Renaissance

"I could be wholesome, I could be loathsome... I guess I'm a little bit shy. Why don't you like me?! Why don't you like me without making me try?" -- Mika

"We finally did meet, and let me tell you -- we loved the first and last kind of love. I was perfect for her soul."
"I was perfect for his heart."
"And together, we are perfect apart." -- Pat Monahan and Brandi Carlile

"Hey Stephen, I could give you fifty reasons why I should be the one you choose. All those other girls? Well, they're beautiful... but would they write a song for you? Ha!" -- Taylor Swift

Those three quotes started off three blog entries I started writing and couldn't bring myself to finish. Put together, I think they relate the story I was trying to tell better than my words ever could.

Anynotoveritway, I indulged in one of my favorite hobbies yesterday: I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a sketchbook, some pencils, a camera, and a friend, and we spent the whole day getting lost there. Most of the American Wing was closed, security guards were uncharacteristically miserable, and the place was packed with tourists, but it was still a lovely day. I also got free admission by flashing my college ID, which didn't work when I actually WAS a college student.

I didn't get a lot of drawing done – I planned to arrive at the museum two hours earlier than my friend to make myself some time to sketch, but thanks to weekend subway service changes, I ran late and she ran early. I think Athene looks good half-finished, though, and since one tourist asked if she could take a picture of me with it, I guess someone else thought so, too.

The Price of Kindness

"Stores are never nice to people. They're nice to credit cards." -- Edward Lewis

I'm cautious by nature and I have New York sensibilities, so I'm instantly suspicious when strangers are kind to me for no apparent reason. What? I was raised to believe that a random person -- the type I meet once and will likely never meet again -- will never go out of his way to endear himself to me unless he can get something out of it, and with few exceptions, that has held true throughout my life. This intrinsic distrust of human intentions especially extends to two groups of people: gorgeous men and salespeople, and since the former can easily spawn half a dozen blog entries on its own, I'll only be discussing the latter today.

I've done a lot of shopping and worked a little retail in my time, and I've developed a few prejudices from my experiences:

• In an H&M or Old Navy, I don't expect the sales help to ever acknowledge my presence.
• In an Ann Taylor or Express, I expect one greeting and maybe one check-in if I'm not well-dressed. If I am well-dressed, I expect a couple of check-ins, a little help finding sizes, and minimal fitting room support.
• In a J. Crew or Banana Republic, I expect to be ignored if I'm not well-dressed. If I am well-dressed and I show genuine interest in full-price items, I expect a warm greeting, lots of check-ins, and lots of schlepping of items to and from the fitting room. If I am well-dressed and I show more interest in the clearance rack than the full-price items, I expect to be ignored after this becomes apparent.
• In an Abercrombie, Hollister, or Pac Sun, I expect to be treated as if I am not cool, trendy, and/or hip enough to set foot in the place. I do not shop in these stores by my own choice. If someone drags me to one and I am treated nicely by the sales help, there is no doubt in my mind that they're making fun of me while I'm not looking.

My expectations also vary based on location -- I generally expect non-Manhattan salespeople to be nicer to me than Manhattan salespeople. (Perpetually nasty Roosevelt Field Mall employees are the exception.)

Anyway, I've enjoyed two surprisingly pleasant shopping experiences lately and the events left me feeling so happy about life that I have to share them here. The weekend before last, I wandered around a J. Crew aimlessly for a while, collecting various items off the sale racks, when a very perky blonde lady approached me and asked if I needed any help. Before I knew it, the items in my hands were placed in a fitting room reserved for my use, she was suggesting jeans for my body shape and helping me choose sizes and colors, and she continued to help me and give me clothing advice and bring me new pieces despite the fact that a line of people now waited for fitting rooms. The lady working the cash register didn't ask me for the name of my attendant, but I gave it to her anyway along with a few words of praise.

I went shopping and was shocked by good service once again today -- only this time, I was in SoHo and decided to browse around Uniqlo after remembering that my cousin once got an enviable pair of jeans there. I found a style of dark denim I liked, pulled a 2, 4, 6, and 8 off the shelf (which I always do, and which usually pisses off salespeople immensely), and entered the fitting room. The attendant smiled, encouraged me to take as long as I needed, and told me to come out and let her examine the fit of the jeans once I determined my size. The second I pulled open the curtain, the attendant swooped over, checked that the waistband didn't gap, and dropped to one knee to pin my hems to the correct length. She then informed me that, should I choose to purchase the jeans, the store would alter them to fit my body... free of charge. "So bring these up front to the register, go get yourself some lunch, come back here with your receipt in about two hours, and they'll be ready for you."

I was stunned; this was a relatively inexpensive store and these were forty-dollar jeans, for heaven's sake! I asked more questions in search of a loophole or a catch -- and I found none. Turns out that the company believes that every single one of their customers should walk out of the store with clothing that fits their body as perfectly as possible. Thus, they offer free fitting and same-day tailoring on every pair of pants they sell.

Not only is it amazing customer service -- my jeans fit perfectly right out of the shopping bag, which NEVER happens to me -- but it's a fantastic business model. I'm sharing the news with anyone who will listen, and I'm planning on going back tomorrow morning for some colored denim that I can pass off as work pants!

You Bet

"I thought I knew, but now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City." --Elton John

Costco sells Fox's U-Bet in gallon jugs. I nearly bought one last week and thought better of it, but I've been craving a chocolate egg cream ever since.

I don't know if it's a result of my Queens upbringing, my family's bakery roots, or my "world revolves around New York City" outlook on life, but it flat-out never occurred to me that anyone could ever find those two sentences incomprehensible. My universe tilted on its edge when I uttered them at work yesterday and, instead of the sympathy I craved, they garnered these two responses:

1. Egg cream? Easter is coming up...
2. What about foxes?

It took me a few minutes of stilted explanations to realize that my colleagues didn't know what an egg cream was and didn't recognize the brand name of the key ingredient. "Maybe it's a local thing?" suggested one of my compatriots, so I did a little research, learned that both originated in Brooklyn, and was satisfied with that explanation.

Later that night, I marveled to a few fellow native New Yorkers that my coworkers had never heard of egg creams or Fox's U-Bet. I was met with total confusion once again, and this time, the universe imploded outright. What did these people drink after school as kids? Did no one else's father scour every kitchen supply store in the tri-state area looking for pressurized seltzer bottles? Was I the only person not allowed to consume Hershey's syrup during my formative years? How can you go through two-odd decades of life without having the "milk first or syrup first" argument?

Thus, I'm writing this as a public service. Read, my poor deprived friends, and learn. [Clears throat so Brooklyn accent becomes more pronounced.]


An egg cream does not contain eggs, nor does it contain cream. It is a delicious frothy drink that originated a century and change ago in the fountain soda shops of Brooklyn, New York. You can make your own in five easy steps:

1. Find a tall glass and stick it in the fridge for a few minutes to chill it.
2. Pour an inch of chocolate syrup into the bottom of the glass.
3. Pour an inch of cold milk into the glass.
4. Fill the rest of the glass with cold, fresh seltzer water, preferably from a pressurized bottle.
5. Stir it up and enjoy.

You can use any old chocolate syrup in a pinch, but a real, authentic, honest-to-God egg cream must use Fox's U-Bet chocolate syrup. U-Bet, like the egg cream itself, was born in Brooklyn and its parent company still operates out of Brownsville. I grew up on this stuff, and we always made sure that at least one yellow-labeled jar -- it was only available in jars back then -- was stashed in the back of the fridge. Hershey's, Nestle, and even Bosco syrups were (and are) never purchased as long as U-Bet was (and is) available, since, owing to its inclusion of real cocoa, cane sugar, and powdered milk, the flavor is distinct from anything else on the market. I can taste the difference between U-Bet and any other syrup brand with little effort.

If you have the ingredients on hand, make an egg cream for yourself and see what I'm talking about. If you don't, let me know and I'll treat you to one, preferably in an outer borough dive diner where the seltzer man still delivers pressurized glass bottles every morning. You'll never feel more in touch with traditional New York City, I promise.

Seeing and Knowing

"I have a friend who's an artist... he'll say, 'I, as an artist, can see how beautiful a flower is. But you, as a scientist, take it all apart and it becomes dull.' There are all kinds of interesting questions that come from a knowledge of science, which only adds to the excitement and mystery and awe of a flower. It only adds. I don't understand how it subtracts." -- Richard Feynman

Everyone has a completely different perspective on life, but just how different does the world look to someone with a strong educational background in physical and biological sciences? I pondered this question a great deal during the nine months between my acceptance to engineering school and my first day there. I thought about how an in-depth scientific education would change the way I look at the world and what the ramifications of such an understanding would be. To work through my conflicting emotions, I started writing a short story about a high school senior lured into a scientific education by extraordinary promises:

"“But when all of this is said and done, you’ll know exactly who you are and what you’re doing on this planet.”
“I won’t have time to think, let alone find myself.”
“It’s intrinsic to science, don’t you see?!” Tommy slid onto the desk and leaned close to me. His eyes, bright as hummingbirds and just as jittery, flitted across my face. “And you're going to learn more about your own life than anyone! You’ll get some paint on your shirt and visualize the chemical structure of the pigments. You’ll blink and calculate how air resistance curls your eyelashes. You’ll laugh and recognize what muscles relax to form the dimple in your left cheek." His gaze softened. "You’ll understand the reflex pathway causing you to blush whenever I look at you too closely.”
I lglanced at my hands, then remembered my molecular biology. “Beta-adrenergic stimulation activates adenylyl cyclase, which raises cyclic AMP levels, which dilates facial capillaries.”

The perspective of the story flits between the curious student and the jaded doctor she becomes, between a girl searching for some beauty in life and a woman who can't find beauty in anything. It took me four years to finish writing because it took four years for me to understand what I was trying to write.

120 credits of technical courses happened during those four years, and every circuit and every metabolic pathway and every differential equation made my world look a little bit different. So much science happened so gradually that I internalized an entire new world outlook without even realizing it.

Today, I took the elevator with a woman who tried -- and failed -- to make a phone call as we traveled between floors. She frowned at her BlackBerry, I muttered the words "Faraday cage," and she had no idea what I was talking about. For the first time in a long time, it dawned on me that people actually exist who can stand in an elevator without thinking of electrical fields rearranging charges.

As I rode the subway home today, shifting my weight from one leg to the other to balance against the inertia of the moving train, I tried to remember a life before scientific enlightenment and realized that I couldn't. But why would I want to? Honestly, how can someone book a stateroom on a cruise without first calculating the center of mass of the ship? How can someone examine a windshield crack without knowing how the defect will propagate? How can someone make cream of tomato soup without understanding why a spoonful of baking soda needs to go into the pot?

I agree with Richard Feynman; I adore knowing and find that life is incredibly beautiful when you understand the science behind it. But honestly, on some level, is not knowing just as fulfilling? Does my lack of ignorance mean that I'm missing out on the simple pleasures?

Poked

"If I could call one last truce, we've given it all we've got. If we've got nothing left, this could be worth remembering with a smile upon my face." -- Brandi Carlile

Today was a rainy, snowy, rainy, snowy day in New York City. I love the rain and I love the snow, but the slippery sidewalks and unpredictable precipitation meant that two of my pet peeves monopolized the streets and eliminated any opportunity to enjoy the weather.

One of the annoyances -- slow-moving pedestrians who occupy most of the sidewalk and force me to break my stride -- has been discussed at length here. The other, luckily, only appears a few times a year: people who use umbrellas during a snowstorm. ('Snow' implies the solid form of water, people; suck it up and brush it off before it melts.)

It was snowing as I walked to the subway this morning -- and we're talking gorgeous, serene snow here, with big fat flakes that caught prettily in my hair as I walked. Of course, though, I was blessed with a double-whammy two blocks from the station: a large slow-moving man with an even larger umbrella. I couldn't pass him because the sidewalk was too narrow and too poorly shoveled, I couldn't even see beyond him because of the vastness of his umbrella, and I couldn't yell at him to move because our shared path was too icy to warrant it. Thus, I shuffled along behind him, growing increasingly more frustrated with every stunted step.

We reached the steps up to the subway platform and he closed his umbrella. However, instead of carrying it in front of him like a civilized person, he held it parallel to the ground with the sharp pointed end facing me. He then decided to swing his arms wildly as he climbed the stairs, and said umbrella point stabbed me squarely in the left thigh.

"Excuse me!" I yelled. He turned his head a fraction, pretended not to hear me, swung his arm again, missed me by inches. "EXCUSE ME!" I yelled again, and he turned and glared at me. "Watch the umbrella!"

He rolled his eyes and continued to mount the stairs even more slowly than before. He then "accidentally" misplaced his Metrocard as I waited to swipe through the turnstile after him, miraculously located it when I switched to a different turnstile, half-sprinted to ensure that he was in front of me as I climbed the second set of stairs to the platform, and stole the corner seat I was eyeing practically out from under me.

By the time I exited the subway near my office, the snow had turned to rain.

Keep Out

"There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of your time." -- from Avenue Q

I'm sure there are a ton of ordinary little miracles happening around me lately that I can write about. I know that tons of stuff has happened to me that you'd love to hear and I've made lots of little observations you'd appreciate me sharing. But you know what? Lately, nothing -- absolutely nothing -- in my life has struck me as quirky and exciting enough to warrant a blog entry. Coincidentally, the weather around here has plummeted and is currently hovering around 0F, which reminds me of Dante's assertion that hell gets colder as you descend farther into it.

I owe this blog something, though, so I'm stealing other people's words to replace my own. I stumbled across 8tracks.com recently, a site which allows you to upload mp3s, create a playlist, and embed it on your website. So if you're sitting around at home this weekend trying desperately to keep warm, give this one a play. The track list is below the applet.



1. Into the Sun -- Locksley
2. Creep (Radiohead cover) -- Brandi Carlile
3. I Melt With You -- Saves The Day
4. Your Ex-Lover Is Dead -- Stars
5. Wonderwall -- Paul Anka
6. Burn -- Ray LaMontagne
7. You Belong With Me -- Taylor Swift
8. Hallelujah -- Gavin DeGraw

Eruption

"And suddenly, the whole world exploded." -- from Jersey Boys

Sorry about my absence; it's been a busy, fretful fortnight. I spent many long nights performing data abstraction, but I met a seemingly impossible deadline and have two new credentials to show for it. I was ill for two days last week, which I'm blaming on dehydration. I'm also rereading Jane Eyre and have written several drafts of a blog post in an effort to isolate my feelings about it, but it's still a work in progress.

In the meantime, here's a recipe for miniature cheesecakes that I invented tonight. The quantities and methodology don't differ too much from my Polish grandma's old recipe (save for lots of ingredient swaps and the wholly Italian use of ricotta), but for some odd inexplicable reason, these babies puffed up like muffins in the oven! It was all for the best, though -- I chilled the tray after I pulled it out, which caused the puffs to collapse upon themselves in superdense black holes of deliciousness. I either didn't beat the filling long enough or overfilled the trays, but for the first time in a long time, I have no intention of trying to rectify the culinary mistake.

Miniature Cheesecakes

Crust:
3/4 cup crushed Oreos
2 tbsp melted butter

Filling:
½ cup cream cheese
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg
½ cup ricotta cheese
½ cup sugar

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Food-process Oreos and butter until a crumbly paste forms, then press into the bottoms of two lined miniature muffin trays. (One regular muffin tray or half a dozen small ramekins will probably work as well -- just add ten minutes to the baking time.) Mix filling ingredients until smooth, then spoon filling into trays within 1/4 inch of the top. Bake for fifteen minutes or until the filling starts to brown. Chill before serving. They'll look hideous but they'll taste delicious.

Four on the Fourth

"I wander lost in yesterday, wanting to fly but scared to try. But... if someone like you found someone like me, then suddenly nothing would ever be the same." -- from Jekyll & Hyde

Back in the day, I wrote three blog entries likening the game of chess to the game of love and explained how my playing styles in both games are shockingly similar. In the last of my three posts, I pinpointed the endgame as one of the weaker parts of my chessplay and likened my inability to achieve checkmate to my astonishing inability to seal a romantic deal. Anyway, after umpteen more failed exchanges with a favored opponent, I realized that the sense of frustration I was enduring felt EXACTLY like trying to win a rook-and-pawn endgame under time pressure with the fifty-move mark looming.

"If I see her standing there alone at the train station three stops from her home, I have half a mind to say what I'm thinking. Anyway, I don't know. I don't know." -- Sufjan Stevens

In accordance with the MTA's ridiculous new plans for beating their deficit, the W train is slowly being phased out of service and the Q line is being extended. Thus, I rode a Q into Queens today. It was an odd, odd feeling.

"'Would you like me to do it now?' asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. 'Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?'" -- J.K. Rowling

I received The Tales of Beedle the Bard, J.K. Rowling's collection of fables "from the world of Harry Potter," as a gift and read it through in twenty minutes. Yeah, it was interesting and yeah, I love the fact that the title page states that the book was "translated from the ancient runes by Hermione Granger with extensive commentary by Albus Dumbledore," but I wasn't overly enthusiastic about the complete product. J.K. Rowling killed my favorite character in a really crappy way in the seventh book and nothing has really mattered too much since. Could it be that I'm finally starting to outgrow the Potterverse?

"He don't eat no meat? What you mean he DON'T EAT NO MEAT?! Oh, that's okay. That's okay. I make lamb. Come." -- Aunt Voula, from My Big Fat Greek Wedding

For a quick, easy, and delicious lamb marinade, whisk together 1/4 cup lemon juice, 1/8 cup extra-virgin olive oil (or, for an extra kick, an infused olive oil from O&Co), six sliced-up cloves of garlic, half a chopped-up large white onion, 1 tsp dried or 2 tbsp fresh parsley, 1 tsp dried oregano or rosemary, pinch of salt, pinch of pepper. Throw all the ingredients into a large Ziplock bag, shake it up, then throw in 4-8 eight lamb chops, shake it up again, and place the bag flat in the fridge for at least four hours. Grill the chops without brushing off the seasonings. Alternatively, bake the contents of the bag (minus the bag itself, of course) for 30 minutes (which will yield medium-well chops) at 400 degrees. Let chops rest for ten minutes before serving.

Fifty Percent

"I don't pick out his ties or expect his tomorrows, but I feel when he's in my arms he's where he wants to be. We have no memories bittersweet with time, and I doubt if he'll spend New Year's Eve with me." -- Helen Reddy

Happy 2009 all. In direct opposition to this blog's theme -- my quest to find and capture extraordinary moments in ordinary life -- I'm spending my New Year's Eve in the most ordinary way possible. I didn't spend my entire day planning and preening and anticipating the evening; I spent the entire day in clinic trying to meet a data deadline. I'm not dressed to kill with my lips painted red and my curls cascading down my back; I'm wearing a tank top, pajama pants, and fuzzy socks, with my face free of makeup and my hair pulled into a ponytail. I'm not socializing with adored friends or attractive strangers; I'm channel-surfing between all three parts of That's Entertainment! and The Twilight Zone. I'm not standing or dancing or bursting with excited energy; I'm on the couch under a blanket and I just woke up from a little nap. I'm not enjoying a top-shelf open bar or even a keg in someone's living room; I'm swigging Moet & Chandon White Star right out of the bottle. I didn't even cook today, not even once; I'm snacking on Costco's hors d'oeuvres and ordered a pizza for dinner.

It's a painfully ordinary and slightly pathetic evening, but honestly, the thought of spending New Year's Eve alone on my couch felt more appealing than accepting any invitation I received in or around New York City. I've been in a bit of a funk lately; I've had a loud and stressful few weeks and desperately longed for a little time to think and decompress. And so far, it's been lovely. The one thing that could have made my evening more fulfilling would have been a handsome and quirky fellow to share my couch and kiss me at midnight, but that would have put a serious dent in the blessed ordinariness of my situation.

On a related note, what should my New Year's resolution be?

Christmas Wrapping

"When what, to my wondering eyes did appear? In the line was that guy I've been chasing all year! Suddenly we laughed and laughed, caught on to what was happening. That Christmas magic brought this tale to a very happy ending." -- The Waitresses

Happy Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, and Festivus to all of you! I'm in the middle of another lovely, hectic holiday, so this will be a short post. (Luckily, I love hectic Christmases most of all.)

Perhaps as karmic punishment for the fact that I haven't actually done most of my Christmas shopping yet, I didn't get the one thing I really wanted for Christmas. I'm probably closer than I've ever been to that gift, though... but of course, I'm the worst judge in the world when it comes to these things. In any case, I hope all your wishes came true this holiday season!

And now I'm off to cook Christmas dinner... my second of three Christmas dinners. Peace!