"What are we going to do now?! If we can't get the babka the whole thing's useless!" -- Jerry Seinfeld
I had dessert in my favorite bakery this evening, and after I settled my bill, I decided to buy some pastry for the road. I waited in line with the intention of purchasing a particularly delicious-looking chocolate babka I had been eyeing in the window all evening. Then, when I approached the counter, a woman appeared out of nowhere, cut in front of me on line, and ordered my babka. She left, I repeated her order, and, as luck would have it, she had nabbed the last one right out from under me. With no babka alternatives, I left empty-handed.
As someone who can quote whole episodes of Seinfeld from memory, this was one of the most thrilling things that has happened to me in a long time.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Comfort Food
"Just give me a chance to hold on. Just give me something to hold on to. It's so clear now that you are all that I have." -- Snow Patrol
I just finished preparing my favorite meal -- baked fish with roasted potatoes and string beans -- and since it's elegant, delicious, and ridiculously easy to prepare, I thought I'd share it with you all. I used mahi mahi today, but tilapia, flounder, sea bass, and even salmon also work. I get all of my fish from the freezer section in Costco -- each serving is individually vacuum-wrapped and the quality is first-rate, believe it or not. My Italian bread was semolina, but I've used whole wheat and white with delicious results.
Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Prepare the potatoes and put them in the oven first, then prepare the fish while your potatoes are roasting, then prepare the string beans while your fish is in the oven. Dinner serves four and will be ready in one hour.
Roasted Potatoes
4 potatoes, scrubbed
1/4 cup chicken or vegetable broth
Spice of your choice -- sage, thyme, parsley, and chili all work, though I used paprika today
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Cut each potato in half lengthwise, then cut each half into slices approximately 1/2-inch thick. Place in a 9x9 baking pan (or a pie pan, or anything you have that snugly fits the slices) and toss with salt, pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, and whatever spice you chose to use. Pour broth into the bottom of the pan and bake for one hour, turning every fifteen minutes.
Buon Pesce
4 fish steaks, thawed, rinsed in salt water, and dried
A good three-inch-thick chunk of crusty Italian bread
2 tbsp Smart Balance or butter, melted
5 cloves garlic, peeled
1 tbsp dried parsley or 2 tbsp fresh parsley
Juice of half a lemon, plus four slices from the other half
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Cut the bread into cubes and throw it into a food processor with the butter, garlic, and parsley. Pulse until crumbly. Coat the bottom of a 9x9 baking pan with olive oil, then squeeze in the lemon and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Arrange the four steaks in the pan, then flip them over so both sides are coated in seasonings, olive oil, and lemon juice. Spoon breadcrumb mixture atop each fillet and top with a slice of lemon. Tightly cover in foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and the lemon slices and bake for an additional 10-20 minutes, until the crust browns and the center of the thickest piece of fish flakes.
Sauteed String Beans
Four handfuls of fresh string beans, washed with the ends snapped off
Two cloves of garlic, sliced
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Dash of balsamic vinegar
Blanch the string beans in boiling water until they reach your desired level of softness. (I like my string beans al dente, though you may like to go softer.) Heat a large skillet, then sautee garlic in olive oil on low heat until it begins to brown. Add string beans, salt, pepper, and balsamic vinegar, quickly toss until coated, then remove from heat and serve.
I just finished preparing my favorite meal -- baked fish with roasted potatoes and string beans -- and since it's elegant, delicious, and ridiculously easy to prepare, I thought I'd share it with you all. I used mahi mahi today, but tilapia, flounder, sea bass, and even salmon also work. I get all of my fish from the freezer section in Costco -- each serving is individually vacuum-wrapped and the quality is first-rate, believe it or not. My Italian bread was semolina, but I've used whole wheat and white with delicious results.
Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Prepare the potatoes and put them in the oven first, then prepare the fish while your potatoes are roasting, then prepare the string beans while your fish is in the oven. Dinner serves four and will be ready in one hour.
Roasted Potatoes
4 potatoes, scrubbed
1/4 cup chicken or vegetable broth
Spice of your choice -- sage, thyme, parsley, and chili all work, though I used paprika today
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Cut each potato in half lengthwise, then cut each half into slices approximately 1/2-inch thick. Place in a 9x9 baking pan (or a pie pan, or anything you have that snugly fits the slices) and toss with salt, pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, and whatever spice you chose to use. Pour broth into the bottom of the pan and bake for one hour, turning every fifteen minutes.
Buon Pesce
4 fish steaks, thawed, rinsed in salt water, and dried
A good three-inch-thick chunk of crusty Italian bread
2 tbsp Smart Balance or butter, melted
5 cloves garlic, peeled
1 tbsp dried parsley or 2 tbsp fresh parsley
Juice of half a lemon, plus four slices from the other half
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Cut the bread into cubes and throw it into a food processor with the butter, garlic, and parsley. Pulse until crumbly. Coat the bottom of a 9x9 baking pan with olive oil, then squeeze in the lemon and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Arrange the four steaks in the pan, then flip them over so both sides are coated in seasonings, olive oil, and lemon juice. Spoon breadcrumb mixture atop each fillet and top with a slice of lemon. Tightly cover in foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and the lemon slices and bake for an additional 10-20 minutes, until the crust browns and the center of the thickest piece of fish flakes.
Sauteed String Beans
Four handfuls of fresh string beans, washed with the ends snapped off
Two cloves of garlic, sliced
Olive oil, salt, and pepper
Dash of balsamic vinegar
Blanch the string beans in boiling water until they reach your desired level of softness. (I like my string beans al dente, though you may like to go softer.) Heat a large skillet, then sautee garlic in olive oil on low heat until it begins to brown. Add string beans, salt, pepper, and balsamic vinegar, quickly toss until coated, then remove from heat and serve.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Brainy Specs
"Aw, and out they come! The brainy specs! You don't even need them! You just think they make you look a bit clever!" -- The Tenth Doctor
I got my first pair of eyeglasses at the beginning of the sixth grade -- horrible round-ish lavender wire-framed atrocities -- and, consequently, I hated my life for the next year. I swapped those out for a sleeker pair with Flexon frames in the seventh grade, then swapped out those for even sleeker bronze no-wire frames in the eighth grade. Then I went to high school, got contacts, and only wore my glasses for the five minutes in the morning before I could pop my lenses in.
After three years of contact lens-wearing, my prescription had deteriorated to the point where I had to get the lenses on my glasses replaced. I opted for a new set of frames too -- and chose a Nine West style modeled in chunky black plastic. Now this was 2003, way before horn-rims came to epitomize geek-chic, but since I hated the way I looked in near-invisible frames, I figured I'd try the other extreme. I found that my new glasses fit my personality surprisingly well, and for the first time during my vision-impaired life, I didn't want to vomit when I looked at my glasses-wearing self in a mirror. I started to wear my contacts less frequently and ignored the countless critics moaning about how my frames looked too retro and hid half my face.
Halfway through college, I swapped out my chunky black frames for an even chunkier pair. The
same year, David Tennant replaced Chris Eccleston as the title character on Doctor Who and chose a pair of rectangular tortioseshell frames -- he called them "brainy specs" -- as part of his new costume. This blew my mind; I wore glasses like The Doctor's because they didn't make me completely hideous, while Tennant wore them because he wanted to. He was suave and confident while wearing his brainy specs, and for the first time in my life, I started to view my glasses as stylish... and even kinda hot.
I'm now on my third pair of brainy specs, and I love them so much that I only wear my contacts around once a week. I can slip them on with my Chucks and feel nerdy (in a good way). I can slip them on with a pencil skirt and pumps and feel professional. I can slip them on with an armful of unintelligible textbooks and feel smart. I can slip them on with tousled hair and an intense look and feel sexy. My glasses are a part of me, and I'm a total advocate of people like Tennant, Tina Fey, Diane Keaton, and Johnny Depp who try to redefine the public's notion of beauty by wearing their glasses to public events.
On Sunday night, I sat down to work on a graphics commission and turned on the Primetime Emmys for background noise. Andy Samberg was interviewed on the red carpet... wearing reddish glasses. Then Justin Timberlake presented in a pair of plastic tortioseshell frames. Then Simon Baker walked out wearing chunky horn-rims. Then Dana Delany slipped on a pair of brainy specs before reading a list of nominees. All of them looked absolutely gorgeous, too. I stopped caring about the winners and started watching for bespectacled audience members... and there were far more of them than I ever thought possible.
When I climbed into bed that night, I took a fond look at my brainy specs before setting them on my desk. It seems like the world has finally caught on, and the sixth-grader in me is jumping for joy.
I got my first pair of eyeglasses at the beginning of the sixth grade -- horrible round-ish lavender wire-framed atrocities -- and, consequently, I hated my life for the next year. I swapped those out for a sleeker pair with Flexon frames in the seventh grade, then swapped out those for even sleeker bronze no-wire frames in the eighth grade. Then I went to high school, got contacts, and only wore my glasses for the five minutes in the morning before I could pop my lenses in.
After three years of contact lens-wearing, my prescription had deteriorated to the point where I had to get the lenses on my glasses replaced. I opted for a new set of frames too -- and chose a Nine West style modeled in chunky black plastic. Now this was 2003, way before horn-rims came to epitomize geek-chic, but since I hated the way I looked in near-invisible frames, I figured I'd try the other extreme. I found that my new glasses fit my personality surprisingly well, and for the first time during my vision-impaired life, I didn't want to vomit when I looked at my glasses-wearing self in a mirror. I started to wear my contacts less frequently and ignored the countless critics moaning about how my frames looked too retro and hid half my face.
Halfway through college, I swapped out my chunky black frames for an even chunkier pair. The
same year, David Tennant replaced Chris Eccleston as the title character on Doctor Who and chose a pair of rectangular tortioseshell frames -- he called them "brainy specs" -- as part of his new costume. This blew my mind; I wore glasses like The Doctor's because they didn't make me completely hideous, while Tennant wore them because he wanted to. He was suave and confident while wearing his brainy specs, and for the first time in my life, I started to view my glasses as stylish... and even kinda hot.I'm now on my third pair of brainy specs, and I love them so much that I only wear my contacts around once a week. I can slip them on with my Chucks and feel nerdy (in a good way). I can slip them on with a pencil skirt and pumps and feel professional. I can slip them on with an armful of unintelligible textbooks and feel smart. I can slip them on with tousled hair and an intense look and feel sexy. My glasses are a part of me, and I'm a total advocate of people like Tennant, Tina Fey, Diane Keaton, and Johnny Depp who try to redefine the public's notion of beauty by wearing their glasses to public events.
On Sunday night, I sat down to work on a graphics commission and turned on the Primetime Emmys for background noise. Andy Samberg was interviewed on the red carpet... wearing reddish glasses. Then Justin Timberlake presented in a pair of plastic tortioseshell frames. Then Simon Baker walked out wearing chunky horn-rims. Then Dana Delany slipped on a pair of brainy specs before reading a list of nominees. All of them looked absolutely gorgeous, too. I stopped caring about the winners and started watching for bespectacled audience members... and there were far more of them than I ever thought possible.
When I climbed into bed that night, I took a fond look at my brainy specs before setting them on my desk. It seems like the world has finally caught on, and the sixth-grader in me is jumping for joy.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Leave Unsaid Unspoken
"Another day is going by. I'm thinking about you all the time. You're out there and I'm here waiting. And I wrote this letter in my head 'cause so many things were left unsaid." -- Simple Plan
A couple of years after she wrote I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith wrote a romantic comedy based on the novel. The play was produced in England in 1955, was poorly-reviewed by London critics, and has been out-of-print ever since. As a result, I paid entirely too much for an ancient old library edition in hopes of gaining a different perspective on my favorite novel. I received my copy yesterday and devoured it in two hours. The content was largely the same -- the plots are identical and 90% of the dialogue is lifted right out of the novel. There was one major change that I didn't entirely agree with, though.
The novel is driven by Cassandra's love for Simon. They're friends and intellectual equals, but their "relationship" only exists in Cassandra's head. No romantic notions (aside from one platonic kiss) are ever verbalized or made tangible, and it doesn't matter that we never find out what the hell Simon is thinking because Cassandra has completed her arc of personal growth.
The play is also driven by Cassandra's love for Simon, but since they don't really talk and they don't really connect, her love basically comes out of nowhere. Then, at the very end of the play, all of that unspoken amazingness I blogged about two weeks ago is replaced with this:
Yes, it's the ending that most readers long for, and it's an ending that makes sense given the rest of the play. However, it turns a beautiful, moving story into a mediocre romantic comedy. Cassandra still turns Simon down, but it's not powerful, not tear-inducing, and, frankly, not good. I'm taking the author's advice (and yes, she actually wrote this instruction in a preface) and I'm currently giving it a re-read. Hopefully that will help.
A couple of years after she wrote I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith wrote a romantic comedy based on the novel. The play was produced in England in 1955, was poorly-reviewed by London critics, and has been out-of-print ever since. As a result, I paid entirely too much for an ancient old library edition in hopes of gaining a different perspective on my favorite novel. I received my copy yesterday and devoured it in two hours. The content was largely the same -- the plots are identical and 90% of the dialogue is lifted right out of the novel. There was one major change that I didn't entirely agree with, though.
The novel is driven by Cassandra's love for Simon. They're friends and intellectual equals, but their "relationship" only exists in Cassandra's head. No romantic notions (aside from one platonic kiss) are ever verbalized or made tangible, and it doesn't matter that we never find out what the hell Simon is thinking because Cassandra has completed her arc of personal growth.
The play is also driven by Cassandra's love for Simon, but since they don't really talk and they don't really connect, her love basically comes out of nowhere. Then, at the very end of the play, all of that unspoken amazingness I blogged about two weeks ago is replaced with this:
Yes, it's the ending that most readers long for, and it's an ending that makes sense given the rest of the play. However, it turns a beautiful, moving story into a mediocre romantic comedy. Cassandra still turns Simon down, but it's not powerful, not tear-inducing, and, frankly, not good. I'm taking the author's advice (and yes, she actually wrote this instruction in a preface) and I'm currently giving it a re-read. Hopefully that will help.
Pens Envy
"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.
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.
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.
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