Okay, we all knew - myself included - that I wouldn't make the deadline. Pooh. Then again, we all know - especially me - that I don't break my word on matters like this, and resurgence is inevitable.
The greatest of thanks to those of you who have stuck through this journey, the best is yet to come!
And very, very soon at that.
-FG
Monday, August 22, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thursday, March 26, 2009
(I know, I know, I'm a shit. BUT on the bright side I've written about 30 pages these past few weeks - really! - and have set up a schedule to religiously post twice a week. Stay tuned...)
Well, I suppose it’s because of a lot of other things I don’t do.
I don’t work out much. I have my fits and spurts like, become a gym fanatic to look good in this dress, or, summer is coming it’s sit-ups time! But I’ve never really made exercise a routine or daily fixture of my life. This is a shame in more ways than one, made bigger by the fact that I do in fact have a dog and should, at the very least, be running around with him every single day.
I snack. Boo. I snack later on in the evening, especially. Bigger boo. And while I don’t snack “bad”, at least for the most part, snacking later is not a good thing in general. Boos all around.
I may not thrive on unhealthy foods but I am a gourmet fanatic, and the lipids count on too many of those items is high, baby high. Rich cheeses, delectable pasta, sumptuous, fruity rich oils. I do try and eat these in moderation but every now and again a puttanesca will look at me longingly, and I’ll oblige by giving it a home. In my stomach.
Salt. Heavens to Betsy, I love salt. I think the sweet tooth I didn’t get is due to the oh-so-savoury taste buds rock ‘n rolling away in my mouth, bossing the sugar wants away. I have four kinds of sugar in my cupboard to fulfill every coffee and baking need; I have 14 different kinds of salt. Among them are kosher and sea salt for everyday, Fleur de Sel and Sel Gris for finishing, black salt for earthiness and truffle salt for everything from hard boiled eggs to popcorn seasoning. Air popped.
I love vegetables but don’t eat them as often as I’d like, especially in the winter months. I never pre-plan my meals, either. I do my best but then sometimes I just get so hungry or tired or both, and with few options before me I usually go for the toasted bagel that’s quick, easy and packed with carbs.
So while it could be said that I try hard, I really don’t try hard enough. But I’m not going to let that get me down.
In spirit of Love and Me, or, Loving Me, I think I’ll stop slapping myself on the wrist all the time. I’m human. I’m doing good but not my best; I’m not going to resolve to try harder because honestly, that mostly accomplishes nothing. I just know I can do better. And the main difference between this year and all the years behind me is, I want to do better.
I’ve been saying I have to I have to I HAVE TO for years now and quite frankly, it’s gotten me nowhere. I’ve been saying I can’t I can’t I CAN’T for even longer, and that’s taken me just as far.
I remember saying I HAD to study hard for this or that exam in university, then ending up going out with friends instead. I also remember my father telling me time and again in high school that I COULD NOT go out with boys, but you know what? I found a way around that. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.
What I also know and remember is that when I wanted something that was totally achievable, I would get it. I wanted to learn how to rollerblade, and no matter how many times my ass hit the pavement, I made it happen. I wanted to get into journalism school, I wanted that internship in Europe; I worked my butt off for both, and did it.
It will happen because it will; it will happen because I want it to. It’s when I want something that badly that it stops becoming what it started as: want. It becomes a need, the air that I breathe. That’s when the magic happens.
Well, I suppose it’s because of a lot of other things I don’t do.
I don’t work out much. I have my fits and spurts like, become a gym fanatic to look good in this dress, or, summer is coming it’s sit-ups time! But I’ve never really made exercise a routine or daily fixture of my life. This is a shame in more ways than one, made bigger by the fact that I do in fact have a dog and should, at the very least, be running around with him every single day.
I snack. Boo. I snack later on in the evening, especially. Bigger boo. And while I don’t snack “bad”, at least for the most part, snacking later is not a good thing in general. Boos all around.
I may not thrive on unhealthy foods but I am a gourmet fanatic, and the lipids count on too many of those items is high, baby high. Rich cheeses, delectable pasta, sumptuous, fruity rich oils. I do try and eat these in moderation but every now and again a puttanesca will look at me longingly, and I’ll oblige by giving it a home. In my stomach.
Salt. Heavens to Betsy, I love salt. I think the sweet tooth I didn’t get is due to the oh-so-savoury taste buds rock ‘n rolling away in my mouth, bossing the sugar wants away. I have four kinds of sugar in my cupboard to fulfill every coffee and baking need; I have 14 different kinds of salt. Among them are kosher and sea salt for everyday, Fleur de Sel and Sel Gris for finishing, black salt for earthiness and truffle salt for everything from hard boiled eggs to popcorn seasoning. Air popped.
I love vegetables but don’t eat them as often as I’d like, especially in the winter months. I never pre-plan my meals, either. I do my best but then sometimes I just get so hungry or tired or both, and with few options before me I usually go for the toasted bagel that’s quick, easy and packed with carbs.
So while it could be said that I try hard, I really don’t try hard enough. But I’m not going to let that get me down.
In spirit of Love and Me, or, Loving Me, I think I’ll stop slapping myself on the wrist all the time. I’m human. I’m doing good but not my best; I’m not going to resolve to try harder because honestly, that mostly accomplishes nothing. I just know I can do better. And the main difference between this year and all the years behind me is, I want to do better.
I’ve been saying I have to I have to I HAVE TO for years now and quite frankly, it’s gotten me nowhere. I’ve been saying I can’t I can’t I CAN’T for even longer, and that’s taken me just as far.
I remember saying I HAD to study hard for this or that exam in university, then ending up going out with friends instead. I also remember my father telling me time and again in high school that I COULD NOT go out with boys, but you know what? I found a way around that. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.
What I also know and remember is that when I wanted something that was totally achievable, I would get it. I wanted to learn how to rollerblade, and no matter how many times my ass hit the pavement, I made it happen. I wanted to get into journalism school, I wanted that internship in Europe; I worked my butt off for both, and did it.
It will happen because it will; it will happen because I want it to. It’s when I want something that badly that it stops becoming what it started as: want. It becomes a need, the air that I breathe. That’s when the magic happens.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Hi there! Again, I've taken a lot longer to come back than I thought I would, but something pretty major happened a few weeks ago - something major, and to something I really, really love. Thankfully it was to a "something" and not "someone" (and majorly thankful my dog was not in that category, either) but nevertheless it was poopy all the same. I'll be writing about that in a few weeks time. Cheers :)
I don’t eat candy.
I’ve never really liked the stuff, at least not since the age of 10. The novelty of Halloween only took me so far, I suppose. I don’t even have a yen for sugary products, and can’t stomach anything too sickeningly sweet. I love to bake, but that’s mostly for holidays and special occasions. And, I rarely dig into the finished product because by then, I’ve had my fill of staring at it.
I don’t eat chips or other junk foods, not all that much. A handful of times per year, tops. I never drink soda, except ginger ale when I’m sick. I almost never eat takeout food, and no delivery man knows me by name. I can’t stand breaded foods, and ixnay on anything deep fried.
I’m not a chocoholic, though I do indulge in a good dark when my hormones dictate it. I don’t drink all that much, either. Sandy and I share maybe two bottles of wine per month. I do love coffee, but never more than five cups per week, or even more than one cup per day, except maybe sometimes on weekends. Coffee is more of a fall and winter thing, too; come spring and summer, my consumption of the stuff wanes down to almost nothing. Hot beverages and hot days rarely coincide on my planet, and truth be told, I really don’t like flavoured, iced or whip cream topped caffeine.
When I have parties I don’t spend a mint on ready-made, assembly line foods, I make everything myself, with fresh ingredients, from scratch. For the most part I hate canned food, mixes, overly processed crap, and the chemically-laden. When I do have any of these things I read the labels like a hawk, making sure the nutritional values are acceptable, and the ingredients are all natural.
Good yes, trans fats no. I try as hard as the next girl to put only the best things in my body.
This isn’t how I function when I’m being saintly or super careful; these aren’t my food-fascist ways at their peak. This isn’t me tiptoeing through the aisles of the grocery store, avoiding tasty, fatty products in fear of gaining an ounce. Very truthfully this is my everyday, how I choose and make the foods I eat. This is just me.
So all that said, why the hell am I still fat?
I don’t eat candy.
I’ve never really liked the stuff, at least not since the age of 10. The novelty of Halloween only took me so far, I suppose. I don’t even have a yen for sugary products, and can’t stomach anything too sickeningly sweet. I love to bake, but that’s mostly for holidays and special occasions. And, I rarely dig into the finished product because by then, I’ve had my fill of staring at it.
I don’t eat chips or other junk foods, not all that much. A handful of times per year, tops. I never drink soda, except ginger ale when I’m sick. I almost never eat takeout food, and no delivery man knows me by name. I can’t stand breaded foods, and ixnay on anything deep fried.
I’m not a chocoholic, though I do indulge in a good dark when my hormones dictate it. I don’t drink all that much, either. Sandy and I share maybe two bottles of wine per month. I do love coffee, but never more than five cups per week, or even more than one cup per day, except maybe sometimes on weekends. Coffee is more of a fall and winter thing, too; come spring and summer, my consumption of the stuff wanes down to almost nothing. Hot beverages and hot days rarely coincide on my planet, and truth be told, I really don’t like flavoured, iced or whip cream topped caffeine.
When I have parties I don’t spend a mint on ready-made, assembly line foods, I make everything myself, with fresh ingredients, from scratch. For the most part I hate canned food, mixes, overly processed crap, and the chemically-laden. When I do have any of these things I read the labels like a hawk, making sure the nutritional values are acceptable, and the ingredients are all natural.
Good yes, trans fats no. I try as hard as the next girl to put only the best things in my body.
This isn’t how I function when I’m being saintly or super careful; these aren’t my food-fascist ways at their peak. This isn’t me tiptoeing through the aisles of the grocery store, avoiding tasty, fatty products in fear of gaining an ounce. Very truthfully this is my everyday, how I choose and make the foods I eat. This is just me.
So all that said, why the hell am I still fat?
Monday, January 12, 2009
A New Year's message to You, to You
I’ve been away for a lot longer than I thought I would be, than I said I would be and so forth, and while I’m super tempted to apologize and say that things will be better from here on in, I’ll write more regularly (and so forth), I don’t have to this time.
See, I didn’t want to be away. I wanted to write and I did do a lot of it, but my computer (and all the viruses it contracted) had its own ideas. I’m not totally sure if the matter is cleared up ‘cause I’m just not tech wired like that, but I am positive that current state of said PC is enough for me to continue where I left off.
Besides, it’s time for me to be here, time for me to write and finish what I started so very long ago. It’s the beginning of the end, I can feel it. And while many of you will disagree with the word “end” I’ve never personally had an issue with it. Everything comes to an end in one way or another; childhood, Harry Potter books (and movies); the Gucci 2008 collection.
It’s because ends make way for beginnings, wonderful beginnings. Just like winter snows always thaw into Spring, I’ll always be me, this crazy curly-haired writer trying to find her way one word at a time. But I want an end to the dream just being a dream; I want to capture the Me I envisioned for myself such a long time ago, the Me I gain a little more of, every single day.
It’s the Me I’ll never have if I don’t finish this story of here and now, my story. I want the rest of my story. I’m sure you do, too. So let us start the Beginning of the End, the rest of this story, with a story.
And, a question. Have you ever asked this of yourself: “What am I worth?”
Before I could be old enough to ask myself this question and truly ponder on it, it was asked of me.
My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Vinsanto, was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Maybe it was because he was one of the odder choices, I mean, being a man and teaching the fourth grade to begin with was quite an oddity in itself, but throwing pointy shoes and permed hair into the equation made for interesting hallway gossip. Still, Mr. Vinsanto wasn’t one of those teachers who was there for summer months off and a great pension; he taught because he wanted to, because he loved his job and he was great at it.
Even though it was a really long time ago, one of Mr. Vinsanto’s lessons in particular has always stuck with me. Actually it wasn’t even the lesson itself, since I really can’t remember most of it (hey, I was 9), but what he said in it that was so significant.
It was during a Religion class. Being a Catholic school we were subject to religion classes every now and then, where we learned all about the bible, the saints, pain, suffering, guilt, and who was flogged most effectively under Roman rule. Anyway, the subject matter that day was Worth.
How we got to that point is beyond me, but I remember, clear as day, Mr. Vinsanto looking all around the room, pointing his fingers at us and saying, “Tell me, all of you, how much are you worth?”
How much was I worth? I thought and thought, but had no answer. I could see brows furrowed all around me, but not one hand was up. Heavy thinking in a nine-year old universe.
“Think about it, as hard as you can,” Mr. Vinsanto went on. “How much are you worth?”
Hmm. Being young of course I put this down to monetary value, and concentrated. I knew I was definitely worth more than $10, and definitely more than $100! $1000 was a no-brainer too, but $100,000 started to sound steep, I mean, that much money could buy truckloads of Cabbage Patch Kids. A million I didn’t even want to think about, it was far too extravagant. Those types of fortunes were only for people like Queen Elizabeth and Scrooge McDuck.
$10,000 would cut it, I thought, maybe even $50,000 on a good day. I very apprehensively started to put my hand up in the air, noticing that others around me were being shy about the matter as well, when Mr. Vinsanto shook out those gorgeous black curls ever so slightly, flashed his pearly whites and said, “Well, I know how much you’re all worth!”
Hands went down quickety-quick. Fantastic! I thought. I took out a pencil to write the number down and show my family when I got home. Just imagine, my very own price tag! Maybe Oli could draw one up for me, and make it all nice and pretty. In my heart of hearts I secretly hoped I was worth more than Theresa, the teacher’s pet, while I KNEW I was worth more than stupid Bradley, who always threw dirt around at recess.
But Mr. Vinsanto didn’t give out any numbers. Instead he leaned a bit forward and said, most seriously, “You can’t attach a number to how much you are worth. You’re priceless.”
Maybe this would have garnered applause in an eighth grade classroom, but not in our fourth grade world. Most of us just sat there with blank looks on our faces after he said that. Priceless? What did this word mean? I knew what Price meant, and what Less meant, but the two didn’t quite seem to match up. Was I less a price?
Thankfully Mr. Vinsanto was used to dealing with kids our age every day, all the time, and so started to clarify. “Let’s imagine you were kidnapped,” he said, to which the class gasped. We all knew what “kidnapped” meant. “Let’s say you were kidnapped, and the bad people who took you only did it because they wanted money from your parents. How much would your parents give, to get you back?”
I thought and thought. The car? Maybe the house? I didn’t think they would trade Oli in for me, though.
But Mr. Vinsanto had a different answer. “If you were stolen, your parents would give away everything they had. They would give their lives for you. Do you know why?”
I thought I sort of knew why, but kept my hand down. So did everyone else, instead, we just stayed fixated on Mr. Vinsanto. “Because they love you, and because you’re worth everything they have, everything they can give. That is what 'priceless' is, it means, more than money.”
I didn’t look around the class just then, but assumed that everyone’s mouth was as wide open as mine. I was worth more than $10,000 and $50,000? I was worth more than $100,000 and even a million? Or a billion? What was bigger than a billion, anyway? And how crazy was it that I was worth more than that, too?
Mr. Vinsanto, amused and satisfied at our shock, sent his point home. “Each and every single one of you is worth more than money, or jewellery, or stuff. There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are. You are unique. You are everything.”
We had a special spring in our steps that day, Mr. Vinsanto’s fourth-grade class. Throughout recess, throughout lunch, throughout the rest of lessons and then going home after the final bell rang, we knew, every last one of us, no diamond on earth shone as brightly as we could.
Then, we grew up. I don’t know how the rest of the class has fared with that lesson but I’ve forgotten it too many times. I’m sure everyone does; other people tell us we’re nothing, we believe them. We read job contracts, mortgages, insurance policies and we believe those, too. Almost everything we have and everything we know can be bought for money and we believe in the metaphorical price tags on our heads too, when the reality of the matter is that no money could ever buy us, duplicate us, or bring us back after we’re gone.
We’re only a few days into 2009, and usually January is a pretty down time for me. It’s a new year, I’m back in the exact same place I was last year, disappointed, not where I want to be in my life, not looking at how I want to look. I pick apart my circumstances, I don’t like what I see. I stand naked in front of mirrors, I don’t like what I see.
Self-loathing, even in its most constructive forms, isn’t the most positive way to start off any year. I haven’t been very good to myself.
But this time, something’s different. Physically I’m not very far from where I was last year at this time, but emotionally, spiritually, something is changing. I feel lighter, happier. I feel free in a way I can’t explain.
So this year, instead of cutting myself up, feeling bad and punishing myself for bad choices, I’m trying something new. I’m going to try and love myself for a change, to forgive myself easier, to be more patient and overall, more understanding. I’ve given a lot more to people who have meant much less, even done less, so why can’t I give more to myself?
I’m worth it. Even if I don’t feel that some of the time, in fact most of the time, I do mean something to those around me. My family loves me, I crack my friends up. My boyfriend, bless his blue-eyed soul, looks at me in that extra special, sparkly way. My dog thinks I’m the bee’s knees. If I am worth nothing else in my own eyes, I am plenty in the eyes of others. I mean something in this world. There is only one Me.
There is only one You, too. You’re worth it, and this world would not be the same without you. So if there’s just one thing you take away from this long, long post today, maybe a little mantra you should carry with you throughout this New Year, even for every year following, let it be this: There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are.
You are irreplaceable. You are everything.
See, I didn’t want to be away. I wanted to write and I did do a lot of it, but my computer (and all the viruses it contracted) had its own ideas. I’m not totally sure if the matter is cleared up ‘cause I’m just not tech wired like that, but I am positive that current state of said PC is enough for me to continue where I left off.
Besides, it’s time for me to be here, time for me to write and finish what I started so very long ago. It’s the beginning of the end, I can feel it. And while many of you will disagree with the word “end” I’ve never personally had an issue with it. Everything comes to an end in one way or another; childhood, Harry Potter books (and movies); the Gucci 2008 collection.
It’s because ends make way for beginnings, wonderful beginnings. Just like winter snows always thaw into Spring, I’ll always be me, this crazy curly-haired writer trying to find her way one word at a time. But I want an end to the dream just being a dream; I want to capture the Me I envisioned for myself such a long time ago, the Me I gain a little more of, every single day.
It’s the Me I’ll never have if I don’t finish this story of here and now, my story. I want the rest of my story. I’m sure you do, too. So let us start the Beginning of the End, the rest of this story, with a story.
And, a question. Have you ever asked this of yourself: “What am I worth?”
Before I could be old enough to ask myself this question and truly ponder on it, it was asked of me.
My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Vinsanto, was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Maybe it was because he was one of the odder choices, I mean, being a man and teaching the fourth grade to begin with was quite an oddity in itself, but throwing pointy shoes and permed hair into the equation made for interesting hallway gossip. Still, Mr. Vinsanto wasn’t one of those teachers who was there for summer months off and a great pension; he taught because he wanted to, because he loved his job and he was great at it.
Even though it was a really long time ago, one of Mr. Vinsanto’s lessons in particular has always stuck with me. Actually it wasn’t even the lesson itself, since I really can’t remember most of it (hey, I was 9), but what he said in it that was so significant.
It was during a Religion class. Being a Catholic school we were subject to religion classes every now and then, where we learned all about the bible, the saints, pain, suffering, guilt, and who was flogged most effectively under Roman rule. Anyway, the subject matter that day was Worth.
How we got to that point is beyond me, but I remember, clear as day, Mr. Vinsanto looking all around the room, pointing his fingers at us and saying, “Tell me, all of you, how much are you worth?”
How much was I worth? I thought and thought, but had no answer. I could see brows furrowed all around me, but not one hand was up. Heavy thinking in a nine-year old universe.
“Think about it, as hard as you can,” Mr. Vinsanto went on. “How much are you worth?”
Hmm. Being young of course I put this down to monetary value, and concentrated. I knew I was definitely worth more than $10, and definitely more than $100! $1000 was a no-brainer too, but $100,000 started to sound steep, I mean, that much money could buy truckloads of Cabbage Patch Kids. A million I didn’t even want to think about, it was far too extravagant. Those types of fortunes were only for people like Queen Elizabeth and Scrooge McDuck.
$10,000 would cut it, I thought, maybe even $50,000 on a good day. I very apprehensively started to put my hand up in the air, noticing that others around me were being shy about the matter as well, when Mr. Vinsanto shook out those gorgeous black curls ever so slightly, flashed his pearly whites and said, “Well, I know how much you’re all worth!”
Hands went down quickety-quick. Fantastic! I thought. I took out a pencil to write the number down and show my family when I got home. Just imagine, my very own price tag! Maybe Oli could draw one up for me, and make it all nice and pretty. In my heart of hearts I secretly hoped I was worth more than Theresa, the teacher’s pet, while I KNEW I was worth more than stupid Bradley, who always threw dirt around at recess.
But Mr. Vinsanto didn’t give out any numbers. Instead he leaned a bit forward and said, most seriously, “You can’t attach a number to how much you are worth. You’re priceless.”
Maybe this would have garnered applause in an eighth grade classroom, but not in our fourth grade world. Most of us just sat there with blank looks on our faces after he said that. Priceless? What did this word mean? I knew what Price meant, and what Less meant, but the two didn’t quite seem to match up. Was I less a price?
Thankfully Mr. Vinsanto was used to dealing with kids our age every day, all the time, and so started to clarify. “Let’s imagine you were kidnapped,” he said, to which the class gasped. We all knew what “kidnapped” meant. “Let’s say you were kidnapped, and the bad people who took you only did it because they wanted money from your parents. How much would your parents give, to get you back?”
I thought and thought. The car? Maybe the house? I didn’t think they would trade Oli in for me, though.
But Mr. Vinsanto had a different answer. “If you were stolen, your parents would give away everything they had. They would give their lives for you. Do you know why?”
I thought I sort of knew why, but kept my hand down. So did everyone else, instead, we just stayed fixated on Mr. Vinsanto. “Because they love you, and because you’re worth everything they have, everything they can give. That is what 'priceless' is, it means, more than money.”
I didn’t look around the class just then, but assumed that everyone’s mouth was as wide open as mine. I was worth more than $10,000 and $50,000? I was worth more than $100,000 and even a million? Or a billion? What was bigger than a billion, anyway? And how crazy was it that I was worth more than that, too?
Mr. Vinsanto, amused and satisfied at our shock, sent his point home. “Each and every single one of you is worth more than money, or jewellery, or stuff. There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are. You are unique. You are everything.”
We had a special spring in our steps that day, Mr. Vinsanto’s fourth-grade class. Throughout recess, throughout lunch, throughout the rest of lessons and then going home after the final bell rang, we knew, every last one of us, no diamond on earth shone as brightly as we could.
Then, we grew up. I don’t know how the rest of the class has fared with that lesson but I’ve forgotten it too many times. I’m sure everyone does; other people tell us we’re nothing, we believe them. We read job contracts, mortgages, insurance policies and we believe those, too. Almost everything we have and everything we know can be bought for money and we believe in the metaphorical price tags on our heads too, when the reality of the matter is that no money could ever buy us, duplicate us, or bring us back after we’re gone.
We’re only a few days into 2009, and usually January is a pretty down time for me. It’s a new year, I’m back in the exact same place I was last year, disappointed, not where I want to be in my life, not looking at how I want to look. I pick apart my circumstances, I don’t like what I see. I stand naked in front of mirrors, I don’t like what I see.
Self-loathing, even in its most constructive forms, isn’t the most positive way to start off any year. I haven’t been very good to myself.
But this time, something’s different. Physically I’m not very far from where I was last year at this time, but emotionally, spiritually, something is changing. I feel lighter, happier. I feel free in a way I can’t explain.
So this year, instead of cutting myself up, feeling bad and punishing myself for bad choices, I’m trying something new. I’m going to try and love myself for a change, to forgive myself easier, to be more patient and overall, more understanding. I’ve given a lot more to people who have meant much less, even done less, so why can’t I give more to myself?
I’m worth it. Even if I don’t feel that some of the time, in fact most of the time, I do mean something to those around me. My family loves me, I crack my friends up. My boyfriend, bless his blue-eyed soul, looks at me in that extra special, sparkly way. My dog thinks I’m the bee’s knees. If I am worth nothing else in my own eyes, I am plenty in the eyes of others. I mean something in this world. There is only one Me.
There is only one You, too. You’re worth it, and this world would not be the same without you. So if there’s just one thing you take away from this long, long post today, maybe a little mantra you should carry with you throughout this New Year, even for every year following, let it be this: There is only one YOU in this whole entire world. No one else can do what you do, or be who you are.
You are irreplaceable. You are everything.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
100% Real Juice: Becoming Jane
Okay, one more quote and then I’ll get back to the real world of writing, promise.
Becoming Jane, starring the ethereally gorgeous, my-eyes-are-freakishly-large Anne Hathaway and that delish piece of Scots man candy James McAvoy, is a historically inaccurate tale of the beginnings of Jane Austen as a writer, and of her first, apparently only, real love.
I’d just started watching the flick and was only a few minutes in when this bit caught me; I had to grab the remote to rewind and pause in all the appropriate places, letting me write it down word for word so I could put it up here for you. Thank you, Video On Demand.
Jane’s father, a pastor, is giving his sermon at Sunday mass, and forms this ditty around his daughter’s unmentionable behaviour; fits of written talent and some brackish piano playing all too early in that 1800s morning.
“The utmost of a woman’s character is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister, and eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction, virtuous love, and quiet in the early morning. If a woman happens to have a particular superiority, for example, a profound mind, it is best kept a profound secret. Humour is liked more, but wit; No. It is the most treacherous talent of them all.”
Interesting. Debasing and discriminatory, but still interesting. And, yuck. Wit is the hallmark of a sharp mind, and a sharp mind the key to a universe of knowledge. Sometimes we take for granted that these keys only became available to us women just a couple of generations back.
It’s hard enough to be a woman nowadays; I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like back then. Imagine such an existence, rules rules RULES until you went absolutely insane, or got married, or both. For some it was a good deal, but what if you were smart? Knowing what More is, wanting it, and only in very few cases, having the balls to take it. It was a stiff price for those who dared.
This topic might be seemingly unrelated to anything I ever have to say, but I’m writing about it for two reasons. One: It’s important to pay respects. This woman was one of many who dared and made it possible for all women, to go to work every day, own real estate, drive ourselves wherever the hell we want to just because we can, tell dirty jokes and have lascivious affairs with men of our choosing. It’s because of women like this that I can come here to the internet, to this quirky little planet of mine, and shoot my mouth off all I like, and you can read it.
Two: Thank you, all, for reading my shootings off. It amazed me, after being gone for so very long, that there were still people checking this site often enough to get almost right back to me with a comment, or even call me, to those of you who know me personally. I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me, or how happy I was that so many of you still believe in me. Through the thick and the thin (especially the thick), you have always been there, and I’m so, so grateful for that.
Kisses.
Becoming Jane, starring the ethereally gorgeous, my-eyes-are-freakishly-large Anne Hathaway and that delish piece of Scots man candy James McAvoy, is a historically inaccurate tale of the beginnings of Jane Austen as a writer, and of her first, apparently only, real love.
I’d just started watching the flick and was only a few minutes in when this bit caught me; I had to grab the remote to rewind and pause in all the appropriate places, letting me write it down word for word so I could put it up here for you. Thank you, Video On Demand.
Jane’s father, a pastor, is giving his sermon at Sunday mass, and forms this ditty around his daughter’s unmentionable behaviour; fits of written talent and some brackish piano playing all too early in that 1800s morning.
“The utmost of a woman’s character is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister, and eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction, virtuous love, and quiet in the early morning. If a woman happens to have a particular superiority, for example, a profound mind, it is best kept a profound secret. Humour is liked more, but wit; No. It is the most treacherous talent of them all.”
Interesting. Debasing and discriminatory, but still interesting. And, yuck. Wit is the hallmark of a sharp mind, and a sharp mind the key to a universe of knowledge. Sometimes we take for granted that these keys only became available to us women just a couple of generations back.
It’s hard enough to be a woman nowadays; I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like back then. Imagine such an existence, rules rules RULES until you went absolutely insane, or got married, or both. For some it was a good deal, but what if you were smart? Knowing what More is, wanting it, and only in very few cases, having the balls to take it. It was a stiff price for those who dared.
This topic might be seemingly unrelated to anything I ever have to say, but I’m writing about it for two reasons. One: It’s important to pay respects. This woman was one of many who dared and made it possible for all women, to go to work every day, own real estate, drive ourselves wherever the hell we want to just because we can, tell dirty jokes and have lascivious affairs with men of our choosing. It’s because of women like this that I can come here to the internet, to this quirky little planet of mine, and shoot my mouth off all I like, and you can read it.
Two: Thank you, all, for reading my shootings off. It amazed me, after being gone for so very long, that there were still people checking this site often enough to get almost right back to me with a comment, or even call me, to those of you who know me personally. I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me, or how happy I was that so many of you still believe in me. Through the thick and the thin (especially the thick), you have always been there, and I’m so, so grateful for that.
Kisses.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Resurgence. For now, anyway.
Starbucks The Way I See It #286
Hypocrisy is annoying, but not evil. Someone who says one thing and does another has doubled their chances of being half right.
- Penn Jillette, Magician
According to this, I’m annoying but not evil. I said one thing and did another, that is, I said I’d be back a long time ago. I didn’t do that.
I suppose in one way, that makes me a hypocrite. My return, my homecoming, my long-awaited, triumphant welcome back – to be most celebrated by myself, believe me – was delayed. Much longer than I would have liked.
At first, I didn’t want to write. I don’t like admitting that, but it’s true. I’ll call it Burnout. I’d written so much, sometimes so often, that ever now and then it felt like I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to. Many of my posts in the last while were half-ass, which for me, is unacceptable. I didn’t like that and so, I didn’t write at all.
Then I wanted to write again, but stifled myself not to. It was for noble reasons: I spent the better part of my time that I would have spent writing here, trying to get a job. There were successes and there were failures, but there were changes. I’ll get into those later.
The past few months was supposed to be a grand return, signaled by this newer, grander layout. And I wanted it to be that way, but despite my best intentions, that didn’t come to pass. I could bog you down with excuses and reasons and stories alike, that I tried but I couldn’t, blah this and blah that, but I’m here to tell it and not whine, so I’ll be as quick as possible.
It’s been a bitch of a summer. It was supposed to be three months of discovery, of learning, of eating better, of yoga and weekend trips and writing, writing, WRITING, especially here, to keep with the journey that I started, now so long ago, and very desperately want to see finished.
Instead, to sum it up as quickly as possible without turning this into a rant, it went more like this:
My father was sick.
There was an overseas cousin.
A baby was born (not mine).
My dog was sick.
My dog was sick.
I was sick.
My dog was sick.
There was a wedding (not mine).
There was another wedding (really, not mine).
My dog was sick.
The sickness bits, not a one, were attached or intertwined. All new things, crazy things, that led to a lot of panic and stress. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
Usually when I’m gone for such long periods of time I apologize to you all, then I spend weeks or months ridiculously trying to catch you up on what you’ve missed. With the story of my life, that is. I’ll keep to the apologies, I am truly sorry it’s been so long; for the most part, I had really, really good reasons to be away. With some exceptions, I won’t be writing too much about this past year either, and especially not about the past few months. I really don’t want to relive any of it; to be honest, I’m just glad it’s all (hopefully) over.
I’m ready to be here. I’m ready to be back and I’m ready to write, even if it is going to be on a more truncated schedule. Girls digging their heels into their careers have to divide their time among other tasks, too. I’m ready to be here, and I hope you’re ready for me… those of you who are left, that is. Thanks for sticking by me.
And now, if fate will grant me this one kind favour of some quiet time and a perfectly uneventful near future, meaning, nothing like what this past summer has been, then I can start again.
There is still much more to tell.
Hypocrisy is annoying, but not evil. Someone who says one thing and does another has doubled their chances of being half right.
- Penn Jillette, Magician
According to this, I’m annoying but not evil. I said one thing and did another, that is, I said I’d be back a long time ago. I didn’t do that.
I suppose in one way, that makes me a hypocrite. My return, my homecoming, my long-awaited, triumphant welcome back – to be most celebrated by myself, believe me – was delayed. Much longer than I would have liked.
At first, I didn’t want to write. I don’t like admitting that, but it’s true. I’ll call it Burnout. I’d written so much, sometimes so often, that ever now and then it felt like I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to. Many of my posts in the last while were half-ass, which for me, is unacceptable. I didn’t like that and so, I didn’t write at all.
Then I wanted to write again, but stifled myself not to. It was for noble reasons: I spent the better part of my time that I would have spent writing here, trying to get a job. There were successes and there were failures, but there were changes. I’ll get into those later.
The past few months was supposed to be a grand return, signaled by this newer, grander layout. And I wanted it to be that way, but despite my best intentions, that didn’t come to pass. I could bog you down with excuses and reasons and stories alike, that I tried but I couldn’t, blah this and blah that, but I’m here to tell it and not whine, so I’ll be as quick as possible.
It’s been a bitch of a summer. It was supposed to be three months of discovery, of learning, of eating better, of yoga and weekend trips and writing, writing, WRITING, especially here, to keep with the journey that I started, now so long ago, and very desperately want to see finished.
Instead, to sum it up as quickly as possible without turning this into a rant, it went more like this:
My father was sick.
There was an overseas cousin.
A baby was born (not mine).
My dog was sick.
My dog was sick.
I was sick.
My dog was sick.
There was a wedding (not mine).
There was another wedding (really, not mine).
My dog was sick.
The sickness bits, not a one, were attached or intertwined. All new things, crazy things, that led to a lot of panic and stress. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
Usually when I’m gone for such long periods of time I apologize to you all, then I spend weeks or months ridiculously trying to catch you up on what you’ve missed. With the story of my life, that is. I’ll keep to the apologies, I am truly sorry it’s been so long; for the most part, I had really, really good reasons to be away. With some exceptions, I won’t be writing too much about this past year either, and especially not about the past few months. I really don’t want to relive any of it; to be honest, I’m just glad it’s all (hopefully) over.
I’m ready to be here. I’m ready to be back and I’m ready to write, even if it is going to be on a more truncated schedule. Girls digging their heels into their careers have to divide their time among other tasks, too. I’m ready to be here, and I hope you’re ready for me… those of you who are left, that is. Thanks for sticking by me.
And now, if fate will grant me this one kind favour of some quiet time and a perfectly uneventful near future, meaning, nothing like what this past summer has been, then I can start again.
There is still much more to tell.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Floating Book Club
Thanks so much for all your kind comments!! After the Easter holidays I plan to get into things, full swing, starting with some much overdue pictures of my almost fully decorated loft.
But for now, there's one more thing I'd like to share with you. I've gone on and started a new blog. I'm not abandoning this space, never fear, and it's not another blog of wall-to-wall writing; it's actually a book club.
I've always wanted to start a book club or at least be a part of one, but then these days, who the heck has the time? So, I've gone a bit Off-the-Hook if you will, and I would dearly love for you all to join me in this mission.
http://www.thefloatingbookclub.blogspot.com
Spread the word, too - the more the merrier!
But for now, there's one more thing I'd like to share with you. I've gone on and started a new blog. I'm not abandoning this space, never fear, and it's not another blog of wall-to-wall writing; it's actually a book club.
I've always wanted to start a book club or at least be a part of one, but then these days, who the heck has the time? So, I've gone a bit Off-the-Hook if you will, and I would dearly love for you all to join me in this mission.
http://www.thefloatingbookclub.blogspot.com
Spread the word, too - the more the merrier!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
It's been...
... too long. Far, far too long.
I'm not going to give excuses or explain myself or wax philosophical, let's just say that I've really needed it, this time away. As always, everything shall be revealed in due time.
I haven't written anything new or planned a grand comeback, not in any way, so I'm at a loss... for now, though. And, thanks to those of you who messaged me, have been in contact, or just come here to still keep reading. You mean the world to me.
Before I get back onto a regular schedule, to again commence on this journey that isn't yet over, here's some new, unrelated-to-this-blog material, but something funny anyway. I wrote it for a job application, but I'll get to that a little later.
I'm not leaving for long this time, in fact, I'll be back before you know it.
--WLFG
My Strangest Food Experience
Molokhia, pronounced “Mo-lu-heea”, is a leafy green indigenous to the Middle East, and main ingredient of the dish with the same name. Molokhia is a rarity, in the Americas that is, and we were about to try it for the very first time.
“We” are myself and James, or, the self-acclaimed foodie and classically trained chef. James and I are in Jordan on the invitation of our best friend Raj, and today we are going to his family’s house for dinner. It is a special occasion in this country, having guests in one’s home, and so the whole nine yards of delicacy have been stretched.
Arabic hospitality is magnificent to behold. Extra leaves to the mahogany dining table are brought out, along with extra chairs to seat family related to family, related to family. Far more foodstuffs have been provided than anyone could comfortably manage, and the true guest shows proper courtesy by never saying No. To even think of doing otherwise is the gravest of insults, after all, food is love and acceptance. Food is the celebration of life.
Today’s celebration was roast lamb, roast steaks, fish from the Red Sea and scores of barbecue chickens with various herbs and spices. There was bulgur pie, three salads, seven dips, minted yoghurt & babaganouj; oceans of hummus and Everests of pita to mop it up with, bowls of fresh almonds in their fuzzy green shells, to be dipped in salt, and chickpeas harvested just that morning. For something sweet, we were surrounded with dishes of pastries made with the Arabian holy trinity of dessert ingredients: Phyllo, pistachios and honey.
Food was coming at us from all directions, spooned onto our plates by doting aunts, and brothers-in-law carving the choicest cuts of meat. Flying pitas gracefully landed next to our place settings while little cousins kept the glasses full. Raj’s father, generous host, explained every single creation on the table to James and I, and made sure we tasted all of them.
That is, all but one.
In the middle of this smorgasbord was a large porcelain bowl, filled with what looked like a thick, dark green soup. I noticed that everyone was helping themselves to this, yet no one made a move to offer any to James and I, explain what it was, or even suggest it. Raj was sitting next to me so I nudged him and quietly asked, “What’s that?”
While Raj is superbly gifted with flamboyance and a keen sense of fashion, tact is not his greatest asset. He looked at the bowl of green stuff, inhaled dramatically while clutching his hand to his heart and then loudly exclaimed, “Molokhia! Oh, my favourite! This is the one thing at home that I can never have, so Mummy always makes it for me when I’m home!”
Naturally, this outburst achieved the effect I’d been hoping to avoid: Every single person at the table looked up, and stared at me and James. Then, oddly enough, everyone shifted their stares to the Molokhia, grunted, and looked down again.
I know when I’m being mocked. So does James, and he asked Raj, who was by now pouring a generous amount of green over a plate of rice with pine nuts, “And what exactly is Molokhia?”
Raj shrugged. “I don’t know, this herby stuff. It’s not really your thing.”
Not really our thing? Did he know who he was talking to? I was about to retort when Raj’s mother, who had been watching the entire scene, nodded and said, “You Europeans do not like this. We do not expect you to eat it.”
James and I were agog. Were these people aware of who we were? Did they know that I was a Kensington Market junkie, or that I’d celebrated the end of my university career with 20-year old Stilton, Port & Sevruga? Or that James had spent the better part of last year crafting the eighth wonder of the culinary world, Susur Lee’s signature salad? The vinaigrette alone was a three-day process.
We adore food, we adore trying new things, and we’re no neo-phobic wilting blossoms. Simultaneously, James and I held out our plates. We were going to try Molokhia, and we were going to love it.
Raj’s mother listed off the constructional elements of Molokhia as her aunt twice-removed, Fateena, ladled up our servings. “Chicken stock, a little tomato paste, a little onion…”
I studied the Molokhia carefully as Fateena gave it a stir.
“…some coriander, lemon juice…”
It smelled delicious, but something about it was really unnerving me.
“…salt, pepper. Then, a lot of Molokhia leaves. Lots and lots, or…”
I was starting to notice that the ladle didn’t cut through the soup, but that the soup itself acted as an independent entity, following the ladle around in the bowl. I’d never seen anything at a dinner table behave that way.
“…it won’t become like this. You see, the leaves have a special quality, they are… oh, what is that word again…”
As Fateena reached out to my plate, the Molokhia didn’t exactly pour out smoothly from the ladle, so much as fall out with a noisy plop.
“….ah! Mucilaginous.”
Whoa. “I’m sorry?”
Raj’s mother smiled. “Mucilaginous. Thickening property. This is what makes Molokhia special.”
Well, then. I don’t know about Mucilaginous making anything special, but that definitely explained the soup’s autonomous personality. There’s nothing quite like realizing you’ve gone too far when you’re already both feet off the cliff, but it was too late to turn back now. All eyes were on me and James (who was prodding his portion suspiciously with a fork), so I mustered up all my courage, scooped up a huge spoonful and went to town.
Once the Molokhia was in my mouth I quickly assessed the taste, and it was actually quite remarkable. Something like an overdone, minted spinach stew with just a hint of lemon. Very passable. I was starting to wonder what I’d been so silly about. Then, I made the mistake of swishing it over my tongue.
The root of the word Mucilaginous is Mucus, known the world over as the gloppy stuff we constantly hork up when we’re sick. Pseudo mucus is used to great effect in Hollywood, be it grotesquely dripping from the monster’s teeth in Alien, or enslaving Neo in the kiddy pool capsule via The Matrix. However you want to describe it, mucus is thick, it is slimy, and it has no place in my mouth.
Mucilaginous Molokhia. Ugh. Its texture was dense and coagulated, goopy, like having a mouthful of raw egg whites and phlegm. James seemed to be faring no better as everyone continued their observations of us, now in a somewhat bemused manner. I was stuck. It obviously couldn’t come out, but I just didn’t know how to make it go down.
The situation was getting desperate. I forced a gigantic smile on my face and, under the table, pinched my thigh as hard as I could to take my mind off gagging. Then, I swallowed.
Let me tell you that I’ve tried some strange things in my life. I’ve had chicken feet, alligator, ostrich steaks, parsley juice, jellyfish hor d’oeuvres and lamb intestine from a spit built into a home fireplace, but not one of these things could equal the oddity that was Molokhia. In one slick motion it went down my throat, and made itself right at home in my stomach.
I was momentarily triumphant, until I saw the rest of the Middle Eastern Jell-o Jiggler trembling on my plate, beckoning to be devoured. The hardest part was over, though; if I’d done it once, I could do it again. Actually I had no choice but to do it again… and again and again.
After some improvising, I found that there were plenty of ways to make the journey easier. There was washing it down with water, for one. Spreading it along the rim of the plate was great too, gave me just that much less to get through. And, one part Molokhia to four parts rice actually made it tolerable. Of course it was goop-laced rice, but it still helped.
After a good 20 minutes or so I ran across the finish line, and sent the last bite to its reckoning. Spoon down, I was at last victorious. I love Arabic food, but this one definitely wasn’t a repeat.
James finished not long after I did, smearing his last bite, I noticed, over a slice of eggplant. Task accomplished, he looked at me and rolled his eyes, right before Raj’s mother looked at us and piped up, “Well! You’ve both finished? So, what did you think?”
Like a pair of trained monkeys James and I both responded at the exact same time, “It was lovely. Very interesting.”
She motioned towards the bowl. “Would you like some more?”
We looked at the Molokhia and said, perhaps a little too quickly, “No, thank you.”
Smiling coyly Raj’s mother replied, “Ah. We knew you would not like this.”
Defeated by a bowl of phlegm. A worthy opponent. It appeared that I wasn’t the culinary superhero I thought I was, not on Arabic turf, but at least I’d tried the stuff and even finished a whole serving. The experience was always mine.
The final concensus of Molokhia: Taste, wonderful. Texture, not so much.
The meal was winding down, or it was for James and I. Molokhia or not we were still the distinguished guests, and as such had been pampered, served first, and made to eat third, fourth and fifth portions of it all. So it was that we remained in our seats, ungraciously struggling to breathe, and slowly sipping water in the vain attempt of trying to look as normal as possible.
James’ knee suddenly prodded mine, and when I looked at him he very discreetly motioned around the table. I looked around; it seemed as if everyone but us was now having a full dish of Molokhia. Whispering back to James I said, “So?”
He replied, very quietly, “What does it look like they’re eating?”
I looked around again. About a dozen people sat around me, deep bowls in front of them, mopping up Molokhia with torn pieces of pita bread. Thin, white pita bread. Thin, white pita bread that was now oozing green slime, an effect that made it look for all the world like snotty tissues.
I giggled.
I'm not going to give excuses or explain myself or wax philosophical, let's just say that I've really needed it, this time away. As always, everything shall be revealed in due time.
I haven't written anything new or planned a grand comeback, not in any way, so I'm at a loss... for now, though. And, thanks to those of you who messaged me, have been in contact, or just come here to still keep reading. You mean the world to me.
Before I get back onto a regular schedule, to again commence on this journey that isn't yet over, here's some new, unrelated-to-this-blog material, but something funny anyway. I wrote it for a job application, but I'll get to that a little later.
I'm not leaving for long this time, in fact, I'll be back before you know it.
--WLFG
My Strangest Food Experience
Molokhia, pronounced “Mo-lu-heea”, is a leafy green indigenous to the Middle East, and main ingredient of the dish with the same name. Molokhia is a rarity, in the Americas that is, and we were about to try it for the very first time.
“We” are myself and James, or, the self-acclaimed foodie and classically trained chef. James and I are in Jordan on the invitation of our best friend Raj, and today we are going to his family’s house for dinner. It is a special occasion in this country, having guests in one’s home, and so the whole nine yards of delicacy have been stretched.
Arabic hospitality is magnificent to behold. Extra leaves to the mahogany dining table are brought out, along with extra chairs to seat family related to family, related to family. Far more foodstuffs have been provided than anyone could comfortably manage, and the true guest shows proper courtesy by never saying No. To even think of doing otherwise is the gravest of insults, after all, food is love and acceptance. Food is the celebration of life.
Today’s celebration was roast lamb, roast steaks, fish from the Red Sea and scores of barbecue chickens with various herbs and spices. There was bulgur pie, three salads, seven dips, minted yoghurt & babaganouj; oceans of hummus and Everests of pita to mop it up with, bowls of fresh almonds in their fuzzy green shells, to be dipped in salt, and chickpeas harvested just that morning. For something sweet, we were surrounded with dishes of pastries made with the Arabian holy trinity of dessert ingredients: Phyllo, pistachios and honey.
Food was coming at us from all directions, spooned onto our plates by doting aunts, and brothers-in-law carving the choicest cuts of meat. Flying pitas gracefully landed next to our place settings while little cousins kept the glasses full. Raj’s father, generous host, explained every single creation on the table to James and I, and made sure we tasted all of them.
That is, all but one.
In the middle of this smorgasbord was a large porcelain bowl, filled with what looked like a thick, dark green soup. I noticed that everyone was helping themselves to this, yet no one made a move to offer any to James and I, explain what it was, or even suggest it. Raj was sitting next to me so I nudged him and quietly asked, “What’s that?”
While Raj is superbly gifted with flamboyance and a keen sense of fashion, tact is not his greatest asset. He looked at the bowl of green stuff, inhaled dramatically while clutching his hand to his heart and then loudly exclaimed, “Molokhia! Oh, my favourite! This is the one thing at home that I can never have, so Mummy always makes it for me when I’m home!”
Naturally, this outburst achieved the effect I’d been hoping to avoid: Every single person at the table looked up, and stared at me and James. Then, oddly enough, everyone shifted their stares to the Molokhia, grunted, and looked down again.
I know when I’m being mocked. So does James, and he asked Raj, who was by now pouring a generous amount of green over a plate of rice with pine nuts, “And what exactly is Molokhia?”
Raj shrugged. “I don’t know, this herby stuff. It’s not really your thing.”
Not really our thing? Did he know who he was talking to? I was about to retort when Raj’s mother, who had been watching the entire scene, nodded and said, “You Europeans do not like this. We do not expect you to eat it.”
James and I were agog. Were these people aware of who we were? Did they know that I was a Kensington Market junkie, or that I’d celebrated the end of my university career with 20-year old Stilton, Port & Sevruga? Or that James had spent the better part of last year crafting the eighth wonder of the culinary world, Susur Lee’s signature salad? The vinaigrette alone was a three-day process.
We adore food, we adore trying new things, and we’re no neo-phobic wilting blossoms. Simultaneously, James and I held out our plates. We were going to try Molokhia, and we were going to love it.
Raj’s mother listed off the constructional elements of Molokhia as her aunt twice-removed, Fateena, ladled up our servings. “Chicken stock, a little tomato paste, a little onion…”
I studied the Molokhia carefully as Fateena gave it a stir.
“…some coriander, lemon juice…”
It smelled delicious, but something about it was really unnerving me.
“…salt, pepper. Then, a lot of Molokhia leaves. Lots and lots, or…”
I was starting to notice that the ladle didn’t cut through the soup, but that the soup itself acted as an independent entity, following the ladle around in the bowl. I’d never seen anything at a dinner table behave that way.
“…it won’t become like this. You see, the leaves have a special quality, they are… oh, what is that word again…”
As Fateena reached out to my plate, the Molokhia didn’t exactly pour out smoothly from the ladle, so much as fall out with a noisy plop.
“….ah! Mucilaginous.”
Whoa. “I’m sorry?”
Raj’s mother smiled. “Mucilaginous. Thickening property. This is what makes Molokhia special.”
Well, then. I don’t know about Mucilaginous making anything special, but that definitely explained the soup’s autonomous personality. There’s nothing quite like realizing you’ve gone too far when you’re already both feet off the cliff, but it was too late to turn back now. All eyes were on me and James (who was prodding his portion suspiciously with a fork), so I mustered up all my courage, scooped up a huge spoonful and went to town.
Once the Molokhia was in my mouth I quickly assessed the taste, and it was actually quite remarkable. Something like an overdone, minted spinach stew with just a hint of lemon. Very passable. I was starting to wonder what I’d been so silly about. Then, I made the mistake of swishing it over my tongue.
The root of the word Mucilaginous is Mucus, known the world over as the gloppy stuff we constantly hork up when we’re sick. Pseudo mucus is used to great effect in Hollywood, be it grotesquely dripping from the monster’s teeth in Alien, or enslaving Neo in the kiddy pool capsule via The Matrix. However you want to describe it, mucus is thick, it is slimy, and it has no place in my mouth.
Mucilaginous Molokhia. Ugh. Its texture was dense and coagulated, goopy, like having a mouthful of raw egg whites and phlegm. James seemed to be faring no better as everyone continued their observations of us, now in a somewhat bemused manner. I was stuck. It obviously couldn’t come out, but I just didn’t know how to make it go down.
The situation was getting desperate. I forced a gigantic smile on my face and, under the table, pinched my thigh as hard as I could to take my mind off gagging. Then, I swallowed.
Let me tell you that I’ve tried some strange things in my life. I’ve had chicken feet, alligator, ostrich steaks, parsley juice, jellyfish hor d’oeuvres and lamb intestine from a spit built into a home fireplace, but not one of these things could equal the oddity that was Molokhia. In one slick motion it went down my throat, and made itself right at home in my stomach.
I was momentarily triumphant, until I saw the rest of the Middle Eastern Jell-o Jiggler trembling on my plate, beckoning to be devoured. The hardest part was over, though; if I’d done it once, I could do it again. Actually I had no choice but to do it again… and again and again.
After some improvising, I found that there were plenty of ways to make the journey easier. There was washing it down with water, for one. Spreading it along the rim of the plate was great too, gave me just that much less to get through. And, one part Molokhia to four parts rice actually made it tolerable. Of course it was goop-laced rice, but it still helped.
After a good 20 minutes or so I ran across the finish line, and sent the last bite to its reckoning. Spoon down, I was at last victorious. I love Arabic food, but this one definitely wasn’t a repeat.
James finished not long after I did, smearing his last bite, I noticed, over a slice of eggplant. Task accomplished, he looked at me and rolled his eyes, right before Raj’s mother looked at us and piped up, “Well! You’ve both finished? So, what did you think?”
Like a pair of trained monkeys James and I both responded at the exact same time, “It was lovely. Very interesting.”
She motioned towards the bowl. “Would you like some more?”
We looked at the Molokhia and said, perhaps a little too quickly, “No, thank you.”
Smiling coyly Raj’s mother replied, “Ah. We knew you would not like this.”
Defeated by a bowl of phlegm. A worthy opponent. It appeared that I wasn’t the culinary superhero I thought I was, not on Arabic turf, but at least I’d tried the stuff and even finished a whole serving. The experience was always mine.
The final concensus of Molokhia: Taste, wonderful. Texture, not so much.
The meal was winding down, or it was for James and I. Molokhia or not we were still the distinguished guests, and as such had been pampered, served first, and made to eat third, fourth and fifth portions of it all. So it was that we remained in our seats, ungraciously struggling to breathe, and slowly sipping water in the vain attempt of trying to look as normal as possible.
James’ knee suddenly prodded mine, and when I looked at him he very discreetly motioned around the table. I looked around; it seemed as if everyone but us was now having a full dish of Molokhia. Whispering back to James I said, “So?”
He replied, very quietly, “What does it look like they’re eating?”
I looked around again. About a dozen people sat around me, deep bowls in front of them, mopping up Molokhia with torn pieces of pita bread. Thin, white pita bread. Thin, white pita bread that was now oozing green slime, an effect that made it look for all the world like snotty tissues.
I giggled.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Scene: a classroom at your local community college.
Event: Culinary Math. Even chefs can’t escape numbers.
Reason: Work, for me.
There’s an hour of class time left, but most of the students have filtered out in favour of hallway gossip and smokes outside. There are only five people left in the room: Me, my student Brian, a boy with a permanent open-mouthed gape, a girl in kitchen pants, and the instructor, a fast food chain owner shaped like a big eggplant.
Everyone is engaged in a conversation about formulaic bla bla that is usually beyond my scope. If I’d liked math in school, lord knows I’d be having coffee in a hospital doctor’s lounge right now instead of taking notes. Kitchen Pants asks some kind of question, Eggplant responds in kind, then shuffles over to our side of the room and to our table where he whispers loudly to my student, “She said it like that because she’s a woman.”
I’m not allowed to speak in class, but my mouth doesn’t often grasp this concept. “What did you say?”
Eggplant does a double take, since he’s never heard me really talk before. “I mean… I said… What I meant was…. Aren’t you only supposed to be an impartial observer?”
Ha! Like he’s familiar with the terms of my contract. I leaned forward and said, a bit quieter, “I can do a lot more than observe, you know.”
Eggplant blinked once, twice, then opened his mouth but nothing came out. He stared at me like that for a good half minute, then turned around and resumed with the lesson.
I love blindsiding assholes. Especially because I’m a woman.
Event: Culinary Math. Even chefs can’t escape numbers.
Reason: Work, for me.
There’s an hour of class time left, but most of the students have filtered out in favour of hallway gossip and smokes outside. There are only five people left in the room: Me, my student Brian, a boy with a permanent open-mouthed gape, a girl in kitchen pants, and the instructor, a fast food chain owner shaped like a big eggplant.
Everyone is engaged in a conversation about formulaic bla bla that is usually beyond my scope. If I’d liked math in school, lord knows I’d be having coffee in a hospital doctor’s lounge right now instead of taking notes. Kitchen Pants asks some kind of question, Eggplant responds in kind, then shuffles over to our side of the room and to our table where he whispers loudly to my student, “She said it like that because she’s a woman.”
I’m not allowed to speak in class, but my mouth doesn’t often grasp this concept. “What did you say?”
Eggplant does a double take, since he’s never heard me really talk before. “I mean… I said… What I meant was…. Aren’t you only supposed to be an impartial observer?”
Ha! Like he’s familiar with the terms of my contract. I leaned forward and said, a bit quieter, “I can do a lot more than observe, you know.”
Eggplant blinked once, twice, then opened his mouth but nothing came out. He stared at me like that for a good half minute, then turned around and resumed with the lesson.
I love blindsiding assholes. Especially because I’m a woman.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Rant of the Skinny Girl
This will be my only post this week, because I think it hits a nerve that needs to be read, pondered and discussed. As a matter of fact, this post isn't even mine.
Adriana is a good friend of mine, a beautiful face with a firecracker mind on the best set of legs this side of the country. She is a business woman, a writer & model, and she wrote this piece about being thin.
While it seems everyone has gripes about being fat, many of us could never possibly imagine the physical complaints of a skinny girl. As it turns out, her world isn't that different from ours.
***
As a kid, I was always very skinny. It seemed to my parents that I was always too preoccupied with games, and never wanted to take a break to eat. I have always found eating to be a chore that took time away from my creative processes. Even though I liked all food I never wanted to stop, sit down and have a meal. My adrenaline kept my appetite in check so unless someone was shoving a piece of bread in my mouth while I was playing, there was no way to get me to eat. My parents tried offering me everything from my favorite foods, to bribes and then punishments. I hated the punishments! I was not allowed to leave the table until my plate was done, but my plate would be packed with more food than I could ever finish. It was ridiculous. I would sob and eat and sob and eat and then puke it up 30 minutes into playtime. Needless to say I grew up being at constant war with all the yummy things this world has to offer, which consequently turned me into a 5’8, somewhat malnourished 25-year old woman.
As I observe society around me, I am figuring out that a woman of my body type is, as they would say, in. It took me some time to realize why people reacted to me the way that they did, and no, I’m not completely oblivious to the way the world seems to work these days. I know that tall and thin is the shit. The model body is what everyone seems to be striving for, but all I have to say to that is “bull-shit”. Let me elaborate.
I am a tall skinny girl who did go to university and has traveled a significant portion of this world. I think and read and analyze and more than anything, I spend my time searching for people to share ideas, thoughts and opinions with. Now, I’m at the point where people are really starting to piss me off. Nine out of ten people I meet don’t converse with me beyond their thoughts on my becoming a model, or some other sort of “pretty” and ignorant female stereotype.
Now, if any of you out there are sitting there thinking, “What is she complaining about?” then let me welcome you to my world. On a daily basis I have cars honking at me, or even producing vile profanities (usually from the passenger side… scrub) Old men follow me on the subway and women nearly snarl when I’m dressed to go out which, needless to say, makes me feel like crap. I realize that there are girls who break their ankles trotting in heels, just dying for an offer; Little, socially-accepted hookers that have yet to realize what their calling is, but I’m not in their movie.
Why is it that the fat girls are always labeled as the ones with “great personalities?” To me that would be an awesome compliment. I grew up around intelligent and very funny full-figured women in an atmosphere that believed big is beautiful. It was like the Baroque era with voluptuous curves of angels painted all over the ceilings of some of the most famous cathedrals and chapels in the world. And there I was, a skinny, flapper-girl built like a 12-year-old boy trying to find a pair of jeans small enough and long enough not to make me look like I borrowed them.
Men don’t speak to me; they speak about my body and what they want to do to it. Women either don’t give me the time of day or they treat me like I was some sort of giggly half-wit aspiring to earn a title as some old rich dude’s arm candy. Please! I hate that, cause I’m here thinking, For once, be someone chill to talk to.
Now, aside from the emotional stresses forced upon me by society there are so many other shitty factors to being a skinny girl. For example: partying. Man, those fat girls can drink a shit-load, dance all night, laugh their asses off, keep drinking and not feel a thing in the morning. I have half a beer and a shot, dance to one song and there I am hugging the toilet until I have completely emptied out my system and am too dehydrated to continue walking. In fact, I have been known to pass out in my boyfriend’s arms, standing in the middle of the street after puking up a couple of beers and half a sandwich. Now, combine that with two days of shameless recuperation and you get pathetic.
Also, I didn’t want to have to go here, but I do: Shopping! I have worked in retail for 10 years and let me tell you, it is NOT easier for skinny girls to shop. In my experience, full-figured women stay away from certain fashions due to their own insecurity and most of the time they look better in them than any walking-hanger-type chick such as myself. Butts and boobs are great and that’s clearly stated by the seams on garments for women. Bellies are endearing and thighs are sexy while a barely “B” cup in a corset is neither. Narrow hips, a small butt and stork-like legs can easily be freaky looking if not dressed properly, trust me. Let’s not even discuss the never-ending search for a freakin’ blazer that fits. I mean come on, all sleeves are ¾ length to me and the ones that fit in the waist, my shoulders rip apart. I hear people all the time saying how clothes are made for skinny people. My ass! Where are those clothes? Please, someone guide me to this skinny people heaven-of-fashion where everything fits my bony ass perfectly. I can’t even find gloves that fit because I have these gross, skinny, alien-looking fingers that no one ever considered in the magical world of mitts. I learned quickly that “one-size-fits-all” does not apply to me.
But who gives a shit about clothes? Let’s get down to health issues. It appears that since I am in fact skinny, I am condemned to deal with a common three-day cold over a period of two weeks. I am incapable of surviving the winter without five layers on bottom and five layers on top, and sometimes I even sleep like that. Socks are layered accordingly to accommodate the desired footwear, not that it matters since my blood only seems to flow down to my ankles and back as soon as the temperature hits lower than 15 degrees. I have the same circulation problems in my hands; it’s just that the blood tends to reach at least the first row of knuckles. To sum it up, from November until April I turn into a mass snot-producing, half-dead ice queen; a corpse on stilts.
To make matters even worse, I have apparently lost my privilege to conceive. My ovaries seem personally offended by the lack of food I consume, and have chosen to rob me of my womanhood by refusing to ovulate. I’m not too worried about that, though. I’m engaged to a Persian. If a Muslim doesn’t get me pregnant, science will.
Now if you thought that the self esteem, emotional and health issues were bad, it doesn’t end there. As a skinny girl, I have learned and gotten personally acquainted with the word “frigid.” In fact, I wanted to shoot myself when I realized that I am party to this disgusting characteristic that strips me of everything that is great when it comes to sex. With direct relation to shitty circulation, I will get too cold to even consider removing a layer of clothing, let alone get naked. And in the magical event, with a half bottle of wine, that I do get hot enough to consider further layer removal, the entire process in itself turns out to be awkward, clumsy and sometimes downright ridiculous, which causes me to deny myself the best natural pleasure known on earth: the orgasm. This process in turn makes me the poster girl for frigidity. It’s at these times that I get the brilliant idea to roll a fatty which automatically deals with the cold issues and allows me to enjoy a few short minutes of foreplay which to me seem like hours and to my partner like seconds.
Needless to say, being the cheap drunk that I am, the wine and herb have gone to my head and now, not only do I not feel the cold, but in fact I don’t feel anything, but a tingly sensation on a momentarily unidentifiable part of my body. Noticing this, my partner wastes no time (having dealt with this before, poor guy), and we proceed to passionate intercourse, which instantly wakes me up and urges me to reciprocate. Ok, now we’re talkin’. This is good times; this is what I’m talking about. Grinding, sweating, moaning…yes! Then of course I start to feel subtle discomforts as all skinny bitches do. When he’s on top of me he’s too heavy, when he’s sitting up I’m too cold, I’m way too drunk to be on top and doggy style hurts my knee caps. He has barely any patience left for me and is in pain (severe bruising) from all those bones sticking out all over the place while attempting to please me. All I have to say is, Thank God he loves me.
Now that we’ve crossed all lines of TMI (too much information) I will leave saying this: Skinny girls have it just as hard, at least the ones with brains. We all have to deal with our own issues. You may not like the fact that your love handles spill over your jeans; well, buy better jeans, just like I have to layer extra tank tops so my ribcage doesn’t show through. Being called Fat is just as hurtful as receiving a belittling, so-called “compliment” about your physical appearance that consistently implies your ignorance and promiscuity.
Fat girls are a blast and some are some skinny ones, so please stop looking at me like a freakin’ mannequin because truthfully, my world is no prettier than yours.
Adriana is a good friend of mine, a beautiful face with a firecracker mind on the best set of legs this side of the country. She is a business woman, a writer & model, and she wrote this piece about being thin.
While it seems everyone has gripes about being fat, many of us could never possibly imagine the physical complaints of a skinny girl. As it turns out, her world isn't that different from ours.
***
As a kid, I was always very skinny. It seemed to my parents that I was always too preoccupied with games, and never wanted to take a break to eat. I have always found eating to be a chore that took time away from my creative processes. Even though I liked all food I never wanted to stop, sit down and have a meal. My adrenaline kept my appetite in check so unless someone was shoving a piece of bread in my mouth while I was playing, there was no way to get me to eat. My parents tried offering me everything from my favorite foods, to bribes and then punishments. I hated the punishments! I was not allowed to leave the table until my plate was done, but my plate would be packed with more food than I could ever finish. It was ridiculous. I would sob and eat and sob and eat and then puke it up 30 minutes into playtime. Needless to say I grew up being at constant war with all the yummy things this world has to offer, which consequently turned me into a 5’8, somewhat malnourished 25-year old woman.
As I observe society around me, I am figuring out that a woman of my body type is, as they would say, in. It took me some time to realize why people reacted to me the way that they did, and no, I’m not completely oblivious to the way the world seems to work these days. I know that tall and thin is the shit. The model body is what everyone seems to be striving for, but all I have to say to that is “bull-shit”. Let me elaborate.
I am a tall skinny girl who did go to university and has traveled a significant portion of this world. I think and read and analyze and more than anything, I spend my time searching for people to share ideas, thoughts and opinions with. Now, I’m at the point where people are really starting to piss me off. Nine out of ten people I meet don’t converse with me beyond their thoughts on my becoming a model, or some other sort of “pretty” and ignorant female stereotype.
Now, if any of you out there are sitting there thinking, “What is she complaining about?” then let me welcome you to my world. On a daily basis I have cars honking at me, or even producing vile profanities (usually from the passenger side… scrub) Old men follow me on the subway and women nearly snarl when I’m dressed to go out which, needless to say, makes me feel like crap. I realize that there are girls who break their ankles trotting in heels, just dying for an offer; Little, socially-accepted hookers that have yet to realize what their calling is, but I’m not in their movie.
Why is it that the fat girls are always labeled as the ones with “great personalities?” To me that would be an awesome compliment. I grew up around intelligent and very funny full-figured women in an atmosphere that believed big is beautiful. It was like the Baroque era with voluptuous curves of angels painted all over the ceilings of some of the most famous cathedrals and chapels in the world. And there I was, a skinny, flapper-girl built like a 12-year-old boy trying to find a pair of jeans small enough and long enough not to make me look like I borrowed them.
Men don’t speak to me; they speak about my body and what they want to do to it. Women either don’t give me the time of day or they treat me like I was some sort of giggly half-wit aspiring to earn a title as some old rich dude’s arm candy. Please! I hate that, cause I’m here thinking, For once, be someone chill to talk to.
Now, aside from the emotional stresses forced upon me by society there are so many other shitty factors to being a skinny girl. For example: partying. Man, those fat girls can drink a shit-load, dance all night, laugh their asses off, keep drinking and not feel a thing in the morning. I have half a beer and a shot, dance to one song and there I am hugging the toilet until I have completely emptied out my system and am too dehydrated to continue walking. In fact, I have been known to pass out in my boyfriend’s arms, standing in the middle of the street after puking up a couple of beers and half a sandwich. Now, combine that with two days of shameless recuperation and you get pathetic.
Also, I didn’t want to have to go here, but I do: Shopping! I have worked in retail for 10 years and let me tell you, it is NOT easier for skinny girls to shop. In my experience, full-figured women stay away from certain fashions due to their own insecurity and most of the time they look better in them than any walking-hanger-type chick such as myself. Butts and boobs are great and that’s clearly stated by the seams on garments for women. Bellies are endearing and thighs are sexy while a barely “B” cup in a corset is neither. Narrow hips, a small butt and stork-like legs can easily be freaky looking if not dressed properly, trust me. Let’s not even discuss the never-ending search for a freakin’ blazer that fits. I mean come on, all sleeves are ¾ length to me and the ones that fit in the waist, my shoulders rip apart. I hear people all the time saying how clothes are made for skinny people. My ass! Where are those clothes? Please, someone guide me to this skinny people heaven-of-fashion where everything fits my bony ass perfectly. I can’t even find gloves that fit because I have these gross, skinny, alien-looking fingers that no one ever considered in the magical world of mitts. I learned quickly that “one-size-fits-all” does not apply to me.
But who gives a shit about clothes? Let’s get down to health issues. It appears that since I am in fact skinny, I am condemned to deal with a common three-day cold over a period of two weeks. I am incapable of surviving the winter without five layers on bottom and five layers on top, and sometimes I even sleep like that. Socks are layered accordingly to accommodate the desired footwear, not that it matters since my blood only seems to flow down to my ankles and back as soon as the temperature hits lower than 15 degrees. I have the same circulation problems in my hands; it’s just that the blood tends to reach at least the first row of knuckles. To sum it up, from November until April I turn into a mass snot-producing, half-dead ice queen; a corpse on stilts.
To make matters even worse, I have apparently lost my privilege to conceive. My ovaries seem personally offended by the lack of food I consume, and have chosen to rob me of my womanhood by refusing to ovulate. I’m not too worried about that, though. I’m engaged to a Persian. If a Muslim doesn’t get me pregnant, science will.
Now if you thought that the self esteem, emotional and health issues were bad, it doesn’t end there. As a skinny girl, I have learned and gotten personally acquainted with the word “frigid.” In fact, I wanted to shoot myself when I realized that I am party to this disgusting characteristic that strips me of everything that is great when it comes to sex. With direct relation to shitty circulation, I will get too cold to even consider removing a layer of clothing, let alone get naked. And in the magical event, with a half bottle of wine, that I do get hot enough to consider further layer removal, the entire process in itself turns out to be awkward, clumsy and sometimes downright ridiculous, which causes me to deny myself the best natural pleasure known on earth: the orgasm. This process in turn makes me the poster girl for frigidity. It’s at these times that I get the brilliant idea to roll a fatty which automatically deals with the cold issues and allows me to enjoy a few short minutes of foreplay which to me seem like hours and to my partner like seconds.
Needless to say, being the cheap drunk that I am, the wine and herb have gone to my head and now, not only do I not feel the cold, but in fact I don’t feel anything, but a tingly sensation on a momentarily unidentifiable part of my body. Noticing this, my partner wastes no time (having dealt with this before, poor guy), and we proceed to passionate intercourse, which instantly wakes me up and urges me to reciprocate. Ok, now we’re talkin’. This is good times; this is what I’m talking about. Grinding, sweating, moaning…yes! Then of course I start to feel subtle discomforts as all skinny bitches do. When he’s on top of me he’s too heavy, when he’s sitting up I’m too cold, I’m way too drunk to be on top and doggy style hurts my knee caps. He has barely any patience left for me and is in pain (severe bruising) from all those bones sticking out all over the place while attempting to please me. All I have to say is, Thank God he loves me.
Now that we’ve crossed all lines of TMI (too much information) I will leave saying this: Skinny girls have it just as hard, at least the ones with brains. We all have to deal with our own issues. You may not like the fact that your love handles spill over your jeans; well, buy better jeans, just like I have to layer extra tank tops so my ribcage doesn’t show through. Being called Fat is just as hurtful as receiving a belittling, so-called “compliment” about your physical appearance that consistently implies your ignorance and promiscuity.
Fat girls are a blast and some are some skinny ones, so please stop looking at me like a freakin’ mannequin because truthfully, my world is no prettier than yours.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Home
It didn’t take us long to pack and hightail out of our room at the Red Knight Motel. We were scared that if we looked in the closet again with alert & sober eyes, the dead hooker really would be there.
It was even quicker for us to check out, and ixnay the free continental breakfast. Axle grease coffee, day old bread and dispensable fruit loops in curdled milk just aren’t our scene. Food snobs, remember? Realists, too. So, we ended up going the way of motorists and truckers traversing scenic America: Drive thru McDonalds for egg mcmuffins, coffee and hash browns. We may be food snobs, but totally agree that breakfast is the best contribution McDonalds has made to the planet. When will they wise up and make it an all day thing?
We were still into our coffee when Sandy poked me in the ribs and said,
He: Cheech?
Me: Yes, Ace?
He: I really liked Target.
Me: I know you did, and I’m so glad!
He: Cheech?
Me: Yes, Ace?
He: Is there another Target close to here?
Me: Didn’t satisfy the craving, huh?
He: Noooo….
Shirley found us a Target in Buffalo, New York, conveniently located across the street from the Walden Galleria Mall. More Target AND other fantastic stores we are not privy to at home. Happy, happy shoppers, us.
When the number of bags in our hands got to a level of ridiculous (we’re in a Mini, remember), we decided that it was definitely time to go. In less than two hours, through some pretty poopy weather and all kinds of hilly roads, we finally made it home.
It never really hits me that a trip is over until that hour or so before I get to my front porch. I can be on a plane, in a car, whatever, but until that last hour I’m still in full vacation mode. When the skies opened up to rain down on us, as we made the last merge onto the highway that would take us home I thought, This is it. It was great, fantastic, but it’s over.
It’s never a very happy thing, coming down from your vacation high. But it’s nice at the same time, having that experience and knowing how it has, in some small way, changed you for the better. And so for my thank-you prayer:
There once was a girl in a bucket
Who decided to go Nantucket
She so loved her time there
That it made her swear,
“I’m coming back here someday, Fuck it!”
Crass, so crass. A poet I ain’t, nor bucket resident, but then rhyming really isn’t my thing. I think Sandy said it best, after we’d unpacked everything into his house, after the mess had been sorted and divided into His and Hers piles, when he pulled me in for a soft hug and quietly told me, “Thank you for this.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Getting away, seeing what we did, taking our time, sleeping well, not thinking about the daily grind if only for a few days, made all the difference in the world.
It was even quicker for us to check out, and ixnay the free continental breakfast. Axle grease coffee, day old bread and dispensable fruit loops in curdled milk just aren’t our scene. Food snobs, remember? Realists, too. So, we ended up going the way of motorists and truckers traversing scenic America: Drive thru McDonalds for egg mcmuffins, coffee and hash browns. We may be food snobs, but totally agree that breakfast is the best contribution McDonalds has made to the planet. When will they wise up and make it an all day thing?
We were still into our coffee when Sandy poked me in the ribs and said,
He: Cheech?
Me: Yes, Ace?
He: I really liked Target.
Me: I know you did, and I’m so glad!
He: Cheech?
Me: Yes, Ace?
He: Is there another Target close to here?
Me: Didn’t satisfy the craving, huh?
He: Noooo….
Shirley found us a Target in Buffalo, New York, conveniently located across the street from the Walden Galleria Mall. More Target AND other fantastic stores we are not privy to at home. Happy, happy shoppers, us.
When the number of bags in our hands got to a level of ridiculous (we’re in a Mini, remember), we decided that it was definitely time to go. In less than two hours, through some pretty poopy weather and all kinds of hilly roads, we finally made it home.
It never really hits me that a trip is over until that hour or so before I get to my front porch. I can be on a plane, in a car, whatever, but until that last hour I’m still in full vacation mode. When the skies opened up to rain down on us, as we made the last merge onto the highway that would take us home I thought, This is it. It was great, fantastic, but it’s over.
It’s never a very happy thing, coming down from your vacation high. But it’s nice at the same time, having that experience and knowing how it has, in some small way, changed you for the better. And so for my thank-you prayer:
There once was a girl in a bucket
Who decided to go Nantucket
She so loved her time there
That it made her swear,
“I’m coming back here someday, Fuck it!”
Crass, so crass. A poet I ain’t, nor bucket resident, but then rhyming really isn’t my thing. I think Sandy said it best, after we’d unpacked everything into his house, after the mess had been sorted and divided into His and Hers piles, when he pulled me in for a soft hug and quietly told me, “Thank you for this.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Getting away, seeing what we did, taking our time, sleeping well, not thinking about the daily grind if only for a few days, made all the difference in the world.
Conversations of a Road Trip
Oh, I love Target. I don’t care if it’s considered cheap stuff, I don’t care if the designer-savvy look their noses down on it. I love it I love it I love it. I love that it’s red, I love the stupid bullseye, and I especially love that even though I only go a small handful of times per year I always get the best stuff: paisley bedding, gorgeous frames, funky tees and kiwi-scented wipes for my dog, which he hates but of course, I love.
Sandy has never been to Target, but has plenty heard me talking about it. This was his inaugural trip, and I knew I’d struck a vein all of ten minutes after we’d walked in, and the cart was full of clothes for him, clothes for his son, clothes for the rest of his family and of course, car stuff and some snacks.
He: Cheech! Look at this awesome winter coat! It’s sixty dollars! Sixty dollars! What the heck is that all about?
Me: Wow, that looks great on you!
He: Did I mention it’s sixty dollars? For a dressy coat? Sixty dollars?
Me: Yeah, I caught that bit already…
He: Cheech! Sixty dollars! This is just the best store ever!
Etc. We were there ‘til they kicked us out at 11pm, at which point we threw our (multitude of) bags into the backseat and hightailed out. Bit of advice: Power shopping with a Mini Cooper is not the wisest thing in the world to do, but still very doable when absolutely necessary.
We are on the road, it is close to midnight and we are tired, so the time is right to look for somewhere to sleep. Most unfortunately, the only place available within the next 40 miles is the Red Knight Motel, personified by a masked & shielded knight in full body armor on the dimly lit sign.
We knew that the Red Knight Motel wasn’t exactly luxury accommodation - places that come with $10 off coupons rarely are – but we just wanted a bed to crash in for five or six hours, and free parking for Joey, so we took the plunge.
When you walk into a motel room and the very first thing you see is a burn on the carpet the exact size and shape of an iron, it’s usually not a good sign. Neither are the cobwebs under the chairs, the brown stains baked into the bathroom linoleum, or that really strange plastic smell permeating just about everything. We were half expecting a dead hooker in the closet but thankfully, that was nonexistent.
When in such questionable surroundings, it is fortunate to be in possession of alcohol. We had alcohol. Sandy cracked open those mini wines he’d purchased at the liquor barn, and we sucked down the lot along with our dinner of those vine leaf rice rolls, asiago crackers, and chocolate covered pretzel sticks.
Me: Fuck, this is good wine.
He: I know!
Me: More, please. I don’t want to remember this room.
He: Bottoms up...
After drunkenly giggling our way through the mediocrity of our surroundings, then showers in the cracked tub (taking care not to use the stinky motel soap, I might add), we got ready for bed. This normally doesn’t consist of pulling a bedspread off with ice bucket tongs and then tossing it to the floor, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Sandy looked at the bedspread, then at me and said, “Aren’t you going to be cold?”
Me: Yes. This blanket is paper thin.
He: Why don’t you cover yourself with the bedspread too?
Me: I don’t want to touch it.
He: Are we supposed to huddle together for body heat then?
Me: Okay!
He climbed into the double bed, then we wrapped our arms around each other and slept like babies. He’s just the best boyfriend ever.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Ciao, Nantucket
Sandy and I left Nantucket at noon on a Thursday. We took that morning nice and slow, last minute packing, breakfast at the Inn, and just before lunch, boarded the ferry that would take us back to the mainland.
Again, I don’t do well on boats. I don’t like mass bodies of water, I don’t like cramped cabin space, and I especially don’t like the squalls and swells of choppy waves. It makes me sweaty and clammy, nauseous and icky, the lot of it. I bought us some hot chocolate and tried to discover Sudoku instead. I discovered I have no patience for it.
The Fall colours going home were just as beautiful as they were on the way up, and we got to enjoy them even more by spreading our journey over two days. And why are we spreading our journey over two days, when it’s just as doable to make it in one? To shop.
Nantucket has been good to us, but in terms of retail therapy, it sucked. It was great for pretty things and kitschy stuff; that hand-painted ornament I got will look really nice on Sandy’s Christmas tree, and the pumpkin beer was a blast. But for everything else, nada. Our shopping buds crave more.
Thus, we mapped out a few interesting stops to make our trip (and retail) experience all the more fruitful. First Luke’s Liquor Barn. Ta da! Discounted spirits in a gigantic aluminum sided fake barn! Sound cheesy? Oh it was, but another thing Sandy and I have in common is a passion for finer distilled products. When months ago I told him that I’ve been collecting old & unique liquors and wines since my teen years, he didn’t laugh because he does the same thing.
Purchase at the Barn: A nicely expensive bottle of pear brandy, ooh-la-la. I had to tear myself away from the Macadamia Liqueur and Kona Coffee Liqueur since there would be a border to cross, and I already had a bottle of Nantucket rum in the trunk. Boo. Sandy got a kick out of the miniature wines, and got himself a four pack of Woodbridge Estates. I laughed. Wouldn’t you?
Next stop: Ihop! We finally made it to the pancake house of glory and ordered... Steak! Isn’t all-day breakfast a scream? As tempted as I was by the mile-high stack of buttermilk babies topped with strawberries, the fruit looked suspiciously like canned pie filling, and so I passed. Our meals came with sides of small pancake stacks anyway, which we happily doused with maple syrup only after removing half the butter sitting on top. Really, who needs an ice cream scoop’s worth of milk fat?
Now that I’ve finally been to an Ihop, I can finally make my concensus: Alright. I won’t be going through Ihop withdrawal symptoms anytime in the near future, but I did really really like the bottomless coffee. By the time we left, my hands were shaking, I had a massive permagrin stapled to my face, and talked about everything under the sun, at a mile a minute. Sandy laughed. Wouldn’t you?
After this we get lost because our GPS system, which we have christened Shirley, decided she wasn’t up to working just then. While Shirley took over an hour to find a freakin’ signal, Sandy and I had no choice but to better discover the state of Massachusetts. Very pretty, very well put together, very nice during this time of year. A journey very full of profanities, because we really wanted to get that signal and on the highway.
After an hour Shirley finally got off her ass, found the signal and thus the highway. We drove for a few more hours, stopping only for the obligatory nature call, until it was dark and we slid into our next destination in Schenectady, New York.
Say Schenectady ten times really fast, Ske-neck-ta-dee, and you might just give yourself a headache. We didn’t exactly share a burning desire to go to Schenectady, New York, I mean it’s not like it was on travel list of dreams or anything like that, but we’re definitely here for a reason. You see, Schenectady, New York is home to the underestimated haven of cool, the pilgrimage of bargain hunters and the promised land of discount shopping: Target.
Again, I don’t do well on boats. I don’t like mass bodies of water, I don’t like cramped cabin space, and I especially don’t like the squalls and swells of choppy waves. It makes me sweaty and clammy, nauseous and icky, the lot of it. I bought us some hot chocolate and tried to discover Sudoku instead. I discovered I have no patience for it.
The Fall colours going home were just as beautiful as they were on the way up, and we got to enjoy them even more by spreading our journey over two days. And why are we spreading our journey over two days, when it’s just as doable to make it in one? To shop.
Nantucket has been good to us, but in terms of retail therapy, it sucked. It was great for pretty things and kitschy stuff; that hand-painted ornament I got will look really nice on Sandy’s Christmas tree, and the pumpkin beer was a blast. But for everything else, nada. Our shopping buds crave more.
Thus, we mapped out a few interesting stops to make our trip (and retail) experience all the more fruitful. First Luke’s Liquor Barn. Ta da! Discounted spirits in a gigantic aluminum sided fake barn! Sound cheesy? Oh it was, but another thing Sandy and I have in common is a passion for finer distilled products. When months ago I told him that I’ve been collecting old & unique liquors and wines since my teen years, he didn’t laugh because he does the same thing.
Purchase at the Barn: A nicely expensive bottle of pear brandy, ooh-la-la. I had to tear myself away from the Macadamia Liqueur and Kona Coffee Liqueur since there would be a border to cross, and I already had a bottle of Nantucket rum in the trunk. Boo. Sandy got a kick out of the miniature wines, and got himself a four pack of Woodbridge Estates. I laughed. Wouldn’t you?
Next stop: Ihop! We finally made it to the pancake house of glory and ordered... Steak! Isn’t all-day breakfast a scream? As tempted as I was by the mile-high stack of buttermilk babies topped with strawberries, the fruit looked suspiciously like canned pie filling, and so I passed. Our meals came with sides of small pancake stacks anyway, which we happily doused with maple syrup only after removing half the butter sitting on top. Really, who needs an ice cream scoop’s worth of milk fat?
Now that I’ve finally been to an Ihop, I can finally make my concensus: Alright. I won’t be going through Ihop withdrawal symptoms anytime in the near future, but I did really really like the bottomless coffee. By the time we left, my hands were shaking, I had a massive permagrin stapled to my face, and talked about everything under the sun, at a mile a minute. Sandy laughed. Wouldn’t you?
After this we get lost because our GPS system, which we have christened Shirley, decided she wasn’t up to working just then. While Shirley took over an hour to find a freakin’ signal, Sandy and I had no choice but to better discover the state of Massachusetts. Very pretty, very well put together, very nice during this time of year. A journey very full of profanities, because we really wanted to get that signal and on the highway.
After an hour Shirley finally got off her ass, found the signal and thus the highway. We drove for a few more hours, stopping only for the obligatory nature call, until it was dark and we slid into our next destination in Schenectady, New York.
Say Schenectady ten times really fast, Ske-neck-ta-dee, and you might just give yourself a headache. We didn’t exactly share a burning desire to go to Schenectady, New York, I mean it’s not like it was on travel list of dreams or anything like that, but we’re definitely here for a reason. You see, Schenectady, New York is home to the underestimated haven of cool, the pilgrimage of bargain hunters and the promised land of discount shopping: Target.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Nantucket
We docked at Nantucket Harbor around 10pm and our inn was a short drive away, so we parked Joey, hauled our bags up all three floors of the Inn we were staying at, and called it a night. So, our first real glimpse of the island was the next morning, from one of the outdoor wraparound verandas close to our room.
Here are some of the logistics of Nantucket: Settled in the 1600s, nicknamed the Grey Lady, huge in the whaling industry once upon a time, fodder for Melville’s Moby Dick; present day summer colony and subject of dirty limericks. Our Inn view, coincidentally one of the highest points on the island, is one of trees, sails and miles of ocean set against the October sky.
Nantucket amazes me; I find it near unbelievable that such places exist. It’s crazy quiet for one, since the only real noise comes from the two boats ferrying passengers back and forth, loud foghorns signaling either a docking or departure. There is really no traffic on the island, because there are not enough cars. There aren’t even all that many street signs, since the locals already know where they’re going.
The houses are built in the colonial style, shingled with beige cedar shakes that weather into gray over time. The doors are painted dark colours and adorned with knockers in the shapes of scallops, pineapples, or lightship baskets. The population of full time island residents is around the 10,000 mark; I’d say that at least 10,000 people walk by my window every day at home. There are probably 10,000 people walking outside my window right now.
Downtown Nantucket is a small neighbourhood surrounding Main Street, still paved with its original, ancient now very smoothed over stones. Walking on them is a lark, but driving on them is pure hell. Sit on top of a life buoy in a raging jacuzzi, that comes pretty close to the experience; Joey’s alignment will never forgive me. On either side of Main Street are the sweetest little shops and boutiques, harboring not-so-sweet prices: I saw a gorgeous little painting around the size of one square foot that I thought would be a wonderful little souvenir of our time there, but wasn’t about to part with $17,000 to pay for it. Sandy and I did a lot of coughing, then showed ourselves to the door.
Main Street leads right to the docks, which leads right to the ocean, which is beside the beaches and shores that cradle Nantucket. Shells wash up by the millions on these shores, and quaint lighthouses dot three parts of the island. The rest of it is trees, cranberry bogs, organic farms, sailboats in the harbours and the perpetual scent & tickle of salty ocean spray.
So what did Sandy and I do in this place, this very beautiful, very small, very quiet place abundant in natural charm and pretty much zero nightlife? What did we do in a place that, truthfully, is very renown for not having much to do at all?
Well, we started by doing something we don’t get to do that often: We relaxed. We went to bed early, we slept late, we took our evenings in the room to snack on tidbits and watch horror movies. We took long walks, perusing the shops for interesting (and affordable) items; we walked through the streets, up and down the hills and through the beaches, collecting seashells and picking up live scallops to watch them creep open, and then snap shut. We sat on the rocks at Brant Point to take in the boats, the sky, and the sea.
We took daytrips because we could, because we had Joey with us and because in small places, it always seems like you have all the time in the world. We drove to the other side of the island and saw the rose covered cottages of Siasconset. We went to Nantucket’s vineyard, distillery & brewery, all in one convenient location, to sample bourbon, rum & beer. We found the most obscure seafood market in the world and went back again and again for the unbelievable clam strips and oysters on the half shell. The day we went for lobster bisque it was so cold outside that we ate the soup in the car, and completely fogged up the windows.
We drove five miles for coffee for the hell of it, partly because it was good coffee, and partly because we had nothing better to do just then. We went to the bookstore around the corner and found our own treasures: Ringo Starr’s Postcards for Sandy, and Roald Dahl’s collected ghost stories for me. We had homemade chocolate chip cookies for teatime everyday at the lily leaf, wicker furniture, candle-bedecked veranda of our inn. We went to the pub down the street, an ancient whaling tavern, for dinners of clam chowder and cheese platters with strawberries and grapes.
We took lots of pictures, Sandy on his digital and me on Dad’s old Minolta, the one camera that year in and year out has never done me wrong. Perhaps the Resurgence of Photogirl is on the horizon at last? It was a promising (re)start.
Best of all, Sandy and I had time. We had nothing to do time, we had holding hands time, we had be mushy be funny be silly time. We talked about everything under the sun, because we do that. We didn’t rush, because we never get to do that. We lazed around and didn’t check our email, because neither one of us is so foolish to let something like that slide, at home.
There are many kinds of vacations in life. There are the vacations where you climb mountains, or go on daring adventures, or live in a tour bus for weeks on end, only experiencing what you’re allowed to experience when the bus comes to a complete stop. There are beach towel vacations, culinary vacations, spa vacations and weekend road trips just a few hours south.
But every now and then comes that special getaway that gives you the most important time of all: Each other time. It’s a funny thing, being swept up in the everyday, that even though you can see someone as often as you wish, you can’t really see them until you go somewhere else. There is no running around, no paperwork, no endless catastrophes to mend. The buzzing comes to a standstill. You can finally feel the wind in your hair.
For those few days, those good days, we had time for everything in the world, especially one another. I am forever grateful for them.
Here are some of the logistics of Nantucket: Settled in the 1600s, nicknamed the Grey Lady, huge in the whaling industry once upon a time, fodder for Melville’s Moby Dick; present day summer colony and subject of dirty limericks. Our Inn view, coincidentally one of the highest points on the island, is one of trees, sails and miles of ocean set against the October sky.
Nantucket amazes me; I find it near unbelievable that such places exist. It’s crazy quiet for one, since the only real noise comes from the two boats ferrying passengers back and forth, loud foghorns signaling either a docking or departure. There is really no traffic on the island, because there are not enough cars. There aren’t even all that many street signs, since the locals already know where they’re going.
The houses are built in the colonial style, shingled with beige cedar shakes that weather into gray over time. The doors are painted dark colours and adorned with knockers in the shapes of scallops, pineapples, or lightship baskets. The population of full time island residents is around the 10,000 mark; I’d say that at least 10,000 people walk by my window every day at home. There are probably 10,000 people walking outside my window right now.
Downtown Nantucket is a small neighbourhood surrounding Main Street, still paved with its original, ancient now very smoothed over stones. Walking on them is a lark, but driving on them is pure hell. Sit on top of a life buoy in a raging jacuzzi, that comes pretty close to the experience; Joey’s alignment will never forgive me. On either side of Main Street are the sweetest little shops and boutiques, harboring not-so-sweet prices: I saw a gorgeous little painting around the size of one square foot that I thought would be a wonderful little souvenir of our time there, but wasn’t about to part with $17,000 to pay for it. Sandy and I did a lot of coughing, then showed ourselves to the door.
Main Street leads right to the docks, which leads right to the ocean, which is beside the beaches and shores that cradle Nantucket. Shells wash up by the millions on these shores, and quaint lighthouses dot three parts of the island. The rest of it is trees, cranberry bogs, organic farms, sailboats in the harbours and the perpetual scent & tickle of salty ocean spray.
So what did Sandy and I do in this place, this very beautiful, very small, very quiet place abundant in natural charm and pretty much zero nightlife? What did we do in a place that, truthfully, is very renown for not having much to do at all?
Well, we started by doing something we don’t get to do that often: We relaxed. We went to bed early, we slept late, we took our evenings in the room to snack on tidbits and watch horror movies. We took long walks, perusing the shops for interesting (and affordable) items; we walked through the streets, up and down the hills and through the beaches, collecting seashells and picking up live scallops to watch them creep open, and then snap shut. We sat on the rocks at Brant Point to take in the boats, the sky, and the sea.
We took daytrips because we could, because we had Joey with us and because in small places, it always seems like you have all the time in the world. We drove to the other side of the island and saw the rose covered cottages of Siasconset. We went to Nantucket’s vineyard, distillery & brewery, all in one convenient location, to sample bourbon, rum & beer. We found the most obscure seafood market in the world and went back again and again for the unbelievable clam strips and oysters on the half shell. The day we went for lobster bisque it was so cold outside that we ate the soup in the car, and completely fogged up the windows.
We drove five miles for coffee for the hell of it, partly because it was good coffee, and partly because we had nothing better to do just then. We went to the bookstore around the corner and found our own treasures: Ringo Starr’s Postcards for Sandy, and Roald Dahl’s collected ghost stories for me. We had homemade chocolate chip cookies for teatime everyday at the lily leaf, wicker furniture, candle-bedecked veranda of our inn. We went to the pub down the street, an ancient whaling tavern, for dinners of clam chowder and cheese platters with strawberries and grapes.
We took lots of pictures, Sandy on his digital and me on Dad’s old Minolta, the one camera that year in and year out has never done me wrong. Perhaps the Resurgence of Photogirl is on the horizon at last? It was a promising (re)start.
Best of all, Sandy and I had time. We had nothing to do time, we had holding hands time, we had be mushy be funny be silly time. We talked about everything under the sun, because we do that. We didn’t rush, because we never get to do that. We lazed around and didn’t check our email, because neither one of us is so foolish to let something like that slide, at home.
There are many kinds of vacations in life. There are the vacations where you climb mountains, or go on daring adventures, or live in a tour bus for weeks on end, only experiencing what you’re allowed to experience when the bus comes to a complete stop. There are beach towel vacations, culinary vacations, spa vacations and weekend road trips just a few hours south.
But every now and then comes that special getaway that gives you the most important time of all: Each other time. It’s a funny thing, being swept up in the everyday, that even though you can see someone as often as you wish, you can’t really see them until you go somewhere else. There is no running around, no paperwork, no endless catastrophes to mend. The buzzing comes to a standstill. You can finally feel the wind in your hair.
For those few days, those good days, we had time for everything in the world, especially one another. I am forever grateful for them.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
University was the first time I ever got to live away from home. In the months prior to my departure, I was crazy excited and got all kinds of kitschy things to decorate my shared room with: Mickey Mouse sheets, a beer bucket, and posters. One of these posters had a diagram of a two-headed turtle on it, and underneath that, The Procastinator's Creed:
1. I believe that if anything is worth doing, it would have been done already.
2. I shall never move quickly, except to avoid more work or find excuses.
3. I will never rush into a job without a lifetime of consideration.
4. I shall meet all of my deadlines directly in proportion to the amount of bodily injury I could expect from missing them.
5. I firmly believe that tomorrow holds the possibility for new technologies, astounding discoveries, and a reprieve from my obligations.
6. I truly believe that all deadlines are unreasonable regardless of the amount of time given.
7. I shall never forget that the probability of a miracle, though infinitesimally small, is not exactly zero.
8. If at first I don't succeed, there is always next year.
9. I shall always decide not to decide, unless of course I decide to change my mind.
10. I shall always begin, start, initiate, take the first step, and/or write the first word, when I get around to it.
11. I obey the law of inverse excuses which demands that the greater the task to be done, the more insignificant the work that must be done prior to beginning the greater task.
12. I know that the work cycle is not plan/start/finish, but is wait/plan/plan.
13. I will never put off tomorrow, what I can forget about forever.
14. I will become a member of the ancient Order of Two-Headed Turtles (The Procrastinator's Society) if they ever get it organized.
In the student world of party-rather-than-study, this was a hilarious creed and I got many compliments on it. I still think it's funny, and look it up every now and again for a good laugh; my original poster has long since been given away.
In reality, it's scary how sometimes what seems like a joke can all too much mimic your life. In my case, that means my writing, health goals, work... everything.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Enter Road Trip
Sandy and I flip our vacation choices back and forth. San Francisco was my idea; Vegas was his. I get a week off every October, and if we’re lucky, Sandy gets to spend it with me. This October we got such luck, and my choice of destination was Nantucket.
Nantucket belongs to the state of Massachusetts, an eight or nine hour drive for us, and then just a ferry ride away from the port of Hyannis. If you look on a map, it’s right beside its better known big sister, Martha’s Vineyard.
I’m a big purveyor of the underdog. One of the huge benefits of traveling is that you get sick of tourist traps all too quickly, and choose the road less traveled. It was why I chose Sonoma over Napa; that bit of less glitter makes it more real.
Everyone and their mother has been to Martha’s Vineyard, has raved about Martha’s Vineyard, has come home with stars in their eyes from Martha’s Vineyard. I too have always wanted to see Martha’s Vineyard (and verify that it actually has a vineyard), but when the Cape Cod & Environs guidebooks kept describing Nantucket as the “Martha’s with less flash,” the itch began.
Besides, I’ve always wanted to go to Massachusetts. We’re talking the home of the Salem Witch Trials (not to be stereotypical, of course), New England clam chowder, and some of the most glorious Fall colours on the planet. Internet photos of beaches, lighthouses and whales tails poking out of the ocean surf did little to sway us in any other direction. We booked. We planned. And then, at 5am on a Saturday, we went.
The drive East was everything we thought it would be, with the mountainous reds and golds of Autumn at its peak. We didn’t stop too much really, only when it was necessary, and when we did stop for meals it wasn’t for the typical roadside grub but tasties from the picnic basket we’d packed ourselves. Sandy and I have sworn off fast food for the most part, a move prompted by some serious stomach upsets after our last weekend road trip. It was burgers & rings all the way through, followed by a night of rationing bathroom times. Very unglamorous, I can assure you.
Thus, we may have been in the parking lot of a McDonalds just like everyone else, but Big Mac combos made way for delicatessen salamis, fromagerie cheeses, seven grain breads, Turkish rice rolls wrapped in grape leaves, fuji apples, dark chocolate with almonds & cherries, and cups of hot butternut squash soup that I’d packed in a thermos that morning. Are we snobs or what?
The near-constant driving, already prepared food and our constant chatter made the hours pass like minutes, and nightfall saw us at the ferry dock in Hyannis, where my little Joey was packed into the belly of a gigantic ferry boat, beside dozens of 18-wheeler trucks and SUVs. It was dark by then and pretty cold, so we opted to spend most of the two-hour crossing in the car, napping.
Enter Ocean Neurosis, sister to my ever popular Airport Neurosis. Thanks to Oli putting me through Jaws when I was four, I have a deathly fear of boats in the middle of the ocean, at night. I don’t see land, I flip. I’m older now and more relatively able to talk myself through things, so I’ll put up with the occasional boat ride here and there to feed my love of travel, but if Sandy ever gets us tickets for a cruise, I just might have to kill him.
To make matters all that worse, I don’t have sea legs. I especially don’t have sea stomach, so being in the very hot cargo hold of a gynormous ferry feeling every little UP and DOWN and SIDE to SIDE while the suspension of my car rolled us BACK and FORTH was really, seriously gross. At least I’m smart enough to recognize my (many) flaws, and had Pepto Bismol chewables on hand. Viva pink drugs.
Nantucket belongs to the state of Massachusetts, an eight or nine hour drive for us, and then just a ferry ride away from the port of Hyannis. If you look on a map, it’s right beside its better known big sister, Martha’s Vineyard.
I’m a big purveyor of the underdog. One of the huge benefits of traveling is that you get sick of tourist traps all too quickly, and choose the road less traveled. It was why I chose Sonoma over Napa; that bit of less glitter makes it more real.
Everyone and their mother has been to Martha’s Vineyard, has raved about Martha’s Vineyard, has come home with stars in their eyes from Martha’s Vineyard. I too have always wanted to see Martha’s Vineyard (and verify that it actually has a vineyard), but when the Cape Cod & Environs guidebooks kept describing Nantucket as the “Martha’s with less flash,” the itch began.
Besides, I’ve always wanted to go to Massachusetts. We’re talking the home of the Salem Witch Trials (not to be stereotypical, of course), New England clam chowder, and some of the most glorious Fall colours on the planet. Internet photos of beaches, lighthouses and whales tails poking out of the ocean surf did little to sway us in any other direction. We booked. We planned. And then, at 5am on a Saturday, we went.
The drive East was everything we thought it would be, with the mountainous reds and golds of Autumn at its peak. We didn’t stop too much really, only when it was necessary, and when we did stop for meals it wasn’t for the typical roadside grub but tasties from the picnic basket we’d packed ourselves. Sandy and I have sworn off fast food for the most part, a move prompted by some serious stomach upsets after our last weekend road trip. It was burgers & rings all the way through, followed by a night of rationing bathroom times. Very unglamorous, I can assure you.
Thus, we may have been in the parking lot of a McDonalds just like everyone else, but Big Mac combos made way for delicatessen salamis, fromagerie cheeses, seven grain breads, Turkish rice rolls wrapped in grape leaves, fuji apples, dark chocolate with almonds & cherries, and cups of hot butternut squash soup that I’d packed in a thermos that morning. Are we snobs or what?
The near-constant driving, already prepared food and our constant chatter made the hours pass like minutes, and nightfall saw us at the ferry dock in Hyannis, where my little Joey was packed into the belly of a gigantic ferry boat, beside dozens of 18-wheeler trucks and SUVs. It was dark by then and pretty cold, so we opted to spend most of the two-hour crossing in the car, napping.
Enter Ocean Neurosis, sister to my ever popular Airport Neurosis. Thanks to Oli putting me through Jaws when I was four, I have a deathly fear of boats in the middle of the ocean, at night. I don’t see land, I flip. I’m older now and more relatively able to talk myself through things, so I’ll put up with the occasional boat ride here and there to feed my love of travel, but if Sandy ever gets us tickets for a cruise, I just might have to kill him.
To make matters all that worse, I don’t have sea legs. I especially don’t have sea stomach, so being in the very hot cargo hold of a gynormous ferry feeling every little UP and DOWN and SIDE to SIDE while the suspension of my car rolled us BACK and FORTH was really, seriously gross. At least I’m smart enough to recognize my (many) flaws, and had Pepto Bismol chewables on hand. Viva pink drugs.
Friday, October 19, 2007
.....aaaand my camera is really broken. Dead. Caput. Figures.
I'll have to borrow Sandy's camera to do this, and that'll be after a week or so. Why? Because in a few hours, we're packing up into Joey and heading on a road trip. Everyone gets three guesses as to where I'm going, and the winner receives a prize! (Unless you already knew, in which case, sit back and smile while everyone guesses away).
Booyah. I love you all, very much in fact, and will alert you upon my return.
Ain't life grand?
I'll have to borrow Sandy's camera to do this, and that'll be after a week or so. Why? Because in a few hours, we're packing up into Joey and heading on a road trip. Everyone gets three guesses as to where I'm going, and the winner receives a prize! (Unless you already knew, in which case, sit back and smile while everyone guesses away).
Booyah. I love you all, very much in fact, and will alert you upon my return.
Ain't life grand?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
