Satisfying a craving for a fountain soda at my local pizza joint last night led to stares and odd looks from the counter staff. While waiting for my cup of sugarless dirt water I spied a tray piled with the Italian contribution to gastronomic heaven:The Garlic Knot. My mouth filled with saliva and the taste of that doughy ball of bliss. I had to have one and I wanted only one. That would be enough for me.
A month ago 5 knots would have found their way into my stomach, but a photo taken at the "Weird Al" concert reminded me of the mission statement formed 3 years ago. I am not meant to be overweight my whole life;I am meant to be an athlete. Without expunging my entire back story I'll write the highlights, I was quite fat, once, topping out at 230 lbs. Three years ago I dropped 90 pounds had some skin cut away, landing at 140 with a flat tummy. Over the past two years I gained-admitting this for the first time-35 back. Ok, Ok it's really more like 40 lbs. Stop badgering me! In essence, my pea-sized subconscious couldn't process the skinny, but now we(me and my subconscious) are ready. We deserve the lone size 6 Banana Republic's draped in the closet.
Which brings back me to the topic of that perfect piece of crunchy ecstasy;I believe in moderation, not outright denial. Forbid that which you love, be it chocolate, potato chips, or liver pate(blech) and you will crack. And the breakdown will be pretty ugly. Anyone recall Kate's Secret, the disease of the week movie from the eighties in which Meridith Baxter played a bulimic. Moderation is the key. I know that a jar of Nutella does not last long in the cabinet, but out in the world I am less likely to go all Lifetime movie on a chocolate mousse cake.
So, the asymmetrical sphere of Garlicky Goodness lay nestled between it's friends calling to me. I stood tall, "May I have one Garlic Knot please?"
The men behind the counter cocked their heads about to reply in the negative. I offered to pay for an order of five and they could give the others away. The owner, who has made me many vegetarian gyro's dripping with tsatsiki, told the other "Just give her one!" He grabbed the foil, snatched TWO orbs and opened the oven.
"It's okay, you don't have to heat it," I offered. He handed me the package, his look saying, "Get out of the store crazy dog lady."
More to come on this story. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Revenge of the Frizz
Why I want to move to Vancouver
I have no need for a themostat; I only need to look at my hair. Much like the amount of leg swelling will inform a doctor of a patients cardiac status, my hair is a natural barometer and thermometer. Smooth wavy hair indicates 40-60 degrees with 60 percent humidity while the "Don King" do equates to 90 fareinheit and 100 percent humidity. Moderate curls supported by a flirty bounce translates to a mild 70/70, the weather of Vancouver, Canada.
I am not so vain as to move three times zones and another country away soley for my hair, but each New York summer I endure makes Vancouver a paradise. I spent 20 years in the South Florida humidity and never stepped outside unless I had too. Central Air is, and was, and equistite pleasure.
I tried all the products: gel, mousse, and of course the touted Frizz-ease. Before my hair thinned due to a tragic combination of genetics, diet, and medication I looked like "Weird Al" Yankovic, the early years. Now when the dew point rises I look like a troll doll. Nasa may be my only hope. If they could develop a creame that creates a no humidity, no heat zone around my head, needless suffering would end. I bet me and many others would pay top dollar for something like that.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Disconnected! Not!
A return to the topic of connectivity for a moment. One of my first blog entries discussed parents using cellular phones while their child recovered from anesthesia. Yesterday I cared for a child whose father was a candidate for a Blackberry Addiction support group-trust me they will exist one day. I am proud that I did not grab the Blackberry and shove it up his rectum. Had I performed the intervention, I may have been fired, but I might have saved the man's family. His wife sneered at him while he talked to me: head down, playing a GAME on his pint-sized idiot box. Just because the thing weighs less than 5 ounces does not make it OK; I bet you tell your kid to stop watching TV live by example, Sir.
I'm exposed to many examples of marital/familial dysfunction and function and this couple made me wonder more than ever. When they make love-if they even do- does he check the berry after the cherry. Does his wife have her own berry to attend to and does it give her more love than her husband. These scenes from the lives I am entrusted with fascinate me and they are often indicative of the whole show. Maybe they don't talk at all, maybe they only text each other.
When I visit my sister in Florida, I complain that the Television stays on until dinner. Shouldn't the preparation of the meal encourage chatter, so, we, as family remain connected. I love my multi-tasking, executive sister, but sometimes I wish she'd call me instead of shooting an email. Email's are for quick things: "meet me at five," "don't forget the apple pie," or "the test results are positive." Don't ask me how things are, I can't type that fast and I you really want to know then I'll subject you to the thirty minute diatribe.
On my flight back from Dallas, I read an article about Blackberry addiction. The author writes how users obtain a sense of importance from being on call 24/7. Most of the nurses I work with hate being on call. Will we like it if we get a blackberry? The man said that people expect him to be respond within minutes. I wanted to ask if the immediacy was a condition he placed upon himself. Do that make him feel special, needed? Does his family not provide that or has he removed himself from the equation. I watched the boy for two hours and except for a trip to the loo, the berry remained in his hand. On his way out, I grabbed one of his digits telling him I was concerned about a new condition called blackberry thumb.
I've said before that I am pro wired world, I just think we need to find the middle ground.
Instead of a picture, we have a funny video!
I'm exposed to many examples of marital/familial dysfunction and function and this couple made me wonder more than ever. When they make love-if they even do- does he check the berry after the cherry. Does his wife have her own berry to attend to and does it give her more love than her husband. These scenes from the lives I am entrusted with fascinate me and they are often indicative of the whole show. Maybe they don't talk at all, maybe they only text each other.
When I visit my sister in Florida, I complain that the Television stays on until dinner. Shouldn't the preparation of the meal encourage chatter, so, we, as family remain connected. I love my multi-tasking, executive sister, but sometimes I wish she'd call me instead of shooting an email. Email's are for quick things: "meet me at five," "don't forget the apple pie," or "the test results are positive." Don't ask me how things are, I can't type that fast and I you really want to know then I'll subject you to the thirty minute diatribe.
On my flight back from Dallas, I read an article about Blackberry addiction. The author writes how users obtain a sense of importance from being on call 24/7. Most of the nurses I work with hate being on call. Will we like it if we get a blackberry? The man said that people expect him to be respond within minutes. I wanted to ask if the immediacy was a condition he placed upon himself. Do that make him feel special, needed? Does his family not provide that or has he removed himself from the equation. I watched the boy for two hours and except for a trip to the loo, the berry remained in his hand. On his way out, I grabbed one of his digits telling him I was concerned about a new condition called blackberry thumb.
I've said before that I am pro wired world, I just think we need to find the middle ground.
Instead of a picture, we have a funny video!
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Don't be a gerbil, run/walk in the Open Spaces
I flew to Dallas/Fort Worth to visit my best friend and we took a side trip to Fort Worth-she lives north of Dallas- to see "A Few Good Men", starring Jensen Ackles at the Casa Manana theater in Forth Worth. Our hotel de crap, as my friend calls it, sits on a main drag parallel to an entrance to the Trinity River Trails
The night before, we drove along this trail, the lights of a restaurant beckoning us to swim across the river. After 20 minutes of weaving we realized that Denny's would have to do for our fancy sit down dinner and that the trail, winding through a park, was a good place make out or be murdered.
This morning I took a run/walk through part of this 35 mile collection of paved and natural paths connecting many of Fort Worth's parks. The city's park acreage is second only to Chicago, according the North Texas Outside Guide.
Urban Planners across the country provide city residents with plenty of green spaces in which to frolic, so why are the New York Sports Club's I pass daily always so full. Why climb stairs to the ether when you could scale real ones a see pretty things. Have digital readouts replaced one's mental cheerleader. Is exercise so painful that we'd rather drown our ears with loud music or watch TV so we don't have to invest in it. Has moving the body become one's daily dose of Castor oil.
Fresh Air
I belonged to a gym once and used it for one month while my work schedule prohibited my Central Park hill workout. It's something I have to do during the day. The treadmill and stair climber bored me to point that I switched machines-and channels-every 10 minutes. The membership lasted two months. I, a self-appointed granola eating-tree hugger prefer to sweat outside.
I returned from my workout to the hotel room grinning with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair. "A good workout is like five Prozacs," I tell my friend.
At the Cafe Express ,a local fast, but fresh, food restaurant, we enjoyed salads and the company of a native Fort Worth bartender who had never been to the the Trinity Trails. He said he liked running on a treadmill so he could know exactly how far he'd traveled. I never asked if he was in training for anything, as that would be a good reason for needing to know your distance and speed. But why must we quantify everything. We count our years on earth, our money in the bank, and our jeans in the closet. Do we need to count our miles ran. Unless your a 5K wannabe, exercise should be about how it makes you feel, not how fast you can feel it.
On a side note I highly recommend the Cafe Express, they have locations in Dallas, Fort Worth and Houston. I hope one day we will have a fast and fresh food restaurant next to every Burger King, MacDonald's,Wendy's, and Taco Bell. Maybe then people could make better choices when they have to eat and run.
The night before, we drove along this trail, the lights of a restaurant beckoning us to swim across the river. After 20 minutes of weaving we realized that Denny's would have to do for our fancy sit down dinner and that the trail, winding through a park, was a good place make out or be murdered.
This morning I took a run/walk through part of this 35 mile collection of paved and natural paths connecting many of Fort Worth's parks. The city's park acreage is second only to Chicago, according the North Texas Outside Guide.
Urban Planners across the country provide city residents with plenty of green spaces in which to frolic, so why are the New York Sports Club's I pass daily always so full. Why climb stairs to the ether when you could scale real ones a see pretty things. Have digital readouts replaced one's mental cheerleader. Is exercise so painful that we'd rather drown our ears with loud music or watch TV so we don't have to invest in it. Has moving the body become one's daily dose of Castor oil.
I belonged to a gym once and used it for one month while my work schedule prohibited my Central Park hill workout. It's something I have to do during the day. The treadmill and stair climber bored me to point that I switched machines-and channels-every 10 minutes. The membership lasted two months. I, a self-appointed granola eating-tree hugger prefer to sweat outside.
I returned from my workout to the hotel room grinning with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair. "A good workout is like five Prozacs," I tell my friend.
At the Cafe Express ,a local fast, but fresh, food restaurant, we enjoyed salads and the company of a native Fort Worth bartender who had never been to the the Trinity Trails. He said he liked running on a treadmill so he could know exactly how far he'd traveled. I never asked if he was in training for anything, as that would be a good reason for needing to know your distance and speed. But why must we quantify everything. We count our years on earth, our money in the bank, and our jeans in the closet. Do we need to count our miles ran. Unless your a 5K wannabe, exercise should be about how it makes you feel, not how fast you can feel it.
On a side note I highly recommend the Cafe Express, they have locations in Dallas, Fort Worth and Houston. I hope one day we will have a fast and fresh food restaurant next to every Burger King, MacDonald's,Wendy's, and Taco Bell. Maybe then people could make better choices when they have to eat and run.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Welcome to my Brain-it's warm in here!
June, 3, 2007--I took a cab home from work last night at eleven pm. I chatted with the cab driver, mentioning that I had to go home and walk the dog in the rain. He ask if I had children. "No, I have the dog." I said.
"Can you have children?" He asked. That was something I've never been asked before. I told him yes, I had the working parts, but would rather adopt a child when I am a bit older. I spelled out my dog pound theory. Why create a child when there are so many who need loving homes. Not that I think people should stop having children, but there are plenty of couples out there picking up my slack.
Saturday May 19, 2007
Moments make life fabulous. My friend and I wandered up 23rd Street on our way home-me to the subway and uptown, she to 16th- and came upon a bar named and trying to be a Trailer park. She felt compelled to enter and order a "Sofia Copolla, 'champange in a can.'" She once scoffed at red wine served in a plastic cup, so why sparkling wine in a can? "It's so bad, it's good," she said, taking a swig of the bitter beverage. "Yep, so good," I said and headed to the pink leopard print bathroom."
Wednesday May. 9, 2007
I know someone who may need a good laugh. Here goes.
"You've got a Jodie Foster thing going on." Says Shelia sitting next to me on the plane. Obviously these are the ramblings of an already crazy person at 35 , 000 feet altitude after her third vodka tonic. The ride to Chicago started out nice enough; my seat-mate and I shared spirited conversation ranging from theatre, psychology, and drug addiction. She claims she is not an alcoholic but a lush. What's the difference? After the aforementioned last call for alcohol, she became really loud and obnoxious, never thought I'd miss a depressed drunk.
I hate when people ask me why I am not married. The deli man did today after I finally realized he was married to the woman who sells me Tylenol PM and Diet Coke. I don't flipping know why I am not hitched. Maybe I'm hideously ugly, have no personality, and kiss like a fish. Maybe I'm picky, or maybe I've never met anyone worth the effort or a relationship. Maybe, I should ask why is married because, from where I sit, they don't look that much in love or passionate. Maybe I should ask him that.
"Can you have children?" He asked. That was something I've never been asked before. I told him yes, I had the working parts, but would rather adopt a child when I am a bit older. I spelled out my dog pound theory. Why create a child when there are so many who need loving homes. Not that I think people should stop having children, but there are plenty of couples out there picking up my slack.
Saturday May 19, 2007
Moments make life fabulous. My friend and I wandered up 23rd Street on our way home-me to the subway and uptown, she to 16th- and came upon a bar named and trying to be a Trailer park. She felt compelled to enter and order a "Sofia Copolla, 'champange in a can.'" She once scoffed at red wine served in a plastic cup, so why sparkling wine in a can? "It's so bad, it's good," she said, taking a swig of the bitter beverage. "Yep, so good," I said and headed to the pink leopard print bathroom."
Wednesday May. 9, 2007
I know someone who may need a good laugh. Here goes.
"You've got a Jodie Foster thing going on." Says Shelia sitting next to me on the plane. Obviously these are the ramblings of an already crazy person at 35 , 000 feet altitude after her third vodka tonic. The ride to Chicago started out nice enough; my seat-mate and I shared spirited conversation ranging from theatre, psychology, and drug addiction. She claims she is not an alcoholic but a lush. What's the difference? After the aforementioned last call for alcohol, she became really loud and obnoxious, never thought I'd miss a depressed drunk.
I hate when people ask me why I am not married. The deli man did today after I finally realized he was married to the woman who sells me Tylenol PM and Diet Coke. I don't flipping know why I am not hitched. Maybe I'm hideously ugly, have no personality, and kiss like a fish. Maybe I'm picky, or maybe I've never met anyone worth the effort or a relationship. Maybe, I should ask why is married because, from where I sit, they don't look that much in love or passionate. Maybe I should ask him that.
Save Tinkerbell from Paris
So Miss Paris Hilton was released from Prison today. The Australian reported that she was released due to an undisclosed illness after serving three days of a 45 day sentence. In the last three days I have read three different articles chronicling her stay in Jail. I know that her first day passed without incident and that she invented a perfume and cured cancer on the second and third. Or maybe she found her spiritual center. My question to the news media is "Do they really think we care?" And where are these people who care? Where do they live and how much time do they spend contemplating the life of the blond Flat Stanley. I am surprised by Google News; I thought them to be above pandering to the lowest common denominator.
Her early release does not trouble me, people are freed from prison all the time. Maybe she lost her marbles without her blackberry and lackeys to listen to her inane utterances. If California's law makers ignored Paris' fragile mental state or that of her, now motherless, rat-dog they may as well hand out condoms to fifth graders. Their incarceration of her in the first place does not impress me. Driving with a suspended license does not automatically make one a threat to society. Yes, she was warned but are they trying to make an example? If they want to bust her on something, how about dog abuse. Have we ever seen Tinkerbell walk on her own four feet. The dog probably has brain damage from all the flash bulbs popped in it's face. Really, it's her empty head and our obsession with the minutia of her existence that poses the greatest risk to society
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Yes! I am White and Nerdy.
"Weird Al" Yankovic rocked the Palace Theatre in Albany, New York last night. My friend and I were one of the lucky 2,844 in attendance-yes the house was packed-and we sat in the fifth row. Close enough to catch a drop of perspiration from the parody king's perfect pores. Alas, no sweat fell from Al's brow, though he signed t-shirts and ticket stubs while smiling for photos with the die-hards who waited after the show. We were two of these die-hards. I shook his hand and my cheek felt a tingle from Al's unruly mane. The next morning, as I showered, I considered cloning the DNA from the sloughed skin from my hand to create my own Weird Al. I thought better of it(it would take twenty years to grow-up plus there would be legal ramifications) and washed my hand.
I've loved the man since I was fifteen and first saw him in concert at twenty-five. I admire the creativity shown in his lyric genius, but it's his showmanship, stamina, and vocal ability that endears him to me. Al executed every word and every note with perfect precision while dancing and gyrating through the high impact choreography. During "Your Pitiful", a parody of James Blunt's "Your Beautiful" Al removed layers of clothing, each costume a symbol of loserism, finishing the final measures of the song dressed in a pink tutu and fishnet stockings. My love for Al has never wavered; this tableau cemented him in my heart for life. I will marry the man who can and willingly humiliates himself for comedy. Unfortunately, Mr. Yankovic is taken, but I know somewhere there is a fart- joke making, Sartre reading, pop culture spoofing long haired freak looking for me. And to help him find me I now wear my new "White and Nerdy" ball cap for my Central Park Workouts and whenever it is appropriate to wear a hat.
During my youth I tried to hide my dorkish tendencies, eschewing the math team for a long shot at the drill squad. I didn't make it, I dropped the flag, but I could do equations in my head. There was a Nerd that liked me in school and I didn't let him kiss me at the football game because I was afraid what my "friends" might think. He left me notes in my locker containing hieroglyphics and possibly kligon. He made me laugh. And I miss him.
"Weird Al's"popularity stems from his own admission of Nerddom and the way he has made it "OK", sexy even, for one to be a nerd,geek, dork, or freak. The labels really are one and the same. He gives his devoted fans someone to look up to, someone to say, that they have made it being bizarre and abnormal. Today I read Shakespeare, listen to Barry Manilow, and watch Documentaries with pride;this blog exists because I am Oddly off Center. Weird Al did not make me a nerd, but he makes me proud to be one. He owes his longevity to finding his own place in music and for the most part created the parody genre. I shudder to think that my children may never know the brilliance of parody because the world may never see another "Weird Al" Yankovic.
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