"It's a thousand pages, give or take a few. I'll be writing more in a week or two." -- Lennon/McCartney
I've always had some pretty weird habits when it comes to my pens. During high school, I'd take science notes in green ink, and if I didn't have a green pen handy, I'd take my notes in pencil and overwrite it in green when I got home. During college, I'd choose a differently colored uni-ball Vision elite every week in lieu of dating my notes. I sign consent forms at work using Pilot G2 gel rollers and I keep my journals using my Cool Ordinary Pen of the Moment (usually a TD Bank pen, a drug company pen, or a pen with my old high school's logo on it). I also like to hang onto the same pen until it's bone-dry and tend to panic when people borrow it for more than thirty seconds.
Last week, I bought a set of Sharpie pens and soon discovered that, though they look, feel, and behave like fine-tipped Sharpie markers, they don't bleed through paper. As a result, I fell in love, decided that they are the greatest invention ever, and packed one in my handbag for use at work.
The next morning, I arrived at work, clipped my Sharpie pen to my hip between my pager and my ID, and raved about it to anyone who would listen. Around three in the afternoon, I placed it on a countertop for a moment after using it to sign some forms. A guest then crossed behind me, said "Can I borrow a pen? Thanks," and snatched up my Sharpie before I could hand him a different one. He uncapped it and began writing. I could tell he was pressing entirely too hard.
He then snapped the tip clean off the pen. It scooted across the countertop, crossed in front of me, and landed on the floor a few feet away. I swear the whole thing happened in slow-motion.
"Sorry!" the man said, shrugging and tossing the remnants of my Sharpie in the nearest waste bin. All of my colleagues gasped, looked at me, and burst out laughing. I finished my signatures using one of the pens our storeroom stocks (ew), then I scoured the building for a suitable alternative to my poor defunct Sharpie pen. Luckily, I found a Pilot G2 near my PI's office.
The Pilot G2 served me well until earlier this week, when my boss borrowed it off my desk, took it to a meeting in a different building, and lost it. (If you're imagining a thinly-veiled expression of furiousness on my face and a neck twitch or two upon my discovery of this, you'd be absolutely correct.) I'm now down to my last half-dozen or so good pens, which suddenly don't seem like enough. I'm waking up extra-early tomorrow morning to go to Staples and will probably come home with entirely too many new pens... just in case.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Capturing Castles
"A few hours ago, when I wrote that I could never mean anything to him, such a chance would have seemed heaven on Earth. And surely I could give him... a sort of contentment?
That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver." -- Dodie Smith
I just finished reading my favorite book, Dodie Smith's I Capture the Castle, for the... Nth time, where N equals anything between a dozen and three dozen. I first picked up the novel during the sixth grade when my school imposed a mandatory half-hour-a-day reading period; it had been collecting dust in my locker for six months, so I decided to give it a try.
A hundred pages in, I thought it was an intriguing enough story. The narrator -- a mature, intelligent, hopeful 17 year-old named Cassandra -- lives in poverty in a derelict castle in the English countryside. Her journal entries (i.e. the text of the novel) speak of the castle, her eccentric family, her beautiful yet stone-dumb sister, and how all of their lives change when two American brothers become their landlords. Simon Cotton, the elder brother, soon establishes himself as Cassandra's intellectual equal and the only person alive who truly understands the way her mind works. Cassandra falls deeply in love with Simon... then he proposes marriage to her sister.
The novel, since it poses as Cassandra's journal, chronicles her interactions with Simon in minute detail, from their first meeting to their final touch. As a result, I too fell in love with Simon Cotton. Together, Cassandra and I dissected his words, thrilled in his kisses, mourned his impending nuptials, resented his fiancee, and dared to hope when the wedding was called off. Then, in the book's last few pages, Simon decided to return to America. I wept as he visited Cassandra for the last time... and then I cheered out loud when he asked her to come to America with him.
Then Cassandra said no and let Simon walk out of her life forever. Why? She recognized that he didn't love her in return and felt that both of them would be selling themselves short by ending up together.
For the next five years of my life, I thought Cassandra was an effing idiot. She found someone who saw the world the exact same way she did and she threw it away out of ridiculous sentimentality! My feelings were understandable, too; after all, I spent junior high and the first half of high school surrounded by immature idiot boys who had nothing in common with me. Ever finding a man as good for me as Simon is for Cassandra seemed like a close to impossible wish, so finding one and then letting him go seemed like downright lunacy.
Between then and my seventeenth birthday, I grew up a little. I learned more about how to critically read and analyze literature, I fell in love a few times only to later recognize it as mere infatuation, and I met a few men who understood my mind and my jokes. Consequently, when I re-read the novel during my senior year of high school, I adopted a new interpretation of the ending. Cassandra rejected Simon because she recognized that she may be in lust instead of in love and she didn't want to pledge her life to an emotion she may grow out of feeling.
I'm now twenty-three years old. In the last seven years, I've learned the difference between love and lust and I've said my fair share of goodbyes. I've also met men as good for me -- and maybe better for me -- as Simon is for Cassandra. I finished I Capture the Castle this morning and cried over the last ten pages just as I always have, but for the first time, I understood why Cassandra rejected Simon. Her feelings for Simon weren't lust and they weren't a crush; when you truly, honestly love someone, you want the best for them even when the best isn't you. More importantly, though, I now understand that Cassandra rejected Simon because she wanted the best for herself. She wanted to spend her life with someone who understood her AND loved her, and honestly, that's the best any of us can ever hope for. This morning, for the first time in N readings, I would have rejected Simon too.
That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver." -- Dodie Smith
I just finished reading my favorite book, Dodie Smith's I Capture the Castle, for the... Nth time, where N equals anything between a dozen and three dozen. I first picked up the novel during the sixth grade when my school imposed a mandatory half-hour-a-day reading period; it had been collecting dust in my locker for six months, so I decided to give it a try.
A hundred pages in, I thought it was an intriguing enough story. The narrator -- a mature, intelligent, hopeful 17 year-old named Cassandra -- lives in poverty in a derelict castle in the English countryside. Her journal entries (i.e. the text of the novel) speak of the castle, her eccentric family, her beautiful yet stone-dumb sister, and how all of their lives change when two American brothers become their landlords. Simon Cotton, the elder brother, soon establishes himself as Cassandra's intellectual equal and the only person alive who truly understands the way her mind works. Cassandra falls deeply in love with Simon... then he proposes marriage to her sister.
The novel, since it poses as Cassandra's journal, chronicles her interactions with Simon in minute detail, from their first meeting to their final touch. As a result, I too fell in love with Simon Cotton. Together, Cassandra and I dissected his words, thrilled in his kisses, mourned his impending nuptials, resented his fiancee, and dared to hope when the wedding was called off. Then, in the book's last few pages, Simon decided to return to America. I wept as he visited Cassandra for the last time... and then I cheered out loud when he asked her to come to America with him.
Then Cassandra said no and let Simon walk out of her life forever. Why? She recognized that he didn't love her in return and felt that both of them would be selling themselves short by ending up together.
For the next five years of my life, I thought Cassandra was an effing idiot. She found someone who saw the world the exact same way she did and she threw it away out of ridiculous sentimentality! My feelings were understandable, too; after all, I spent junior high and the first half of high school surrounded by immature idiot boys who had nothing in common with me. Ever finding a man as good for me as Simon is for Cassandra seemed like a close to impossible wish, so finding one and then letting him go seemed like downright lunacy.
Between then and my seventeenth birthday, I grew up a little. I learned more about how to critically read and analyze literature, I fell in love a few times only to later recognize it as mere infatuation, and I met a few men who understood my mind and my jokes. Consequently, when I re-read the novel during my senior year of high school, I adopted a new interpretation of the ending. Cassandra rejected Simon because she recognized that she may be in lust instead of in love and she didn't want to pledge her life to an emotion she may grow out of feeling.
I'm now twenty-three years old. In the last seven years, I've learned the difference between love and lust and I've said my fair share of goodbyes. I've also met men as good for me -- and maybe better for me -- as Simon is for Cassandra. I finished I Capture the Castle this morning and cried over the last ten pages just as I always have, but for the first time, I understood why Cassandra rejected Simon. Her feelings for Simon weren't lust and they weren't a crush; when you truly, honestly love someone, you want the best for them even when the best isn't you. More importantly, though, I now understand that Cassandra rejected Simon because she wanted the best for herself. She wanted to spend her life with someone who understood her AND loved her, and honestly, that's the best any of us can ever hope for. This morning, for the first time in N readings, I would have rejected Simon too.
Friday, August 21, 2009
The Beholder
"I have an eye for spotting men with designs. I have a sense for all the obvious signs. And pal, I know when someone's feeding me lines! Don't feel too bad; you had your try. You have the touch, but not with me! I have an eye." -- Lucie Arnaz
That quote sums up yesterday morning, and as such, it was a pretty amazing morning. Then I went to make copies. Scanned my document, asked for 60 collated and stapled copies, wandered away, wandered back, found the thing jammed and beeping on copy 47.
I'm unnaturally gifted at fixing copiers, so like any engineer with too much time on her hands, I peeled off my sweater, dropped to my knees, and popped the casing open. I twisted knobs, I flipped switches, I slid trays, and I found all the usual problem areas blissfully clear of paper. Then I noticed that one of my documents had been shredded in the narrow crevasse between the stapling tray and the output tray. And after a few moments of fruitless exploration, I realized that the machine manufacturers didn't account for paper ever getting jammed there.
I have thin arms and long fingers, so I was able to carefully reach inside the machine to tease the paper free in pieces. The jammed area had lots of sharp parts and little room for error, though, so I emerged from the experience with my right hand bleeding in four places. Open wounds aren't a good thing to have in my work environment, so I washed, treated, and bandaged my hand before returning to clinic. It looked pretty strange, but I swore off handshakes for the day and trusted people to not draw attention to it.
Then I got the hiccups. Big, scary, near-constant hiccups that refused to go away even after several hours. I held my breath, I swallowed three times, I drank water upside down, rightside up, and with a spoon in the glass, I endured countless colleagues jumping out of the shadows to spook me. Nothing worked, so I just came to terms with the fact that I'd have to talk to people around hiccups all day.
I perfected a little speech: "Hi, my name is Ashley. Before we speak about the research, you'll have to excuse me if [hic] I need to pause every sentence or so. I've had the hiccups all day [hic] and they won't go away." People tolerated it for the most part, surprisingly -- they laughed if I laughed first, but they had the grace to ignore my hiccuping if I didn't draw attention to it.
Then, at the very end of the day, after I had been speaking for several hiccupy minutes, one woman burst into hysterics. "Oh my god, this is terrible!" she said between giggles. "I can't believe you've been working like this all day!"
"It's been an interesting day."
"And if you don't mind me asking, what happened to your hand?"
I flexed my heavily bandaged appendage. "I had an altercation with the copy machine."
"Oh boy. You know what you need to do? You need to go home and go to bed before anything else happens to you today. Just get rid of August 20th a little earlier than usual and hope that August 21st is better."
I'm usually the one who sits in exam rooms and dispenses information to people, so to have it turned around on me was a peculiar change. Her treatment plan worked wonders, though -- I decided not to work overtime, declined happy hour with my colleagues, went home, changed into my oldest nightgown, and watched hours of Project Runway in the air conditioning. I woke up this morning with no hiccups and four beautifully formed scabs on my right hand.
That quote sums up yesterday morning, and as such, it was a pretty amazing morning. Then I went to make copies. Scanned my document, asked for 60 collated and stapled copies, wandered away, wandered back, found the thing jammed and beeping on copy 47.
I'm unnaturally gifted at fixing copiers, so like any engineer with too much time on her hands, I peeled off my sweater, dropped to my knees, and popped the casing open. I twisted knobs, I flipped switches, I slid trays, and I found all the usual problem areas blissfully clear of paper. Then I noticed that one of my documents had been shredded in the narrow crevasse between the stapling tray and the output tray. And after a few moments of fruitless exploration, I realized that the machine manufacturers didn't account for paper ever getting jammed there.
I have thin arms and long fingers, so I was able to carefully reach inside the machine to tease the paper free in pieces. The jammed area had lots of sharp parts and little room for error, though, so I emerged from the experience with my right hand bleeding in four places. Open wounds aren't a good thing to have in my work environment, so I washed, treated, and bandaged my hand before returning to clinic. It looked pretty strange, but I swore off handshakes for the day and trusted people to not draw attention to it.
Then I got the hiccups. Big, scary, near-constant hiccups that refused to go away even after several hours. I held my breath, I swallowed three times, I drank water upside down, rightside up, and with a spoon in the glass, I endured countless colleagues jumping out of the shadows to spook me. Nothing worked, so I just came to terms with the fact that I'd have to talk to people around hiccups all day.
I perfected a little speech: "Hi, my name is Ashley. Before we speak about the research, you'll have to excuse me if [hic] I need to pause every sentence or so. I've had the hiccups all day [hic] and they won't go away." People tolerated it for the most part, surprisingly -- they laughed if I laughed first, but they had the grace to ignore my hiccuping if I didn't draw attention to it.
Then, at the very end of the day, after I had been speaking for several hiccupy minutes, one woman burst into hysterics. "Oh my god, this is terrible!" she said between giggles. "I can't believe you've been working like this all day!"
"It's been an interesting day."
"And if you don't mind me asking, what happened to your hand?"
I flexed my heavily bandaged appendage. "I had an altercation with the copy machine."
"Oh boy. You know what you need to do? You need to go home and go to bed before anything else happens to you today. Just get rid of August 20th a little earlier than usual and hope that August 21st is better."
I'm usually the one who sits in exam rooms and dispenses information to people, so to have it turned around on me was a peculiar change. Her treatment plan worked wonders, though -- I decided not to work overtime, declined happy hour with my colleagues, went home, changed into my oldest nightgown, and watched hours of Project Runway in the air conditioning. I woke up this morning with no hiccups and four beautifully formed scabs on my right hand.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Living Proof
"Almost cut my hair; it happened just the other day. It was getting kind of long. I could have said it was in my way. But I didn't... and I wonder why I feel like letting my freak flag fly. I feel like I owe it to someone." -- Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young
I have ridiculously thick, riotously curly hair -- the kind of hair that a person can lose a hand in. When it's cooperating, it flows over my shoulders and halfway down my back in loose, glossy ringlets. When it's not cooperating, my head is covered in a vaguely triangular cloud of brown.
For the last few months, my hair has been more cooperative than usual thanks to Living Prooffrizz products -- and as a result, I praise them to anyone who will listen. Developed by a team of biomedical engineers, they contain a novel polymer that seals the hair shaft against moisture better than silicone does. I don't have fierce loyalty to many beauty products (cough except for Tarte Flush, Too Faced Lip Injection Extreme, Hope in a Jar, and Kiehl's leave-in conditioner cough), but Living Proof's curl-making cream is an essential part of my daily routine. I've been able to ditch my arsenal of serums and treatments as a result of it; I get out of the shower, comb in my leave-in conditioner, smooth on a little frizz, and let my hair air-dry. Et voila.
The stuff works miracles, but having great hair in mid-summer in New York City in the rain needs more than a miracle. Thus, while my curls looked okay yesterday, they didn't look as good as usual.
I arrived early for an 8PM dinner reservation, so I killed some time by wandering around SoHo. I browsed through Michael Kors, J. Crew, Banana, Victoria's Secret, then eventually found my way to Sephora. Directly inside the front doors stood an enormous display of Living Proof products, and I approached the pyramids of bottles to see if they were offering anything new.
Almost immediately, a salesperson swooped down on me. "This is a fantastic new line, and you have the perfect hair for it! It will tame your flyaways and frizz, define your curls, give you shine..."
I let the guy ramble on for a few minutes, then when he paused, I gave him my most brilliant smile. "I actually use these products. I'm wearing that one right now."
"Oh," he said after a moment's pause. "Sorry?"
I thanked him, left, and headed back towards the restaurant. I had a good story to tell my dinner companions.
I have ridiculously thick, riotously curly hair -- the kind of hair that a person can lose a hand in. When it's cooperating, it flows over my shoulders and halfway down my back in loose, glossy ringlets. When it's not cooperating, my head is covered in a vaguely triangular cloud of brown.
For the last few months, my hair has been more cooperative than usual thanks to Living Proof
The stuff works miracles, but having great hair in mid-summer in New York City in the rain needs more than a miracle. Thus, while my curls looked okay yesterday, they didn't look as good as usual.
I arrived early for an 8PM dinner reservation, so I killed some time by wandering around SoHo. I browsed through Michael Kors, J. Crew, Banana, Victoria's Secret, then eventually found my way to Sephora. Directly inside the front doors stood an enormous display of Living Proof products, and I approached the pyramids of bottles to see if they were offering anything new.
Almost immediately, a salesperson swooped down on me. "This is a fantastic new line, and you have the perfect hair for it! It will tame your flyaways and frizz, define your curls, give you shine..."
I let the guy ramble on for a few minutes, then when he paused, I gave him my most brilliant smile. "I actually use these products. I'm wearing that one right now."
"Oh," he said after a moment's pause. "Sorry?"
I thanked him, left, and headed back towards the restaurant. I had a good story to tell my dinner companions.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Carrie On
"After years of living in the city, I assumed that if my friends and I ever got our fairytale endings, that would be the end of the story. But real life always has a twist." -- Carrie Bradshaw
The mid-summer sun shone warmly over First Avenue as my colleague and I left our building for a mid-afternoon caffeine run. A crowd was gathered just outside our doors, and after sidling to the front of it, the reason for the traffic jam became clear: despite the sun, the skies and streets were slick with pouring rain. My colleague and I glanced at each other, smirked, simultaneously pulled jewel-toned mini-umbrellas out of our bags, and continued on our way.
We were paused at the corner of our block, waiting for the light to change, when it happened. A bus sped through the yellow traffic signal, crossed in front of us at top speed, and sent a sheet of puddle water straight at us. Neither of us were quick enough to lower our umbrellas against the deluge or even jump back out of its range, so we were completely drenched by it. We're talking wet hair, dripping hems, splatter-painted dress pants, and semi-transparent blouses here.
I spat a mouthful of puddle onto the sidewalk as my colleague stared after the bus, water dripping steadily from her chin. "That's never happened to me," she said. "I've seen it happen in movies and on TV, but it's never happened to me." I concurred; the opening credits of Sex and the City flashed through my mind. The light changed and we continued on our quest for coffee, soggier and strutting slightly less than when we started out. With my luck, I thought, watch me run into Mr. Big, Aidan, Smith, or Dante while I'm drenched and disgusting.
We entered the coffee shop and, luckily, it was full of middle-aged women. My colleague placed her order with a squat, smiling lady, then she stepped aside to make room for me at the counter. I tried to catch the barista's eye, but she moved away and headed towards the shop's back room.
Six and a half feet of olive-skinned, muscular man took the barista's place at the counter. He flashed me a brilliant smile with at least one dimple, tossed back his glossy black curls, and asked for my order in a stereotypically perfect French accent. I mumbled my request for a fresh mint tea -- my 'cute guy, ignore really hard' instinct had kicked in by that point -- and I fled the scene as soon as humanly possible.
Halfway back to our building, my colleague started laughing. "We got soaked by a bus, then we went to a trendy Upper East Side coffee house and a hot French guy appeared out of thin air to take your order. I believe we just had a Carrie Bradshaw moment." I chuckled and revealed that I had been thinking along the exact same lines.
Ten minutes later, as the fabric of my pants dripped little puddles onto the carpet under my desk, I thought of all the times I've openly laughed at women for moving to New York City in an effort to become like Carrie. To be honest, though, my ten minutes in her shoes felt like time well spent.
The mid-summer sun shone warmly over First Avenue as my colleague and I left our building for a mid-afternoon caffeine run. A crowd was gathered just outside our doors, and after sidling to the front of it, the reason for the traffic jam became clear: despite the sun, the skies and streets were slick with pouring rain. My colleague and I glanced at each other, smirked, simultaneously pulled jewel-toned mini-umbrellas out of our bags, and continued on our way.
We were paused at the corner of our block, waiting for the light to change, when it happened. A bus sped through the yellow traffic signal, crossed in front of us at top speed, and sent a sheet of puddle water straight at us. Neither of us were quick enough to lower our umbrellas against the deluge or even jump back out of its range, so we were completely drenched by it. We're talking wet hair, dripping hems, splatter-painted dress pants, and semi-transparent blouses here.
I spat a mouthful of puddle onto the sidewalk as my colleague stared after the bus, water dripping steadily from her chin. "That's never happened to me," she said. "I've seen it happen in movies and on TV, but it's never happened to me." I concurred; the opening credits of Sex and the City flashed through my mind. The light changed and we continued on our quest for coffee, soggier and strutting slightly less than when we started out. With my luck, I thought, watch me run into Mr. Big, Aidan, Smith, or Dante while I'm drenched and disgusting.
We entered the coffee shop and, luckily, it was full of middle-aged women. My colleague placed her order with a squat, smiling lady, then she stepped aside to make room for me at the counter. I tried to catch the barista's eye, but she moved away and headed towards the shop's back room.
Six and a half feet of olive-skinned, muscular man took the barista's place at the counter. He flashed me a brilliant smile with at least one dimple, tossed back his glossy black curls, and asked for my order in a stereotypically perfect French accent. I mumbled my request for a fresh mint tea -- my 'cute guy, ignore really hard' instinct had kicked in by that point -- and I fled the scene as soon as humanly possible.
Halfway back to our building, my colleague started laughing. "We got soaked by a bus, then we went to a trendy Upper East Side coffee house and a hot French guy appeared out of thin air to take your order. I believe we just had a Carrie Bradshaw moment." I chuckled and revealed that I had been thinking along the exact same lines.
Ten minutes later, as the fabric of my pants dripped little puddles onto the carpet under my desk, I thought of all the times I've openly laughed at women for moving to New York City in an effort to become like Carrie. To be honest, though, my ten minutes in her shoes felt like time well spent.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Changes
"Though we may not know it now, things are never gonna be the same. Here on Second Avenue, I tip my old top hat to you. I hope you find somebody who will love you like I do... and our time is running out and we still have to say goodbye. Goodbye Philadelphia." -- Peter Cincotti
I have so many things going on in my life that I feel deserve blog entries of their own, but between a massively increased workload, a sorrowful goodbye, a cautious hello that turned into an angry goodbye, and an anticipated hello that never actually materialized, I'm too physically and emotionally drained to put pen to paper with any semblance of heart. I'll try though, and if any of these half-assed snippets spark my desire to write more, I'll expand upon them another day.
Oddly enough, my hellish recent existence began with the most relaxing five days I've spent in recent memory. I went upstate for Fourth of July weekend -- far enough upstate that my cell phone barely worked, internet access was nonexistent, and my pager was as good as a paperweight. For five days, I let people cook for me and clean for me, amused myself by reading, crocheting, and taking ten-mile aimless hikes through the woods, and talked nonsense until three in the morning with two of my oldest friends. I felt closer to nature and more appreciative of the beauty of life than I have in a long time.
Then I had a very long workweek. And a very long half of the next workweek. After my Nth fourteen-hour workday in a row, I went out with my cousin and had my pedicurist paint my toenails blue. (The color is called Dating a Royal, actually.) I haven't had blue toenails since I was about eight years old, and I'm not entirely sure I had them then, either.
I went to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the film version of my favorite J.K. Rowling novel, on Friday and again on Saturday. Friday's viewing was a muted early-morning affair with Rutila and Saturday's viewing was a raucous all-day spectacle with thirty of my college classmates (including Q, Charles, and Wink). To kill some of the three hours we spent waiting on line outside the IMAX theater, we patronized a farmer's market and loaded up on quick breads and fresh fruit. I bought a carton of red currants, and when I got home around midnight, I pulled a recipe out of my ass and used them to make Sunday morning breakfast.
Red Currant Mini Muffins
3/4 stick salted butter, softened
2 tbsp citrus-infused olive oil (or 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil and 1 tsp citrus zest)
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg + 1 egg white
1 tbsp baking powder
1 cup flour
1/2 cup confectioner's sugar
1 tbsp whole milk
1 cup red currants (or blueberries), stems removed
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Beat butter, olive oil, and sugar until fluffy, then beat in eggs and vanilla. Add baking powder and flour and mix until incorporated. Stir in red currants. Spoon into greased or lined miniature muffin trays; cups should be 3/4s full. Bake for 18 minutes or until muffin tops are browned. When muffins have cooled, remove from trays and arrange on a plate. Add milk to confectioner's sugar and stir until a thin glaze forms, adding more milk if necessary. Drizzle glaze over muffins and allow glaze to harden. Alternatively, you can dust the tops of the muffins with powdered sugar -- these are pretty tart so they'll need some sort of sugar on top.
Makes thirty miniature muffins. (This will also make a dozen regular muffins -- bake for about 25 minutes instead.)
Today, I went to New Yankee Stadium for my fourteenth Old Timers' Day, the once-a-year event where retired Yankees greats put on their old uniforms, line up on the field, reminisce about the good ol' days, then play a few innings for old time's sake. On Old Timers' Days back in the mid-1990s, my father used to point out the ballplayers of his youth -- Nettles and Gossage and Jackson and Dent -- and say to me, "Sooner than you realize, you'll be sitting here with your kid, Tino Martinez and Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera are going to be playing in the Old Timers' Game, and you're going to know how I feel right now." I scoffed for a decade, then the first two players from Yankees teams I watched as a child, Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, showed up on Old Timers' Day. Last year, David Wells, Paul O'Neill, and Tino Martinez took the field. This year, Chad Curtis, Charlie Hayes, and my precious, cherished, beloved Mike Mussina (who won 20 games for the Yankees just last year) joined the ranks of "old timers." I'm starting to realize what Dad meant more than a decade ago, though I can't pin down the emotion just yet. I have some time before Jeter and Rivera are up there, though, and I don't plan on facing my thoughts until that day comes.
I have so many things going on in my life that I feel deserve blog entries of their own, but between a massively increased workload, a sorrowful goodbye, a cautious hello that turned into an angry goodbye, and an anticipated hello that never actually materialized, I'm too physically and emotionally drained to put pen to paper with any semblance of heart. I'll try though, and if any of these half-assed snippets spark my desire to write more, I'll expand upon them another day.
Oddly enough, my hellish recent existence began with the most relaxing five days I've spent in recent memory. I went upstate for Fourth of July weekend -- far enough upstate that my cell phone barely worked, internet access was nonexistent, and my pager was as good as a paperweight. For five days, I let people cook for me and clean for me, amused myself by reading, crocheting, and taking ten-mile aimless hikes through the woods, and talked nonsense until three in the morning with two of my oldest friends. I felt closer to nature and more appreciative of the beauty of life than I have in a long time.Then I had a very long workweek. And a very long half of the next workweek. After my Nth fourteen-hour workday in a row, I went out with my cousin and had my pedicurist paint my toenails blue. (The color is called Dating a Royal, actually.) I haven't had blue toenails since I was about eight years old, and I'm not entirely sure I had them then, either.
I went to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the film version of my favorite J.K. Rowling novel, on Friday and again on Saturday. Friday's viewing was a muted early-morning affair with Rutila and Saturday's viewing was a raucous all-day spectacle with thirty of my college classmates (including Q, Charles, and Wink). To kill some of the three hours we spent waiting on line outside the IMAX theater, we patronized a farmer's market and loaded up on quick breads and fresh fruit. I bought a carton of red currants, and when I got home around midnight, I pulled a recipe out of my ass and used them to make Sunday morning breakfast.
Red Currant Mini Muffins
3/4 stick salted butter, softened
2 tbsp citrus-infused olive oil (or 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil and 1 tsp citrus zest)
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg + 1 egg white
1 tbsp baking powder
1 cup flour
1/2 cup confectioner's sugar
1 tbsp whole milk
1 cup red currants (or blueberries), stems removed
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Beat butter, olive oil, and sugar until fluffy, then beat in eggs and vanilla. Add baking powder and flour and mix until incorporated. Stir in red currants. Spoon into greased or lined miniature muffin trays; cups should be 3/4s full. Bake for 18 minutes or until muffin tops are browned. When muffins have cooled, remove from trays and arrange on a plate. Add milk to confectioner's sugar and stir until a thin glaze forms, adding more milk if necessary. Drizzle glaze over muffins and allow glaze to harden. Alternatively, you can dust the tops of the muffins with powdered sugar -- these are pretty tart so they'll need some sort of sugar on top.
Makes thirty miniature muffins. (This will also make a dozen regular muffins -- bake for about 25 minutes instead.)
Today, I went to New Yankee Stadium for my fourteenth Old Timers' Day, the once-a-year event where retired Yankees greats put on their old uniforms, line up on the field, reminisce about the good ol' days, then play a few innings for old time's sake. On Old Timers' Days back in the mid-1990s, my father used to point out the ballplayers of his youth -- Nettles and Gossage and Jackson and Dent -- and say to me, "Sooner than you realize, you'll be sitting here with your kid, Tino Martinez and Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera are going to be playing in the Old Timers' Game, and you're going to know how I feel right now." I scoffed for a decade, then the first two players from Yankees teams I watched as a child, Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, showed up on Old Timers' Day. Last year, David Wells, Paul O'Neill, and Tino Martinez took the field. This year, Chad Curtis, Charlie Hayes, and my precious, cherished, beloved Mike Mussina (who won 20 games for the Yankees just last year) joined the ranks of "old timers." I'm starting to realize what Dad meant more than a decade ago, though I can't pin down the emotion just yet. I have some time before Jeter and Rivera are up there, though, and I don't plan on facing my thoughts until that day comes.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Proper Tee of the Half-Blood Prince
"Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers." -- Draco Malfoy
Two years ago this month, my friends and I waited on line for our copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows dressed in outfits specially chosen for the occasion. One of my companions wore a cloak, Gryffindor scarf, and prefect badge while another sported an "I Heart Ron" t-shirt. My style has always been a bit more understated, though, so in honor of my favorite character, I fastened my hair back with a Slytherin necktie and wore a simple grey t-shirt with the words "Property of the Half-Blood Prince" calligraphed in scrollwork across the front.
In preparation for this week's release of the film version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I decided to dig up my old t-shirt. Problem was, I couldn't find it. Anywhere. That turned out to be an easily rectifiable problem, though.
First, I dug this old, faded, $7 H&M tank top out of my closet...
Then I attacked it with a black Sharpie...
Then I drenched it in a pot of black fabric dye.
Here's the end result:
See you in the theaters this weekend.
Two years ago this month, my friends and I waited on line for our copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows dressed in outfits specially chosen for the occasion. One of my companions wore a cloak, Gryffindor scarf, and prefect badge while another sported an "I Heart Ron" t-shirt. My style has always been a bit more understated, though, so in honor of my favorite character, I fastened my hair back with a Slytherin necktie and wore a simple grey t-shirt with the words "Property of the Half-Blood Prince" calligraphed in scrollwork across the front.
In preparation for this week's release of the film version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I decided to dig up my old t-shirt. Problem was, I couldn't find it. Anywhere. That turned out to be an easily rectifiable problem, though.
First, I dug this old, faded, $7 H&M tank top out of my closet...
Then I attacked it with a black Sharpie...
Then I drenched it in a pot of black fabric dye.
Here's the end result:
See you in the theaters this weekend.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Hello, Norma Jean
"It's wonderful to feel the way a woman feels! It gives you such a glow just to know you're wearing lipstick and heels!" -- Lee Adams
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
A million words or so to fill you in about my past
"I told you that our love would last forever, and even that the tears would end for good. I told you that we'd get through any weather. Baby, that didn't work out... but we did the best we could." -- Jamie Cullum
My musical tastes have always tended towards artists whose lyrics speak the contents of my heart. They come and go and change over the years, but one man has been a constant presence in my soul, iPod, and journal entries since I first heard his voice. His name is Jamie Cullum, and I grew to love him during the summer of 2004 when my place of employment, Barnes & Noble, played his album Twentysomething around the clock for an entire month.
From a journal entry dated 08/17/2004:
A year passed before Jamie garnered enough attention in the United States to play any shows here, and I was fortunate to see him live at Irving Plaza on his first trip to New York.
From a journal entry dated 10/12/2005, which morphed into a concert review that still appears on Jamie's official website:
My musical tastes have always tended towards artists whose lyrics speak the contents of my heart. They come and go and change over the years, but one man has been a constant presence in my soul, iPod, and journal entries since I first heard his voice. His name is Jamie Cullum, and I grew to love him during the summer of 2004 when my place of employment, Barnes & Noble, played his album Twentysomething around the clock for an entire month.
From a journal entry dated 08/17/2004:
My "Currently Playing" was on the air in B&N during the entire month of July, and I never tired of listening to it each day. Jamie Cullum is an amazing British singer and pianist -- kind of a cross between Billy Joel, Bowie and Harry Connick Jr. -- and he has an unbelievably sexy voice. Too bad he looks like he's ten.
A year passed before Jamie garnered enough attention in the United States to play any shows here, and I was fortunate to see him live at Irving Plaza on his first trip to New York.
From a journal entry dated 10/12/2005, which morphed into a concert review that still appears on Jamie's official website:
I saw Jamie live again a few months later and the mastery of his performing style remained just as impressive as when I first saw him. Between then and now, I always gravitated towards Jamie's lyrics to commemorate moments of upheaval, change, and comprehension in my life. I cut an unhealthy ex out of my life on New Year's Day on 2006 and quoted Jamie when I told my friends about it:I spent 2+ hours tonight standing ten feet away from Jamie Cullum the world-renowned British jazz pianist who has redefined the genre and never records a flop. He is 25 years old, looks like he's fifteen, acts like he's anywhere between five and fifty.
He crooned, he keeled, he growled and whispered and scatted and shrieked and moaned. Every note was perfect, every syllable was impeccably executed in that soulful, raspy, incredibly sexy voice that belongs only to him.
He tickled the piano keys with symphonic precision, only to bang on them with his fists a moment later. His hands would move slowly, gently, deliberately, then he'd stop and begin poking out rapid patterns of notes with two fingers. At one point he played the instrument with his feet and his forehead. Then he sat on the keyboard. Then he reached inside the lid and started plucking the strings. Then he stood on the lid and took a flying leap onto the stage.
The man can go from Harry Connick Jr. to Radiohead, from a rap to a disco tune, from straight jazz to Lerner and Loewe in two seconds flat without the slightest hesitation, which isn't as simple a feat as one would imagine.
"If there's one thing I must do, despite my greatest fear, I'm gonna say to you what I've felt all of these years next year."I turned to Jamie again on March 28th of 2006 to help me work through some romantic confusion:
"Who knows the answers? Who do you trust? I can't even separate love from lust."He even provided the soundtrack for my 20th birthday:
"Love ain't the answer, nor is work. The truth eludes me so much it hurts. But I'm still having fun and I guess that's the key. I'm a twentysomething and I'll keep being me.I had the privilege of seeing Jamie Cullum perform live for a third time last weekend. (Many thanks to Rutila!) His music has grown more pensive lately -- his new album contains songs about self-reliance and longing and reflection, which shows that Jamie and I seem to have matured along the same lines. However, though "If I Ruled The World" and "Gran Torino" touched me, it was an old song -- the first Jamie Cullum song I ever heard back when I was seventeen years old -- whose newfound relevance to my life left me dumbstruck. The Quote of the Day borrows from it, and it can be heard in full below.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Growth and Invasion
"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me... and I'm feelin' good." -- Anthony Newley
Praise of the mundane will have to wait a while, since my past two weeks have been extraordinarily life-changing. Last Wednesday was my one-year anniversary at my job, and the following day, I left for my first-ever business trip. This was no run-of-the-mill jaunt, either: I got to spend six days at the largest cancer conference in the United States.
"For now there's life. For now there's love. For now there's work. For now there's happiness. For now there's comfort. For now there's friendship." -- from Avenue Q
Six other study coordinators were also selected to represent our department at the conference. We took turns driving, attended each other's poster sessions, stayed up until three in the morning confiding in each other, made each other breakfast, ironed each other's suits, sunscreened each other's backs, shared straws and clothing and bathrooms and beds, flirted and fought and compromised and laughed and took care of each other. Strangers often marked us as friends, relatives, or married couples... and we never made a correction or clarification.
"Anti-angiogenesis really works in TCC!!!!!" -- one of the presenting MDs
On the last day of the conference, I sat alone in the back of the biggest lecture hall I've ever seen and listened to three of our best discuss where our field is headed. A stupid grin was plastered on my face the entire time; two of the three speakers discussed my team's work as pivotal to the future of cancer care. My commute, my long hours, my diminishing knowledge of engineering... all of it became blindingly insignificant when I realized that the data flashing across the room's three projector screens was collected and abstracted by my hands.
"I'm finding who I am! And for the first time, I have no doubts! Yes, for the first time, I understand!" -- Phil Collins
The day before the lectures, I stood in the exhibition hall for four hours. Six feet to my right sat an MD from my team and between us stretched a poster representing her brainchild and my data. Doctors, scientists, statisticians, and pharmacists asked me dozens of probing questions about our work... and I was able to answer them, converse with them, share laughs and oncologic commentary and moments of enthusiasm with them. I've amassed more knowledge about this stuff over the past year than I ever thought possible, and when asked to put that knowledge to the test in front of the toughest crowd imaginable, I was able to deliver. Once my initial nervousness subsided, I began to operate with a confidence so genuine that, one week later, people can still see it in my eyes.
Praise of the mundane will have to wait a while, since my past two weeks have been extraordinarily life-changing. Last Wednesday was my one-year anniversary at my job, and the following day, I left for my first-ever business trip. This was no run-of-the-mill jaunt, either: I got to spend six days at the largest cancer conference in the United States.
"For now there's life. For now there's love. For now there's work. For now there's happiness. For now there's comfort. For now there's friendship." -- from Avenue Q
Six other study coordinators were also selected to represent our department at the conference. We took turns driving, attended each other's poster sessions, stayed up until three in the morning confiding in each other, made each other breakfast, ironed each other's suits, sunscreened each other's backs, shared straws and clothing and bathrooms and beds, flirted and fought and compromised and laughed and took care of each other. Strangers often marked us as friends, relatives, or married couples... and we never made a correction or clarification.
"Anti-angiogenesis really works in TCC!!!!!" -- one of the presenting MDs
On the last day of the conference, I sat alone in the back of the biggest lecture hall I've ever seen and listened to three of our best discuss where our field is headed. A stupid grin was plastered on my face the entire time; two of the three speakers discussed my team's work as pivotal to the future of cancer care. My commute, my long hours, my diminishing knowledge of engineering... all of it became blindingly insignificant when I realized that the data flashing across the room's three projector screens was collected and abstracted by my hands.
"I'm finding who I am! And for the first time, I have no doubts! Yes, for the first time, I understand!" -- Phil Collins
The day before the lectures, I stood in the exhibition hall for four hours. Six feet to my right sat an MD from my team and between us stretched a poster representing her brainchild and my data. Doctors, scientists, statisticians, and pharmacists asked me dozens of probing questions about our work... and I was able to answer them, converse with them, share laughs and oncologic commentary and moments of enthusiasm with them. I've amassed more knowledge about this stuff over the past year than I ever thought possible, and when asked to put that knowledge to the test in front of the toughest crowd imaginable, I was able to deliver. Once my initial nervousness subsided, I began to operate with a confidence so genuine that, one week later, people can still see it in my eyes.
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