doing after work? Want to go for a snort somewhere?" All virtuous considerations were immediately deserted. I slung my briefcase over my shoulder, looped my arm through his and we were off like a prom dress.
We found a dark bar on 7th Avenue and settled onto some high stools. A Ketel One for Jewels with copious olives. I had a lemon drop martini. Some sage once said martinis are like women's breasts--one is never enough and three are too many. I agree so I limited my consumption tonight to one. It is Monday and I have a long week ahead. Yet sipped slowly, it was just enough to take the edge off the day.
We talked about people we knew and the new shows opening on Broadway (mixed reviews for Mel Brooks' "Young Frankenstein" by the way, people. Save your money). We talked about dogs and vets; plans for the holidays and getting older. We both burst into a song or two. We debated the merits of brunch. Jewels regaled me with the experience of taking clients to The Chocolate Show at the Metropolitan Pavilion over the weekend (I am not a fan of chocolate so the notion of being trapped in a space overwhelmed by the sights and smells of copious fudge almost made me throw up in my mouth a little). We ordered a plate of nachos and used our hands to eat it. With Jewels, double dipping is perfectly acceptable. And to cap the evening, Jewels did his imitations of Mamela and The Glamazon. This is affectionate mimicking to be sure and it's absolutely dead on. I almost fell off my stool.
A most acceptable start to the week.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Basics
My mother was not a brilliant cook but she had her staple dishes that were her signature: a classic German potato salad that she gleaned from her mother-in-law (my strict German grandma), bangers and mash (she was English, by the way), a classic Yorkshire pudding, a rich rigatoni dish and a date nut bread. Honestly, that's what I remember most. She wasn't a keen cook and preferred to spend her time pursuing other more interesting ventures.Strangely and despite of the lack of inspiration, I've always enjoyed cooking. When I was growing up,I nagged my mother to impart cooking skills to me. She wasn't very good at doing so despite her best intentions. I'm more self taught than anything, my efforts borne through trial and error. Yet I did retain the most important thing of all: the recipe for a classic bechamel sauce. My Mom taught me this recipe one day when I was ten years old and I never forgot it. This is the X-factor of sauces which beg a myriad of ingredients to simply transform a dish. Who knew it would become the best basic in my repertoire?
It's nice to have something in your back pocket.
The Other White Meat
I saw this rather fascinating news item last week:
KAAAWA, Hawaii -- It is a fish tale that is easy to scoff as a more of a tall tale. Three friends landed some fish off Kahana Bay on Thursday and a 40-pound feral pig that was swimming near their boat.
As the small fishing boat headed for shore at Kahana Bay, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. However, on closer inspection, the catch of the day was not seafood. It was pork.
"We just hooked up with a fish. As soon as we got it off, I looked over and Aaron was, I thought he was yelling 'fish, fish!' When I looked to my right, it was 'pig, pig!' There was a pig just swimming straight out to sea," fisherman Tyson Pualoa said.
"It looked like it was tired, like it was swimming all night or something. It was pretty much fatigued, ready to go down. We just threw a lasso over his head and yanked him on the boat," fisherman Lenny Mercurio said.
The fishermen said the 40-pound feral pig seemed relieved to be rescued, but the crew tied her up for the ride home to keep her from nipping at them.
No one knows for sure how long the pig was swimming or how she got nearly a mile off shore.
"With all the rains we've been having out here, the pig probably got washed out or something. It was swimming straight out to sea. That was the funny thing about it," fisherman Aaron Phillips said.
Once back on dry land, the fishermen practiced the "catch and release" method. They untied the pig and it took off running back into the forest.
Catch and release? Foolish mortals. That's a good eating fish.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
For Jules
This one is for my friend Jules. I miss you, girl.
La Vie antérieure
J'ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.
Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d'une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.
C'est là que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l'azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d'odeurs,
Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l'unique soin était d'approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.
— Charles Baudelaire
La Vie antérieure
J'ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.
Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d'une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.
C'est là que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l'azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d'odeurs,
Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l'unique soin était d'approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.
— Charles Baudelaire
Friday, November 09, 2007
I Want To Watch The Birdies, George
One of the things I greatly appreciate about my office in Connecticut is the utterly bucolic setting. My personal office is situated in the corner of the second floor and is graciously paneled with a panorama of windows. I esteem this especially because I don't often have the luxury of viewing the world around me during the course of the day. My apartment in New York only has one bank of windows facing the outside world (the bedrooms). The remaining nine windows in the apartment face the adjacent wall and windows of the neighboring building. That's a quintessential New York view if you're located on any floor beside the penthouse. And hello! I'm not Donald Trump.The Connecticut office offers a broad view of a well maintained commercial space campus. The parking lot flanks the building, but it is populated by a mix of mature and handsome trees and an 18th century cemetery to the East. In the winter when all the trees are bare and a light snowfall has fallen, this historic patch of hallowed ground is perfectly framed. It's a charming space for which I have developed an affectionate attachment.
Alas, our lease comes due within the year and in all likelihood, we'll be relocating somewhere within a short radius. In the new office scheme, everyone will be concentrated in a precise workspace. In the spirit of equality that is the mantra of the parent company, we shall all be in abbreviated cubicles. I've no issue with that, personally; it's the people I work with and the challenge of the tasks that engage me most. However, I will miss the lovely views from my current corner of the world.
As the Autumn has progressed, I've reveled in the brilliance of the colors of the trees. The tree most immediate to my window (a tempestuous Spruce) was the last tree to leaf in Spring and the first to shed its plumage come the Fall. The other trees still parade their colorful pride and provide a suitable backdrop to my naked Spruce. Another tree, quite nearby slowly sheds its foliage and displays fat bunches of faded fruits. And here, I arrive at the point of tonight's tale.
As the season has progressed, I've noticed a migration of bird families to the area. It's not as if one or two stagger in to enjoy a respite on a branch before they continue their journey to Florida. Great whole colonies fly in, assuming dramatic patterns, swooping and arcing in the sky before migrating to a desired place to repose. They seem enamored of our little spot here.
I've watched with fascination as they descend in their large number upon a tree, foraging for whatever bits of foodstuff they consume, tending their tired wings, observing the alpha bird for the signal to resume their rigorous flight. Ultimately the pack takes wing and undulates in their curious pattern into the horizon.
Sometimes random birds deviate from the herd and land with purpose on the naked Spruce. Here I can observe all manners of birds: the small woodpeckers with their sweet red Mohawks who furiously peck at the outer shell of the branches. House finches with their faded red breasts. Bluebirds and cranky ravens. Some robins and sparrows and even the odd cardinal. I do like birds and the collection observed from this vantage point has been a great pleasure.
The downside to this seemingly Garden of Eden is this: if you have a place conducive to bird communities you run the risk of hazards. This became evident to me this week.
Take the lethal cocktail of tree berries (which the birds nosh on like my relatives would nosh on an all you can eat buffet in Vegas), mix in a change of the time with sun glare and strange light changes. Toss a slice of anal retentive window cleaning. The result? An increase in bird fatalities.
I have had a steady stream of unfortunate birds sailing pell mell into my beautiful pristine panoramic view windows. Half intoxicated by the berries they've consumed, blinded by the reflective glare of the window, they fly unconsciously into the rigid surface of my view. Sometimes they are only stunned and they catch themselves before rolling off the ledge unto the hard sidewalk two stories below. Sometimes they hit the window with such force that they bounce off the window straight to the unwelcome ground below. As the Queen Bee put it, "End of the line. Birdie Heaven."
Yesterday I had two horrific collisions. One took place while I was on the phone during a conference call. When the bird impacted the window (and it was a solid impact, leaving a circle of feathers and some kind of..fluid..tatooed on the window exterior), I screamed aloud. The thud was so hard, it was so unsettling. And then I had to explain it to a group of colleagues who thought I was probably on prescription drugs. The second was later in the day--perhaps less dramatic in impact but no less dramatic in result. It's heartbreaking.
I decided as long as these conditions lingered (and here, I'm thinking through December) I needed to be proactive. Through some research last night, I found a Cornell site that covered bird breeds, behaviors and tending. I was startled to read the first shocking lines under the category of "Collisions":
Ornithologists estimate that up to 100 million birds are killed each year by collisions with windows. These collisions usually involve small songbirds, such as finches, that may fall unnoticed to the ground. Sometimes the birds are merely stunned and recover in a few moments. Often, though, window hits lead to severe internal injuries and death.
Please excuse me while I weep for a moment.
So I looked for solutions to keep the birds from flying into the window. This site had a multitude of solutions: Post cardboard in the window to distract the glare. Build in awnings. Post plastic owls. Use spray snow or draw streaks across the window using soap to break up external reflections. Still, my favorite solution was this: For a more natural look, attach dead tree branches in front of your window. They may cause the birds to slow down and avoid the window as they fly toward it. You can arrange the branches so they don't obscure your view.
It's worth a try, no? Our office manager will have a hemmorhage.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Appreciating the Ladies
Thanks to Sarah, I am a total convert to Flight of the Conchords. These guys are my kind of genius.
It's Hard Work To Keep This Weight On
I swear to God this happened today.
This morning at my usual Connecticut Starbuck's stop, there was a woman with her husband standing in line right ahead of me. As they waited for their order to be taken, they peered into the display case which offered a bounty of glistening pastry selections. The woman was very petite and inordinately slim, the very prototype of the ideal Fairfield County doyenne. She was so skinny that her skin seemed stretched over her face like a beige shroud. Her cheekbones protruded dramatically from her face at dangerous angles. Her stick-like limbs were swaddled in a rich cashmere sweater and the line of her posture was ram rod straight like a coat rack. No boobs. No hips. Don't even ask me about an ass. It was merely an extension of her lower back.
I'd like to tell you this is a first but the truth is I see several women a day in this area who resemble this silhouette. Invariably blond with skin like parchment paper, they are dressed in superior chic apparel and comparably expensive accessories. They grimace more than they smile (at me, anyway). Yet, I imagine this is a prized silhouette for this region, representing elegance, sophistication, breeding and a superior pedigree; the ante is uped if you can cite a relative that was on the Mayflower. It's evident there ain't no white trash anywhere in their genealogy (except maybe for that unfortunate cousin who shacked up with a Native America way back in the pre-Revolutionary days. Hey, it happens).
But back to my story.
So the delicate blond standing in line with her husband studied the glass case at Starbuck's intently. She crooked a pale white finger on a pale white hand that sported a classic (and impressive) Tiffany wedding ring. She gestured at a collection of breakfast sandwiches artfully displayed on a recessed rack. One, a fully loaded bacon, cheese and egg number on a rustic English muffin was clearly ruled out. She pointed to a turkey bacon, cholesterol free egg and fat free cheese version. Pause. Then she moved up to a wrap version with spinach, feta and avocado. The manicured finger lingered, then wavered. The line grew restless. We needed our coffee.
She leaned in to her equally elegant husband and said, "I'll have the turkey bacon sandwich." He ordered the breakfast sandwiches and their coffee drinks. OK. I move up in line. It's Venti BOLD time, people. Bring it!
Before I could open my mouth to order my voluminous cup of liquid gold, the slim matron came back to the counter with her husband in tow. She mouthed something to him and he called to the counter person heating the sandwiches. He said, "How many calories are in the turkey bacon sandwich?" The counter person was taken aback. "I'm really not sure," she said. The matron then said, "Is the avocado, spinach and feta wrap less calories?" No one seemed to know. Clearly this was not a question that arose with much frequency. Then I heard the husband say, "Well, then I'll eat it if you don't want it."
Now I admire willpower immensely--probably because mine is so limited--but come on. I'd like to take that woman out to an all you can eat buffet and encourage her to go to town. I had to pity her. She sat there sipping her coffee as her husband tucked into both their breakfast sandwiches. She caught me glancing at them and she gave me her best withering matron glare. Or grimace. Which in fact is one of the same.
And why was I still there, you ask? Well, it takes five minutes to heat up an egg, bacon and cheese sandwich. You better believe I savoured every bite.
This morning at my usual Connecticut Starbuck's stop, there was a woman with her husband standing in line right ahead of me. As they waited for their order to be taken, they peered into the display case which offered a bounty of glistening pastry selections. The woman was very petite and inordinately slim, the very prototype of the ideal Fairfield County doyenne. She was so skinny that her skin seemed stretched over her face like a beige shroud. Her cheekbones protruded dramatically from her face at dangerous angles. Her stick-like limbs were swaddled in a rich cashmere sweater and the line of her posture was ram rod straight like a coat rack. No boobs. No hips. Don't even ask me about an ass. It was merely an extension of her lower back.
I'd like to tell you this is a first but the truth is I see several women a day in this area who resemble this silhouette. Invariably blond with skin like parchment paper, they are dressed in superior chic apparel and comparably expensive accessories. They grimace more than they smile (at me, anyway). Yet, I imagine this is a prized silhouette for this region, representing elegance, sophistication, breeding and a superior pedigree; the ante is uped if you can cite a relative that was on the Mayflower. It's evident there ain't no white trash anywhere in their genealogy (except maybe for that unfortunate cousin who shacked up with a Native America way back in the pre-Revolutionary days. Hey, it happens).
But back to my story.
So the delicate blond standing in line with her husband studied the glass case at Starbuck's intently. She crooked a pale white finger on a pale white hand that sported a classic (and impressive) Tiffany wedding ring. She gestured at a collection of breakfast sandwiches artfully displayed on a recessed rack. One, a fully loaded bacon, cheese and egg number on a rustic English muffin was clearly ruled out. She pointed to a turkey bacon, cholesterol free egg and fat free cheese version. Pause. Then she moved up to a wrap version with spinach, feta and avocado. The manicured finger lingered, then wavered. The line grew restless. We needed our coffee.
She leaned in to her equally elegant husband and said, "I'll have the turkey bacon sandwich." He ordered the breakfast sandwiches and their coffee drinks. OK. I move up in line. It's Venti BOLD time, people. Bring it!
Before I could open my mouth to order my voluminous cup of liquid gold, the slim matron came back to the counter with her husband in tow. She mouthed something to him and he called to the counter person heating the sandwiches. He said, "How many calories are in the turkey bacon sandwich?" The counter person was taken aback. "I'm really not sure," she said. The matron then said, "Is the avocado, spinach and feta wrap less calories?" No one seemed to know. Clearly this was not a question that arose with much frequency. Then I heard the husband say, "Well, then I'll eat it if you don't want it."
Now I admire willpower immensely--probably because mine is so limited--but come on. I'd like to take that woman out to an all you can eat buffet and encourage her to go to town. I had to pity her. She sat there sipping her coffee as her husband tucked into both their breakfast sandwiches. She caught me glancing at them and she gave me her best withering matron glare. Or grimace. Which in fact is one of the same.
And why was I still there, you ask? Well, it takes five minutes to heat up an egg, bacon and cheese sandwich. You better believe I savoured every bite.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Fitting Fun into Real Life
Today at work, proud parents were displaying photographs of their precious dumplings swaddled in their Halloween finery. I was appreciative of the detail of their costumes and the mature flair each depicted cherub brought to his character. There was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, a lion, a turtle, a skeleton, Dracula and a pumpkin. Of course there was also a diminutive Spiderman. As I admired the photograph of the dynamic little webbed crusader I thought to myself, "Gee, I wish I was Spiderman. That could really speed up my commute."
The key here was the notion that a commute free life would suddenly grant me endless hours of time that could be used for more noble pursuits. But let's be honest. It's not just the commute--there are countless other routine things that demand attention daily that force ancillary pursuits to the back corner of another day. I'm sure there will be time to fit these other adventures into my life eventually. I plan to. Still, I believe in planning ahead so I'm keeping a working list of things I will do when I have a guarantee of random hours at my disposal.
I'd like to engage in volunteer work. I'd finally learn to knit properly. Sign up for garden duty at the ovals in Riverside Park. I owe many people a proper letter--the thoughtful, detailed, handwritten kind; long overdue and written in my head countless times. I'd actually attempt holiday shopping now instead of starting on December 21st. Try to pick up painting again. Start reading the stack of books on my nightstand. Take a foreign language course. Work in a pilates class. Get a facial. And hey, maybe I'd even attempt some real writing.
It's just a matter of time.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Bits & Pieces
It's Monday and Monday is tailor made for some quick little musings.
-When someone tells me they had a dream and I was in it (as someone did today), my first instinct is to hope that I wasn't an asshole in their dream. Because maybe that would mean they thought I was an asshole in real life. Not that I can control their dream and my bad behavior in it. But still.
-Perhaps the subway is not the best barometer for gauging behavior, but it seems to me that teenagers today have no sense of manners whatsoever. Their general disregard to the comfort of those around them (especially in a already crammed space) and their lack of the general etiquette to others is appalling. They'll sprawl out on multiple seats of a subway when a decrepit senior is hanging on to a standing pole for dear life. They seems utterly incapable of opening their mouths to form the words "Excuse me." And I know I'm no saint, but their blathering of foul language at fever volume is outright offensive. I was a teenager once (incredible as that might seem), but I never recall being so ill mannered. Good Lord--I'm becoming my Grandma.
-Overheard conversation between two 20 somethings waiting online at Starbucks, "She's so fake that she even photoshopped her Facebook pictures." Other girl hisses, "I so hate her!"
-A drive by mousing sighted today but not where I'd usually see it (in the New York office); this was across the wide expanse of my building lobby as I strolled to the elevator. Juan, the cute doorman, chased it into the laundry room. I was not pleased to see the mouse inhabiting the same edifice in which I reside but I was pleased to see the backside of Juan in motion in his tight doorman drawers.
-New favorite lunchtime food item: cilantro grilled chicken and butternut squash salad from the incomparable City Bakery. Expensive fare but well worth it.
-The best laugh I've had this week has to be this video posted on my friend Sarah's blog. She finds the best material ever:
http://sdcrawford71.blogspot.com/2007/10/i-dedicate-this-one-to-marcy.html
-There was a celebrity in my subway car tonight. John Waters, he of "Hairspray" and camp film fame, entered the car at 42nd Street and stepped off at 50th. He was unmistakable in his natty blue suit, pink topsiders and pencil thin moustache. His mere appearance created much buzz in our crowded subway car. He was cordial and gracious to those who spoke to him..as you would expect from a man who made his first foray into film starring a 300 pound drag queen.
And how was your day?
-When someone tells me they had a dream and I was in it (as someone did today), my first instinct is to hope that I wasn't an asshole in their dream. Because maybe that would mean they thought I was an asshole in real life. Not that I can control their dream and my bad behavior in it. But still.
-Perhaps the subway is not the best barometer for gauging behavior, but it seems to me that teenagers today have no sense of manners whatsoever. Their general disregard to the comfort of those around them (especially in a already crammed space) and their lack of the general etiquette to others is appalling. They'll sprawl out on multiple seats of a subway when a decrepit senior is hanging on to a standing pole for dear life. They seems utterly incapable of opening their mouths to form the words "Excuse me." And I know I'm no saint, but their blathering of foul language at fever volume is outright offensive. I was a teenager once (incredible as that might seem), but I never recall being so ill mannered. Good Lord--I'm becoming my Grandma.
-Overheard conversation between two 20 somethings waiting online at Starbucks, "She's so fake that she even photoshopped her Facebook pictures." Other girl hisses, "I so hate her!"
-A drive by mousing sighted today but not where I'd usually see it (in the New York office); this was across the wide expanse of my building lobby as I strolled to the elevator. Juan, the cute doorman, chased it into the laundry room. I was not pleased to see the mouse inhabiting the same edifice in which I reside but I was pleased to see the backside of Juan in motion in his tight doorman drawers.
-New favorite lunchtime food item: cilantro grilled chicken and butternut squash salad from the incomparable City Bakery. Expensive fare but well worth it.
-The best laugh I've had this week has to be this video posted on my friend Sarah's blog. She finds the best material ever:
http://sdcrawford71.blogspot.com/2007/10/i-dedicate-this-one-to-marcy.html
-There was a celebrity in my subway car tonight. John Waters, he of "Hairspray" and camp film fame, entered the car at 42nd Street and stepped off at 50th. He was unmistakable in his natty blue suit, pink topsiders and pencil thin moustache. His mere appearance created much buzz in our crowded subway car. He was cordial and gracious to those who spoke to him..as you would expect from a man who made his first foray into film starring a 300 pound drag queen.
And how was your day?
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Fallin'
I had an epiphany today. It really is Fall.
I am in denial about the seasons. Being a creature who embraces the long lingering light and the thick sensual air of a summer day, I've resisted admitting to the inevitable change of the season. Nature (and no doubt Global Warming) have not been much help; we've breezed through October with warm temperatures and gentle days which contributed to ongoing delusion and confused fashion choices. However, the past few days have reinforced the direction of the calendar. It really and truly is Fall.
The first step has to be a deliberate one. The clock was set back last night. This will mean light mornings and pitch black night when I leave the office at the end of the day. I do hate that.
The second step was the distinctly developing chill in the air. Good for my hair, bad for my skin. Note to self: less Frizz-Ease, more Kiehls. This forces a whole new change in my physical preparation. I forgot about that...so I needed to rearrange my toiletries to prepare. That took an hour.
And then the worst aspect of all--clothing. I've procrastinated beyond all measure in making the clothing/footwear seasonal swap. I have waited weeks longer than I should have. I can't help myself. My winter jackets, suits, boots and other coldwear apparel have sat alone in my apartment building storage unit. Yet today, it was time to trot it out.
I lovingly wrapped my many pairs of sandals and peep toes and multi inch wedge sandals in a box for the next few months. I stacked my halters and tanks and sundresses and gently placed them in other boxes. Within an hour, they were packed away not to appear again for maybe six months. This is a hard moment and I took a moment of silence, summoning street fairs and Mister Softee and the hot air blowing up your skirt from the subway. The boxes were duly packed on a luggage cart and schlepped down to my storage unit near the reception area of the building. I transferred the gaiety of my summer wear and withdrew the oppressive mantle of my winter wear: turtlenecks, cashmere sweaters, wool skirts and wool suits. But I also brought out my collection of positively dominatrix-esque boots. Well, that's one saving grace.
So let's force through winter and yes, I will be dressed for it. But now I know why bears hibernate throughout this season. I mean, wouldn't you?
I am in denial about the seasons. Being a creature who embraces the long lingering light and the thick sensual air of a summer day, I've resisted admitting to the inevitable change of the season. Nature (and no doubt Global Warming) have not been much help; we've breezed through October with warm temperatures and gentle days which contributed to ongoing delusion and confused fashion choices. However, the past few days have reinforced the direction of the calendar. It really and truly is Fall.
The first step has to be a deliberate one. The clock was set back last night. This will mean light mornings and pitch black night when I leave the office at the end of the day. I do hate that.
The second step was the distinctly developing chill in the air. Good for my hair, bad for my skin. Note to self: less Frizz-Ease, more Kiehls. This forces a whole new change in my physical preparation. I forgot about that...so I needed to rearrange my toiletries to prepare. That took an hour.
And then the worst aspect of all--clothing. I've procrastinated beyond all measure in making the clothing/footwear seasonal swap. I have waited weeks longer than I should have. I can't help myself. My winter jackets, suits, boots and other coldwear apparel have sat alone in my apartment building storage unit. Yet today, it was time to trot it out.
I lovingly wrapped my many pairs of sandals and peep toes and multi inch wedge sandals in a box for the next few months. I stacked my halters and tanks and sundresses and gently placed them in other boxes. Within an hour, they were packed away not to appear again for maybe six months. This is a hard moment and I took a moment of silence, summoning street fairs and Mister Softee and the hot air blowing up your skirt from the subway. The boxes were duly packed on a luggage cart and schlepped down to my storage unit near the reception area of the building. I transferred the gaiety of my summer wear and withdrew the oppressive mantle of my winter wear: turtlenecks, cashmere sweaters, wool skirts and wool suits. But I also brought out my collection of positively dominatrix-esque boots. Well, that's one saving grace.
So let's force through winter and yes, I will be dressed for it. But now I know why bears hibernate throughout this season. I mean, wouldn't you?
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Barry White
OK, gloves off. Let's be honest. You can talk about new wave, SKA influences, sweet and loving tunes. Come on, people. What gets you between the sheets quickly? That would be this brother man: Mr. Barry White.
True
Since we're on The THEME...This song always got you laid (whether laid-ee or laid--on). Well, it did me anyway.
That's not saying much. Hmm.
Save it For Later
After my concert-going experience last evening, my nostalgia chip is alert; I am thinking about the bands that fed those years. I did like The English Beat very much--it was the SKA influence, I'm sure. That was always cool when uptight white guys attempted reaggae.
Hey, Are any of you old enough to remember this?
Friday, November 02, 2007
Grooving From a Great Height
Fang was invited to attend the reunion tour for The Police (the band, not the institution) by one of his work vendors, a large multi-national printer that is an empire unto itself. This sold-out show at Madison Square Garden has been the subject of national attention since it kicked off.Alas, poor Fang was traveling back to New York from California last night and couldn't honor the invitation. Guess who got the ticket by default? Yeah, that would be me.
Not only get I get the ticket, I had the pleasure of viewing said concert from a luxury skybox in the Garden. Featuring a bountiful buffet of food stuffs, a full bar, luxurious seating with lovely vantage points of the stage, I was in my freaking element. My host, the delightful Boychick and his beautiful missus S-S-S-S-Sylvia were affable and fun (I suppose it doesn't hurt that we are also personal friends). I enjoyed them immensely last night.
The show was surprisingly intimate, yet still utterly spectacular. The Police were a mainstay of my late teen and college years. The sound they put out last night, 20+ years after I first heard them was indistinguishable from the original recordings. Andy Sommers still plays a kick-ass guitar. Stewart Copeland's percussion was brilliant. And Sting...the poster child for Yoga has just converted me to its benefits. If that delicate means of exercise is responsible for his physique and the astounding voice control he exercised, then I'm a believer. He was incomparable. His voice was powerful, controlled and even more nuanced than it was decades ago.
Only the trio occupied the stage, with no other theatrics, bells, whistles and hoohaw to distract from their simple musicianship. The audience ranged from teenagers to late baby boomers yet everyone there sang "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" so loudly that the band was drowned out. By the encore when Sting belted "So Lonely," S-S-S-S-Sylivia and I were bopping up and down with our arms in the air like teenage girls. It was completely exhilarating.
At the end of the evening we three walked out to 31st Street. I had planned to get the subway home, still floating on the fumes of my revisit to my formative musical years. I learned there are benefits to ones older years; Boychick had prearranged a lift home for me in a luxury ride, courtesy of the multi national publishing company. I'd say this equates the best of all worlds.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Cube Warfare
You can tell a lot about a person by the look of their workspace. Why not? We spend more of our lives in our workspace than anywhere else. Or so it seems. Most of my colleagues embellish their personal work spaces with tasteful art prints (that Monet water lilly thing gets a lot of cubicle wall space), personal photographs in destination locations and other elegant outward expressions of their personal characters. They post their children's artwork (which I confess is always charming for its out of the box interpretation) and greeting cards and photos of favorite pastimes. I suppose that means a glance in someones workspace when they're not there should tell you all you need to know about that space's occupant. Theoretically.
My workspace is goofy and I frankly like it that way. I have pictures and campy postcards and lots of novelty tzotkes. There are photos of Fang in Greece and Nice and Florence. I have pictures of my parents and of Marv and MeiMei. And I have many photos with my friends and colleagues. I have a boxing nun puppet, several baseball hats, a collection of minature decorated ceramic shoes, some old ad print blocks, several monkey ornaments, a little zen garden barbecue, a Jesus action figure (hidden away lest I offend someone), a bible on a key chain that breaks into a chorus of "Hallelujah!" when you push a button (also hidden), an evil bendy doll, several voodoo dolls (artfully pierced with common household pins), a simese cat tape dispenser that Norma gave me when Figaro passed away, several wind up toys, jingle bells on strings (to be shaken vigorously when business deals and large ad units close), a Mardi Gras doubloon with Dennis Quaid's face on it that Norma brought me from a trade show in New Orleans maybe 15 years ago, a manual calendar from Geppy's honeymoon in Puerto Rico, a couple of containers of Maple syrup from the Glamazon's trips to Vermont, a boat oar that I inherited from The Pilgrim when I assumed his position in Connecticut..and so on. My office is packed with quirky and fond knickknacks. They remind me of people I enjoy so I like these reminders of them around me.
While I think I have enough personal STUFF, I am rather taken with the notion of adapting new toys to torment those around me. In due course, we'll be relocating from this space and I hear talk that we'll all be situated in cubicle space nose to nose. In light of this, I now feel an urgency to be prepared with new tools to keep my new enemy (neighbor) at bay. Imagine my delight when The Queen Bee sent this link out today:
http://www.thinkgeek.com:80/geektoys/warfare/
I already have my eye on the Megazooker, the Zero Fog Blaster and the Screaming Monkey Slingshot. God help my neighbors.
My workspace is goofy and I frankly like it that way. I have pictures and campy postcards and lots of novelty tzotkes. There are photos of Fang in Greece and Nice and Florence. I have pictures of my parents and of Marv and MeiMei. And I have many photos with my friends and colleagues. I have a boxing nun puppet, several baseball hats, a collection of minature decorated ceramic shoes, some old ad print blocks, several monkey ornaments, a little zen garden barbecue, a Jesus action figure (hidden away lest I offend someone), a bible on a key chain that breaks into a chorus of "Hallelujah!" when you push a button (also hidden), an evil bendy doll, several voodoo dolls (artfully pierced with common household pins), a simese cat tape dispenser that Norma gave me when Figaro passed away, several wind up toys, jingle bells on strings (to be shaken vigorously when business deals and large ad units close), a Mardi Gras doubloon with Dennis Quaid's face on it that Norma brought me from a trade show in New Orleans maybe 15 years ago, a manual calendar from Geppy's honeymoon in Puerto Rico, a couple of containers of Maple syrup from the Glamazon's trips to Vermont, a boat oar that I inherited from The Pilgrim when I assumed his position in Connecticut..and so on. My office is packed with quirky and fond knickknacks. They remind me of people I enjoy so I like these reminders of them around me.
While I think I have enough personal STUFF, I am rather taken with the notion of adapting new toys to torment those around me. In due course, we'll be relocating from this space and I hear talk that we'll all be situated in cubicle space nose to nose. In light of this, I now feel an urgency to be prepared with new tools to keep my new enemy (neighbor) at bay. Imagine my delight when The Queen Bee sent this link out today:
http://www.thinkgeek.com:80/geektoys/warfare/
I already have my eye on the Megazooker, the Zero Fog Blaster and the Screaming Monkey Slingshot. God help my neighbors.
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