Taxi Savvy

A tiny bit of New Yorker has surfaced from my thick Texan core. Who knew it could happen in only a month? I was hailing a cab today, as I always do to get from work to the Chinatown bus that takes me to Boston on the weekends. And, as always, it was taking way longer than I thought it should. About 30 cabs will pass me before one finally stops. And, often I’ll see some experienced New York pro whisk out in front of me and grab one at the last moment--stealing what should have been my ride. But not today! I had been standing on the corner for at least 10 minutes and some guy walks up just as a cab is slowing down for me. I walked right up to the cab, body checked the cab-stealer, and said “Excuse me!” quite firmly as I opened the door and blocked his way. He said, “Relax!” and indicated politely that it was mine fair and square. How about that?! I finally speak their language.

[Image from: http://www.shopnbu.com/]

Bad Journalist, Bad

So, in my excited gush over the sea plane experience, I forgot to admit something. I’m a terrible journalist. I'll admit it: I hate talking to people I don’t know--quite a liability in a profession that relies on interviews with total strangers. When it's really bad, I get overly anxious and full of self-loathing. I don’t know why it hasn’t gotten much better since the beginning of my school year when I first discovered this. The way I’ve overcome my dismal problem when it comes over me is by forcing myself to just do it, but it feels like forcing myself to fall off a cliff and trusting that there is a pool of deep water to break my fall. This method failed me at the last minute today. Alas, I had wanted to interview the sea plane pilot because I thought that would make a fun radio show. However, at the last second, I panicked, decided that I was on vacation and I didn’t have to get up the nerve to bother this guy, and jettisoned the plan. I couldn’t renege because he packed my bag in the plane’s floaty feet. (Did you know that they store things in those whatchamacallits?! I didn’t--cool huh!) Too bad, because it could have been pretty cool to get some sea plane audio. Maybe I’ll move to Seattle and try again when I’ve developed some cajones.

Gorgeous Orcas Island

More of the same, only at dusk

Leavin’ On a Sea Plane

We took a sea plane from Orcas Island, where my brother was married in a lovely seaside ceremony. Tears were shed, snot was sniffed, and they were wed. It was pretty darn romantic and lovely to see my big brother marry a terrific woman. Anyway, we took the sea plane out to the island and back in order to save time and it was so cool! If you ever get the chance, splurge on it. It’ll be worth it I promise. I saw tiny houses and barges and seals frolicking. Scott actually saw a baby seal and mamma from the plane! And, to boot, we saved 2 hours of driving time, 1 hour of ferry riding, and 3 hours of waiting in line for the ferry--woohoo!

Mountain view from the sea plane

Konsciously Kool

Scott and I stayed at the Ace Hotel in Seattle last night. It’s pretty cheap, but I was told that all the rock stars stay there when they visit. It’s disgustingly hip. All the walls are white and covered in alterna-art™. The rooms contain only Ikea furniture. It’s eco-friendly (read: no AC). The facilities are communal, meaning the bathrooms are down the hall. So, it feels a little bit like a clothing optional establishment (even though it isn’t…I don’t think) because you walk to the showers in a white bathrobe--past the front desk and lounge!--to get to the showers. The lounge is pretty chic, with super modern, clean design and excellent natural lighting. Plus, every room has peanut M&Ms, carrot Clif bars, and a mini copy of the Kama Sutra bookmarked with two condoms. Thanks, Ace Motel. Thanks for taking care of all the details for me.

Ace Lobby

Clippity Clop, Cloppity Clip!

I finally might get to write something meaty. Okay, that other writing assignment they gave me turned out to be killed, and I shouldn’t have gotten so excited about it. (Damn bimonthly writing cycle means that even the slowest team of mentally challenged grannies could scoop me on a story.) However, one of the editors has given me a new writing assignment, and I think this one is going to stick…I hope. It’s a 500-word profile, still too short for my blabby mouth, but maybe I'll learn a little something about getting to the point. Please send me good writing vibes and good luck voodoo so that I write something intelligible and so that they don’t take it away from me at the last minute.

[Image from: http://magazine.fandm.edu/winter06/wn06_story2.html]

Jealous, Jealous Again

Scott bought a freakin’ AC for his new computer. [growl!] Why does this make me jealous? And, how is it possible to be jealous of a machine? Please don’t ask. I know it’s crazy, but it’s really how I feel. I can’t explain it because it comes from the farthest depths of my soul, where I have no ability to reason or express concepts in any spoken language. Alls I know is that I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church here in NY, and when I go home to Boston to visit my sweetie on the weekends, I find that my apartment is very hot. No biggie, right, because he and I are in this together. We are a team. We’re both hot, we’re both saving energy, we’re both too poor to afford AC. Even the dogs are hot, but they still love us and isn’t it fun trying to think of creative ways to beat the heat? It all makes sense. That is, until Lil’ Chip (the punk!), Scott’s apparent favorite resident of our apartment, shows signs of overheating, and what happens? Scott, who usually can’t be motivated to buy himself food when he hasn’t eaten for a day or do laundry when he runs out of clean underwear, rushes out to the hardware store in a tizzy to purchase and install a window unit for his computer. AAaargh! I’m not gone for more than 10 hours and he has installed an AC for some other reason than to please me! Scott, your wife is hot! (Pun, freakin’ intended!) And, yes, she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but when her mother board is overheating and she can’t process information well, she might blow a fuse and crash, so you better back up that hard drive, baby.

[Image from: http://www.sidewalkbubblegum.com/pctyrant.com/mainfebruary.html]

Coolness

Oh, happy is the day that ends with chocolate ice cream. With coconut!

I finally got to write something today at work. I’m so pleased. I have been feeling a tad bummed because they weren’t really having me use my skills at work. Well, I was doing some damn fine internet research for them, but it just doesn’t fire the same ganglia as a nice writing assignment. Anyway, I’m pleased to finally put my partially-masters-degreed skills to some professional use, though piddly it may have been.

And, then after a long day of writing, I cooled off with a relaxing stroll through the East Village with Kharissia and some ice cream. What a lovely day!

I would like a mole of Molli-Coolz, please:

(snapped at the ballpark concessions, no kidding!)

Nature’s Snack Foods

I am presently eating some peanuts leftover from last night’s game--a fun evening, but the Mets really tanked. Their pitcher actually let the Marlin’s pitcher hit a grand slam, even though pitchers are notoriously bad hitters. It was pretty sad to see him booed off the field only one pitch (a single) later. Kharissia had to point out some of these details to me, as I am not always in tune to the subtle details of the sport. I love seeing baseball games with Kharissia. She knows every player’s position, all their stats, and how cute they are (tres important). She knows all the rules and can explain them to me. Plus, she gets into the cheering paraphernalia without thoroughly embarrassing me. She also likes to eat ballpark snacks. She really has her priorities straight, that Kharissia. We had a “four-course meal” last night, which meant we went out about every other inning and got hot dogs, ice cream (the soft-serve kind that comes in a souvenir helmet), peanuts, and finally nachos. It was quite fun, though I was a little ill by the ninth inning.

Anyway, I’m snacking on some leftover peanuts today and thinking that peanuts are pretty great. They come in little, natural, individually-wrapped packages that keep them fresh. They taste great with just salt. Nutritionally, they’re not great for you, so they give you that satisfying bad-girl feeling, but they aren’t so bad that you ever feel guilty afterwards. This afternoon, I’m realizing that peanuts in their shells are really best enjoyed at a ballpark where you can shell them and dump the shells wherever. In my little room the next day with only my laptop in front of me and the dusty shell shards falling everywhere and the thin, papery skins flying towards my keyboard, threatening the electronic innards of my little workhorse, peanuts don’t really make sense. They still taste good.

My view of Shea Stadium:

My hotdog’s view:

Umbilicus Almost Reattached-us Hooray!

I’m so closed to being completely back online! But not completely, just yet, so please pardon my continued incommunicado e-ppearance. I’ve got the wire to my room, only I can’t shut the door because there’s no hole and the cord isn’t long enough anyway. I need a drill and permission, hee, hee. So close!!!!

Meanwhile, I’m going to a Mets game. I love summer…and fridays.

[Image from: http://www.imagesonline.bl.uk/britishlibrary]

Better in Boston

Okay, I certainly must report when something is better in Boston than anywhere else I’ve been. Yes, I know, I rarely take that angle on my blog entries, so pay attention to this one. Bostonians really know how to put on a fireworks show! Bar none, tonight’s show was the most beautiful and amazing and impressive and awesome show I’ve ever seen. If they hadn’t been blasting the corniest music during the thing (though perfectly synchronized, I’ll admit) I would have been in tears. They had every color, ever shape. I mean they even had cube-shaped fireworks! Is that even physically possible? Near the end they had this one that filled the whole sky with shades of white in small splotches. It looked like lichen growing in time-lapse on a rock. Or, Scott really nailed it when he said that it looked like raindrops on sunroof. They also had this one that moved like a spray of grass stalks growing organically. Plus, there’re the ones that have little parachutes holding strings of glowing mini-orbs. Now, maybe pyrotech tech has just made some leaps and bounds in the last year, but I think there was more to it in this particular show. They just knew their stuff. Next year, I encourage all of you to come visit to see for yourself.

Obviously, these capture nothing of the magic, but I’ll post anyway:

Spurned Bone Spur

My triathlon training has been stopped dead in its tracks due to a spiky bit of bone that has grown out of my heel. Yes, that is as painful as it sounds. I had been wondering why my super expensive running shoes and slacker training regime (well the regime is not slack, but my adherence to it is) have not prevented the usual pain associated with getting into shape. I’ve noticed that the day after every run, even when I go just a mile and at a very slow pace, I get horrible pain in my left heel. It dulls after a few days and then I go for another run, only to re-experience the day of limping afterwards. This has been going on for a few months now. I didn’t think anything of it until I took a couple weeks off from running--unintentionally of course, but intentionally is what I told my doctor and what I should have told Coach Meanie. Anyway, when I finally went for a reasonable two-miler last week, I was barely able to walk the next day. I hobbled to work, grinding a bit of enamel off my teeth in the process. Anyway, this day of pain signaled to a very stupid brain that perhaps I should go to the doctor. The x-rays below show my new enemy.

The Silicon Age

I miss my grandparents sometimes, but not because I knew them very well. Actually, what I miss is their oldness and the softness and mystery of that oldness. They had funny accents, too. I don’t think that these were regional accents; no, they must have been temporal accents. I think that generations speak differently and in ways that are lost over time. I can’t tell if old Hollywood movies reveal the accents of the 1940s or if that was just how people “acted” back then. The women were especially funny--talking fast and loud and with such confidence. I know that my mother’s mother never spoke that way, but my father’s mother might have. My mother’s mother used to laugh slowly and say “Good night!” when someone said a silly pun that she found amusing. I don’t feel old or anything, but I can already see how cooky I’ll seem to someone 60 years younger than me in the future. I’ll mention how little I made per hour, how cheap a gallon of milk was, and how rotary phones were common, and we didn’t have email or cell phones or laptops or blogs.

old fashioned typing:

Something's Missing

I miss…

[No, not toilet paper…read the label!]

Cyber Wars

An old friend from high school runs the guest house that I’m staying at this summer, but he is out of town for 3 weeks. It’s funny to see my friend in this role as the “guy in charge,” especially when it’s being in charge of semi-retired Quakers and a few college intern types like myself. The older crew are a funny bunch. They do a lot of bitching about little problems, like minor light fixtures being broken or construction next door or whether or not they are liable for the safety of these two adorable teen boys who are in ballet school for the summer. Of course, it’s only been a week, yet I’m joining the crowd of whiners, because the internet connection in the main office, which feeds the whole house, is working only for Macs and not for PCs. For the weekend, it was working for no one, but then one guy fiddled with the main computer and got it working for Macs. So, the PC people, to whom I belong, are crazy with the stress of being disconnected from the world, while the Mac people are feeling great relief--relief tinged perhaps with a bit of heartlessness. The guy who “fixed” it so that it worked only for Macs looked at me like, “Well, I tried, but there is nothing I could do.” Others have helpful suggestions, such as “Try the coffee house down the street. It only costs $1.50 for a cup of coffee and the internet is free.” Funny, that same suggestion, when the Mac connection wasn’t working, didn’t seem so generous to them. Well, obviously tensions are high. But, in this new environment, I’m beginning to realize how ridiculous it is to care. I’m trying to decide whether I should spend a couple hundred dollars to get my own connection or if I should take up a new hobby that distracts me from the no-internet-blues, like medication or drug use.

This morning I saw these beautiful green buds on the vine growing up the iron railing outside our apartment building. I think it is a sign of forthcoming beauty.

No Jogging in Manhattan

How in the heck can you jog in this city?! There are tons of people and then you have to stop every block to wait for the traffic light. Everyone suggests going to Central Park, but it's a pricey subway ride there and back. Yikes! Now I see why the gyms here cost so much. They are a deal compared to breaking your neck on the streets. Fortunately, a very nice girl in my building has offered me a guest pass to her gym. I'm soooooo excited to work out after so long. Plus, I think my training buddy (whose code name is Coach Meanie for good reason) is getting a little testy with my recent lack of workouts!

Umbilicus Interruptus

Aaaack! I’m having monstrous internet problems at my new place. I could handle it for a few days, but I’m about to lose it with no access to my friends and family and all my clients screaming for my words. The temporary solution is to duck out to a Staryucks and pay through the nose for beverages and a temporary “hotspot” account. I hate it when you pay and pay and pay and get very little in return. I clearly need to get back to my pre-cyberworld roots and read a good book or something. Any suggestions? Oh wait, I won’t be able to get your emails--rats!

[Image from: http://www.irkutsk.com/home/family.html]

The Seed of New Beginnings

I started the new job this week. It’s a bit of a shock working at an actual office from 10 to 6 with coworkers milling about after so many years of working in my pajamas, at all hours of the day and night, in complete silence, and at liberty to take breaks whenever I like. (Plus, I’m used to getting paid more than $4 an hour, but I suppose I’m not allowed to complain about this because it’s for college credit. Keep your eyes on the prize, Molly.) The magazine office is quite casual--thank goodness, because I don’t really fit into any of my old work clothes. Yet, this informal atmosphere does not automatically inspire professional results in me. I will have to draw inspiration from something else…perhaps the endless supply of free coffee.

I never thought that I would grow up to be one of those stuffy types who desires order and formality, but here I am narrowing my eyes at the loud cussing and general disorder of the editing romper-room/shared office space. It will probably be good for me to learn to chill a bit and take social breaks in between paragraphs. Also, they seem to be a sharp, talented group that produces quality material, so I guess they’re doing something right. And, how cool is it to be stuck in NYC for a couple of months! I think this will be a pretty fun summer. Hopefully, I’ll learn something, too.

A street fair scene on my work commute route:

Measuring Volume through Displacement

Well, I’m a New Yorker now, or at least for the summer. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t become mean, start smoking, or learn to dress all snazzy. However, I will learn to live in cramped spaces and pay way too much money to do so. I’ve moved into the tiniest space I’ve ever lived in, and oddly I’m wanting to cut the room in half again. No, I haven’t lost my marbles, I just don’t want to use a loft bed. To make the room more spacious, the super’ has added a loft bed so that there’s room for a desk and dresser underneath, as well as a bit of space for pacing around or something. Yes, it opens up the room, but I can’t stand loft beds. I’d rather create a narrow maze on the ground with my meager furniture than climb up a damn ladder to get to my bed every night. The initial climb is not that big of a deal. It’s just the “packing up” to go to sleep that gets to me. You have to brush your teeth, go to the bathroom, get your book, set your alarm clock, and grab your cell phone, water bottle, and all your other bedside accoutrements before hauling your tired carcass up the steep, wobbly ladder. If you forget something or decide you need to go to the bathroom again, you have to balance your groggy self on tiny slats while gingerly feeling your way down backwards. What a pain! And then, as I’m awkwardly making my way down, I’m thinking, if I fall and die or paralyze myself, I will forever be known as a clumsy person. “Hey lady, how did you get in that wheelchair?” “I fell out of bed.” Okay, I’ve only slept one night in a loft bed now, but I think I’d like to avoid ever doing it again.

For the curious, tiny pictures of my tiny room:

Rumtastic

Karen’s new husband, Wayne, is from the US Virgin Islands, which is the main reason why the wedding was on St. John. His mother, Cristobel, who still lives there, cooked us up the most amazing feast the night after the wedding. There was curried goat, spicy boiled fish, homemade hot sauce that made Scott cry tears of pain, stewed chicken, barbeque chicken, stir-fried chicken, pigs foot stew, roast ham, baked cheese and macaroni, potato salad, spicy mashed yams with tomato paste, fried plantains, and deviled eggs ALL IN ONE MEAL! And, to cap the whole thing off, she presented five black cakes (dense fruit cake soaked in rum), six coconut tarts (yeehaw!), and uncountable loaves of sweet bread. Each dessert was amazing on its own, but together they were a cornucopia of delicious. She sent us home with one entire cake of each type. They are in my freezer, but I plan on reliving the dream when I return to Boston in a week. If only I had snagged some leftover stewed chicken…

Oh wait, I almost forgot to mention the amazing pineapple rum cakes we bought at the gift shop. They were so good that Scott and I stuffed one in our mouths before we caught up with the rest of his family. It was like crack. Once the word got out, one family member after another would secret off and purchase one, tearing into it before he or she hit the door on the way out of the shop. The islanders made a lot of money off of us this weekend, on rum cake alone.

In the airport, on the way back, we saw a girl who had a bag of about a dozen of these little rum cakes. We told her we were going to mug her, but she said that she was having such a bad day that she would probably be able to put up a pretty good fight. Apparently, she got stopped by security and hassled and missed her flight because of it. She was pretty distraught. After a brief conversation, she shocked us by offering us one of the chocolate rum cakes as a gift. It seemed like too generous of a gift (we knew they were precious and must be like gold off the island), but she insisted. She said that the only way her day could get better was if she knew she had done something nice for someone. I thought that was a pretty classy technique for curing the blues, one worth trying the future.

[Image from: http://www.tortugarums.com/]

PS. The other thing I like about the Caribbean: you can have a pina colada at every meal!

Back from the Tropics

I’m still aching from a cramped voyage involving myriad forms of transportation: a 6 am ferry to catch a 6:30 taxi to catch an 8:30 plane to catch a 5 pm bus to hop on a 5:30 subway to walk home half a mile lugging two pieces of luggage and three dense cakes. But, it was all worth it. The sunsets were beautiful. The water was azure. The fish were exotic. The flora was fragrant. The wedding was lovely. The new in-laws were charming. Really, only pictures could show you what my sister-in-law’s wedding was like.

A friendly iguana

The new family

A relaxed starfish

Beach kiss

Island sunset

Greenery

Just in time for the end of my carefree summer break, my little plants have come into their own. Now, whenever I need a little respite from the pains of working life, I’ll be able to relax on my porches and gaze at their velvet, verdant visages. I added a few herbs this week to keep my petunias and tomatoes company.

Here’s a view of the back porch:

This is what it’s like to be a tomato plant:

Succulents with 4th-grade art project (a piranha ashtray of course):

Still life with rusty mini-trike:

Next week it’s Karen’s wedding in the Virgin Islands. (I know, be jealous.) And, then I’m off to Manhattan. Theses little dudes will miss me, I can tell.

Escape from Bitch Mountain

I could have cried in my apartment and let the dog jump on me and bark loudly in my face to “calm me down.” Or, I could have gone for a run to blow off some steam. I chose option 2, and to shake things up I took the new humorous/inspiring/fast-paced mix CD that my training buddy made me. So, I’m sprinting because I’m very steamed from work hassles, and I’m grinning and laughing hysterically because each new song is a surprise from a seemingly random artist, genre, and era, wholly unrelated to the previous song. When “Eye of the Tiger” opens and three cars come to screeching halts in the crosswalk in various wonky directions blocking my way and slowing my nice pace, I think, Did Rocky have to deal with this crazy urban bullshit? When “Shot Through the Heart” blasts and I narrowly miss the giant, plummeting defecation of a large overhead bird, I think, Is this what Bon Jovi had in mind when he wrote this? When “Spare the Horse, Ride a Cowboy” twangs as the gray sky turns into a glasses-smearing, walkman-shorting, shoe-muddying, sweat-mixing downpour, I think if the Dixie Chicks covered this and made it about cowgirls would it sound misogynistic and gross? And, speaking of gross, this sidewalk is gross, and I feel gross and cold, and so much for burning off steam.

[Image from: http://www.anticoemoderno.it/Antico/Vinile.htm]

Having No Boss Does Not Mean Work Is More Fun, It Just Means You Don’t Get Paid When Other People Screw Up

I had to go for a run because I had major mis/non/messed-up-communications with three clients this week, one involving a schedule crunch that prevents me from getting the work and the other two involve having to rewrite major sections because the clients changed the specs *after* I had done the work.

Quotations are word-for-word from one client’s email:

“We’re envisioning the two-page narratives for this theme to be short biographical excerpts that are clearly tied to the content the students will be reading about in the expository section.” blah, blah, blah--(read: You have to throw away 6 pages of writing and redo it all because we changed our minds and a loophole in the contract means you have to do it for free)--blah, blah, blah “I know we didn’t include this in the guidelines. It just seems to make sense to do it this way.”

It just makes sense to do it this way. It just makes sense. Sense.

[Image from: http://bandsonhand.com/proddetail.php?prod=03035]

Numerologist’s Dispatch

[Warning: Reader discretion advised. A quick reread of this post, and I realize that I delve pretty deeply into my solid nerdy core. Please read no further if your coolness is easily bruised.]

Well, it’s a little personal tradition of mine to send letters to people on numerologically significant dates. And today is a pretty fun one, though it has brought out all the dilettantes due to a little tradition that associates six hundred and sixty six with the devil and perhaps goth coolness or something. Anyway, I sent only one letter today, but it was one of my masterpieces stationary-wise and stamp-wise. I used a shiny copper colored envelope with a gorgeous, hand-painted peacock on it, which I purchased from a stationary merchant in Bombay market last year. As if metallic copper paint wasn’t fancy enough, I sealed it with a giant gold star sticker, but wait! Really, I haven’t gotten to the best part! Because the Indian stationary was a little on the weighty side, I thought I might need more than the usual single-rate stamp. What is it at these days? 48 cents or something? I didn’t think that the lame-ass squash series that I bought in a hurry at the post office last week belonged on such a special envelope. But then a beautiful thought came to me! I finally have an envelope and occasion worthy enough for the two 33-cent stamps that I have been saving for a special day. (Well actually, I originally purchased them for normal mailings, bills, etc. but it was during that crazy year or two when the price of stamps kept going up so often, our heads were swirling. They just became special from being pent up in a drawer for ten years. But, I digress.) Anyway, I used the two best stamps from the homage to the 1940s series: the Slinky and Rosie the Riveter.

Out of focus, but isn’t it spectacular?! I don’t think I can best it.

A Stack of Potential

This is my favorite stage of quilting, when all the pieces of fabric have been cut and they are ready to be pieced together. It’s the protoquilt. This weekend, I cut out 288 triangles and 720 squares, for a total of 1,008 pieces of fabric. They stand in tidy stacks, their velvety strata the result of about six hours of hand cutting. (That’s because I can’t find my rotary cutter, so I was forced to go 19th century on those ten colorful yards of calico.)

Now for the piecing stage. That's when I find out whether I got the math right. In my textbook writing, I’ve tried to include a few quilting questions in the math workbooks. However, oddly enough, most real-world quilting geometry is too advanced for even the high school level. It’s those pesky right triangles with their ¼-inch seam allowances. Anyway, yesterday I started piecing, and I’ll know within a few more hours of work whether I got the calculations right.

“I Miss My Solitary Sorrow”

A friend who is going through a hard time said that to me today. Her mother is visiting, so I guess there is less time or space for her to mope about during this rotten phase she is going through (a very difficult break up). I’m not going through a particularly hard time or anything, but I can relate to the sentiment. I miss my solo time keenly. We just have so much less space in this apartment, and as a freelancer, I was used to having the house to myself for ten hours every weekday. I feel this acute lack of privacy especially now that Zephyr has taken to jumping on me and barking loudly in my face every time I get upset. If I start to cry, yell, or raise my voice, even just to complain about some passing annoying political issue, he’ll get really agitated and try to make me be happy, or at least that is what I suppose he is doing. It is very sweet theoretically. However, in practice there is nothing more irritating to an already-upset cat person than a dog physically restraining her and emitting piercing barks in an effort to control her emotions. Anyway, the end result of all this nonsense is that Scott and I regularly fantasize about the place we will live in next. It will be ridiculously large. And, it will have a backyard. I didn’t realize how much alone time I had just by virtue of it being warm enough to go outside for more months of the year. Even public spaces are smaller and more crowded when the weather is bad. I think I need to go camping or something.

[Image from: http://www.thehotspotonline.com/eyecandy/popart/]

Urban Tri

I usually try to do a full version of the triathlon at the gym before the big race. I call this the Easy Gym Tri, because it involves sitting in the hot tub, running and biking on ergonomically correct gym equipment, lazing about between segments, and generally not pushing oneself too hard. It takes about twice as long as the actual event. Anyway, I mentioned it to this year’s training buddies, my science journalism classmates Liz and Kate--who are turning out to have a lot more pep than I originally anticipated--and they said, Why wait until a couple weeks before the race? How about this Friday instead? I didn’t have a very good argument at the time, so next thing I know I’ve committed to doing a full sprint-length triathlon every three weeks until the actual triathlon which is on July 30th.

Anyway, today was the second of these doozies. Only, these ladies have left the “Easy” out of the equation. The last Not-so-Easy Gym Tri of 3 weeks ago kicked my butt, but today’s qualifies as a full-on triathlon in my book. Instead of doing the gym thing, we laid out a nice urban course that winded past garbage heaps, sped us through highway interchanges with billowing clouds of car exhaust, ran us through a herd of burly street geese (who were trying to cross the street), forced us onto glass shards and into potholes, wove us through phalanxes of power-walking moms with double-wide baby strollers, and finally spit us into my stinky, garbage-y, puke-lined avenue. Only 10 feet from our final destination, a semi parked in our crosswalk and then we had to maneuver around an armored car parked on the sidewalk. I think this last one-two doubled the length of our final glory leg. Ow. I am in lots of pain now.

Here is what I looked like after a race a few years back. I do not feel as peppy today.

Quilting in the Electronic Age

Because driving around Boston is such a hassle, and because drunken bar people have been whittling our car down to a tiny smashed nub, I thought I’d try a new approach to fabric shopping. I tried a little experiment to see what ordering fabric online might be like. I am itching to start three different quilt projects, one for a brother who got married a year ago, one for a brother who is getting married this summer, and another for my sister-in-law who is also getting married this summer. Anyway, I shopped online and found the perfect fabric combos, got them approved by all three couples, and then tried to order the fabric. Let’s just say I will be braving Boston traffic and heading to the nearest fabric store once I get some work done this week. It did not go well. Not only did the e-fabric-stores not have a third of my chosen prints in stock, but of course, I just got the package, and none of the fabrics look like their pics. I know, this was always a serious risk, but it was shocking to discover how wrong they could be. All the reds were oranges and none of the peaches matched in intensity. Oh well, it was a nice try, even if a very pricey try.

My conclusion: Like other aspects of quilting, don’t bother getting high tech. The old-fashioned way is pretty much the best way. Hmm…I’ll have to make an exception to that rule. Rotary cutters are freakin’ incredible inventions.

PS. I must admit that receiving a tidy little package packed snug with vibrant crafting potential was quite a delight. They even included a little chintzy piece of tissue paper to keep the full-color receipt from bleeding onto my calicos. It was a seamstress’s fantasy come true. My crumby cell phone camera doesn’t do it justice:

PPS. Now imagine this quilt:

With these fabrics:

Very exciting, n’est-ce pas!

A Benign Mutation

Don’t expect excellence, but X-Men III extends excitement.

Director Brett Ratner packs plenty of action and comic-book drama into this enjoyable summer flick, X-Men: The Last Stand, a third installment in the X-Men series about a motley group of action heroes whose DNA mutations have given them extraordinary superpowers.

Though the genetically enhanced are now more accepted than they previously were, Professor Charles Xavier, played by the ageless Patrick Stewart, still runs a private school to shelter and hone the talents of young, misunderstood mutants and exercise a team of crime-fighting heroes who step in when misguided mutants, such as the sexy and deadly shape-shifting succubus known as Mystique (Rebecca Romijn) wreck havoc on society.

Proving that you don’t always have to be pretty to be a good guy, Hank McCoy, played by the unrecognizable Kelsey Grammer, a blue-haired mutant, burly in appearance though stately in manner, (with his Founding Fathers accent he should have been called Ape Lincoln) has been named Secretary of Mutant Affairs for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, to ensure that the historically embroiled mutant-nonmutant relations stay smooth.

However, even in these supposedly mutant-friendly times, prejudices linger, and a heart-wrenching scene in which a young boy, the fledgling Swan, tries desperately and secretly to hack off his own mutant wings reminds us how difficult it still is to be a mutant.

In an attempt to quiet public concern, government scientists have developed a treatment that strips mutants of their powers (or afflictions, depending on your point of view), sending ripples of controversy through the briefly serene mutant community.

Recognizing that such a “cure” would render him powerless, arch-nemesis Magneto, in an uncharacteristically lukewarm performance by Ian McKellen, rallies support from a new breed of bad-guy mutants—scrawny, androgynous punks, complete with black garb, gang-style tattoos, and facial piercings—to assist him in his quest to destroy the cure, which has been hidden in a shiny new research facility on Alcatraz.

The chance resurrection of erstwhile heroine Jean Gray, played by Famke Janssen, along with her long-squelched alter ego Phoenix, a powerful sorceress-like personality with questionable loyalties presents Magneto with the upper hand he may need to carry off the heist.

Continuing sexual tension between the ambivalent Jean Gray and rival good-guy lovers Cyclops (James Marsden) and Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) is both steamy and dangerous. Jackman, as Wolverine, delivers yet another smoldering, manly performance as the loner rebel who’s been tamed by the good professor. However, Halle Barry, as Storm, who in this movie seems to be nothing more than a schoolmarm and lifter of pesky fogs, leaves a weak, clammy impression with only the occasional bolt of lightning. And sadly, the continuation of the compelling mutant-coming-of-age storyline for Rogue, played by Anna Paquin, is awkwardly dropped for most of the movie, and we don’t even get to see her superpowers in action.

With no time wasted on ridiculous explanations of the pseudoscience behind such fantastic events, X-Men III is a fun summer movie that entertains without straining the brain. Don’t forget to stay past the credits for a glimpse at the plot workings of a possible sequel.

[Image from: http://news.bbc.co.uk/cbbcnews/hi/newsid_4990000/newsid_4995200/4995250.stm]

Smashy Smashy

Someone ran into our car AGAIN yesterday. This is the third time that our parked car has been violated by drunken barhoppers. How does that catchy little maxim go? Smash my car once, you’re a bastard. Smash my car three times and I’m a big sucker for parking in the same spot. Something like that… As much fun as our neighborhood is for eating out and getting places easily, I’m beginning to think I’m ready to move back to the sleepy little ‘burbs.

Driving in Boston is not a pleasure, and fortunately when you live where we do, you rarely have to do it. Granted, I’m always complaining about the two or three things you can’t do without a car, but it’s relatively rare to need one for the essentials. Yet, as much fun as it is to sit around feeling smug about not consuming gasoline, I really miss getting to drive places. And I miss my cute little Subaru! (But thank god she is at my mom’s house, safe from the dangers of parking here in my ‘hood!)

Why do we have a car at all? It’s hard to say. I have to do some reporting in faraway places. Also, you need a car to get to a decent quilting store. And, I need some herb plants, too, and there don’t seem to be any decent nurseries within walking distance. I hesitate to drive for non-professional or essential errands because the three or four times that I have braved that activity resulted in hysterical crying: twice in Cambridge and once in Framingham. I’m proud of my trip to Cape Cod, because I didn’t break into tears until I got stuck in a labyrinth of construction detours hours later in downtown Boston on the way home. This city is just impossible to navigate. Now, I know what some of you are thinking. True, I’m particularly bad at finding my way around, but this place really is notorious for crooked roads, unnamed avenues, aggressive drivers, unorganized neighborhood street layouts, and hideously congested traffic. I swear!

The damage:

Massachusetts Table Saw Massacre

Well, we are having a regular scorcher here in Boston, 70-something degrees, which means that we’ve opened the windows. Last September, I remember it took me a few nights to get used to the sounds of the city coming in so stridently through my windows along with the breeze:

• drunken college stumbling from the bars to their cars, singing, howling, and finally puking
• loud Brazilian pop music blasting from my neighbors’ apartments (I wish they liked Bossa Nova instead, oh well)
• one particular Celine Dionne album over and over and over (I started singing along eventually.)
• children laughing and toddlers gurgling (My neighbors have 4 or 5 darlings who seem to always be playing joyfully outside.)
• emergency vehicle sirens howling, though they do so intermittently here, only when people are actually in their way, rather than nonstop until they reach their destination like they do back home
• firecrackers detonating at midnight on what I can only assume to be traditional holidays in some culture (not mine)
• the can lady rolling her groaning, overfilled shopping cart and rifling through our recyclables (In the summer she wears a traditional Asian rice-paddy hat, the kind that looks like a flattened cone.)
• one mystery sound, which Scott proudly figured out last Fall: The taco truck comes every morning at 8:15 am to the post office behind us and toots his old fashioned horn to let them know that breakfast is here.

But, the hullabaloo soon went away, because it got too freakin’ cold and we shut out the chill and the noise. It’s now back, with screaming table saws from our g*ddamn next-door neighbor’s landlord. He’s building an ugly wall and it’s making an ugly racket. At 10 am on a Saturday. I’m having murderous thoughts.

[Image from: http://www.event.is/frettir/nr/38]

Please Flush the Da Vinci Commode

There’s no need to crack The Da Vinci Code. Ron Howard’s latest movie based on the fun and only superficially intellectual book of the same name is already broken. Any controversy that church-types have derived from the intriguing trailers or even Dan Brown’s low-brow pop novel might pad opening weekend box-office revenues, but even die-hard fans of cheesy conspiracy movies will be disappointed by Howard’s sloppy filmmaking.

The plot opens intriguingly enough, but soon tumbles into an awkward, chaotic muddle. French police are stumped by clues left by a murdered museum curator and enlist the help of the victim’s associate, Robert Langdon, played by Tom Hanks, whose perpetually wrinkled brow, pasty complexion, and scruffy, new-age hairdo make him perfect as the innocent Harvard “symbology” professor who finds himself the main suspect in the serial murder case a millennium in the making. French government agent and granddaughter of the murdered man Sophie Neveu, played by Audrey Tautou, rescues Langdon from near arrest and recruits him to help her puzzle out her grandfather’s message, which turns out to be a treasure hunt for the holy grail and an expose into a 2,000-year-old boys-vs-girls conspiracy involving Opus Dei, an obscure sect within the Catholic church.

Our first clues that the film’s plot goes beyond the quotidian murder mystery are the gory crime-scene photos. The Louvre’s curator has been shot, but instead of dying with a whimper, he strips naked, draws pagan symbols in blood on his nude body and leaves cryptic messages about Leonardo da Vinci’s famous works written in invisible ink all over the grand art museum before he dies. Though the mysterious message contains baffling number sequences and anagrams that could give your average sudoku or crossword puzzle fanatic a thrill, hasty pacing and un-illuminating computer graphics give viewers little chance to follow in the main characters’ unraveling of the titular brainteaser.

Few of the acting performances are stellar. Hanks adequately conveys tired, agnostic, and claustrophobic, but gives us little clue as to how Langdon feels about his jolting new role as adventurer nor about his attractive partner in code-cracking. Tautou as Neveu strikes neither an intelligent nor glamorous profile, always staring with wide-eyed wonder that her enigmatic grandfather could have entangled her and his colleague in such a jostling escapade, whose violent twists serve only to further confuse her and rumple her dull Parisian suit. Paul Bettany grosses us out as Silas, a scary, murderous monk with albinism and a penchant for self torture—he regularly beats himself bloody with a whip and always wears around his thigh a flesh-ripping salice, a device that looks like a doggy choke chain collar. As if his pale, scabby skin and grimy robes aren’t enough of a stereotype, he keeps showing up in classic horror movie style—suddenly, violently, and out of nowhere, right after a potential victim has completed his or her last line. Only Langdon’s colleague, grail expert Leigh Teabing, played by Ian McKellen, displays any depth of character, with simultaneous affection and envy of his old friend, as a well as an all-consuming passion for his life’s work—brilliantly illustrated in a delightful moment in which he meticulously examines a precious gewgaw through reading glasses and magnifying lenses all the while muttering sighs of ecstasy over this new clue to the whereabouts of the holy grail.

Brown’s book, though full of gory and symbolic imagery, spooky architecture, historical references, and cryptic intrigue failed to inspire even a moderate air of grandiose mystery on the big screen. Though all of the scenes take place in famous cathedrals, ancient castles, and art museums, Howard squanders all opportunities for great cinematography and uses tight shots, dark shadows, and hectic editing to create a feeling of immanent danger. Bright, washed out, grainy flashbacks describing the plot’s historical background are the brightest moments in movie, but only in the sense that they are well lit and give the audience a clue that the film’s dimness is intentional rather than the fault of the theater’s projectionist.

As if such murkiness and close quarters aren’t enough to strip even a holy-grail quest of its due grand scale, the characters’ use of fantastical and unnecessary technologies further dilutes the movie’s historical heft. In at least two scenes, professors explain their craft using unrealistic, ultra-fancy power-point presentations in which computers magically project illustrations of their spoken explications. Even Langdon’s terrific academic-turned-superhero line, “I have to get to a library fast,” takes a turn for the cheap and easy when instead of hunting down a dusty, velum tome, he uses a stranger’s cell-phone internet service to access the information he needs. (A generous pause on the phone’s screen perhaps accommodates a lucrative product placement?)

The Da Vinci Code’s overall effect is a cross between National Treasure and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, only you’ll get more laughs out of those light-hearted movies than from this dim, brutal failure of a summer action-adventure flick.

[Image from: http://www.theage.com.au/news/film/murderous-monk-business/2006/05/18/1147545446120.html]

Blog Jam

I’m beginning to see why blogging is such a sticky medium. It’s meant to be ephemeral, yet it has more permanence than verbal communication. I can mouth off on the blog one day and feel certain that after a few posts, people probably won’t dip too far into the archives. Thus, that bitchy blog hardly carries a lasting effect. However, the archive is still there for anyone’s perusal as long as you don’t delete the posts, and even when you do there are weird search sites that can keep copies of your postings long after you wished they were gone.

Also, I’ve found that I tend to blog most often when I’m angry, and thus, the overall effect of my blog has become more of a whine-fest and less of what I had originally wanted it to be: a posting of journal style, literary entries. I tend to get this desired, more writerly effect when I handwrite letters to friends or family, yet when I write in a hard-copy journal, I tend to just complain. I’ve started several journals to practice my personal writing, but they always dwindle off. Instead, I’ve started keeping copies of letters that I write so that I can look back at the kinds of things that inspire me to write well and when I’m just blathering on.

Another reason I wanted to keep a blog, other than practicing writing for an audience (albeit a very supportive and small one), was to keep in touch with friends and family. Only a couple of my friends keep blogs, but I tend to feel most in touch with them because of it. Now that I live so far from all the people that I really care about, it seemed like a good way of maintaining closeness even with great distance. However, because the blog is a public medium, I end up writing less personal accounts. I hesitate to post freely about the uglier passing emotions, such as depression, embarrassment, or anger with one’s spouse or family members. I still need handwritten correspondence, email, and telephone to really keep in touch with people.

Finally, blogging is quite a bit more of a commitment than I thought it would be. Not posting on your blog often has more meaning than you want it to. For example, when I took a month-long break at the end of the semester, I heard from readers (all two of them) that for weeks I hadn’t been doing anything but whining about gardening (the topic of my last entry). Like a newspaper or magazine editor, the blogger has to maintain a steady stream of fresh material to keep her audience happy. My schoolmates want to have a blog associated with our student on-line science magazine (in the works), but I don't think that I could take that on without serious hestitation. On top of all my other school work, I'd hate to feel obligated to post as often as you need to to keep appearances up-to-date. I mean, how often do you have something brilliant or even semi-interesting to say about science, or life for that matter?

[Image from: http://perfectlyimperfect.blogspot.com/the_blog_345.jpg]

‘Maters

I planted some tomatoes today. This act--jolting me out of my month-long pout about how short the Boston growing season is--was inspired by a talk I went to yesterday, given by Michael Pollan, author of The Botany of Desire and The Omnivore’s Dilemma. I haven’t read either of these books yet in their entirety, but from reading bits and parts and from listening to his talk, I’m psyched to read on. He captured two things perfectly: One is the luxuriously nurturing feeling you get from planting seeds on a sunny spring day. The other is the simultaneous glee and monotony of purchasing an organic-farm vegetable subscription. On the one hand, you are inspired by weekly surprises of arugula, beets, turnips, and okra--rare vegetables one seldom thinks to experiment with--and thus, one gets to look through and try out some fun new recipes. On the other hand, there can be a few weeks when the box is mostly okra, and you get real sick of okra, even in the form of such Cajun delights as gumbo and jumbalaya. Anyway, Pollan talked about this fun way of getting great veggies, though kind of glossing over the negative side in order to prop up his PR campaign for supporting the local farmer. He also reminded us how good a garden-grown tomato tastes. Mmm! I can’t wait for a crop. Sadly, neither my shady little porch nor the lead-poisoned, dog-bespoiled backyard that I share with my neighbors will likely yield any real tomatoes, but it’s fun to have something to water again.

Irish greenhouse

You Ain’t From Around Here

This week I discovered two ingredients that are sadly missing from New England cuisine: queso and ground sausage. Now the queso part isn’t too surprising. I mean, we’re pretty far from the border, so why would Tex Mex be any good up here. But, you ask a local whether they want to order chips and queso and they don’t know what you are talking about. Very sad. I will have to enlighten some of these folks in the near future. (By the way, they think that enchiladas use flour tortillas…yick, very soggy.)

The ground sausage thing blew my mind, though. I just can’t imagine a large grocery store not carrying this staple. I mean obviously I don’t cook with it very often these days, but how are these people supposed to make sausage lasagna? Or, breakfast sausage patties? Or creamed corn and sausage? (Okay, that last one is just gross, but it was a regular meal in the Frohlich household when I was growing up.) The butcher man at the super market said that they don’t carry sausage out of its casing except during the holidays. This explains why I was able to buy it no problem for my Thanksgiving turkey stuffing.

Come to think of it, I might want to shake things up around here and make Southern Surprise, a recipe I just made up: queso with ground sausage. Sounds delish, no? I’d have to import the ingredients, but Jimmy Dean would approve.

[Image from: http://www.jimmydean.com/products.asp?p=1]

Ill Communication

When I read about people living in squalor, having too many cats, or staying in abusive relationships, I think “Man, how could they let it get so bad?” But, then a part of me thinks maybe they started out like me, doing okay but letting some things slide occasionally, and they just let one new detail slip every day until an acceptable situation slowly evolved into an unacceptable situation. You know, sometimes I leave garbage out on the countertop for a day. What if I did that every day? Then it would be squalor, right? Well, I’m one of those people--not in a poor hygiene or abusive sense. But, I’ve nearly crossed the line over to the criminally negligent arena of having crappy phone service. And, it’s mostly self-inflicted. We have two cordless phones, two cell phones, two fax machines, one cable modem, two wireless modems, and a corded phone--all told about $1,000 worth of equipment. In addition, we pay over $200 a month on telecommunications bills and services. Yet, because of a bad combination of crappy cell phone service, old batteries, poor location of land-line connections, general laziness, and some recent financial setbacks, Scott and I have let ourselves get into a situation where we can enjoy no more than one hour-long phone call per day, and any other phone calls that we make that day have to be limited to 15-20 min bursts before we are cut off. The solution: about $200+ in new phone equipment, new batteries, or new cell phone service. Normally, I wouldn’t mind spending that amount to improve my life and get a service that gives me so much comfort, safety, and pleasure. I’m just sick and tired of giving people so much money and not getting what I want! Aaaargh!

[Image from: http://www.amazon.com/]

Scooped and Deceived!

I could just spit! As my final radio documentary, I had wanted to do a piece on this local facility that trains monkeys to help paraplegics, a monkey college. Six weeks ago, I called them and explained what I wanted to do and that I would try to sell it to WBUR, the local public radio station. The rep at the monkey college said that they couldn’t let me interview someone there because they were all booked up on media events, blah, blah, blah. He said maybe I could call in a year and he might have time for me then. So, what do I see on the WBUR website this past week?! A freakin’ radio story on the monkey college! They aired it last week, with an intro that implies that they conceived of the idea just two weeks ago. Follow this linkfor a listen.

This is proof that it’s all about your connections. I’m sure when they called, he didn’t give them the call-me-in-a-year bs. Grrrr!! I feel like a chump. (Or, should I say a chimp?) I want to throw some feces at them, like a monkey who failed out of monkey college.

P.S. Scott says that I wouldn’t have lasted a minute in that place anyway. It’s true. I’m scared of monkeys. But, I swear I would have pulled myself together for such a great story!

[Image from: http://www.here-now.org/shows/2006/04/20060427_17.asp]