The New Glitterati

Petra, Part I

2012-01-25T18:07:00.000-08:00

We rented a car in Amman mostly to go to Petra.

I was pretty much the only one brave enough to drive it.

Traffic in Amman is similar to, oh, say, Rome perhaps. Or Demolition Derby. It's nonstop, it's a free-for-all, it's every person for him/herself. And I loved it.

Aggressive driving is a trait that comes in handy if you live in Baltimore City, and it was a survival technique in Amman. There are very few stop lights and intersections through downtown Amman; it's all circles. Circles, circles, circles. Don't like circles? Don't drive in Amman. Or anywhere else in the world, really. Americans seem to be the only ones with such harsh aversions to circles. Having grown up in Annapolis, circles are simply part of the landscape. And, now that I'm back in Baltimore, I find myself with undue amounts of rage at the traffic light situation in this country. No wonder we have such horrible chockablock traffic - it's the damn lights! All that stop and go. Let us evolve to circles, dammit!

I digress.

Ah yes, Petra.

So, we rented a car from the hotel. This was another exercise in understanding Middle Eastern business.

US: We'd like to rent a car, please.

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: For how long?

US: Well, today is Friday, so probably until Sunday.

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: Yes, that is fine.

US: What time would we need to return the car on Sunday?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: Anytime is fine.

US: I mean, does it need to be back by a certain time? Or, what's the latest it can be dropped off? Because we might go down to the Dead Sea that day, and we're not sure when we'll be back.

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: You can bring the car back any time.

US: Oh, ok. And if we decide to keep the car for another day?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: That is fine.

US: Do we just call you, or tell someone or....what?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: No, you do not need to call. You can keep the car for as long as you need it.

US: OK...so...we just return the keys to the desk when we're done?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: Yes, you can do that if you wish.

US: (confused chatter among ourselves)

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: While you are discussing, let me just make sure that we have a car available for you.

US: (stop talking, watch HELPFUL EMPLOYEE.)

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: (smiles at us)

US: (watching)

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: (smiling)

US: Um, do you need to call and confirm?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: Oh yes, I will do that.

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: (still smiling, still not calling)

US: Should we...wait? While you call?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: No, no, you do not need to wait. Everything is taken care of.

US: So, do we have the car for tomorrow?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: I am sure there will be one available, I just need to call and confirm.

US: So...are you going to...call?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: Yes.

US: OK, so should we check back in with you later?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: If you would like to come by and see me, you may if you wish.

US: But don't we need to make sure it's confirmed?

HELPFUL EMPLOYEE: Oh no, everything is set, you will have a car, I'm sure.

US: (highly, highly, highly doubtful) Um, ok.

We leave.

The next morning: the front desk at the hotel calls our room at 9am.

"Your car is ready for you, whenever you can come to collect, the keys are at the front desk."

"OK, thank you," we said, and promptly continued the morning ritual of heading down to eat our weight at the breakfast buffet.

An hour and a half later, after a very long leisurely breakfast, I said that I would go and grab the keys from the front desk while The Gentleman settled the bill. I sauntered out of the restaurant to the front desk, where a very tiny and distraught man in a suit was leaning on the counter and chattering away angrily in Arabic. I politely waited my turn, but the front desk employee waved away the man in the suit and motioned me forward.

"Yes, hi, I need to pick up the keys to our rental car?" (I've become astutely aware that in situations where I am uncertain, I turn declarative statements into questions. I'm irritated even with myself for doing this.)

The Tiny Distraught Man came rushing forward, waving a stack of papers.

TINY DISTRAUGHT MAN: I have been here two hours! I wait for you! They call you, they say the car is ready, but you do not come down!

I was mortified. I had no idea the front desk had meant: "A tiny, distraught man is waiting for you to come and collect the car, please get down here immediately." Such is the way of hospitality and business. "Whenever you can come collect" means "Get here now."

I apologized profusely, which somehow had the effect of making the TINY DISTRAUGHT MAN terribly apologetic in response.

ME: I am so sorry, I had no idea, I misunderstood, I apologize that you had to wait-

TINY DISTRAUGHT MAN: Oh no, of course it is fine, I only need for you to sign the papers and I show you the car, OK? Come, I show you the car, I make sure it is ok, yes?

ME: Um...ok.

The TINY DISTRAUGHT MAN led me outside where he showed me the impressive Chevy POS that we were renting for 35JD a day (approximately $60. You get what you pay for.) and we looked over it to assess existing scrapes and bumper bruises.

I apologized about six more times while signing the paperwork, and every time he put his hands up and shook his head.

TINY DISTRAUGHT MAN: It is no problem. No problem.

Finally, I asked him about the mysterious return policy of the automobile.

TINY DISTRAUGHT MAN: You keep for as long as you like. You just tell the front desk, they tell me, when you want to return it. I will come pick it up. You can just leave it out here, I will come collect.

More ambiguity. Ooooookay.

But we finally had the car, we loaded it up with our gear for a night in Petra (The Gentleman's parents generously booked a hotel for us all in Petra as a Christmas treat) and headed out on the road.

Amman is a sprawling, monochromatic city. But as soon as you leave it, it's nothingness. Absolute nothingness. Miles upon miles of desert sky and sand, punctuated by tiny scraps of "towns" which are primarily a couple of roadside stops and some housing compounds.

Scenic route.

I drove for the first hour and a half, and we listened to Arabic Christmas carols on the tinny car radio (yes, Arabic Christmas carols exist, apparently), and then I got tired and handed the wheel off to The Gentleman's brother. Not five minutes into his leg of the trip, we got pulled over.

And by "pulled over," I mean an officer of the Jordanian law stepped out onto the highway with a hand-held STOP sign and waved us off to the side.

The officer approached the car, windows

were rolled down, and The Gentleman's brother handed over his American license and passport.

"You were speeding. 123 kilometers in a 110 zone."

This is the equivalency of going 71 in a 65. AKA - BULLSHIT.

Rest stop.

The officer made a great show of taking the identification back to his car, where he handed it off to what appeared to be two plainclothes officers sitting in the front and back seats. We watched as the officer pulled over a full 1970's VW wagon, and a new, sleek black BMW. The Volkswagen rumbled to a stop, handed over a license, and was on its merry way as the officer waved it on. The BMW started to pull over to the side, then thought better of it and sped away in a cloud of dust. The officer just shrugged. Why hadn't we tried that?

Sun setting over desert, Jordan.

One of the plainclothes officers (aka someone's bored cousin doing someone a favor) came back to the car and demanded a 20JD fine for speeding and offered a painstaking "receipt" in return. The receipt, when The Gentleman's brother translated it for us, informed the recipient that although s/he had been caught breaking the law, this transgression had been turned into a positive moment as the 20JD collected would go towards social services or arts projects as deemed by the king. Well, that's comforting.

We arrived in Petra under the cover of night, which was fortunate because had it been daytime, I would have crashed the Chevy POS off into a wadi (canyon) due to staring too much at the scenery. We checked into our hotel, got a dinner recommendation, and headed into town for an incredible meal of hummus, shawarma, baba ghanoush, roast chicken, and local wine. We visited the fancy schmancy hotel next door and had a drink in the fireplace lounge, and then headed back to our own hotel for a nightcap in the hotel bar.

Hotel, Petra

The Gentleman's parents smartly retired to bed, but the kids (The Gentleman, his brother, and myself) decided to hang out awhile longer. After a bit, it became evident that we were the only patrons left in the bar, and the bartender politely explained that he needed to close up. We were given one more round and then paid out, and as he thanked us he said, "You all want to go somewhere and get some beers? I only need to finish a few things, then I can take you in my car."

Um, partying with the locals of Petra? Yes, please.

We'll call him Zai'it, and he drove a sporty little car that he pulled around to the front of the hotel. We piled in, and he took off up and down the near-vertical drops and lifts of the wadi landscape. Driving down into the town, he pointed out various landmarks and asked us about our trip and how we liked Amman, his home town. He was living in Petra temporarily, making bank at the hotel as a bartender, and would eventually return to Amman in his little sports car with a fat savings account. "It is not a bad life!" he championed, and we agreed.

Watching Arabic-captioned "HIMYM" whilst chilling in the hotel bar = awesome.

Eventually, he pulled off down an alley into a clump of houses and told us to wait for a few moments while he "ran an errand." Zai'it disappeared into what appeared to be a garage of some kind, and came out with a tall fellow. They slapped one another on the back happily, and exchanged a black plastic bag. The tall fellow waved at us in the car. Perplexed, we waved back.

Zai'it came back into the car and I wondered what the hell was about to go down when he triumphantly produced tall Amstel cans from the black bag.

"Beer! It's good beer! You like?" We liked. He handed around the Amstels. Were we supposed to...ah yes, there goes Zai'it, motioning for us to open our beers. In the car. Like you do. We opened our Amstels, and Zai'it sped off into the night in his sports car.

Petra beer is for the hotel. Amstel is for the backseat of cars.

We spent the next hour or so whipping around hairpin turns up and down through the roads cut into the hills. Zai'it slowed down through the patches of town we passed through. At one, he stopped while a fat, white donkey ambled across the road. We watched in amazement as a fatter, darker donkey clopped up and nipped the white donkey on the neck. The two began a half-teasing, half-threatening dance in the middle of the road with ears laid back and tails swishing. Up ahead a block or so, another gray donkey had his head thrust into a trash bin and was rooting around for treats. A small herd of scruffy-looking dogs chased one another across driveways and front walkways. Animals were taking over.

Very terrible picture of donkeys fighting.

Vicious wild dog.

Caught dumpster-diving. Have you no class, donkey?

Zai'it kept pushing the car up and up a hill that was beginning to feel like a mountain, and finally pulled off to the side of the road and got out of the car. We looked at one another and followed suit. Zai'it walked to the edge of the blackness, the only sound the wind whining through the wadi below, and the faint ding ding ding of the car alerting us that keys were left in the ignition. Zai'it pointed up and, like some mystical movie moment, the sky revealed itself as a black sea studded with the brightest stars I've ever seen. So far away from any real city lights, these were stars as they're meant to be seen...the kind of sky where you can tell depth and dimension between the layers of stars, where you can see different sizes, shapes, and even colors of stars. Our feet were on the edge of a crop of rock and below was black nothingness. The next day, I would discover that there was almost certainly a complete drop-off hundreds of feet to a rock bottom, but that night all I saw was darkness and all I felt was a cold wind pushing up from the canyon bottom.

The drive back to the hotel in Zai'it's car was not anticlimactic after that, but only because he cranked up some European house music and took the turns with race car-driver precision. He made another pit-stop, bringing back not beer this time, but bags of chips.

Donkey in the wild.

"Snacks! You must eat!" he encouraged. We ate what tasted like cheeze puffs out of a bag with inexplicable Arabic on it.

Zai'it dropped us safely back at the hotel around 1am. He flashed us his brilliant smile, and tore off in his sports car, and the three of us stumbled to the room where we all promptly passed out. The next morning at breakfast, we would explain our tired faces and our midnight adventure, but for the time being it seemed that not one part of that night had been scripted while at the same time playing out like a movie we all discovered we'd very much wanted to see.

This is what we would have seen had we arrived during daylight hours.

to be continued....

Eating My Way Through Baltimore

2012-01-23T16:25:00.000-08:00

Ah, so, time's gotten away from me again. No sooner did I finally shake The Plague that my regularly-scheduled craziness resurfaced. Shocking.

To tide you over until my next post, which will be about the majesty that is Petra, por vous:

One of those two pictures features The Gentleman. I'll let you decide which one. Hint: he's super handsome and wearing light brown.

Post coming soon, I promise.

In other news: it's Restaurant Week here in Baltimore, that delicious time that comes twice a year (Summer and Winter). I've already hit up La Tasca, and will be dining at Ten Ten with Book Club and B&O Brasserie with The Gentleman & friends later this week. It's a good thing this Restaurant Week times perfectly with half-marathon training. Because I will be eating my face off. And loving it.

This coming weekend is a wine tour of Maryland vineyards to celebrate The Gentleman's birthday. Party bus, whaaaat?! We did this a few years ago for Catalano's birthday, and it was quite the success. I, for one, am psyched and have fingers crossed that it doesn't snow.

So in the meantime, it's work, trivia, running, more work, and eating. Lots of eating. January is not treating me particularly well so far in the sense that it seems once I finally started feeling better from being sick, I got struck with that gross lethargy that accompanies cold, dreary weather and short days with long nights. All I want to do, it seems, is be sick all the time. And by that, I mean lie in bed for hours on end watching reality television, never changing out of sweatpants, and subsisting on hot food items like Amy's organic soup and tea. But, unfortunately, I had to get all healthy again, and then one has no excuse not to get out in the world and act like a productive human being. What a drag.

I will self-medicate with delicious Baltimore eats and a wine tour. I think that's just the thing.

And I promise I shall post pictures of Petra soon, along with a write-up. I mean, it's where Indiana Jones was filmed. Be excited.

Smooches, Glitteratis.

Thank Coffee.

2012-01-16T18:39:00.001-08:00

The Lebanese/Canadian brought us back some Turkish coffee. And told me the method for preparing it. In secret. So, I'm essentially freebasing coffee. Whatever. I'll take it.

Le Jordanian Bird Flu

2012-01-11T09:25:00.000-08:00

So, apologies for the lack of posting going on around here, but I've spent the last four days lying in my bed watching so much Teen Mom, Intervention, and Taboo, I'm now convinced there are fewer sane people in the world than batshit crazy.

I kind of knew I would get sick after two weeks of crazy travel following two months of nonstop ridiculousness. I'd pretty much even banked on it, and given myself a nice little week-long cushion of no plans before January cranked back into gear.

What I didn't anticipate: standing in line at jury duty last week and feeling it. You know it. That sudden, sweaty exhaustion that hits you like a freight train. That moment where you realize, I need to lie down, right now, immediately. The kind of thing they design those signs for on subways: "If you are feeling ill, please contact a [socially-acceptable word for subway worker] immediately."

I fought it, though. Boy, did I ever. I took myself home, made myself some Immune Tea (a special blend of herbal tea, lemon, honey, and the apple cider vinegar with the alien "Mother" floating in it) and took it easy. But, two days later, it became apparent that whatever sickness it was, was not going to be fended off so easily.

I finally dragged myself out of bed one morning a couple of days later, realizing that after 10 hours of sleep I still felt bone-exhausted, and went to the doctor's. Diagnosis: sinus and double ear infections. They loaded me up with antibiotics (for the infection) and steroids (for the inflammation) and sent me home.

Note: I am not a fan of antibiotics and steroids. They are a last resort for me, when all of the homeopathic options have failed. Neti pots, vitamins, plenty of sleep, nutritious eating, and echinacea are excellent for prevention. But once that infection takes hold: I want drugs. Strong ones.

For the first time in years, it took until Day 4 of antibiotics until I felt human again. Usually 24 hours of the strong stuff in my system will turn me right around. No so, this time. I went to half-days of work, skipped trivia, and laid in bed for hours upon hours. The cats were overjoyed at my sudden over-presence whereas only a bit before, I'd been mysteriously missing for two weeks. (Which, to them, is like a month or something.)

I went through boxes of lotion-laced tissues, drank an entire box of Immune tea, nearly emptied a bottle of apple cider vinegar, and subsisted on soup and oatmeal. I was sick.

What turned it around, finally? Two things:
1. Good old-fashioned exercise. And by that, I mean I forced myself onto an elliptical for 45 minutes, sweated more than I did running the half marathon, and then stuck myself in the steam shower at the gym for 10 minutes to sweat and snot and get everything out of me. It was disgusting. And awesome.
2. Mucinex. The high-grade stuff they keep behind the counter. The kind you have to show ID for.

I finally woke up feeling somewhat human this morning, with only a lingering barking cough and feeling as though my head is only halfway dunked into a bucket of water as opposed to full submersion.

So, suffice to say, blogging shall commence once I have fumigated my room and put my life back together. I can't remember the last time I spent four days in bed. And while I got a lot done (if you consider reading chick lit and watching reality television productive), it's going to be slow progress back to my regular break-neck speed. My friend, Princess, says that sicknesses like these force you to stop, to slow down, and to get exactly what your body needs. Apparently what my body needed was to be flat-out on its back for four days. And drink a lot of tea. And eat a lot of Amy's Organic Soups. And have The Gentleman buy me gourmet chocolate bars with things like wasabi and chili peppers in them. He's the best.

Back on my feet. Sort of.

The most distressing thing: I am now two weeks behind in half marathon training. More than that, really, considering I couldn't get out more than 3 miles this morning without that awful chest-burning, hacking nonsense. Gonna be a long way back to recovery.

Ah, well. It was all worth it.

أكل

2012-01-07T12:21:00.000-08:00

أكل - "eat"*

*Is this correct, The Canadian/Lebanese?

Herbs at a street market, downtown Amman

The food. Was. Exquisite.

Simple. Fresh. Flavorful.

The primary basis of our week-long food affair was hummus. And not like American hummus, which has a weak consistency too often jazzed up with oily canned vegetables like garlic and peppers. This hummus is thick, creamy, and intensely flavorful. There is an herb called zatar, which is sort of like an Arabic oregano, which gets sprinkled on the hummus with a drizzle of olive oil. Eat that shit with some fresh veggies or pita, and that's a meal in and of itself. I did not purchase any of the zatar while abroad because, well, it looks suspiciously like a certain illegal substance, but I lucked into a find at an international grocery in New York. I bought half a pound of it for three bucks, and I will still use it sparingly until I can locate a supply in Baltimore. (I also scored a bottle of white truffle olive oil there, but this is more a general jones of mine as opposed to anything Middle Eastern.)

Herbs at a street market, downtown Amman

Turkish coffee at a cafe on Rainbow Road

And the coffee...Turkish coffee, rich and black, so strong that your spoon will stand straight up in it, anchored by the quarter inch of bean sludge at the bottom of the cup. Do not drink the bean sludge, by the way. Nobody has a good time.

Arabic coffee is strong too, but thinner, and spicier. The primary taste is of cardamom, which makes it unique to any other coffee in the world. You boil up a big pot of Arabic coffee, and let it stand for days, bringing it to a boil each time you reheat. I'm pretty sure we drank from the same pot of coffee on The Gentleman's brother's stove the entire week we were there, and it only got richer as the week went on.

Note: Jordanians; and, so I'm told, most Middle Easterners; like things sweet. We spent the week insisting we didn't want sugar in our coffee. If you consent to having sugar in your coffee, you're getting seven spoonfuls of the big-ass brown sugar crystals, and you will wind up with a sickly sweet concoction. Ask for no sugar. Add some yourself if it's too strong, but both Turkish and Arabic coffee are so flavorful by themselves, you really don't need any additions.

Melons, oranges, lettuce, and dried fruit at a produce market, downtown Amman

We made entire meals of hummus, veggies, and fruit. And it's completely filling. Sounds healthy, no? Not really - when you consider the amount of sugar in all of the dates and baklava we ate. Diabetes is a very real problem there. But antioxidants? Check. Vitamins? Check. Dizzying array of fresh colors and flavors? Check.

First snack time: hummus, peanut butter, apples, dates, tomatoes, zucchini, cucumber, pomegranate. And wine, naturally.

Of course, one of the most interesting things about traveling abroad is the dizzying array of odd snack foods that one can find in another world's version of a 7-11. Europe is famed for its eclectic selection of crisp flavors, and that seems to have extended east as well.

Yogurt and herbs. Mmmm.

Anyone want some crack?

The candy bar for the most discerning of tastes.

The sassy, lady snack food.

Because every wonder of the world needs it's own malt beverage with 10% alcohol.

Breakfast was, by far, my most favorite meal of the day. This is true in any country - I live for brunch in America just as much as I jones desperately for a full English. Because we spent the entire time staying in hotels, we were treated to astounding breakfast buffets every morning. Hummus, thick breads, breakfast cold cuts (German style!), dried fruits, fresh juices, and, of course, the best coffee in the world. I don't think I could recreate the effects even with the finest Whole Foods has to offer....

And let's not forget the tea...another delicacy that requires no addition of sugar, honey, or any sweetener. I particularly liked the sage tea they served in little stands along the trails in Petra.

Sage tea in Petra. Also, I want this mug.

Some things, however, were not so good. The Arabic version of Red Bull (Bison) being one of them. Imagine a can of electrolytes, B vitamins, caffeine, ginseng, neon yellow coloring, and gasoline. Party time!

Bison. No.

We found this at the liquor store. The liquor store, located at the Christian end of one of the neighborhoods in Amman, was called "Babel" and apparently serves as the haven for all things forbidden by Muslim law. Specifically - Arbor Mist, Petra beer, and Pork Shoulder Picnic. All of which were on sale!

I got sick once. And while it was probably the result of a week of no sleep, jet lag, constant travel, and stupidly drinking tap water out of some potentially sketchy locations, my stomach still cringes at the thought of this:

Nothing says "pizza" like "mayonnaise."

This is Lebanese pizza. Deliciously light crust, flavorful mozzarella cheese, and a dumpfest of toppings including shaved ham, olives, jalapenos, hot sauce, and mayonnaise. I have an adventurous palate, and an iron stomach given all of the raw meat I eat on a regular basis, but something about this concoction did not sit right. The Gentleman proved himself again as Best Boyfriend in the World by running all over the hotel on Christmas morning in his sweatpants trying to locate anything resembling Pepto Bismol. Thankfully, the coup occurring in my innards lasted less than 24 hours, and I was alert and well enough for the rest of the trip, and for our Christmas night feast. Which I'll delve into in a moment. But first:

This also might have had something to do with my gastrointestinal distress. We made some delicious Christmas Eve sangria with this, to go with the Lebanese pizza, but once the sangria was gone we took to swigging this Produce of the Holy Land straight from the bottle. Possibly not a great idea.

The Christmas dinner, at an upscale Lebanese restaurant in Amman called Fakhir Ad-Din, was the meal to end all meals. It was a three-course prix fixe meal with cold appetizers, hot appetizers, and the meat course which included mansaf (lamb cooked in fermented dried yogurt and served with rice - absolutely delicious). My favorites: hummus as light and rich as cream, lamb tartare served with sweet onions and a whipped garlicky butter, and the hot pitas that were brought over and over again by servers with baskets full of them, fresh from the oven.

Lamb tartare and hummus - two things I now cannot live without, and are thankfully both available, and just as delicious, at Lebanese Taverna in Baltimore.

Dessert was a platter of fresh fruit, and figs and apricots drowned in honey. And, naturally, Turkish coffee.

I'm hungry.

Istanbul

2012-01-04T15:23:00.000-08:00

Written Monday, Jan 2: I am finally home after two weeks of travel. We got back last night around midnight from our fantastic weekend in New York after ringing in the New Year in style, and spending all of New Years' Day drinking mimosas and playing Skee Ball at Ace. It was a perfect way to begin 2012, and the perfect end to the last two weeks of adventure.

In a fit of productivity today, I did four loads of laundry, cleaned my room, unpacked my suitcase(s), went grocery shopping, uploaded 400 photos, and will now begin the epic task of blogging our trip. Also, it's 7:15 and I'm ready for bed.

The Blue Mosque

We arrived in Istanbul around 10:30am, Eastern European Time (3:30am to our body clocks), and lucked into a near-empty airport. Both BWI and JFK had been nightmarish the day prior - we'd thought we were so clever to book flights out on that Tuesday afternoon, nearly a week before Christmas. Not so. It seems to me that nobody went to work at all that week. Instead, everyone else had the genius idea to get a jump start on holiday travel. We waited in a lot of lines.

But the primarily Muslim city of Istanbul was abuzz in its regular weekday flow, which left the airport pretty vacant. We paid our $20 apiece for 90-day visiting visas, and were rewarded with a comedian border patrolman who looked at my passport, looked gravely at me, shook his head and said, "WANTED," and then winked cheekily. But not before I felt a tightening in my chest that indicated the onset of a minor heart attack. Hilarious.

Welcome aboard Turkish airlines!

Deceptively empty metro car at one of the early stops.

We had already changed money at JFK, and so followed signs to the metro. Purchasing tokens was slightly complicated given that nothing was in English, and we couldn't figure out if purchasing double the amount meant tokens enough for two people. A kind man, fluent in both Turkish and English, came to the rescue, inserted our money for us, and handed us the tokens that came out the bottom of the machine.

The metro was a cozy little ride; something akin to this.

Halfway to downtown, we got caught in some nasty traffic due to an intense, albeit entirely peaceful, demonstration that involved hundreds upon hundreds of marchers with signs lining the streets, and an equal number of Turkish police in full riot gear. Having only been in Istanbul for approximately an hour and a half, my Arabic was not quite yet fluent and so I was unable to decipher the cries and signs. I'm pretty sure the demonstration was labor-related, although it could just as easily been a show of despair at the sanctity of marriage pissed upon by the Kardashian family. Either one of those seem to garner intense opinions.

After ~~peeling ourselves from the metro car windows~~ disembarking at Sirkeci, the last stop before the Galata Bridge, we heard the first of many, many muezzin that would form a soundtrack to our stay in the Middle East. The calls to prayer sound discordant at first, and even jarring. But after a careful listen, you can begin to hear the melodic flow and appreciate the precision of vocal control and the beauty of a faith that calls for reflection five times a day. Not all muezzins are created equal, however, and some are more aurally aesthetic than others. But the experience is the same, and it never failed to cause me to stop and listen in the week that we were abroad.

We lucked into an absolutely beautiful day in Istanbul that day - the weather had called for upper forties, rain, possibly thunder showers. Instead, we got mid- to upper-50s and completely clear skies. The weather beckoned us to the Galata Bridge where we wandered to find a spot outdoors for lunch.

Galata Bridge restaurants

Running along the underside span of the bridge is a row of restaurants, each with menus proudly displayed alongside maître d's who will beg you to sample their wares, look at how fresh their fish is, and bargain with them for a deal on some fish and vegetables. They will run alongside, pushing the menu at you, declaring their feasts to be the best. Eventually, you will tire of shaking your head, and you will select a restaurant not because the menu looks the best or the fish looks the freshest, but because a maître d' has worn you into submission and you're simply too tired and hungry to go on.

When I say that this fish is fresh, I am not kidding you. You will be invited to peruse their wooden crates of whatever was brought in that morning, and you will look at row after row of glassy-eyed fish and select one. You tell the chef how you'd like it prepared (sauteed, fried, filleted, whole, grilled, however you like! We make for you!), and you sit down and allow for a rush of hospitality so detailed, they might as well work your jaw for you to chew your food.

sauteed spinach, tuna mezze

Shepherd's salad

The Gentleman and I chose Shepherd's salad
(fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and radishes in a light-as-air vinegar and oil dressing), fatty tuna with capers, a platter of fresh fruit, and bottled water to start. We selected three exquisite bluefish from a wooden crate filled with ice chips, and asked for them to be grilled and served whole. While eating our salad and appetizers and waiting for our meal, we basked in the warm sunshine and tried to fight off dizzying jet lag. Fishers on the bridge above lined the walkway with lines, cast out into the bright blue, churning Bosphorus River. I half-wondered if a fish drawn right in front of us would end up on our plates.

A young Turkish lad wearing pants like a Newsie and an Armani jacket strolled up with a wheelbarrow packed with shaved ice and fish. I shit you not. The maître d' came outside, and manhandled a few of the fish with a practiced eye, before shouting a stream of words that were either condemning the fish seller to hell or proclaiming these fish to be bigger than Justin Bieber. He motioned towards us.

"You want fish? Fresh? You want try? My chef cook for you, however you like. You pick the fish. We cook it." We looked at the dead fish nestled snugly in the wheelbarrow of ice and politely declined. We'd already done our selecting for the day.

Delectable. And kind of snarly.

And, let me tell you, the fish that was brought to us was a work of art. So simply cooked, without so much as salt and pepper, but delicately buttered and sprinkled with lemon, it fell right off the bone. The papery skin melted like puff pastry around the succulent meat. We shared three of the tiny fish and felt completed sated.

"Baclava"

We ordered baclava and Turkish coffee for dessert and were presented with a strange, grainy nut composition. My first Turkish coffee in Istanbul still sits in my memory as one of the best things I've ever tasted. We asked for no sugar, as coffee and tea in Turkey and the Middle East tend to come heavily sugared. This coffee needs no sugar, no milk. It is stark, rich, almost buttery, with only the slightest, enjoyable bitterness at the end. My jet lag was at bay after that coffee, and this began an unfortunate wanton lust for Turkish coffee that lasted throughout the trip to fight off fatigue. Coming back, I am now hooked on caffeine again after kicking my triple-latte-a-day habit, but nothing will satisfy this jones.

Coffee now is disappointing and stupid. My hands shake for the real deal.

Must. Have. More.

We walked off our delicious meal and made our way to the Blue Mosque. We were asked if we were German, British, or Californian. All might have been plausible - with our blonde hair and blue eyes, my boyfriend and I were frequently mistaken as various Nordic nationalities throughout the trip. (Also as brother and sister, but thankfully only when his parents and brother were with us, and they assumed the five white people had to be a family.)

The Blue Mosque was incredible, and disappointing only in that we happened to get there at prayer time, and were not allowed inside. But the courtyard was pretty breathtaking:

We made our way across the park area to the Hagia Sophia which was further awe-inducing. The Hagia Sophia is an ancient basilica-turned-mosque, and is a jaw-dropping montage of Islamic and Christian motifs, cradled together in towering domes.

We had to leave Istanbul after only a few hours to catch the flight to Amman. My sincerest wish to spend more time there came true - sort of - but I now have an ardent desire to spend a good week there. So much history in this beautiful city, where the Middle East, Europe, and Asia collide and influence and remain.

Next on the docket: A little spiel about Middle Eastern food, aka "Why Even Whole Foods Now Disappoints."

Update: And Then That Happened.

2011-12-29T18:35:00.000-08:00

Hadi from Turkish Airlines finally called me around 12:45 this afternoon, just as I was beginning to tip into panic mode again.

They had my bag. Green-gray, not black. It had somehow appeared on the baggage carousel about ten minutes after we'd frantically run to catch our Delta flight. I have no idea why one piece of baggage would be pushed out of the aircraft a good hour and a half after everything else, and, quite frankly, I don't want to know.

Hadi was ready to ship my bag to Baltimore, but I explained that I was scheduled to leave early tomorrow morning to come back to New York. New Kid, who we are going to stay with this weekend, generously offered to act as guardian of my wandering suitcase, and Hadi said it was no problem to have the delivery service drop the bag off at her office in midtown Manhattan. At 2:30, I got a text from her saying that the delivery service had called to confirm the bag was on its way. Subsequently, I received an email from Hadi saying that the bag had been shipped out, and should be to New Kid before 6pm.

Relief doesn't even begin to describe it. To celebrate the fact that I would not have to purchase an entirely new wardrobe, at least at the moment, I went out and bought a pair of killer glitter stillettoes to wear with the little black dress I have for New Years. ON SALE. FROM MARSHALLS. LIVIN' THA LIFE, BITCHES.

Around 7:30, I received a text from New Kid stating that she was still hanging around at work waiting for my bag, did I have any idea when it might be arriving, and that this hanging around was leading to unproductive behavior such as perusing oil tiki paintings online and should she buy one? I responded "No idea, and yes, of course you should."

A call to JFK's baggage claim delivery person (is there some sort of term for this area of work? Perhaps "Disorganizer?") revealed that there were 16 airlines with bags on board a van that was working its way through New York City, and if my bag hadn't arrived by 9pm to call them.

I felt guilty, as though I'd somehow foisted my bad Turkish Airlines juju off on my innocent, helpful friend. I also didn't want her waiting around at work until 9:30 for my bag, which by now should have its own hashtag.

#lostbaggageglitterati

#the45_kilo_ulcer

#overpackingruinsgirlandendsallofherpersonalrelationships

Pick whichever one you like. They're all up for grabs, I believe.

So I bit the bullet and called the baggage claim delivery person (hereinafter referred to as "The Disorganizer") and explained the situation, asking if the address for the destination of the bag could be changed to New Kid's home address. Realizing that this could be a completely disastrous error, given that they lost the bag between the belly of TK0001 and the baggage carousel. Giving them too many directives didn't seem a wise idea at this point, but I couldn't have New Kid sitting around her office until 9pm.

It's a good thing I chose this course of action, because when New Kid called the dispatcher to confirm the change of address from one area of Manhattan (mid) to another (lower), they informed her that it should arrive "sometime before midnight."

How many bags, I ask you, are on a van that results in a ten hour tour of New York City?

Nevermind, I don't want to know.

So it's 9:30pm, we are scheduled to leave here at 7am. I am hingeing all my bets and bringing with me only my new shooo-ess, my black New Years dress, and a few pairs of clean underwear and socks. If I err in the wrong and my bag does not make it to New Kid's tonight, and somehow disappears again, I will be spending the weekend in one pair of jeans and inappropriate shoes for daytime.

My internal clock is all whack and thinks it's time to go to bed ("IT'S 4:30AM!" it says), but I am trying to coax it into staying awake until at least ten, so that I can sleep past 3am. So far, the jet lag actually hasn't been too bad. My formula for heading off severe jet lag shall be revealed later. In tableau form. Be excited.

When I get my camera cord, that is. Out of the suitcase that, by now, must smell like a high school locker room with all of my dirty, dusty, sweaty clothes lumped into it for going on four days.

Fingers crossed that thing is circling lower Manhattan as we speak, and that it's safely in New Kid's hands before I arrive tomorrow morning....

UPDATE ON THE UPDATE:
9:42pm - text from New Kid
"I have the suitcase."

You can all breathe now.

And Then That Happened.

2011-12-29T07:56:00.000-08:00

Glitteratis, I have so very much to share with you.

Our trip to the Middle East was, quite possibly, one of the best things I have ever done. I learned, saw, ate, imbibed, swam in, and rode (yes, rode - as in a camel AND a donkey) so many things that, sorry to be cliche here but I'm completely exhausted, blew my mind.

The trip itself was a gem, a high high, and complete magic. I can't wait to show you pictures. Which I would do now, except I don't have a cord for my camera. And I'm exhausted, and still sitting in the same clothes I've been wearing for the last three days.

I want to get this post out of the way first, mostly because I am still embroiled in it and also because after this, I will post pictures and tell you all of the amazing tales of the trip, and this post will get pushed to the bottom of the pile underneath all of the good.

This post is not good. This post is about the hellish last 72 hours we've had to endure.

I also want to point out before I launch into this that I have never been to a friendlier country than Jordan. Everyone - from cab drivers to servers, pharmacy owners to hotel staff, even little children running around in the streets - called, "Welcome! Welcome!" and showered us with questions about what we liked most about Jordon. (The food. Islamic art. The food. The haunting calls to prayer five times a day. The food. The music. The food. The intelligence and worldliness of a deeply religious people. The food. The hospitality. The food.)

So please do not let this post lead you to believe that I am over-generalizing, or dousing the trip in negativity, or dwelling on the bad. It is only because I am sitting in dirty clothes and currently having a massive panic attack that I'm about to launch into a description of the worst travel experience I have ever had. After that, nothing but magic!

We were scheduled to leave Amman on Tuesday morning at 6:30am, fly to Istanbul, have a two hour layover, and then fly from Istanbul to New York, arriving in the states around 3pm EST. The last leg was a flight scheduled on Tuesday from New York to Baltimore at 6:30pm.

And so, we were up at 3:15am on Tuesday to finish packing, and grab our scheduled car to the airport by 3:45 (they insist upon 2 hours prior to check-in, and cabs in Amman can take either five minutes or forty five minutes to get you somewhere depending on the driver, time of day, condition of car, and alignment of stars in the sky. We weren't taking any chances.)

I should have known that things were amiss during that cab ride. It is winter in Amman, meaning it actually gets pretty chilly (lower 40's), and actually rains. The combination of the altitude of the mountains and valleys plus moisture in the air leads to the worst fog I have ever seen. You can't see six feet in front of you while walking, let alone driving. Our driver expertly propelled us through the ground clouds (and then politely demanded a 4 dinar tip) and got us to the airport on time, but not after we witnessed a car wrapped around a light pole, and another car going the wrong way on the highway, so discombobulating was the fog.

We arrived at the airport and dutifully went through passport control and security (where they discovered our purchase of antique knives, which went through some scrutiny but were eventually passed through in checked luggage), and found our way to our gate. We got there by 5am for a delightful hour and a half wait until the flight. I curled up on the plastic chairs and dozed off while The Gentleman watched "Archer" on his laptop.

I must have been more exhausted than I thought, because I woke up in a panic at 8am. Had we missed our flight? No. Delayed due to fog. I curled right back up on the most uncomfortable chairs, and fell right back asleep.

I woke up again at 9:30am to a coup. Everyone had been locked up in the gate area since before 6am with no food, no water, and no open cafes. The airline staff was trying to assure people that as soon as the fog lifted, the flight would be on its way. They passed out bottles of water, and brown paper bags with white bread cheese-and-mystery-meat sandwiches. People were enraged. It was a mad house.

At this point, we realized we were going to miss our connecting flight to JFK, which was leaving in two hours. It was easily a two hour flight from Amman to Istanbul. The math added up to nothing good.

I asked one of the airline staff about this situation, and was gruffly told, "Yes. You are being put on the flight to New York for tomorrow. When you get to the airport in Istanbul, they will take you to a hotel for the night."

At this point, I wasn't panicking. We had a couple of days before we needed to be anywhere, so being delayed a day wasn't so bad. And it could be much worse than having to spend a night in Istanbul. In fact, I was downright cheery about the extra day of vacation until I realized this meant that we would subsequently be missing our Delta flight from JFK to BWI, scheduled a mere 14 hours away.

Suddenly, the fog lifted, and there was a mass stampede out of the gate onto the plane despite the pitiful efforts of airline staff to retain order. The Gentleman reasoned that we could call Delta once we got to Istanbul and figured out the plans.

The flight from Amman to Istanbul was calm, and everyone settled down once they had their requisite quiche and sweet bread. (The food on even the shortest of flights is just so much better around the world than in America.)

We arrived in Istanbul, and this was the end of the peace. The Gentleman and I were shoved, along with everyone else, into a highly disorganized line in front of a counter staffed by four or five completely overwhelmed airline staff who, it seemed, were all on their first day of the job.

The Germans and the Brits have queuing down to a science. They could form perfect lines in a hurricane. The Turks, Italians, French, and Jordanians thrust into close quarters after everyone has missed a connecting flight was utter chaos.

I now think that some of the lowest points of humanity can be glimpsed in a throng of stressed, hot, tired people forced to stand in a line for hours with no sign of relief. I saw a grown man push a little girl out of the way, and I saw an irate Italian mother scream what I can only assume are obscenities at airport security staff. The Gentleman and I stood there, overwhelmed and perplexed, and tried to queue like good little Americans as if that would earn us points. It wasn't long before we were throwing elbows too, after three or four families and individuals cut in front of us in line.

We finally reached the counter after about an hour and a half of queuing, and the staffer there seemed completely mystified as to why we were there, as if she hadn't just spent the better part of her morning dealing with the passengers of a very late flight. She finally checked our passports, issued us new boarding passes for tomorrow, and reminded us that we needed to purchase visas to leave the airport in Turkey. This point was the site of my first meltdown, and in retrospect, it was a teensy, tiny little blurp in the scheme of things. It happened because I was hot, hungry, exhausted from standing in line, tired of being shoved around by irate foreign men and women who acted as though I wasn't even there, and I happened to glance down at our new boarding passes to discover that the Gentleman and I were no longer sitting together. On an 11 hour flight, we would be on opposite ends of the cabin. A few tears leaked out, and I looked at him in panic.

"Is there any way you can change our seats? It's a long flight, and we are travelling together," he said, politely, to the woman behind the counter who looked as though she wanted to kill herself, all of us, or possibly both. I couldn't blame her for rolling her eyes, but to her credit, she started pressing things on her keyboard and, a few minutes later, ripped up our passes and printed us new ones with seats together.

We took our new boarding passes, went through passport control (we had purchased visiting visas the week prior, which are good for 90 days, so we didn't have to fork over $20 apiece again to enter the country), and wandered the terminal looking for a "hotel desk." But not before a pit stop at the ticket counter to inquire about our luggage.

"It will go on tomorrow's flight to New York," the staffer assured us. "It is already checked, you do not need to do anything." Which also meant this: we were going to spend the night in Istanbul with only the clothes we were wearing, and our carry-ons filled with entertainment and Jordanian dates. Still, it was one less thing to worry about, and we reasoned we could find a pharmacy and purchase whatever toiletries we needed.

We pushed our way through the terminal to wait in another line at the hotel desk. At this point, it was 3pm, and we'd been up since 3:15am with only one meal in our systems. The airport was stiflingly hot, everyone was pushing one another again, and I was experiencing a newfound caffeine withdrawal, born of a week of thrice-daily Turkish and Arabic coffees. My level of frustration was peaking again, and I was not being my Best Self. At all.

After waiting another thirty minutes in line, we were told to step aside and wait (again) for the shuttle that would take us to the hotel for the night. We managed to scarf down some sort of vegetable sandwich from the Starbucks next to the hotel counter (IT WAS THE ONLY THING AROUND.)

I had always envisioned being laid-over in a foreign country and being put up in a hotel as a remarkably glamorous happy accident. A free night in Istanbul with the Gentleman! How perfect!

It's not.

At all.

For one thing, the shuttle will take you to a depressingly un-glamorous Turkish Marriott Courtyard located five minutes from the airport and an hour from anything in the city of Istanbul. You will be grouped with a family of six who is being forced to share a single hotel room, a man who has some family member ill in a hospital in London who has missed his flight and has decided to rail against anyone and everyone in his path, and a handful of perplexed Iraqis and Palestinians who have just gone through a passport control that would destroy any American. (The legality of Iraqis and Palestinian travel to be discussed in another post.)

By the time we had checked into our room, dealt with spotty wireless trying to contact Orbitz and Delta to change our flight, finally made a $25 call to America to Delta to be told that it would "only" cost $200 each to change our $160 flights, it was 5pm. We had eaten a meal and a half, had been awake and standing in line for 15 hours, and were so completely exhausted, frustrated, and stressed that all we could muster was to toddle downstairs for the free dinner provided by the airline (chicken breast, white rice, and french fries - OH MY.), and then back upstairs were I finally succumbed to exhaustion and the overpowering want for my own bed and clean clothes, and had myself a nice little fit.

The reactions of The Gentleman during this day and the following two days are a testament to his character in that he didn't leave me in another country, try to smother me with a pillow, or sell me. He was kind, patient, caring, and endlessly positive. Also during this time, we shared a tooth brush. Gross, but true and somehow oddly romantic. Sort of.

The Gentleman also had the good sense to purchase two bottles of duty free chianti before leaving the Istanbul airport, and he popped one open, turned on some German reality television (Anka's husband, Rolf, is cheating with 15-year-old Annika) and we debated what to do. We were in Istanbul for the night, we should go out. But we hadn't changed any money over, so had no cash for a cab, and both of us were wearing sweatpants which we'd thought would be so clever for the long flight home. It was only 7pm, and for the first time on the entire trip, we opted for conservatism. Even television in another language was failing to hold our attention, and so we made a nest of blankets on the floor, drank 15 Euro wine out of Marriott coffee cups, and watched "30 Rock" on his laptop. Not a bad night.

The next morning, we hit up the free breakfast buffet (which was magical - breakfast buffets having been a highlight of our trip - more on this later) and got to the airport early to check on two things: our luggage, and the possibility of upgrading to business class. The luggage, they assured us, was going to New York with us on the flight. All was ok. We didn't need to do anything. The upgrade was "only:" $2,500 apiece. We declined. We went shopping at a bookstore in the airport, where we happily stumbled upon British-released novels by authors we both liked that hadn't been released in the US, and where I stocked up on British Glamour and Cosmo (so much more entertaining than US smut). With a few hours still to go before the flight to New York, we settled at a cafe with coffee and tea, and read our newfound treasures.

After going through four passport checks and two more rounds of security (Turkey does not eff around with international travel), we finally boarded our flight to New York and discovered the only delightful silver lining of the situation: we couldn't buy our way into business class, but we had the next best thing, which was two seats in front of the emergency exit. If you have to be on an 11-hour flight, this is the place to be. You can stretch your legs out into oblivion, you're right next to the bathroom, and no one in front of you is adjusting his or her seat while you're trying to eat dinner off a tray attached to the back of it. Emergency exit seating is clutch. The Gentleman, who is a mere 6'4", was visibly relieved. Being folded into an airline seat for anything more than a few hours requires him to pop ibuprofen like candy to keep from total pain.

The flight from Istanbul to JFK was peaceful. I watched a few movies, drank a dew glasses of wine, ate the not-too-bad airline food, and dreamed about getting home, doing laundry, taking a shower, and curling up in my bed with the cats.

The glow of feeling better-rested and calm now that we were on our way was short-lived.

We got to JFK, pushed our way through customs again, and went to baggage claim. Everything was running on time, but it had taken longer than anticipated for us to get through passport control, and we had a mere hour and a half before our flight to Baltimore. We stood at the baggage carousel and waited. And waited. And waited.

The Gentleman and I checked three suitcases between us: his, mine, and one small one that we filled with all the stuff we bought. We reasoned that ours was probably first on the plane that morning, so would be last to come out. Sure enough, the last luggage to roll down the belt was The Gentleman's suitcase, our mini gift-suitcase, and someone's bright red Ferrari duffel bag. Not mine.

Panicked, we searched the belt again. Nothing. We were running out of time, and still needed to go through the second round of customs where they would search our checked luggage. We still needed to check in for our Delta flight, and check our bags. An attendant standing near the belt told us to go immediately to Lost and Found, located just on the other side of customs. We breezed through customs, and stood in another line of angry, irate people who have now been bumped, missed flights, and have lost luggage. It was not a good place for any human being to be.

At this point, any shred of calm I had left in me completely and totally disappeared. We had an hour to get on our next flight, which included checking in and checking our bags. Finally, it was our turn.

Here is what should have happened: the attendant would take down my contact information, fill out a reference report, copy my passport, and give me a reference number and tell us to be on our way, that they would track the bag and have it Fed Ex'd to us when it was found.

Here is what actually happened: the attendant looked quizzically at us and remarked that it seemed odd that two of the pieces of luggage would make it, but not the third. He asked us again and again if we had checked the tags of every piece of luggage on the belt. Of course we hadn't - I hadn't seen my suitcase, so it's not like I went through and looked at all of the serial numbers on all of the bags.

"Wait here, I will go look and see," he said. And here is where I made another crucial mistake:

"Your bag is black, correct?" he asked. "Black, upright, wheels, handle?"

"Yes," I said. I was exhausted and overwhelmed, I was stressed and anxious, and I was so far gone in my mind that I forgot that my bag, which my parents gave me right before I left, was not black. It's green-gray.

He returned ten minutes later. "We have your bag. But no ID tag on it. But we have it. It must go through customs and be checked by TSA before we can bring it to you. So please just wait over there. Ten minutes, please."

Relieved, we made our way over to the side. At this point, we had ten minutes left to check in for our Delta flight. By some act of God, the ticket counter was right next to the Turkish Airlines lost and found counter. I sent The Gentleman over with my passport to check us in, check the two bags we had, and explain the circumstances.

We waited for forty five minutes. The Lost and Found attendant went to check on our bag again.

"Sorry. TSA is on their allotted break. Your bag cannot be checked until they return."

I'm sorry, what? Are you fucking kidding me? TSA is on a BREAK? Yes, yes, union and all that or whatever, but COME THE HELL ON.

"You should go and catch your flight. I will have the bag Fed Ex'd to you tonight. Please call Turkish Airlines as soon as you get to Baltimore, and explain the situation."

At this point, I dissolved into a fresh round of exhausted, child-like crying. I did NOT want to leave JFK without a visual on my bag. Something in me knew that if I left the situation, I'd never see it again. I should have paid attention to this instinct. Instead, I allowed the attendant to convince us that all was fine, I would get my bag, we should hurry to not miss our Delta flight.

The Gentleman bought me a turkey sandwich and a water, and hurried me to the Delta gate. I could not stop crying. He kept reassuring me, kept trying to tell me that everything was fine. I was at the end of my rope. It had been 48 hours of travel, I was exhausted and disgusting, and I had no luggage.

Compounding this: we are scheduled to take a train back to New York City tomorrow for a glamorous weekend of New Years Festivities with friends I cannot wait to see. Knowing that I was leaving my bag in the bowels of JFK meant I would have no clean clothes, no nice shoes, no party dresses, no accessories, nothing. I had overpacked for Jordan, filled my suitcase with brand new clothes I'd just bought, and I had almost nothing back in Baltimore suitable for a weekend in New York. Nothing.

I cried like someone had run over my cat. I cried as they checked my boarding pass and passport, I cried as I boarded the tiny commuter plane, I cried while we waited on the tarmac, and I cried during take-off. Less then three minutes in the air, I suddenly recalled why I felt so icky about the situation:

"My suitcase. It isn't black. It's GRAY," I wailed to The Gentleman, who is a total and complete saint exuding nothing but patience.

I cried for the next ten minutes, fell asleep in a headachey, stuffy position, and woke up just before landing to start crying again.

While The Gentleman waited for our two pieces of luggage at the carousel, I called Turkish Airlines.

"What is your reference number?" the employee asked me.

"I don't have one, I-"

"You did not file a reference report at JFK?"
"No, the attendant said that he would send us the bag-"

"Without a reference number, we have no tracking and no responsibility. You must go back to JFK with your passport and boarding pass and fill out a reference report."

"I have to go...back...to JFK...to get my bag?"

"Yes, we can do nothing over the phone."

At this point, it was 9pm EST, and so 4am to our bodies. And I did what any person who has been traveling for 48 hours, shoved and pushed, kept away from my home and my bed, my cats and clean clothes. I hung up on the attendant and sobbed.

The Gentleman's friend came to pick us up and take us home. I cried all the way. I cried until the moment I laid down on my bed, passed out for five hours, and woke up dead awake at 5am and cried some more.

I fell back asleep and woke up around 8:30. I didn't have anything left in me to cry anymore. I walked to Whole Foods where The Gentleman bought me a coffee, some oatmeal, and some Calming Tea.

My morning has been spent calling every Turkish Airlines ticket counter, Lost and Found, and Cargo Service in JFK. No one apparently showed up to work today. I'm still wearing the same clothes I was wearing when I left the hotel in Amman at 3am Tuesday morning.

We are due to leave for New York tomorrow on an Amtrack train at 8am. It seems now that we will not be meeting up with our friends as scheduled, but going straight to JFK to try and hunt down my luggage. I am not crying anymore, but that is only because I am so drained, I have no tears left.

As I said, this too shall pass. We got back safely, everything lost is just things. I am home, with my cats, and I am about to take an epic shower and put on clean clothes. I just had the best trip of my life. This lost baggage, even if it is permanently lost, is an inconvenience. The important things are this:

1. We are home safe.
2. I could not have gone through this experience with anyone but The Gentleman, further pointing me to believe that he is the best person on this earth.
3. I crossed about 17 things off of my bucket list in the last week.
4. The Gentleman has lost baggage protection on his credit card, which was used to book the flights. If my baggage is well and truly lost, I will take whatever money I can get and buy a whole new wardrobe.
5. I am from a country that is recognized around the world as an actual country, and have a valid passport. I will never take those two things for granted again.

Just breathe.

يسافر

2011-12-20T06:07:00.000-08:00

يسافر - travel

I'm sitting on my bed drinking my Whole Foods coffee, eating a bagel with lox, and watching Tori and Dean while totally judging them for having the most boring lives ever.

Even if this wasn't the day we leave for vacation, it would still be a pretty decent day off of work, so far.

Last night was the last trivia of 2011, which was fantastic. All of my regular teams showed up, prizes were given out, and a couple of the teams decided to send me off on vacation with shots of Jack Daniels Honey, which is equal parts kind of delicious yet totally disgusting.

Everything has been moving so fast, I can't believe that we're leaving in just a few hours. I have packed and repacked my suitcase about seventeen times, each time forgetting/remembering something crucial.

(Scarves! I need more scarves!)

(Layers! More layers!)

(Note to self: this is not a good time to flick through a news website and read the article on that plane crash in Texas.)

I digress.

Today is going to be an incredibly long day. We'll be landing in Istanbul at what will feel like 2:30am, and then tour the city until 10am (EST). Really, we are landing at 9:30am Eastern European Time, and heading back to Ataturk International around four in the afternoon tomorrow to fly to Amman. But unless I can get some sleep on the plane (which is unlikely as The Gentleman collected a list of movies I've been wanting to see on his tablet), it's gonna be 24 hours of exhausting travel.

Not that I am complaining. I have very little to complain about these days.

Part of what I'm most looking forward to on this trip is that mind-blowing experience of going somewhere totally and completely outside of your comfort zone. It happened to me when I went to New Orleans, it's happened every time I've been to another country, and it happens often with my job where I am exposed to inner-city Baltimore families and neighborhoods I'd never normally traverse on my own.

Going to Jordan will be an experience in and of itself, but it's also a great opportunity to have exposure to things that sort of get drowned out in the American media. Jordan is the eye of a lot of hurricanes, and Amman supports a lot of different people in its borders. I will hear about Palestine and Syria without the lens of the American media. I will see divides of wealth that are virtually unheard of in the US. I will see a place where women have gained independence far more recently. And I will see women who adhere to more traditional values that might feel conflicting to me.

Stepping outside of your world offers new perspectives that you take home with you and turn over in your mind, and they change you, however subtly or overtly, forever. I value these experiences and consider them vital to my existence. I have always been curious about the world, always wanting to learn more, always wanted to sate my itching traveling foot.

And then there's the aesthetics. Beautiful ruins, breathtaking views. Tastes, smells, textures, stories, and all of the things that make travel amazing.

And I get to do all of this with The Gentleman. That's pretty freaking awesome, and possibly the best part. He is my most favorite travel partner.

I could not be more psyched for this trip.

I need to go repack my suitcase again.

I Will Miss Lee & Hot Curry, But Their Absence Might Be Worth...

2011-12-19T11:02:00.001-08:00

...this.You're welcome.

48 Hours to Jordan...

2011-12-18T10:55:00.001-08:00

Well, really more like...72. 48 hours until we leave, and then a solid 24 hours of traveling from Tuesday to Wednesday.

The itinerary has us flying to New York on Tuesday afternoon, and then from New York to Istanbul. We have a decent layover in Istanbul that leaves us with about 5-6 hours free (after arrival/customs/re-check in) with which to explore the city. From there, we fly to Amman, arriving Wednesday night (Amman time - Wednesday afternoon EST).

I've dealt with jeg lag before, and the biggest time frame I've had to combat is +6 hours when I went to Italy. Turkey and Jordan are both only +7 hours, but the killer here is the travel times - leaving Tuesday afternoon and arriving in Istanbul at what will feel like about 2:30 in the morning, having to spend the next 7-8 hours awake as we tour Istanbul, check back into the airport, and then fly to Amman. The plus side is that we'll get to Amman in the evening on Wednesday and hopefully just want to pass out at the hotel, giving us a fresh start on Thursday.

The other clincher here is that we're only gone for a week, so I have a feeling that as soon as we adjust to the time change, it'll be time to come back.

And these are the biggest problems I have to ponder at this moment. That, and wondering what to wear. Currently my room looks as though there were forty people standing in it during a Rapture. There are full outfits draped over every available space, and mapped out on the floor. Because when you travel, you have to take the entire outfit into consideration.

#firstworldproblems

I digress. The most important items, however are packed:

Passport? Check.

International Driver's license? Check.

Journal? Check.

Tina Fey? Check.

Good to go.

First Little Italy Christmas

2011-12-15T16:24:00.000-08:00

In all of the crazed preparation for spending Christmas in the Middle East, I managed to take some time out to decorate New House (which is less "New" now and more just "House," or even "Home") with the roommates.

Because We're Only In Jordan Until the 27th....

2011-12-13T14:31:00.000-08:00

...have to have New Years plans!

We get back from Jordan on December 27th, have two days at home (which will probably be spent sleeping off some epic jet lag), and promptly leave at 8am on the 30th to head to NYC for the weekend to stay with New Kid, go back to the best steakhouse I've ever experienced, and meet up with The Gentleman's friends who are flying in from Cali for the weekend.

Naturally, because it's New Years, in New York, we made reservations. Tickets are booked for Ars Nova's New Years' Eve Spectacular. I am beyond psyched.

5th annual Book Club Christmas party tonight. Booze, potluck, White Elephant exchange that always turns more than a little bit competitive, and a discussion of "Matched." Why is Young Adult literature so awesome these days?

Other things I've read recently that I highly recommend (and all passed on to me courtesy of Stupid, who has great taste in literature):

"The Hand that First Held Mine"

"The Imperfectionists"

"Sarah's Key"

One week from now, we'll be on a plane to Istanbul. Where did December go?

Preparation

2011-12-09T11:36:00.000-08:00

So, we are less than two weeks out from the Big Trip, and I'm starting to get that frazzled, frantic feeling that comes before any vacation. Especially one to, oh you know, the Middle East.

After having done some due diligence and asking around of friends who are well-traveled, I feel that I have a pretty good set of expectations for this trip. For one thing, we're going to Istanbul and Amman; not to, say, Saudi Arabia. I'm allowed to drive a car, walk around with my head uncovered, and exercise a host of other freedoms not available to women in certain countries of the world. Amman is pretty Westernized and full of expats. They are used to tourists and, should I choose, I could pretty much wear/do whatever I wanted.

That being said, I like to think of myself as a considerate traveler. I wouldn't dream of walking around baring cleavage in Amman any more than I would wear hot pants to church. No one's going to arrest me, but it's just common courtesy. And failure to comply with good manners earns you stares, whispers, and sometimes flat-out rudeness from the locals. All of which I'd like to avoid.

I'll also fully admit that I am glad to be traveling with The Gentleman. My first sojourn into the Middle East, and I would not like to be traveling as a solo female. Secondly, The Gentleman's brother speaks fluent Arabic, which is a major asset for us. I intend to coax him into going shopping with me so that I can have a third-party haggler for goods.

But all of this wanting to be polite and not stand out has led to a sartorial crisis for me. What the hell does one wear in Jordan? While I know it's not a fashion show, I'm a girl who likes Styles and Things, and it's just as important to me that I'm fashionable while remaining conservative.

I posed this question to one of my aunts, and she supplied this incredible helpful blog entry (ask Google and ye shall receive!), which has now become a sort of blueprint for the kinds of things I should pack.

Layers, layers, and more layers. The weather there looks to be fluctuating between 40F at night and upper 50s during the day, which is perfect layering weather. But then, you also have to be fashionable whilst dune buggying, ruins-climbing, Turkish coffee-sipping, market-browsing, and Christmas-dinner-in-Amman-eating. Good thing my parents gave me an absolutely gigantic suitcase to take with me, and good thing The Gentleman comes equipped with nice muscley arms. Because I certainly can't carry the thing myself. I'm busy being fashionable and aware of local customs.

Along with ripping apart my closet and probably making several emergency trips to TJ Maxx (Oh, how I love thee....), there's a bevy of other To Do items that need to be taken care of. But it will all get done. So I tell myself.

Side note: tonight is Lee and Hot Curry's Final Goodbye. They are climbing into the car tomorrow to head westward for Salt Lake City for the next 4 years. I won't cry. So I tell myself.

Mostly, though, I'm so incredibly excited. Two weeks from today, I'll be in Jordan! Oh wait...crap...TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY, I'LL BE IN JORDAN. I have things to do! Chop, chop!

The Receipt

2011-12-06T17:16:00.001-08:00

I think only when you truly respect and care about someone can you drive them to the utter edges of insanity...and find it entertaining.

The Gentleman and I were in CVS, waiting for our digital photos to be processed. We needed two of the standard-issue passport photos to obtain our international driving permits so that we can rent a car in Amman. It was a Saturday, and we'd just come from brunch where, naturally, there were...ahem...beverages consumed.

In that effortlessly-charming-and-endlessly-annoying way, he casually crumpled up the receipt for the photos and leaned forward, slyly stuffing the trash into my sweatshirt pocket. And thought himself a genius, no doubt, for not only depositing of this detritus but also now complicating my life. All while smiling so dazzlingly at me. What a nice thing to do.

I decided that throughout this day of running errands and completing chores, what might liven things up a bit is if I declared this receipt the thing that would ultimately send The Gentleman over the edge of sanity. And so I just smiled, removed the crumpled ball of paper from my pocket, and slipped it into the pocket of my jeans, unbeknownst to him.

A few minutes later, I made a very touching gesture of slipping my arm around his shoulders, my hand dangling right next to his ear. And I began squeezing and crumpling the receipt at a rapid pace. Which isn't, naturally, anything heart-stopping. Unless you're not expecting it. The grotesque facial expression that snapped out of his features was so satisfying, I was instantly both pleased and proud of myself for thinking of this game.

Later, we were in the car, heading to Triple A to pick up the licenses. I leaned over as if to whisper a secret and crumpled the receipt next to his ear, making sure to brush the paper just inside the ear so as to elicit the maximum response.

"WHAT IS THAT?!"

"Nothing."

"IT'S NOT NOTHING WHAT IS THAT?!"

"Don't worry about it."

I did it again, and again, and again. Always when he had his guard down, when he was looking away. Over the course of the afternoon, the receipt lost its crinkly-ness and became worn. Instead of snapping and crackling in his ear, it began to whisper the sweet hush of demonic, tortured gargoyles crying up from the gates of hell. Each time, his face contorted a little further until I began to gleefully imagine it getting stuck that way.

Serve him right for putting trash in my pocket.

He cracked that night. After the millionth time of me crumpling the receipt in very close proximity to his ear, he turned on me, and I spied the green rubber band that had been residing on his wrist had now migrated to the cocked and loaded position between thumb and forefinger. The very stance that boys used to torture me in years past: the rubber band finger gun.

Paper might cover rock, but it's powerless against scissors and completely useless against the rubber band finger gun. That is the end-all to all annoying behavior conversations; the trump card of mischievous activity. One cannot compete.

Game over, I sadly tossed the now-shredded receipt into the trash and declared my surrender against the rubber band finger gun. I will admit when I'm beat.

However, I've been to Whole Foods twice since that day, and have started stockpiling those green rubber bands.

Because the only thing that beats the rubber band finger gun is dual draws on both hands.

Post-Crisis, Pre-Thirty

2011-11-30T17:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Blogging Community Who Patiently Deals With My Oft-Sporadic Posts,

I'm giving you a fair warning.

December is going to be batsh*t crazy.

I looked at my calendar for the month of December, and there are TWO (yes, TWO) days where I have absolutely nothing planned.

And I already turned down a housewarming, a Christmas party, a baby shower, and plans with my own mother because I was starting to feel crazed.

I'm grateful for the busy-ness, of course, and most everything planned is fun. Some is not so much "not fun" as it is sort of "chore-like;" but awesome chores like, "Get international driver's license." That's a pretty sweet chore to have on your list, don'tcha think?

Last night, I had the opportunity to watch the "Monumental Occasion" 40th lighting of the Washington Monument in Mt. Vernon from the newly-erected roof balcony of the building where Donna's used to be before the terrible fire last year. A friend of mine from high school (who is basically awesome) scored invites for herself, The Gentleman, and me. Open bar, catering by Donna's, heaters keeping us all warm, and the best view of the monument in town. Not only that, it was fascinating to be inside the building where they are now renovating so Donna's can reopen post-fire. It's such an old, beautiful building and was thankfully saved from complete destruction. Because this friend is an architecture nerd, we got to learn a lot about the interior of the building and the plans for its future. Also awesome.

In catching up with this friend, she told me that she reads Ye Olde Blog religiously, and how the content change over the years has made her feel like there's a sense of watching transformation. That meant a lot to me.

Three years ago, I was lamenting boy drama and crying about my future onto this blog. Which made it highly readable (and now, highly embarrassing...kind of like having your high school diary published in the yearbook). Now, the high highs and low lows of life seem to have evened out a bit more into a general sense of happiness about life, my blogging gets kind of sporadic.

I once had a guy I dated ask me if I was ever happy (I guess he meant content), would I stop finding things to write about? I guess I like to think that in my happiness, it's not so much that I don't have anything to write about, it's just that I have different things to write about. It's not about failed relationships, career mishaps, and the rocky life of a twentysomething feeling like the victim all the time.

What is this about? Well, I'm still the same emotional, highly neurotic person I always was, my life is just ten times better now. I still cry senselessly in public, embarrassing The Gentleman, and I certainly still do stupid things, like getting a hot stone massage while hungover and sunburned in Vegas.

If there's one thing I could say to the earlier me, to the me that was in years past, it would be this: you will become exactly the person you want to be, for better or worse. You'll make decisions you never thought you'd make, you'll wind up living a life you thought you couldn't have here or now or in the here and now, and above all- you will reclaim that unquenchable thirst for life that drives you to rebuild houses in post-Katrina New Orleans and snorkel with sharks in the Keys. And run a half marathon. And sign up for another.

It's not really a blog about the quarter life crisis anymore (especially because I'm six months away from 30, so damn well better not be!), or about awkward dates and failed jobs, and started and stalled careers. There's nothing to say it won't revert back to any of these things at any time, because - let's face it - the economy means no one's job is safe and I still stare quizzically at The Gentleman trying to figure out where along the line I got so lucky as to land this guy. But it's more than that now. Somewhere in there, when the drama of things that seemed so huge at the time began to fade away and I made decisions that made me feel confident, my real life began. The one I thought I was meant to be living a long time ago. The one it took many twisted paths to find. I think that feeling is universal to anyone who's tripped and stumbled and somehow regained footing. I certainly don't feel like my experience was unique in any way. I'm just the one who wrote about it publicly.

And now my days are filled with running, with working my ass off at a non-profit where I hungrily devour new projects that require me to do things like learn web design and write grants, eating and drinking my way around Baltimore, watching American Horror Story (amazeballs!), planning our trip to Amman and Istanbul, laughing with Book Club and good friends, and spending time with the best guy I have ever been lucky enough to meet.

So yeah, a lot of things have changed. Damn well for the better.

And now, onto December. READYSETGO!

I Was Told There Would Be Nudity....

2011-11-30T06:14:00.000-08:00

Um, of course my friends and I went to see "Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part I". We've seen all of them.

We picked a random Tuesday night, which was perfect, because the sparse audience was entirely comprised of women far too old to be excited about a 'tween movie. Women drinking copiously. (Because we only frequent movie theaters that serve alcohol. Duh.)

It meant that our raucous laughter and running commentary wasn't ssssshhhhhh'd by legions of teen Twihards desperate for their first glimpse of a sexual act between the newly-married Bella and Edward. (What good kids they are - NO PREMARITAL SEX HERE!) It meant that we could snort with laughter every time the awkward-looking Jasper graced the scene. Seriously - casting fail. I truly believe that they originally cast him on a whim, realized far too late into it that he spends every scene looking as though someone inserted a broomstick up into his posterior, and then realized they were stuck with him for the entirety of the series, because while it seems you can swap out lesser actors at whim, the primary player should probably remain the same in a movie series. Harry Potter's Dumbledore notwithstanding, obvs. (Spell check just told me that I misspelled "Dumbledor." Congrats J.K. Rowling - your made-up names have infiltrated Microsoft spell check. You truly do own a good chunk of the world.)

The best part was, not only did we have a good, rowdy group of girls, but we brought along our friend, Joel, who had not seen any of the movies nor, to my knowledge, read the books. To come into the series at the fourth movie was brave of him, but he was helped along by the delicious Landmark rendition of a Dark 'n Stormy. And, of course, our witty commentary, which always includes a running debate on just how much Taylor Lautner resembles an alpaca. (Fact.)

Anyhoodle, it's nice to know that although my friends are all embarking on new milestones in their lives as we face the #dirtythirty, we can still rustle up some fun on a Tuesday night at the movies. But only theaters that serve alcohol. And only at movies aimed at the 13-21 demographic. Really, they're movies made for us.

Tamales, Por Favor?

2011-11-25T11:22:00.001-08:00

We had a very multicultural Thanksgiving this year.

My mom, as per us', made the stock favorites of the feast - turkey, stuffing, taters, roasted carrots, biscuits, and gravy. A family friend brought the green bean casserole and some incredibly delicious caramelized onions. I made my favorite Thanksgiving dish - scalloped oysters. The original recipe that we use every year comes from the New York Times cookbook, but this is an identical rendition.

My Polish roommate made pierogis. And I mean, she made the dough and filling from scratch, rolled and cut out a million circles, filled and carefully pressed each one closed. At 1pm yesterday, about an hour and a half before we were due to leave for Annapolis, she asked if 67 pierogis would be enough for the ten people coming to dinner. Um, yes.

Lemme tell you, those things were beyond delicious. She parboiled them at our house first, and then cooked them in oil with sauteed onion. For dough stuffed with potatoes and cheese and fried in oil, they were remarkably light and incredibly savory. I saw the recipe she was using, but I am going to have to get a translation as the whole thing was in Polish, and I couldn't even come close to approximating a translation on that.

My BF is from New Mexico, and last week when we'd been talking about what to bring to my parents' for dinner, he'd mentioned that tamales are a New Mexican staple for holiday feasts. I did a little online research and found that Michelle's Cafe on Eastern Avenue was voted one of the best places in Baltimore for tamales. So yesterday, before heading down to Annapolis for dinner, I surprised him by taking him to Michelle's to order a bunch of tamales. Unfortunately, what I did not count on was Michelle's being out of tamales at one in the afternoon. One of the servers there spoke a little bit of English, and we managed to communicate the question of where in the near vicinity might not be out of tamales at 1pm on Thanksgiving Day. They directed us to a place that was either a couple of blocks away, or possibly somewhere in Baltimore County; the instructions were a bit vague.

What wound up happening was that we tromped down Eastern Avenue until we found a place that was open, that had a Spanish name on the outside, and advertised tortillas, tamales, and some inexplicably well-endowed Latinas in thongs on the front door.

It was like one of those moments in movies when you see the bourgeois (read: boo-jhee) white couple walk into the bar full of hombres who all stop shooting pool and drinking cervezas to stare. Perhaps the music even scratched to a halt for a moment. Oh wait - it wasn't a movie - this is exactly what happened.

We struck out on any English speakers in this joint, but managed to point at the menu and make gestures indicating our wish to carry out the tamales. We ordered black bean, chicken, and some mystery tamale that involved cream. And then we sat at the bar and enjoyed the most surreal twenty five minute wait I've ever had on Thanksgiving.

The joint was complete with a mural of Mexican farm land on one side, and flashing neon lights framing a giant mirror behind the bar. Incredibly loud Spanish* renditions of pop songs blared on the sound system, and every TV was tuned to some sort of Telemundo-type channel that showed incredibly beautiful and heavily-made up women, and men so handsome they made your eyes ache to look at them. Gaudy Christmas decorations jauntily hung about the room, and I almost had to wonder if perhaps they were not so much for seasonal joy but permanent fixtures. The men drank Coronas with lime and salt, and the only two women in the bar were the bartenders.

My boyfriend pointed out the inexplicable array of liquor stock. Gallons of creme de cacao, handles of Malibu, Dekuyper in Technicolor blues and greens, brandy of every thinkable flavor, and not a pure vodka or gin in sight.

To say that we were out of place is a gross exaggeration. But after a few moments of questioning and blatant stares, everyone returned to their billiards, gossiping, and beer drinking.

It took almost half an hour, but we finally walked out with a steaming tray of the most delicious tamales I've ever had. Seasoned chicken tucked into sweet pillows of corn meal wrapped in husks, with a savory sweet cream dipping sauce on the side. I'm not gonna lie - I am half tempted to return to this restaurant. Preferably on Wednesday nights, when they apparently feature a DJ - karaoke - dance contest night. I wonder if this is when the advertised bethonged girls make their appearance?

I wish I could tell you the name of this restaurant on Eastern Avenue, but I can't for the life of me remember. It has a white, red, and green striped awning and is somewhere between Broadway and Ann. That's about all I know. It's possible the place didn't even have a name.

Boyfriend tells me that these tamales were not quite as good as the New Mexico favorites he grew up with, but perhaps we need to go back to Michelle's for a competitive taste test to discern if in fact they are deserving of a "Best of Baltimore" title.

Dinner was exquisite, the conversation lively, and everything delicious. Both of my new roommates seemed to have a good time, and my family was open and welcoming. Sharing traditions and heritages was a great experience, made all the more exciting by the fact that this was my Polish roommates first Thanksgiving feast ever. In her toast at the start of dinner, she thanked everyone for helping to make this memory so special for her, and she said that being with my family was the first time she'd felt at home since moving to the States in August. Living far away from home is challenging and exciting, but sometimes all you want is a dinner surrounded by friends and family, celebrating old traditions.

And, you know, hanging out on Thanksgiving in a Mexican bar on Eastern Avenue waiting for delicious tamales.

I consider this practice for spending Christmas in the Middle East.

*My apologies to the Español-speaking community - I have little frame of knowledge for Hispanic vs Latino/a vs Spanish vs Mexican, and so it's entirely possible I have falsely thrown around terms here. This is an error of ignorance. Correct away, por favor.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-23T13:08:00.000-08:00

Isn't she beautiful?

Every year, my best buddy, The Canadian/Lebanese, has a Thanksgiving Feast to end all feasts.

(It should also be known that The Canadian/Lebanese presently kind of hates me with a sort of fiery passion for setting an embarrassing photo composition of him as the trivia's Facebook profile photo. But that's a story for another time.)

Anyhoodle, this year The Canadian/Lebanese had to top last year's feast which was constructed to top the feast from the year before. In 2009, he constructed a beautiful Turducken. In 2010, to raise the bar, he made a Turduckgoopheasantchicken thing that was a complicated and beautiful creation made of six (or was it seven?) different birds. For 2011, it seemed there was no way to top this culinary monstrosity, short of combining emperor penguin and the oft-thought extinct but terrifically delicious dodo inside of an albino unicorn.

Instead, he went whole hog.

See what I did there?

You're welcome.

I digress.

There was a turkey and a chicken inside of that beautiful pig, and just to make the atmosphere merry and bright, he played Babe and Charlotte's Web. It was a magical night.

On Sunday was the BF's annual Thanksgiving with his roommates/coworkers which involved turkey, ham, corn, green bean casserole, ahi tuna, yams, mashed potatoes, three different kinds of pie, a case of wine, and, of course, vodka. Once we'd all eaten to disgusting excess (the very day after eating turkey-chicken-pig, mind you), we sprawled out like beached whales to watch a seasonal MST3K favorite, Santa Claus.

A weekend just doesn't get more merry and bright than that, eh?

Tonight, we have a delicious and boozy night out on the town scheduled to celebrate the recent Doctoring of Hot Curry. This isn't some inference of Frankensteining; Hot Curry successfully defended her thesis this week and is now officially Smart. Dinner, I believe, will involve Peter's Inn followed by nightcaps at Birds of a Feather. Because obviously what you need the night before the biggest feast of the year is a delicious dinner.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving dinner with the BF at my parents, which I am hoping will involve oysters (more on that later), to be shared with some family friends and my two roommates who are Thanksgiving orphans this year.

And, of course, the obligatory gratitude spiel:

If there is anything I have learned in the past few years, it's that you cannot take anything for granted, that gratitude is a daily practice, and that you are owed nothing and but can find just about anything when circumstances are right. We are all born into ideas, plans, classes, and bodies that are riddled with limitations. Your fight is no different from anyone else's in the sense that we're all here to survive one way or another, but disparity is grossly huge and ignorance is soul-shattering. While every person may be born good, people have the potential to become grossly un-good; sometimes even evil. There are bad people in the world who want to do bad things, and there are good people who haven't a clue how to be good because they've never been given a chance. If you have a single moment to speak up, to right a wrong, to do something that makes someone else's life a little bit easier, there are no guarantees that an exact karmic scale will tip back in your favor, but it does create the hope that at a point in time when you need help, perhaps someone will be there. Good doesn't begat more good, it begats hope. Which might be the better.

Let's not discuss the poor, innocent pig pictured here. I may be struggling through my battle of trying to be a benign force in this world, but you dangle some delicious turkey-chicken-pork in front of me and all bets are off.

Happy Thanksgiving.

That's a Man's Drink

2011-11-19T09:35:00.000-08:00

Can I just say that I have had bison tartare twice in the last 48 hours, and that I am completely happy that this is fact?

This fall, I am all about old-school meals and men's drinks.

The BF and I hit up the bar at the spanking new Four Seasons Hotel on Thursday night (and wound up there last night as well, but who's counting?), and I am now a huge fan of Wit & Wisdom.

I'm loving this trend of what I call Woodsman's Drinks, which is any cocktail with a bourbon or scotch base and some sort of sweet-bitter component. Wit & Wisdom boasts a colorful drink menu with a bevy of such goods. My favorite, thus far, is their Corn Oil cocktail which consists of a rum so aged it drinks like a scotch, port, and bitters. Delish.

We tried the bison tartare, which is made with some sort of quinoa-type heirloom grain that they resurrected from near-extinction with the help of a local farm. They were quite proud of this fact, and it is undeniably delicious, but some part of me couldn't help but roll my eyes at the bourge-ness of it all. We have starving people all over the world, and this is the future of farming science - bringing defunct grains back from near-death to sprinkle in a tartare patty at a hotel restaurant and charge $19 for the appetizer. Every now and then, the guilt that accompanies my implicit lean towards crunchy rubs up against my insatiable penchant for adventurous (read: expensive) eating and drinking habits.

Last night, the BF and a group of friends went to B&O Brasserie for cocktails and dinner, and once again found ourselves enjoying some bison tartare, this time accompanied with a fried quail egg and some carpaccio. I tell you, if there's one food item in the world I might possibly love as much as sushi, it's tartare. Ahi tuna, bison, lamb....there's nothing better than a delicious and tender cut of meat eaten raw and accompanied with some good spices. Lebanese Taverna has one of my favorite treats - the lamb tartare - which they serve with top-quality olive oil, sweet onions, garlic, mint, and some sort of incredibly rich and sweet butter. Many's the time that I have gone there and just had that as my entree. With a spicy hummus dish too, of course.

So in addition to the bison tartare last night, I also enjoyed an incredible mushroom ravioli dish and a beet salad. Beets and goat cheese are a favored combo of mine, and this fall I've been hooked on the trend of seasonal veggies in ravioli. Salt had an incredible pumpkin ravioli when we were there a few weeks ago (and Shafly's pumpkin ale on tap, which is probably the only pumpkin ale I've tried that can compete with Dogfish Head's Punk'n), and B&O's mushroom version did not disappoint.

Before dinner last, night, I tried B&O's Manhattan, which is made with port and bitters as opposed to the usual vermouth sweet backing. It was incredible, and strong, which prompted one of my friends to comment, "Now that is a man's drink."

Mmmm. Men's drinks for ladies. I'm loving it.

Root vegetables, hearty cocktails served up, and bison tartare. Fall is awesome.

Happy Birthday

2011-11-13T10:48:00.000-08:00

My mom's 60th birthday party was last night, and the affair was delicious, well-attended, and punch-y. Specifically, Fish House Punch-y. My aunt discovered that this Mad Men-era drink debuted in 1951, the year my mother was born. And, lemme tell you, while I am not a punch person per say; having abandoned all want for drinking large batches of sticky-sweet libations after an ill-fated jungle juice experience in college; this drink is nothing short of delicious. None too sweet, and lacking the cloying factor of most punches, this drink lives up to its name with the punch it packs.

The party was fantastic, and it was great to see so many people turn out to celebrate my mom's milestone birthday. Lots of family and old friends. A time for remembering the past and being thankful for birthdays; in her remarks right before she cut the cake, my mom said that while she can't believe she's turning 60, she's thankful for every birthday she's ever had because, hey, it beats the alternative.

Does it ever. My dad turned 60 two years ago in the midst of Snowmageddon, my mom is now entering this new decade, and I remember that I'm about six months away from leaving my twenties behind. I've had a number of friends already cross the threshold to the dirty thirty, and the process has seemed to afford mixed reviews. Some take it in stride, figuring nothing's really changed from 29 to 30 except what you punch into the treadmill at the gym. Some feel weighed down by the passing of time, perhaps even a few regrets about how that time might have been spent. But, for the most part, I think turning 30 is vastly different from turning 60, mostly because you're not yet realizing that the alternative becomes more and more apparent as you get older.

Turning 30 is fraught with social obligations and expectations, and a time to take stock of what your adult life is really going to look like. But turning 60 has afforded years of experience, and with that experience comes loss. Turning 60 is a time of gratitude and enjoyment, even if it's coupled with a little bit of disbelief. I think there's a learning experience in that.

I've never had any problems with my age, but I'll admit that I have some trepidation about 30. It just feels big. But my mom reminds me that it doesn't have to be - and isn't - bad. Change is good. And, quite frankly, there's a lot of things I'm not too upset to leave behind with my twenties.

Instead of focusing on what I don't have, or what hasn't happened, I think there's an opportunity here to celebrate, and to wish for the vain and spectacular hope that there will be many more big milestone birthdays to celebrate. Because how fantastic would it be to be 60, surrounded by family and friends who love you, who are present, who are celebrating your life with you?

Happy Birthday, Mom. Your grace in turning 60 is something to which I aspire. And when you turn 70, and 80, and 90, I only hope that we make bigger and bigger batches of Fish House Punch to celebrate.

مغامرة

2011-11-10T14:58:00.000-08:00

مغامرة - adventure (n.) an exciting or very unusual experience

In an exciting new twist, complete and total randomness has brought into my life yet another awesome adventure.

My boyfriend is not from Maryland, and with the holidays looming there was that awkward shuffle of trying to figure out what, exactly, was going to happen with everyone. His parents were hemming and hawing about what to do for Christmas, my parents haven't gotten beyond my mom's upcoming 60th birthday party to even think about the holidays yet, and so I really wasn't sure what all was going on.

When you've been dating someone for any length of time, the holidays are difficult to navigate. Too early in the relationship, and the expectations can feel like pressure. Far enough into the relationship, you begin the tricky calculations of how to spend time with both families. It gets further complicated if your significant other has family in another part of the country.

And then, just to throw a wrench in things, BF's parents decided to go to Amman, Jordan for Christmas to visit his brother, who is living there for a year on a post-college fellowship.

Because nothing says "holidays" like the Middle East.

What I didn't expect was this: BF asked me if I wanted to go.

My answer was immediate: HELL YES.

First off, I am a travelaholic. I love nothing more than planning a trip, packing, and going places I've never been before. The Middle East was definitely on my list of places I want to visit, and while I didn't know that much about Amman before a few weeks ago, the more I read, the more excited I get.

I was worried about breaking the news to my parents that not only would I not be home for Christmas, I'd be traveling abroad. But I needn't have stressed. They were absolutely supportive and excited. It will be strange not to spend Christmas with them this year, but we do at least get to see them for Thanksgiving.

It will be slightly awkward to meet BF's parents for the first time in another country after about 24 straight hours of travel and what is bound to be some severe jet lag. But, hey. It's the holidays!

Even more awesome - we scheduled a one day layover in Istanbul on the way there. So I can cross Turkey off my list of countries visited as well.

My Christmas wish this year is to ride a camel. And browse at Books@Cafe. And have a drink at any one (or all) of these fine establishments.

Not only that, but I get to do all of these things with the best travel partner I've ever had. We conquered Philadelphia, DC, New York, and Key West. Now it's time to take this show abroad.

40 days and counting. Expect some epic pictures.

The Dinner Party

2011-11-10T14:43:00.000-08:00

First dinner party at New House last night. Bittersweet, though, as it's the last dinner party with Lee and Hot Curry before they move to FREAKING UTAH. Homemade black bean dip, Whole Foods-made guacamole and Mediterranean lentil soup, crab quesadillas, a salad from the Polish roommate, wine and beer courtesy Josh, and a freaking incredible cranberry pear crumble from Hot Curry. Great conversations about the biological necessity of nipples on men, Joe Paterno, Justin Bieber, European dialects, Indian phrases, small pox, and a bevy of other titillating subjects. I do so love me a good dinner party. Especially on a Wednesday night.

To say that I will miss Lee and Hot Curry is an understatement. Lee was one of the first friends I made here in Baltimore, he landed me my first freelancing gig, and he helped me navigate that terrible summer when we lost our jobs due to fire and my boyfriend of four years and I called it quits. (Subsequently, Lee's was the shoulder I cried on during the years of terrible break ups, where he had the grace and patience to say soothing things and not, "Good. That guy was a jerk anyway," which would have been well within the realm of fact.)

I brought Lee to a party a couple of years ago with the express purpose of aiding another friend in introducing him to her roommate, Hot Curry, who is now his fiance. And she is one of my favorite gossip girls, and the one who will drink Lee under the table with me.

Thankfully, we have a few weeks left before they depart. During which time we have to hit up the Explorer Bar and Birds of a Feather. More on those later. And then there's the wedding to look forward to, in April.

Still, I can't help but look around me and see how much has changed in the last four years. Friends moving away, getting engaged, getting married, having babies, getting promotions, new careers, new degrees.

It's pretty sweet to be able to watch someone about to head off on the expedition of a lifetime - primarily Salt Lake City, but also, oh you know, MARRIAGE - and say, "I remember when we drank a bottle of Malibu and you ran down the streets of Baltimore barefoot in your pajamas." Because that happened. And it was glorious.

The Last Dinner Party Menu:

Easiest Bean Dip

(This makes a hell of a lot of bean dip. For fewer than 8 people, I'd halve the recipe. Unless you want delicious leftovers - which I have, and am now overjoyed. So maybe be greedy and don't halve it.)

2 cans black beans

4 TBS chopped cilantro

2 cups hot salsa

cumin to taste

salt and pepper to taste

4 TBS lime juice

Throw it all in a blender or food processor. Transfer to bowl. Or don't and just eat it out of the blender. It's delicious either way.

Goodbye Maryland Crab Quesadillas (via Eating Well)

This feeds 4 people. I doubled it for 6, and all that was left at the end were two lonely tiny triangles that Lee and Hot Curry took home.

1 cup shredded reduced-fat Cheddar cheese (I used regular full-fat, because it melts better)
2 ounces reduced-fat cream cheese, softened
4 scallions, chopped
1/2 medium red bell pepper, finely chopped
1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro
2 tablespoons chopped pickled jalapenos, (optional)
1 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
1 tablespoon orange juice
8 ounces pasteurized crabmeat, drained if necessary
4 8-inch whole-wheat tortillas
2 teaspoons canola oil, divided (I used olive oil)

Combine Cheddar, cream cheese, scallions, bell pepper, cilantro, jalapenos (if using), orange zest and juice in a medium bowl. Gently stir in crab. Lay tortillas out on a work surface. Spread one-fourth of the filling on half of each tortilla. Fold tortillas in half, pressing gently to flatten.

Heat 1 teaspoon oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Place 2 quesadillas in the pan and cook, turning once, until golden on both sides, 3 to 4 minutes total. Transfer to a cutting board and tent with foil to keep warm. Repeat with the remaining 1 teaspoon oil and quesadillas. Cut each quesadilla into 4 wedges.

When Hot Curry sends me the recipe for her incredible cranberry pear crumble, I shall post.

Apologies for the lack of food pictures - I meant to photograph everything and the night got away with me. It could have been all the wine.

The Crying Game

2011-11-09T13:01:00.000-08:00

We were at dinner at a sushi restaurant, and I could not stop crying.

First off and foremost - I have noticed, in my old age, that I am becoming...how shall I put this...mellower in general, but much, much, much less mellow...periodically. As in...hormonally periodically. I've heard that PMS tends to get worse as you get older. Or at least, that's what a doctor told me in response to my complaint about periodic crying fits. At which point I cried. Again.

A few months ago, I was facing the prospect of moving. Again. At the time, I didn't know what I was going to do, or even what I wanted to do. I was mainly focused on the idea of boxes, hauling things in and out of rowhouses and a moving truck, and the expenses incurred with moving. AGAIN. The thought of buying more packing tape made me want to hang myself with it. (THAT SHIT IS STRANGELY EXPENSIVE.)

With all of this crap raging around in my head, the BF and I decided to go to a nice dinner to relax and get my mind off of these issues. Which, any other night, would have been an excellent idea. And I can almost always be soothed with sushi.

Almost.

This turned out to be one of those "I have absolutely no control over my emotions" nights. It started off innocently enough; we sat down to dinner, opened our menus, and BF calmly inquired about my epicurean and alcoholic wishes for the evening and I felt it. That uncontrollable waggle of the lower lip that occurs right before a full-on sobfest. He looked at me inquisitively, and it all just sort of...came out.

The kinder he was, the more I cried. The more sushi we ordered, the more I cried. I could no more stop the ocean of blubbering tears that came out then I could hold up the Hoover Dam. After a bafflingly short period of time, it occurred to me that I was crying so hard because I was crying.

And then things got worse.

BF calmly sat there, sipping his Kirin, waiting for the storm to pass. The staff scurried around us, not wanting to get too close, but also not wanting to miss the show of a girl crying at dinner. It was at this point that the sobbing got out of control when I realized:

"You...are being...so nice to me...and..." I couldn't get the words out. I tried again. "You...everyone here thinks...that you are...an asshole...because I can't stop crying!"

I was wailing at this point.

BF blinked. And then composed himself a microsecond later. "Well," he said, "I guess I hadn't thought of that until you mention it...but...yeah, they probably do." It was an attempt at humor. It made me cry more. Here was this poor guy who just wanted to make me feel better, and I was making him look like a complete jerkface. In my mind, everyone in the restaurant was glaring at him.

"How dare he make her cry like that?! AT DINNER! That poor girl."

I'm pretty sure no one had this thought:

"How dare she keep crying like a jerk, making him look so bad?! AT DINNER! That poor guy."

Although I could be wrong. I sort of hope I'm wrong.

We finished Worst Dinner Ever (which was actually delicious, if not a bit tear-soaked), and I had segued to the hiccupy-slowing-down part of crying where you either need to immediately pop excessive amounts of Ibuprofen or go to bed right away before the migraine sets in. BF decided that the best course of action was a movie, preferably something not too mentally taxing, so that I could just mellow out and be entertained. Secretly, I think he thought he had a better chance of surviving the evening if we were in a dark public space where I would be forced to stifle the sounds of my crying and no one would mistake him for a jerk.

To be fair, after some delicious Dark + Stormies at the theater (they make doubles - thank God) and Contagion (which is absolutely not too mentally taxing yet highly entertaining), we actually wound up having a very pleasant evening. By the end of the night, it was almost forgotten that I had been Crying Girl At Dinner. Almost.

Thankfully, I moved, mostly unscathed, and for the last month or so there have been no more crying fits. At least not ones in public spaces. For that, I'm sure we're all thankful.

Closet Case

2011-10-31T12:45:00.000-07:00

OhthankGod, Lee fixed my closet.

It was becoming one of those projects where, upon initial cataclysm, you realize that it's going to take some time and effort to fix. And then the initial problem just seems to grow and grow, until it becomes wholly nightmarish and unmanageable.

The time-table looks a little something like this:

1. CRASHBANGBOOM. Closet impodes. Clothes scatter. Cats further traumatized.
2. Pick path through detritus to get close enough to site of impact for inspection.
3. Shelves/bar down. Assess situation. Maybe just nail it back in?
4. No. Chunk of drywall came out. This will require screws.
5. Screws look dodgy. This looks like it needs super glue.
6. Super glue bad choice.

three days later

7. Clothes everywhere in a roiling sea of textiles; hangers poking up like danger sticks ready to impale. Can't find black cardigan. Or button-down. Or left dress shoe. All is lost in mounds and mounds of clothes.
8.Small Troubled Cat missing for forty five minutes. Emerged bleary-eyed from Sea of Clothing.

two days later

9. Late for work because could not find pants. Could have worn other pants, which were findable, but they didn't match the shirt I had found. Wearing findable pants meant looking for another impossible-to-find shirt. Catch-22.
10. In moment of fury, collect all clothing and create neat piles, organized roughly by their approximate location within previous closet set-up.

later that night

11. Neat piles exploded. I suspect cat involvement.
12. Impale foot on broken hanger.
13. Cry.
14. This is impossible.
15. I am going to have to hire construction worker to fix closet.
16. Call Lee.

After a brief ten-minute inspection, a trip to Home Depot, and less than an hour of magical work by Lee that involved hammering, the use of a power drill, and much muttering from Lee to himself, my closet was fixed. And secure. And he even hung a mirror for me in the downstairs bathroom. The entire operation took about an hour and a half, start-to-finish. After that, I cracked open the last of the pumpkin beers, and set to work folding, hanging, stacking, and organizing.

As a result: I now have a REAL CLOSET with CLOTHES THAT ARE HANGING UP. This was the last real feat of the Big Move, and I finally for the first time last night felt settled. I know where my black cardigan is! I know where my left shoe is! In the proper cubby hole next to the right one! I have a floor again! I don't live in fear of a cat suffocating!

Now, lest you think that my life has been consumed with unpacking and organizing (how horribly boring - clearly I am beginning to mellow out in my old age when my idea of a good time is ORGANIZATIONAL TOYS and a nice glass of chianti to aid the process), my boyfriend and I hit up Maisy's for the Forgotten Cocktail Club on Friday night with Lee and Hot Curry. The staff there rounded up some truly talented bartenders, put on some old-timey music, and displayed digital prints of Speakeasys. The fact that it was held in the basement, and that you entered through what looked from the dining room to be a coat closet, helped infuse the Speakeasy atmosphere.

The bartenders had a pretty impressive list of fares, including long-antiquated favorites like a champagne Pimms cup, absinthe, and drinks that include egg whites as a major ingredient. We sampled as many as we could (which was probably too many - old timey cocktails are apparently VERY VERY sweet, so moderation is key!) and came away with the idea that vodka sodas are boooooooooriiiiing.

Pictured here: an Anise Absinthe Smash and an Apricot Fizz. With egg whites. Total deliciousness.

Satan Cat

2011-10-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

My roommate's cat wants to kill me.

Both of my new roommates are pretty chill. I bonded with one over the fact that I came home and she was watching "Someone Like You" (win) and I bonded with the other when she asked me, "Do we have any beer in this house? Can I drink it? I'll buy more tomorrow."

Also, because one of the two is from Poland, we decided that living together offered the perfect opportunity for us each to practice our rusty German skills. This began as a challenge to only speak German whilst in the house, and is playing out in a sort of Germish way: "Hey, konnen wir dieses channel change?" and "I'm going for a laufe."

But conflict within New House deals entirely with the felines who must now share it. This is problematic because:
1. My roommate's cat is the devil
2. My cats are overly friendly and dumb

(Well, one of my cats is overfriendly and dumb. The other, Fiona, is what my boyfriend refers to as "the small troubled one." She is the one that got stuck in a dryer for five minutes when she was a kitten and as a result is now a fully-grown adult cat weighing five pounds and afraid of anything that is bigger than she is, which is pretty much everything.)

My roommate's cat; we shall call her Satan; is a hissing, spitting mess of a cat. My first weekend there, my dumb and friendly cat, Sushi, was innocently sniffing around when Satan came FROM OUT OF NOWHERE and not only tore up my cat's ear, but chased both of us upstairs and sat outside my door, howling and scratching, for a good ten minutes. I called my roommate in a panic to ask her to come and remove the thing from my doorway so that I could have proper egress to and from my room. I was locked inside in terror until she came home and assured me that Satan was safely put away in her room.

So now Sushi has a jacked-up ear and a host of irrational fears.

Which means I now have two troubled cats.

After a lot of Internet research and strategizing, my roommate and I came up with a six-week plan of action that involves separation, letting the cats out at alternate times, rewarding with attention and treats, and a host of other Cat Whisperer-type things that will hopefully ease the transition.

It's a transition for all of us. I am used to dumb, overly friendly cats who want nothing more in the world than to be ascloseaspossible to you, and who don't actually use teeth and claws when playing. A few weeks ago I came home to find Satan sitting at the top of the stairs, eyeballing me, and in an attempt to ascend the stairs to my room, the cat began a warning display of growling and hissing.

I chose to stay downstairs for awhile. If Satan wants the landing - Satan gets the landing.

I'm going to have to stop kowtowing to a ten-pound ball of fur.

(But it's armed with razor blades and hate!)

In other news, Lee is coming over to resuscitate my closet this weekend. This is excellent news. I had a dream the other night that I was late for an event and couldn't find the dress I was supposed to wear. I was drowning in piles of clothes and shoes, unable to locate said dress, and panicking. This is no good.

In other news, tonight Lee, Hot Curry, and the boyfriend and I are all going to the first event of the Forgotten Cocktail Club. Because who doesn't jones for a singapore sling now and then?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

2011-10-21T07:22:00.001-07:00

I have been in New House in New Neighborhood for just about two weeks. Last night, I met the boyfriend at one of the wine bars on my new street. Not only was I greeted by name by the bartender, but the owner came over, slapped me on the back, said "Hello, neighbor!" and offered us some special olives to taste.

It's not so much now that I moved to a new neighborhood in the city. It's beginning to feel like I somehow finally moved Home.

Because what is home without an easily-accessible wine bar?

Domesticity

2011-10-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

So, after the whirlwind of the last couple of months, I finally woke up on Sunday and realized that I feel like I can breathe again.

Less than a week into New House, I came home from work one evening to discover that my closet had imploded. Both cats were hiding under the bed, and I suspect they are still in shock. It seems the entire bar came out of the wall, bringing with it the upper shelf, all of my clothes, and a good chunk of drywall. So, while the rest of my room is beginning to take on an orderly fashion with books put away, desk set up, and even a picture or two on the walls, my closet remains a cavernous hole filled with hangers poking every which way and clothing lumped up in piles.

So the closet situation is going to require some heavy-duty fixin' and DIY'ing. Which means a lot of Googling and YouTube'ing. How did anyone get anything done before the Internets?

At least there's no mold.

All of this has caused me to suddenly be Domestic. The other day, I installed a towel bar. By myself. Using power tools. (That I borrowed from my parents.) I met with the cable and internet providers when they wired the house. I fixed the garbage disposal that had a stuck wheel. I took apart and put back together multiple sets of IKEA furniture. (Meaning I helped my boyfriend identify the various plugs and screws and held particle board in place while he orchestrated the actual decon/con. Semantics.)

And then I ran a half-marathon. Thousands of people running, and just as many lining the streets of Baltimore, cheering and holding out hands for high-fives. The most glorious moment was just before the finish when the route takes you THROUGH Camden Yards, with everyone screaming and photos being taken, bands playing, balloons a'flying. I crossed the finish line in two hours, two minutes. My goal was two hours. After the killer hills, I will take the additional two minutes in stride.

My dad stuck with us for the first 4-5 miles, and then paced back a bit. Catalano and my boyfriend and I stuck together until about the last mile. He finished in just over two hours, and Catalano finished just a minute behind me.

And then I puked. First time for that. I finished the race feeling pretty shaky, and decided that what I needed immediately was lots of fluids and something to eat. I managed to eat part of a bagel and a whole banana, and then we got into the beer line. I kept feeling worse and worse, but trying to convince myself that it would pass and I would feel better. Not even half a beer in, everything came back up. In front of everyone. Nothing like ralphing with friends and family looking on.

The boyfriend kindly convinced me that only real athletes puke, and recounted the number of times he's retched before, during, and after swim practices in college. I later found out that two of my trivia girls also let loose - one at a water stop, and one ON the finish line. Both of those seem far more epic than a Beer Garden Retch, to be honest.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, and it was glorious. When I finally rallied around 7pm, all I wanted in the world was a bison burger. And I had one. With french fries. AND CHEESE. And it was divine.

I spent the next three days limping with insanely sore quadriceps, and didn't really feel better until I got a run in yesterday. This is better than Lee who, upon running his first half marathon a few years ago, went out on a marathon drinking spree and was unable to walk at all the next day. I, at least, had the use of my legs.

So now, I am looking for the next race, the next challenge. I know I'm not prepared - mentally or physically - to take on a full marathon yet, but ultimately I think I'd like to knock one out in the next couple of years. I need to get a few more halfs in first, however, ideally without puking.

In other news, in all of the chaos of work, moving, running, and the thousands of regularly-scheduled programs I have going on in my life anyway, I got a parking ticket. It was my own fault: I was unloading my car one rainy night after an epic Costco run, and parked illegally thinking I'd be out of there before I could get ticketed. No lie, an officer stuck me with a $77 parking ticket in the ten or so minutes it took me to unload my frozen foods.

I have inordinate amounts of rage when it comes to things like parking tickets. It's all entirely relative of course: I don't understand why meter maids aren't doing their jobs when I see someone else parked like an asshole, and I scream victimization when I myself park like an asshole and get a ticket. (Sort of like how I get angry at pedestrians when I'm driving and angry at drivers when I'm walking.) But with my sudden need for STUFF (who knew I was going to need a shower caddy AND hooks for my aprons in the kitchen??), I feel as though I'm hemorrhaging money, and racking up a $77 parking ticket in less than ten minutes feels agonizing.

Because I am naturally a very graceful person who is well able to mask anger and carry myself with aplomb, I of course didn't immediately get shaky lower lip and call the meter maid a name that would make a sailor gasp. I of course didn't do anything so rash and childish as then proceed to wave the ticket in the air and weave an eloquent tapestry of curse words while standing out on the sidewalk. I didn't call into question the intelligence of the assigning officer, and I certainly didn't bring Baltimore City Parking Authority into it.

Certainly.

My boyfriend, from whom I initially attempted to hide my proclivity for violent bursts of outrage upon feelings of victimization by unseen forces (and occasionally inanimate objects that trip me, hide my keys, or otherwise complicate my life), was privy to this obviously mature and logical outburst. He had that look on his face that's a cross between "Should I offer a distraction; say, an ice cream cone?" and "I have never met this person before in my life, Officer."

One thing that has arisen out of the mellowing that has come with my late twenties is that these outbursts are far shorter than they used to be. Within the hour, we were watching documentaries on Discovery Health about phantom pregnancies and weird phobias, and I was quite content.

Until a week later, when it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to check the due date on that parking ticket. Because I presumably owed SOMEBODY, SOMEWHERE some moolah for my egregious parking. While my life is cluttered and busy, I tend to have a photographic memory of where things are located (making it all the more infuriating when something gets moved and I can't find it) and I specifically remembered sticking the parking ticket in the middle of the front seats by the gear shift so that I wouldn't lose it. So that it would be staring me in the face and I would remember to pay it.

Except it wasn't there. It wasn't on the floor, in the seat, tucked carefully into the glove compartment or center console, and wasn't even in my bag or wallet. The thing had gone missing.

I assumed that the city of Baltimore just wanted its money, and I could go to the website, enter in my tag number, and it would spit back at me the amount I owed and tell me again what a horrible crime I had committed for "blocking an unmarked" (UN-FREAKING-MARKED, mind you) "pedestrian walkway." But still, losing things irks me to no end, and I wondered if perhaps in my fit of blind rage I had eaten the ticket or shoved it somewhere unsightly. Because my boyfriend was witness to everything, I casually asked him if he remembered what I'd done with the ticket and said that if I couldn't find it, I could probably just try to track it through my tag number.

"You could," he reasoned, "but it would be a waste of time."

"Why? You sort of have to pay parking tickets, it's kind of the law..."

"Well, maybe it was already paid."

Say whaaaaaaaaaat?

Lemme tell you about modern romance. You can leave the flowers, the chocolates, the love notes, the little gifts, and all those trappings of Hallmark flirtation and give me a man who steals parking tickets out of your car and pays them. This is also the guy who has filled my gas tank, fixed all of my electronics, helped me move twice, doesn't flinch when I spill red wine on his carpet, and doesn't mind touching my disgusting feet with the missing toenail when I am hard up for a foot rub. Swoon.

I did give him Portal Coasters a couple of weeks ago. That has to count for something.

So, settling into New House in New Neighborhood and resting my horribly-aching quads. There is a bit of a lull between now and the holidays where I feel as though I can finally catch my breath a bit, but somehow things never remain that quiet for that long, so I'm just trying to take advantage of the brief glimpse of down time. And figuring out how the hell to fix my closet.

Puked and Lost a Toenail

2011-10-17T13:03:00.001-07:00

Well worth it, and now consider myself a real runner. What's next?

Take Your Mark

2011-10-14T06:04:00.000-07:00

Soooooooooooooooooooo.

The last couple weeks of life have been chaotic (but, really, when is life ever not chaotic?), hence the lack of posting. I feel as though I came back from vacation, packed up my life, and moved in the span of about two and a half weeks. Oh wait...that's exactly what happened.

Life is again a flurry of boxes and bubble wrap, only this time it's a more settled feeling. My new house is beautiful, the neighborhood is divine, and things are slowly but surely beginning to develop new patterns and routines. A week into the new house, and I can make my way from my room to the bathroom downstairs at night without the lights on. I call this progress.

Oh, and tomorrow I'm gonna run a half marathon. You know, no big deal.

Actually, wait; it is a big deal. I've been training for this thing for eleven weeks. And while I haven't had time to update the mileage to the right of this page, I know that I've put 175 miles on these feet since August in preparation for this.

Icing on the cake - my dad, my boyfriend, and Catalano are all running too. My lone hobby became a project for my boyfriend and me, and I will say that training with a partner was much, much easier than training alone. We did all of our long runs together, starting at 8 and working up to 12.5. We had difficult runs where we could barely pick our feet up off the ground, and runs where we finished before we realized. I have to say, I probably got the better end of the deal - training with someone who was a college athlete was a huge asset. I learned what to eat, how to stretch, when to rest, when to push. The best part: I had someone to rub my shins and shoulders and work the knots out of my calves.

What?! I cooked him dinner on many occasions!

So this half marathon will be a family-and-friend affair, and I couldn't be more excited. And a little nervous. I've been working towards this for the last few months, but also I feel as though I've been mentally prepping for this for the past year. Last year when I ran the relay, I knew this was something I wanted to do. The greatest physical challenge I've taken on thus far.

And one of those bucket list things: run a half marathon before you're thirty.

Shoot. I should probably make a list of all those things I was supposed to do before thirty. Because that's in like...7.5 months. Damn. I need to get busy figuring out world peace, writing a best-seller, and penning a Billboard top single.

But first...I think I'll unpack some more boxes. And run 13.1 miles.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

2011-10-03T10:36:00.001-07:00

(I feel as though I may have already titled a blog post "Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes." But I'm too lazy to go back and look. Eh.)

Everything is changing.

The past year has sort of been a whirlwind of change. A flurry of engagements, marriages, big moves, career changes, babies, and a host of other milestones have been happening all around me. In the coming months, Lee and Hot Curry will move to Utah*, some friends are hoping to start families, others are facing big career changes.

In some stroke of extraordinary good luck, it took me five days to find a new place to live. Well, five days, infinite emails, phone calls, Craigslist lurkings, two properties falling through, and multiple sketchy potential roommates. Last Saturday, however, I got the call from a girl with whom I'd been looking for houses. She'd found it, THE house, gorgeous, in our price range, lots of space, three bedrooms and a third roommate already lined up. Ready to go October 1. She was standing in this gorgeous house holding an application, ready to sign and put down a deposit if I was in.

The catch: the house isn't in Federal Hill.

I have lived in the same 20-block radius of Federal Hill since 2007. Four and a half years. I've moved twice since I first arrived here from Florida, shaking the sand and dead lizards out of boxes. I know every crack in the sidewalk, every short cut, the hours of every liquor store, and where I can always, always find a parking space when I'm hard up. My friends all live here, my trivia is here, my vet/dentist/pharmacy/gym are here.

Now, granted, New House is geographically situated less than a mile away. But changing neighborhoods in Baltimore is akin to changing boroughs in New York. Not only that, it forces you to vastly recalibrate everything from your morning cup of coffee to where you can buy eggs at 10pm if you need to. WHICH SOMETIMES I DO.

So, I decided that this house needed to be nothing short of spectacular to make me give up the comfort of my daily routine. I went over to view the space, and my decision became more difficult, because it was. Spectacular, that is. Partially compared to where I'm living now, where the house is crumbling down around us, and partially compared to some of the spaces I'd seen previously. Nothing like a hovel that's outside of your price range to make you want to give up and live in a box. But this house...it's beautiful. It's large, it's open, it's full of light, it's on a pretty little street in an eclectic neighborhood with some of the best restaurants in the world. And it's in my price range. Well within, I might add.

You get stuck in your bubble, in your routines and habits, in the patterns that make up daily life. Moving to a new house disrupts this, but you adapt. Moving to a new neighborhood completely changes things. But I'll adapt.

And change, I've found, is not a bad thing. A new perspective, new habits and patterns. With the comfort of knowing I'm still a ten minute cab ride or half hour walk from my old 'hood.

So, I filled out an application and left a deposit. I picked up the keys and signed a lease a week later. And now...my life is filled with boxes and packing tape again, with changing addresses and begging my friends and family to come and help me - again - a mere six months after I previously moved.

And this time, it really is a move. A big change. Time to go forward, to adapt again, to begin again a little bit less than a mile away but in a different mind set and different physical orientation.

And, yes, high levels of stress. Moving makes me want to chew my own skin off. No lie. But from start to finish, it's been less than three weeks since I came back from vacation, discovered I needed to move, found a place, and will have everything done next weekend (I hope). At some point, I'll congratulate myself on this whirlwind of proactivity but, for the mean time, it's back to packing and purging. (The one good thing about moving being the sudden proclivity to throw all of one's crap away - less to move.)

And, also, it's not like I'm moving to Utah.

(*I need to include this fact because both were quite reticent to allow me to move out of Federal Hill, at which point we would no longer be neighbors of sorts. I reminded them, politely, that wherever I move in October, they are moving to UTAH in November. They told me I was being selfish and rude for leaving Federal Hill before them. How utterly insensitive of me.)

Fiiiiiiiiiiine Dining

2011-09-29T16:56:00.000-07:00

Apt as I am to be cynical of certain fine dining establishments and their massively inflated prices (read: egos), there's a reason why some restaurants are simply better than run-of-the-mill. While atmosphere has something to do with it, many restaurants try to get away with fixing huge prices on tiny portions, drizzling an infused sauce of some kind, and slapping it on the very best china served to you by staff who seem to think they are tipped on their ability to make you feel unworthy as a human being. I'd rather pay exorbitantly to eat exquisite food off of the floor than sub-par food off of a Royal Copenhagen plate.

I'd felt an aversion to The Charleston for this very reason. It's in a neighborhood I frequent, it's advertised in in-flight magazines as THE restaurant to hit while in Baltimore, and if you Google "Best Restaurants in Baltimore", it pops up BEFORE favorites of mine like The Black Olive and Cinghiale. Still, the pedigree isn't a guarantee. Pazo also appears but, quite frankly, the last time I went there I ordered what I thought was an array of different tastes and wound up with four plates of fried things with different sauces accompanying them. I can go to TGI Friday's for that.

(No, but seriously, I really dislike Pazo. I thought I would love it. I mean, the prime decor feature of the entryway are those fabulous couches where one can sip wine. Because sometimes all that's missing from the restaurant experience is feeling like I'm at home on my couch drinking wine. No lie. But I hated Pazo. The food, that is. I've never been offered such a dizzying array of fried goods, and in my mind I have nicknamed Pazo "State Fair.")

But when a bunch of your friends decide to hit up a restaurant you've been avoiding, it seems rather silly to not tag along. Even if you're only going just to prove to yourself that your instincts were on par.

Mine were not.

I was dead wrong.

I had taken two sips of a pre-dinner Ketel One martini when I was presented with a bowl of truffle oil potato chips and a creme fraiche dipping sauce. Truffle oil is, quite possibly, one of my Most Favorite Things; right up there with boutique vodka, certain Oregon pinot noirs, and Ricky Gervais. If I were to somehow find myself floating gently in a sea of truffle oil, sipping organic botanical vodka with the good Brit entertaining me, this would not be a bad day.

And this, mind you, is Charleston's take on that free petri dish of salted nuts that takes up bar top real estate. I'm already ever-so-slightly on board.

Charleston's menu is prix fixe, which I actually like. It seems to me that most restaurants are really capitalizing on their chef's ability to prepare lots of little dishes (which usually means a handful of really great basic products, like seafood and beef, prepared a multitude of ways) as opposed to the Olden Days when you went to a restaurant and ordered an appetizer to share, an entree, and maybe some dessert. This type of formulaic menu seems so limiting now, in the era of tapas and prix fixe, and best reserved for steakhouses and other places that specialize in certain entree items.

I chose the 3-course option ($76; 4 courses are $88, 5 are $100, and 6 are $111), and selected these gems:
1st: grilled romaine and warm goat cheese salad with chive and basil vinaigrette
2nd: sauteed Hudson Valley foie gras with local quail's egg in brioche toast
3rd: grilled lamb tenderloin with eggplant "caviar"

The grilled romaine and the lamb tenderloin were positively succulent, beautifully presented, and decent-sized portions. The server had informed us as we were seated to be prepared for "tasting portions." I'm not surprised at this fine print. I imagine many of their patrons arrive, look at the prices, and are expected to be served their food in a trough. But; surprise, surprise; sometimes the more expensive the food, the smaller the portion. These however, were perfectly sized for one such female as myself who can pack away a decent amount of food when hungry enough.

And...the foie gras. Oh. My. God:

Look. I know what foie gras is. I do. I swear. And, believe me, I am not so much on board with this practice and I completely understand why it's inhumane and horrific and torturous.

But...but it's so delicious...

It's incomparable. It's delicate, it's succulent, it's meaty and yet beautifully absorbs the flavor of whatever sauce it's wearing. It's the little black dress of meat products. And paired with brioche toast and the quail egg...it was rich and yet somehow light. Perfectly grilled, melted in the mouth.

I fricking love foie gras.

I didn't want to like The Charleston.

And I didn't.

I loved it.

I am going to have to get four more jobs and run ten marathons so that I can eat there at least twice a week, afford it, and not get fat.

I think it's worth the effort.

Cayo Hueso

2011-09-21T18:54:00.001-07:00

What You Do In Your Own Time....

2011-09-21T18:24:00.000-07:00

I was out for drinks last week with Lee and his fiance, Hot Curry.

(Perhaps I should sometimes flip ownership and the relationship and say I was out with Hot Curry and her fiance, Lee. Because, to be honest, Lee invited me out, but I was hemming and hawing about going until he texted me that Hot Curry was coming. She confided in me that she'd only come along because she'd known I would be there. This is not because I do not want to hang out with Lee. It's because Lee had chosen my least favorite bar in the city, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him so. I'd rather flake out at the last minute and write it about it publicly later, where he will most assuredly read it. And send me vexing emails. But, it's true, I'll stand by it: I hate that bar. You know which bar. That bar. It's dark and smells like cough drops. But Hot Curry was gonna be there, so I decided to go. Sorry, Lee. Had you picked; oh, you know, this bar or this bar, I'd be there in a second! But that bar? Ugh.)

I digress.

I was out for drinks with Hot Curry and her fiancee, Lee, and we were discussing the coming months in which they will, for the first time, combine lives and cohabitate. It's a big move for any relationship, even one for which you've already promised yourself for all eternity.

"There are things that you do when you have your own space that no one else needs to witness!" we all agreed. (Yes, Hot Curry and I are both Sex and the City fans.)

Like what?

Well, for instance, SOME PEOPLE like to eat scrambled eggs for dinner, followed by some wine sipped in bed while watching episode after episode of My So-Called Life.

And SOME PEOPLE like to take a slice of pepperoni, place it on a cracker, schmear some marinara on it, sprinkle a little cheese, and call a stack of those and a beer "dinner". SOME PEOPLE.

And CERTAINLY NONE OF US drinks alone. NOT A SINGLE ONE. That's like, indicative of a problem or something. Drinking alone? Ha! No one ever does that!

(I am sipping a divine Louis Latour Pinot Noir.)

These are the things that you do that make your life cozy. Habits started in college, maybe, that have grown into rituals, soothing out the rough edges of transition into adulthood. Maybe it's watching reruns of Full House while eating graham crackers and wearing those yoga toes things. Perhaps it's drinking hot toddies and looking up apartments in foreign countries on Craigslist. (Seriously, do it.) Or it's as simple as wanting to wear that one T-shirt that is absolutely horrific, stretched out, completely NOTfashion, with a pair of pants you know, for a fact, went out of style in 1996. What you do in your own time in your own space is sacred. Maybe only to you, but scared nonetheless.

AND YES, I SOMETIMES EAT SCRAMBLED EGGS FOR DINNER. While painting my toenails at my desk in my room and watching The Office on nbc.com. Wednesday night ritual. Comes right before I write a few rounds of trivia, call Princess and/or New Kid and/or Snickers, and cap off the night with a glass of something delicious and some My So-Called Life or a Marian Keyes. (God, how I love Marian Keyes.)

We all have our things.

Welcome Back!

2011-09-20T16:47:00.000-07:00

It's pretty natural that after five days of lounging, eating, drinking, napping, reading, biking, swimming, tanning, and exploring in Key West, real life is gonna walk right up and smack you in the face.

I tried to cushion it, though. I took a couple of extra days off of work after the return. We got in after midnight, I slept late the next day. And the next day. I used to not be able to sleep past 7:30. Somehow, in the past ten days, my internal alarm clock reverted back to the days when I couldn't wake up before ten. How quickly it forgets!

A number of things foiled my plan for Ultimate Relaxation, however.

First, I left hot, breezy, humid Key West and stumbled off the plane at BWI (it was almost one o'clock in the morning; what do you expect from me?!) into...fall? Did I not leave Baltimore just a few days after Labor Day only to skip an entire season? You know, that weird in-between-summer-and-fall season where CVS bombards you with Halloween but it's 90 degrees and sticky as hell outside? What happened to that? I woke up to discover that cold dampness had somehow settled in the northeast. It pained my soul, which had gotten quite used to lush greenery and turquoise water. (Two things that I actually really miss about living in Florida.)

The second - and much more distressing thing - is that finally some things came to fruition with my housing situation that I have been trying to ignore for awhile. Primarily that my landlord neglected to pay the mortgage for awhile, it seems. A...rather long while. You know, from those rent checks my roommates and I were sending him every month. And, apparently, the bank got upset (as mortgage holders are wont to do), and the whole thing boiled down to a pretty little letter that came through the mail slot addressed TO OCCUPANT and declaring that we no longer had a landlord.

This is not, as you might think, a good thing.

And so, it seems that a mere six months after moving, I must move again. Like...soon.

Moving is regarded as one of the most highly stressful things to occur in a person's life.

For me, this is double. Quadruple.

I do not handle moving well.

At all.

I wanted to throw up, curl up into the fetal position, throw up again, and cry until I passed out.

I am not being dramatic; that is actually what I wanted to do.

And so, with my tan already fading from the Best Vacation Ever, I am collecting boxes again and about to hit up all of my friends and family, begging them to help me move my 12 boxes of books and Uhaul of used furniture. Again. Six months later.

PS: I have got to give mad props to my boyfriend. Six months ago, he graciously helped me move right after a swim meet earlier that morning, and not only did he entirely prevent me from FTFO ("flipping out"), he can lift heavy things and take things apart and put them back together and make me laugh. You know, manly things. And he has, for whatever reason, gallantly volunteered to assist again. I am not, as it seems, "easygoing" or "flexible" or even "adaptable" to things like moving. I am also not the most pleasant of creatures when I am under duress. Shocking, I know. He deserves a medal. Or some Valium. Or maybe give me the Valium. He can still have a medal.

Jump In

2011-09-12T13:10:00.001-07:00

Key West, Day Three

We had been out on the Gulf for a couple of hours. We'd shown up at the dock that morning, promptly at 10:50am (after some confusion regarding which dock in the busy marina), and were greeted by the drunkest man I'd ever seen before noon o'clock. (This is saying a lot, given the years I've spent working the brunch shift in Fed Hill.)

My boyfriend and I were both, justifiably, a bit skeptical about this individual captaining a boat that would take us out to sea for kayaking and snorkeling. The man was nearly falling off the pier, clutching his stool in one hand and a half-lit cigarette in the other as he explained his dual careers of charter host and stand-up comic since his emigration from Boston eight years prior. He pointed us in the direction of the vessel and encouraged us to climb aboard.

We were both visibly relieved to see two fairly competent-looking, and NOT intoxicated men bustling around the boat, readying for the charter. Drunky would not be steering us out onto the Gulf. He was merely the salesman, money collector, and recruiter. "Bad for business," the captain agreed sheepishly, "but the guy before him couldn't stop falling off the pier, he was so drunk."

We headed out, accompanied by a retired Tampa policeman and his wife, a young married couple, and two loud girls who talked the entire time. Even a couple of miles out, the water was clear to the bottom and impossibly turquoise. It seemed fake, especially with the backdrop of lush palms, expensive sailboats, and pristine blue sky.

Our first stop was a crop of mangroves in bafflingly shallow water several miles out from Key West in the Gulf. Here, we boarded our kayaks with the clear bottoms. We skirted over water ranging from a few inches to a few feet deep, and glided under mangrove branches that scraped the tops of our foreheads in an aquatic limbo. My boyfriend towers nearly a foot over me, and sitting behind me in a double-seater kayak turned out to be a bit more adventurous for him as we skirted through arboreous tunnels. We saw pelicans, herons, barracudas, and tiny little silvery fish. Far off to the south, cumulus clouds climbed high and let off lazy, rolling thunder.

The kayaking was only step one of the charter. After an hour or so of paddling around mangroves (during which time a couple of tiny minnows leaped suicidally into the kayak shared by the chatterboxes who shrieked and frightened off the more legit wildlife we'd all paid to see), we re-boarded the larger boat, kayaks lashed to the back and top, and headed further out to sea.

And anchored. There, in the middle of nothing but water. Rubber tubs of fins and masks came out. Snorkeling time. Here. Not safely tucked away in some tidepools or off of a little, benign island. Here, in the middle of the Gulf. Strap on your fins and mask and jump off into the abyss.

I watch too much Shark Week for this.

My boyfriend, college swimming athlete and adventure enthusiast, leaped off the boat eagerly and motioned me to follow. In open water.

A mainly benign fear of mine is open water. How often do you find yourself in genuinely open water? It's like being afraid of bald eagles. You're not often faced with bald eagles, so it's a dormant fear.

It's not that I'm not a good swimmer. Summers of lessons, ten years of neighborhood swim team, countless beach and lake vacations; I'm more than ok in the water. That's not what freaks me out. What freaks me out is the idea of being surrounded by miles upon miles of water, with no shore in any direction, the bottom far from my feet. The idea that you cannot see behind or around you, leaving you ultimately vulnerable to sea life and powerful currents. That movie where the couple finds themselves stranded in open water, with nothing but the sharks below for company? NNNOOOOOOOOPE. NOOOOO THANK YOU.

Everyone was just....jumping in. Like it was a pool. Off the side of the boat, some more daintily than others (it's hard to be dainty jumping feet-first wearing flippers, FYI). And, without giving it too much thought, because if I stood there and had a deep inner process with myself then I was going absolutely nowhere, I just jumped. Into the Gulf.

The first thing I felt was small. Like, small, small. Tiny. When my head broke the water, I could barely make out the others, bobbing about, and I was right next to the boat, which suddenly seemed gargantuan. I was treading water, buoyed by the salt concentration and my flippers, and was just debating whether or not to completely and totally freak out when I realized I had the mask only halfway on my head. I didn't know what else to do, and it seemed like a good idea to investigate the area immediately around me for giant jelly fish and/or sharks and/or any other manner of potentially life-threatening and/or really scary marine life. So I pulled the mask down, positioned the mouthpiece, and stuck my face in the water. Somehow, with my primary focus of the world now limited to a masked view, I felt safer. I couldn't scan the entire Gulf for danger, but I could survey the narrow viewpoint I now had. This must be what dogs feel when they are calmer while crated.

The first thing I realized was that we were only in about ten to fifteen feet of water, and that it was incredibly clear. And, as I looked down below my feet, I saw it: the reef. Clear mounds of coral I'd only ever seen on TV or dried out in peoples' beach house decor. Coral like giant mushrooms, like brains, colored from mustard yellow to bright white. And the fish...hundreds of tiny little fish. Some plain and silvery, others splashed with neon yellow, the brightest blue. Swimming in weird, perfect synch with one another.

I stuck annoyingly close to my boyfriend, reasoning that as he is larger he could better fend off a shark attack. The others in the tour bobbed about in the gentle rolls of the Gulf, the braver ones diving down for a closer look.

The shark was the first thing that happened. Everyone was gathering and pointing. I broke the surface long enough to shake the water out of my ears and hear "nurse shark." Terrified, I plunged my face back into the water and saw it, an eight foot shark snuggled down in amongst the coral. It looked as though it had hidden its head in a bunch of coral like an ostrich in the sand, and somehow this seemed like a safe shark. A sheepish one perhaps. Used to tourists gawking and pointing.

I might have been more terrified had the thing been moving around, but it just hung out there. Somewhere in my bank of memories from shark week, I associated the word benign with nurse sharks and, indeed, they are fairly dormant and known to be sluggish. When we surfaced, our guide explained that their mouths are on the bottom, and their primary diet consists of bottom-dwelling fish like flounder and skates. I was just beginning to feel almost safe around this eight-foot shark when the guide impishly dove down, reached out a hand, and stroked the back fin of the shark.

WHY, WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THE SHARK? THIS IS INSTANT DEATH! I felt panicked, I reached out to make sure my boyfriend was there (so he could fight off impending doom), and I watched as the guide expertly recoiled and the shark, looking annoyed (if that's possible) slunk off to find a spot where tourists couldn't molest him. (Her?)

Having survived my first shark encounter, I was starting to feel pretty damn confident. Here I was, swimming around in the Gulf. I even bravely began to attempt some dives, pushing myself against the buoyancy down to examine the droves of fish closer. I could nearly touch them. I was hovering along down there when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to see my boyfriend gesticulating wildly towards a crop of coral a few yards down. I turned my head to see what he was looking at. And then nearly threw up.

An eel, long and shimmying with bright green accents on its fins, shivered out from one piece of coral and into another. It had to have been at least six feet long, and I could see its ugly, horrifying pointed face. Had I not known what it was, I might have almost thought the body of it beautiful, the way it moved through the water, sunlight glinting off of it. But it was an eel. An eel. Delicious unagi, ugly, ugly creature. I can't stand eels. That scene in Princess Bride? No, thank you.

The eel was gone before I had the chance to swim away. It, too, was probably used to being examined and wanted to seek out quieter hunting grounds.

At this point, we surfaced and saw that the clouds that had been building were now further along in development and giving off onerous rumbles of thunder. Another great fear of mine: lightening strikes. So here I was, in the Gulf with sharks and eels, and a thunder storm building over head. Had you thrown in land-dwelling jelly fish, a tornado, and a part where all of my teeth fall out, it would have been a fairly good summation of every recurring nightmare I've ever had in my life.

Back on the boat, back to the shore. Celebratory mojitos and conch fritters. A bike ride back to the resort, and then a nap on the deck. It wasn't until the nap that I began to really process this adventure. Clear kayaking in a mangrove, snorkeling with a shark and an eel in a reef miles from shore.

To say that any part of my vacation was better than another would be difficult, because the entire thing was a dream vacation come true. We did everything we wanted to do, and then some, ate everything, drank everything, read books, napped in the sun, rode bikes, took pictures, and, you know, snorkeled with some potentially dangerous wildlife. But the best part of all of it was the company. To spend five solid days with someone and never tire of their company says a lot.

And I'm pretty sure he would have beaten up a shark for me. You know, if it came down to it.

Vayyycayyyy

2011-09-09T08:52:00.000-07:00

After a limo ride, two flights (accompanied by two mojitos, a screw driver, and a bloody mary), and a cab ride, finally arrived in Key West.

Activities so far: the best ropa vieja and some delicious fried bread at a hole in the wall Cuban place, rum tasting at the Speakeasy Inn, and randomly lucked into a drag show. Watched the boyfriend get utterly molested by a pack of drag queens who declared him "adorable." (I have photos. I threatened Facebook tagging.)

Today: waiting for rented bikes to be delivered, then napping by the pool.

Drag queens and Cuban food. Ahhhh, vacation.

Rampant Thoughts

2011-09-06T17:49:00.001-07:00

I'm standing there, with my middle-class guilt and my cart full of canned cat food and hair products, as the woman makes her way up the aisle. Her cart is full. Frozen pizzas, gummy snacks, plastic buckets of juice the color of markers, all manner of foods shaped to look like the real thing but imitating it all the way to the molecular level.

The woman is red-faced and sweating, and she is huffing as she pushes the cart. Two little girls trail along after her with sticky, wondering fingers. They want to touch everything. Their mother was against this tactile learning in the Wal-Mart. A skinny, limp-haired boy lopes casually behind them, occasionally trying to corral one of the girls with one hand while holding onto two liters of soda in his arms. He looks dazed.

I squeeze myself against the rows of vitamins and protein bars. I'm looking for Gu; that addictive sports substance that tastes of something vaguely medicinal but is nonetheless a crucial part of running long distances (or a very well-marketed placebo effect); and she is looking to move past me with her overflowing cart and parade of children and bewildered man behind her. She is white-knuckling the cart, and as hers crashes into mine, she lets loose a pent-up AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH that sounds like it's been building for years. Her little girls choose this moment to get in a fight with one another, and their father, with his cut-off jean shorts that come mid-way down his calves and his white tank top, gets a panicked look in his otherwise vacant face.

"WOULD YOU MAKE THEM GIRLS BE QUIET? THEY ARE YOUR KIDS TOO, ASSHOLE," she screams.

"I know, I know," he's muttering. He again tries to herd the girls into something of a line.

This woman is angry. I can see it in her face, I can hear it in her voice. She is muttering a mile a minute as she passes me, forcing her cart past mine. I am looking at the rows of supplements and avoiding eye contact. She is probably five years younger than I am, with two kids and a man who looks equal parts terrified and checked out. I am the girl with the B-complex bottle in my hand, studying the ingredients for purity. Over-educated, underpaid nonprofit worker, saving the city one memo at a time before heading out to happy hour. It's moments like these that I am blatantly, embarrassingly, aware that my problems are vastly contextual. But, then again, depending on the viewpoint, so are hers.

Maybe it's just a bad day. Maybe she's usually a happy person. Maybe Wal-Mart on a busy afternoon is just too much for her. Maybe something else occurred. She looks weary to me, totally exhausted and ready to give up, but what the hell do I know? Maybe her girls are her world, maybe her man steps up at home and makes her dinner. Maybe she is happy.

I judge her because of her food choices, her accent, her vocabulary. I decide she is a miserable woman who got pregnant young, and then got pregnant again without catching a breath. I decide she is undereducated and poor, and that her boyfriend (and I've already decided he can't possibly be her husband) contributes little. I decide these things, and then I feel terrible for deciding. Who the hell am I?

Maybe she's judging me. Maybe she doesn't know how my heart breaks, how I see the injustice, how I feel guilt for things like worrying if I need to buy whitening toothpaste or cut back on caffeine. Maybe she thinks I don't give a shit. I do. I do give a shit. I just don't know what to do about it.

I never know, in these situations, what to do with these rampant thoughts. Or if anyone else thinks them. If I am alone in my weird analysis of the world; the "world" being Wal-mart on a rainy afternoon.

C'est le Prix

2011-09-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

(Happy, Ramzi? French articles are, surprisingly, not in my vast collection of talents.)

I don't even really like cars.

Or maybe I do.

I've always preferred manuals, and though my car now is an automatic, I'm endlessly thrilled that it also has the sport shift option. I use it mostly in traffic when I'm angry, or to merge onto highways. I have a teensy little control issue, and a manual shift is clutch. (See what I did there?)

The Grand Prix caused Baltimore residents a pretty headache in the year or so it took to create. Major roads blocked off for repaving caused agonizing gridlock. And let's not even talk about GRIDACALYPSE THURSDAY last week when pre-race road closures caused the worst traffic Baltimore city has ever seen. I left work two hours early and drove home on the verrrrry west side of the city...to Catonsville. And then snuck up 95 to come into Federal Hill the back way. A good thirty miles out of my way just to avoid downtown.

And cabs anywhere this weekend? Forget about it. I think I walked a total of ten miles to get to various places in the city.

But, I'll admit - along with the rest of the race-goers - it was pretty fantastic.

I made it down on Friday, and was glad I did. Friday was general admission to all areas of the race, which meant that I could go and sit with all the rich people in the VIP areas to watch the practice races. Disappointingly, there was only one crash that day, and I didn't even see it.

(WHAT?!

COME ON. I go to hockey games to watch the fights, and car races to see the crashes! I AM A SENSATIONALIST. I make no excuses.)

There were some pretty sick crashes on other days (thanks, YouTube). And the best part? You could enter and exit various points of the race with open containers. It was as though all of downtown Baltimore were some giant stadium. I am a huge fan of Events With Beer, and therefore I was a huge fan of the Grand Prix.

I didn't go near it Saturday or Sunday, however. Saturday, I was lucky enough to escape the mayhem for a beautiful wedding down in Annapolis of one of my college roommates. Sunday, I stayed far away from downtown until early evening and, even then, the carnage of drunkards and tourists was extreme.

Still. Way to pull it off, SRB. You were in the hot seat there for a while, but it seems you done good in the end. And, somehow, Baltimore came off looking sparkling clean in all of that IndyCar footage. The cameras didn't really pan about five blocks in any direction to showcase the rows and rows of empty rowhouses and rampant poverty, but hey, that's not what the world wants to see, right? Grand Prix sure as hell wasn't about poverty. Millions of dollars whirring by at 120 miles per hour is a sharp juxtaposition to homelessness.

I'm going off on a tangent here, so I'll pull the focus back to this: I want to ride in a race car. The noise, the speed, the flying-low-to-the-ground...I might need to add this to the bucket list. I always thought I wanted to drive a really expensive car (don't ask me for details, because I have none regarding automobiles) on the Autobahn. But maybe this race car ride might push that one down a few on the bucket list.

Anyhoodle. Labor Day, summer is drawing to a close, but I am packing my suitcase and getting ready to head off to Key West on Thursday for the first real vacation of the year. Because I don't count Vegas as a restful, restorative vacation.

Cheers!

New Record

2011-08-30T06:42:00.001-07:00

Ran ten miles this morning before work.

You know; no big deal.

After an excruciating and embarassingly bad week of training last week (we're talking crawling uphill on a mediocre 6 mile run in a manner that left my spirit broken and soul empty) this is actually a very big deal. Not only that, but it's my longest distance to date. Not only that, but it marks nearly the halfway point in the training program, and is almost at the apex. Once we get a 12 miler in at the end of September, it's downhill from there with two easy weeks before the race.

Miles to date in training: 78.5.
Coconut waters consumed: small, tropical isle's worth.
Days until I am lying on the beach in Key West: 9.

I Felt The Earth Move

2011-08-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

I was all set to write a post about the crazy weekend I had last weekend (Legs's 30th birthday followed by a whirlwind 24-hour trip to New York that involved a bottle of champagne, a hired car, the best steak dinner I've ever had, a pair of Russian strippers, dancing at Bar St. Mark's [which does not have a dance floor, BTW], a very angry game of Super Mario Brothers at 4am, candied bacon for brunch at The Smith, and then eighteen dollar mimosas at the Garden Cafe at the Plaza...) and then it had to go and earthquake, and, as Jackal says, "I'M ALL ABOUT TRENDING," so I guess I have to write about the earthquake.

OK but seriously, all of the above is factual. I didn't know you could get Super Mario Brothers and a pair of Russian strippers (no way they were twins, as claimed...unless they were somehow twins with different mothers. Or different fathers. Or both.) in the same sentence, let alone the same night. I was glad that New Kid could come out and play with us, even gladder that she allowed me access to her vintage Nintendo system after 4am. She is truly a good friend.

I digress.

I happened to be in a meeting leading a discussion on current goings-on in the organization when I noticed everyone staring oddly out of the windows (which comprised the entire south-facing wall of the room we were in). And then I saw the trees ripple, and my first thought was that Hurricane Irene had somehow jetted up from where it was around the Bahamas at 6am that morning and reached Baltimore at the speed of sound. It looked like wind outside, the way everything suddenly tipped sideways. It sounded like wind. And then, and even I thought it was cliche at the time, I saw the ground literally roll. Like waves. It rolled and the entire room pitched from one side to another. It looked as though the panes of glass separated briefly from the window frames. For a moment, everything was separate from the thing it was supposed to be a part of. My feet were on the floor, but the floor I was standing on was somehow different from the floor the people across the room were standing on. Some people actually fell slightly over, and everyone got up out of their chairs and instinctively away from the wall of windows. But it's not as though they had a choice: it was as though the room were jaggedly propelling them out of their chairs and away from the windows.

I wasn't scared at first because I thought it was the wind. I genuinely thought it was the wind. Maybe a tornado. And I thought, OK, whatever it was has passed. And then someone said, earthquake. And then I was scared. Was it the first wave? Was there another coming? Were we in danger? Should we get out of the building? Later, someone would tell me that she feared a tsunami. I hadn't thought of that at the time, but I'm sure as hell thinking about it now.

I'm born and raised in Maryland. I spent three years in Florida. Storms and wind I can handle. They come, and go just as quickly. I know all the drills, I know where to stand, I know what and what not to do.

But an earthquake? It was my first. It was the first time the earth underneath me has failed to be stable. I can envision floods, I can understand wind. But seismic activity...I have no bearing for that. For an hour after the earthquake, I couldn't get my sea legs.

Like any other national disaster, text messaging and phones were down. Thankfully, I have Gchat on my phone and was quickly able to ascertain that most of my friends and family were OK, just surprised, and still in a state of wonder of it. It will become one of those "where were you when..." Zeitgeists. There are already hash tags, Facebook pages, "likes." It's way trending.

And damn. I totally could have made some "Russian Twins and Mario Brothers!" hashtag and been ALL OVER the INTERWEBS. Ah, well. This shall have to suffice. Shiggity shiggity shwa. And, you know, #earthquakes. #EARTHQUAKES. #EARRRRTTHHQUUAAAAKES.

No, but seriously, I am sort of endlessly grateful it was as minor as it was. No lie, that was scary. We East Coasters are not used to such things.

Glory Run

2011-08-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

Completed an 8 mile run yesterday. This is the largest amount of miles I have ever run at one time, and it was one of those Glory Runs where you finish strong and have an inkling of "I might just actually be able to do this!" Glory Runs are the things that keep you going. Because for every Glory Run, you have at least two or three runs where you're pretty sure that you're actually crying while you run, and that you may even be crying tears made of your own blood.

This means I have run a total of 50 miles in the month of August since the beginning of training. This also means I am way past due for a new pair of sneakers. I've been running in the same shoes for a shamefully long time (for a runner, anyway). Also, when I was changing my nail polish the other night, I noticed that half of one of the nails of my next-to-little toe on my right foot is purple. Ew. So, basically, now I have to wear polish at all times. Not that this is problematic. My feet are completely shredded anyway. I foresee an epic pedicure after October 15.

In other news, I went to Happy Hour with Sporty last night. Sporty and I worked together back in The Day (which, in this instance, consists of May 2007-February 2008) and we saw each other through some particularly difficult growing-up times. It was a bright moment to sit at the bar last night, sipping martinis and talking about what train wrecks we were four years ago and how much happier we are these days. And, of course, to discuss at length the Amanda Knox case (the murder of Meredith Kercher occurred when we were working together, and we followed the news trail through to the final sentencing), the Casey Anthony trial, Britney Spears's upcoming appearance at the VMA's (Really? REALLY?!), why Kate Middleton stopped eating, and other, pithier conversations tnot involving pop culture icons or the media. Suffice it to say, we can still both confidently eye one another up and say, "We have been through some THINGS. I'm glad to know you."

In other news, I am making a random, quick trip to New York tomorrow for a dinner in Brooklyn. I am psyched not only for said dinner and because I'll get to see New Kid; who is pure, unbridled awesome; but because my boyfriend splashed out on train tickets. I'm used to Greyhound which, although cheap and utterly convenient, can be rather cramped. We had a bad experience when we went to Philadelphia back in April: couldn't find seats together and somehow wound up on the stinkiest bus in the developed world. It was not a good experience.

In other news, 19 days until Key West. I've already booked a kayak tour, which I am beyond psyched about because the kayaks are CLEAR. I think I may have stated this already, but I'll just reiterate the awesomeness again: THE KAYAKS ARE CLEAR. I also ordered four books from Amazon. For a five-day trip. Optimism.

It had better not hurricane on my parade.

Half-CAFFFFFF

2011-08-17T15:50:00.000-07:00

So, in addition to all of this half-marathon training, I decided it was high time I cut my caffeine intake. I wonder if I might possibly hate myself a wee bit.

(Cut, mind you. As in trim. As in moderate to some degree.

Not quit.

No amount of suspected self-loathing could lead to that nonsense.)

I had noticed, as of late, that 'round 'bout eleven or twelve in the morning, I was tweaking. Like, tweaking.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE FAX WASN'T SENT. IT SHOULD HAVE GONE THROUGH. IS THERE PAPER IN THE MACHINE. THIS PEN IS LEAKING. I DISLIKE THE DEGREE TO WHICH THIS PENCIL IS SHARPENED. WHY IS EVERYTHING SO LOUD. WHAT IS GOING ON. SURE, I'LL RUN TEN BLOCKS TO THE STORE. IS THERE AN EARTHQUAKE. THE GROUND APPEARS TO BE SHAKING. OH NO, THAT'S JUST ME.

I mentioned this late-morning freak-out to a friend who politely inquired what sort of caffeinated beverages I was consuming in the morning.

"Typically a large coffee or a triple latte."

"Large as in....?"

"16 ounces."

And that's just breakfast.

Then there's the green tea(s). I keep a box in my desk. For the mid-afternoon slump(s).

Then there's the energy drinks, the Rockstars and sugar-free Red Bulls, the hydrating drinks. And the Gu. Chock full of caffeine, all of them.

And don't even get me started on the sugar cravings.

Partially, I know that I crave these bursts of energy because I'm still learning the whole eating-to-working-out ratio*. If I don't eat consistently - as in, every few hours at least - I find myself in trouble. I either become so completely irritated by everything (THE AIR CURRENTS IN THIS BUILDING ARE INFURIATING!) or I just want to lay my head down on my desk and take a nice little nap. If I find myself swinging violently from mood to mood and lurching between wanting to rip my own hair out or curl up in the fetal position and sleep for an hour, chances are I just need a snack. Most of the time, the equilibrium of my body behaves like a four-year-old.

The eating isn't that big of a deal. I come to work armed with snacks, I make sure I schedule eating around meetings. On weekends, I tend to eat fewer but larger meals, but I still rely on a piece of fruit or a granola bar to see me through.

But the caffeine...that is becoming a problem.

To begin with, I am already an anxious person. Constantly in motion. I am a leg-jiggler (and have suffered the tines of my mother's fork under the dinner table when I start shaking the entire room), a fiddler, a fidgeter. Add in some caffeine, consumed over the better part of the morning, and I become something akin to a jonesing meth addict. Neck-scratching included on particularly bad days.

And, besides, caffeine (shockingly) dehydrates you. Which, in turn, makes you that much more tired when you have to, oh, you know, get up and run eight miles.

I'm on Day Three of this experiment. And, besides the blinding headache that seems to have taken the place of my daily freak-out, so far mostly what I feel is tired. This could be the "waking up at 6am to work out every morning" thing, but the tiredness is a different kind of tired than before. It's not accompanied by the jittery, hand-shaky need to WRITE EVERYTHING IN CAPS or chew the ends off of all of my pens. This tiredness is slower, but steadier.

And, let's face it, I'm not ready to give up caffeine entirely yet. I'm not a masochist. Mama needs at least a little hit in the morning.

Not entirely sure how this is going to affect my penchant for a delicious espresso martini. I guess I'll just have to put more vodka in it.

*Far be it for me to claim to be any sort of expert on half-marathon training (or athletic training in general) but one of the hardest things to learn to balance is what's coming in vs. what's being expended. If you do the amateur math (100 calories per mile, averaging 20 miles per week at the start,) you'd think that's an extra 2,000 calories you get to consume: 285.7 per day! This is false math. It doesn't work that way. While you SHOULD up your food intake, it's better to look at WHAT and WHEN you eat as opposed to HOW MUCH. Forget the "Carbo Load" mentality: protein is your friend. And fiber. And WATER. Half the time, you think you're famished when, oh, you're actually just really, really thirsty. To help me in my quest, I did some research online (with a goal of maintaining my current weight through training) and downloaded the MyFitnessPal app for my phone. It's easy to keep track of what you eat (either look up the food item and enter in the quantity OR download the barcode scanner and take a picture of it with your phone for instant nutrition info) and when you are obligated to tally what you consume, it definitely makes you think twice.

Remember When...

2011-08-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

I got to Skype with Snickers for a delicious half hour this evening.

Snickers is one of my oldest friends. Not age-wise (she's fabulously thirty), but longevity-wise. She was one of the first people I met in college, and we lived together my sophomore year. In an apartment with six other girls. And two bathrooms. It was a year of Massive Inconvenience, but also fun in the way that "only when you're 19" is it fun to live with seven roommates in a cramped apartment. There was always something going on. Then again, there was always something going on.

Snickers migrated to San Francisco after circling the US for a few years (and the globe for a six month stint), which means that San Fran is now holding two of my most favorite people (Snap and Snickers) hostage. Which means, I suppose, that at some point I'll have to go and visit. Most likely, this is looking to be next year when Snickers gets married.

It was with a bit of sobriety that we realized we're coming up on the ten-year anniversary of September 11. It occurred the year we lived together, and we, along with our six other roommates, sat glued to the TV all day with friends and significant others crowded around us.

We transitioned to raucous laughter that I produced some pictures of us from college. It's amazing how much changes in ten years, especially when it comes to fashion.

"What are you wearing? Oh my God, it's that dress I made for costuming class. That thing was horrible."

"It wasn't that bad! It was...all asymmetrical, and...kind of like a towel. Or...a shower curtain. More like a shower curtain."

"Well here, you appear to be wearing..."

"...a terry-cloth strapless top."

"It's very fashion-y. This is also when you had the crazy stripes in your hair."

"OH and we both had eyebrow rings!"

"Very fashion-y."

"Very."

It's true. Snickers and I went down to the boardwalk one random September day and demanded that a grossly under-qualified teenager stick needles in our faces. Snickers was late to her psychology class that afternoon, and my mother blew a gasket when she found out about my new piercing. At Christmas that year when I was home, I fell asleep on the couch and woke up with an ornament jauntily hanging off of my eyebrow ring. I took it out shortly thereafter.

In recent years, Snickers and I, and our other friend, Princess, began emailing back and forth. It began when all three of us were inching out of weird situations we had found ourselves in, and just sort of never stopped. None of us had lost contact after college, but something about those emails roped us all in together and we're closer now, possibly, then we've been since we lived together ten years ago. The emails come nearly every day and are an endless source of laughter, support, and a sounding board for whatever we have going on in our lives.

I'm not sure if there's anything better than corresponding with someone who's known you for a long time. Who has seen you at your best--and worst--and still loves you and still thinks you're the bee's knees and worthy of all the great stuff life has to offer. And in whom you've seen so much change and yet still, somehow, the same core person she was when you first became friends so many years ago.

And, although it's relegated to Skype and email (Princess is in St. Louis these days), it's nearly the same as those weekly late-night drives to TCBY we took in college when we needed to get out of our rooms and into the night. Thankfully, Princess always had a car.

And, you know, it's great to be reminded of how fashion-y you were back then. Even while wearing a shower curtain. With asymmetrical hemlines.

Self-Aware Teenagers

2011-08-16T13:11:00.001-07:00

So, Snap and I have been obsessing over My So-Called Life recently. She was laid up for awhile after a surgery and took it upon herself to begin re-watching the series, which came out during a pretty influential time in both our lives. I need only revisit our high school journals to see how crushingly important certain issues - primarily involving boys, popularity, and all the ways our parents were ruining our lives - were. But there were other, darker, issues as well. Drinking, drugs; even if we weren't doing them, their presence was everywhere and everyone was talking about it.

I just discovered that I can stream them on Netflix. Since I was a good girl and got my run in this morning before work, I believe I know my plans for the evening...

This Is How Horror Films Start

2011-08-15T16:06:00.000-07:00

The Full Moon Run was scheduled for this past Saturday, the night of the August full moon. Otherwise known as the Full Sturgeon Moon (the name lent from the Great Lakes and other massive bodies of water where sturgeon tend to present themselves to fishers during this time of the summer), the Full Red Moon (often seen through haze), the Green Corn Moon, and the Grain Moon. The last heavy moon of the summer, and the one night when the moon remains solely in the night sky and cannot be glimpsed during daylight hours. There was also rumored to be possible sightings of the Perseid Meteor Shower.

But all day Saturday brought chaotic weather patterns. Heavy rain, violent claps of thunder, monsoons raging throughout the day. We weren't sure if the run would be on, if the trail would be washed out, if it would be light enough to even see it.

By 7:30pm, they still hadn't called the race, so my boyfriend and I pounded some energy drinks, had some Gu (GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!looksandtastesjustlikeitsounds), and headed up to the NCR trail head in Hunt Valley. Two hundred people had signed up, but there looked to be barely a hundred or so there. It was completely overcast and foggy, and well on its way to being totally dark. Some of the fog was due to the clouds that had decided to come down a little closer to earth, and some of it was haze on loan from the Virginia swamp fires: thousands of acres of swamp land burning since last Tuesday.

We were given our numbers and told to deck out in glow sticks. Around the neck, through the shoelaces, shoved down the backs of our shirts so that we could be seen by other runners in the woods. No head lamps, no flash lights as they would blind other runners. Just glow sticks. A techno-parade of insane runners taking off into the dark.

The rain held off, the lightening stayed away. And it was completely dark. Even the meager glow sticks didn't hold up, only briefly piercing it with neon brightness. But as runners passed ahead or fell behind, their glow sticks formed hazy auras in the fog before disappearing altogether. At one point, it was just my boyfriend and me, with no runners directly ahead or behind, and for the first time I started feeling twinges of panicked adrenaline. It's a good thing I trust him, because had he been the slightest bit shifty, he might have absconded with me into the dark and sold me into human trafficking. I'm almost entirely certain he had the same thought about me. I'm rather shady.

Because it was dark. I mean, dark dark. You could barely make out patches of overcast sky above through the knot of trees, and the crushed limestone path, which would have glowed in moonlight, was barely visible as a long rectangle ahead and behind, disappearing into clouds of darker matter. There was no visible destination ahead and no way of verifying where you had been. The woods were dark and deep, as Frost declared, but the loveliness was shrouded in an eerie stillness. Nothing moved in those woods, except for us. There was no way to tell if we were headed in the right direction, if danger lay ahead, or if the safety of a water station awaited. There was no way to see if the path was clear and safe, only the trust that the runners that had gone on ahead hadn't returned and weren't lying on the sides of the trail, and so had pushed onward into the darkness.

It was almost like a dream, with the haze from the fog creating halos of dark against darker. You forget how vulnerable we humans are; how utterly unprepared to survive in the wild without the benefit of fire, light, and GPS.

E.L. Doctorow once described writing in this way: "like driving a car at night; you can never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." This felt like that. Six miles in the complete dark, and you can only see as far as twenty or so feet in front of you. If that. But you run, you put one foot in front of the other, and you trust that you'll make it. Having my running partner there was crucial. Had I been alone in those woods, with no runners anywhere nearby, I might have panicked.

In a way, the night run was an adrenaline rush that might not have come had the moon been out in full glory. The creepier elements of the woods certainly hurried my feet a bit more, and nothing was more welcoming than the finish line, laid out in glow sticks. And the pizza we ordered and demolished around midnight once we got home was a welcome victory meal.

The run was the way anything is in life: on a path with limited vision, seeing ahead and behind only as far as you can, and going on the knowledge that if you fall, if you run into something, if you crash, if you get off-course, there will be something or someone there to help you. There is no guarantee and no certainty that danger will not befall you; just the trust in yourself, in what little of the path you can see, and the people surrounding you.

And, of course, the hope of victory pizza and beer to guide you.

AHOY

2011-08-12T11:40:00.000-07:00

Oh. My God. The exhaustion.

Week 2 of half-marathon training, and I hit a bit of a brick wall. Mostly because: it's only Week 2. Brick walls are not allowed. This shall not do.

Went to see Harry Potter the other night. I've been an avid fan since the books first came out, and have seen all of the movies. This one was, truly, spectacular. The special effects were amazing, the 3D not over-zealous. And Mrs. Weasley called Bellatrix Lestrange a "bitch." And Ron made out with Hermione. And.... [insert spoilers here]. Delightful.

In other news, tonight I am going to do something I swore I wasn't going to do. I am climbing aboard an Urban Pirates tour. I eschewed it mostly because I thought it was overrated and it wasn't going to come anything close to Gasparilla. But then the boyfriend uttered the magic words: there will be beer. And I haven't had an excuse to wear my skull & crossbones scarf since Nicole Richie got married up and decided to dedicate her life to child-rearing, accessories-designing, and keeping boho alive.

Tomorrow is the 6-mile race. In the woods. At night. I'm pretty psyched for it, so long as my body holds up and I don't trip on anything or anyone. Mostly, as always, I am excited for the after-party. A guy I know in Federal Hill does competitive biking, and we were comparing the aches and pains and disasters and glories of biking vs. running, and he quoted an author (perhaps Hemmingway?) in saying "I do not like writing; I like having written." The same, it seems, holds true for biking and running. I do not always like running. But I like having run. The satisfaction I get in logging miles, in pinning my race number on my wall next to the others I'm amassing, in comparing times and courses is monumental. The actual running part of it...well, most of the time, it sucks. It's hard and it hurts, and it leaves you feeling about a trillion years old. Sometimes.

And then sometimes you feel pretty damn spectacular. Pushing yourself, training, seeing and feeling results are all substantial positives of taking on something athletic.

And, you know, post-race beers taste the best.

Ahoy!

This Is Not A Food Blog

2011-08-08T15:43:00.000-07:00

The best part about this blog post? I'm eating the leftovers as I upload.

Pulled chicken BBQ recipe from Eating Well. The recipe doesn't mention anything about parbaking, but I'm glad I did. I anticipated 5 hours of cooking time, but wound up with only four because forty five minutes of it was spent tearing the kitchen apart looking for the can opener my roommates took camping with them, and the remaining fifteen was spent dashing to Lee's house to borrow his. Oh, and there was beer. And wine. And sangria. You know.Parbake chicken: rinse chicken thighs, trim all fat. Lay in glass pan (I sprayed with cooking spray), sprinkled with chipolte chile powder. Bake at 250 for one hour. Before:

And after:

Make sure the chicken has time to cool after parbaking and before pulling. Pulling is fun and greasy. Make sure you wrap a paper towel around your beer so that you don't smear chicken crap all over it. And yes, you should be sipping a beer whilst pulling. 2.5 pounds of chicken to pull takes a bit of time.

One of my side dishes was a corn and bean salad that I often make in the summer. It's super easy, super cheap, and delightfully healthy. As in: you can eat 17 tons of it and not feel like wanting to die. The recipe is simple: 1 can corn, 1 can black beans, 1 can mild or hot green chiles, 1 can diced tomatoes, salt and pepper to taste, and I always add a little paprika or chile powder for spice. Hot sauce is good, too. There happened to be fresh okra in the fridge (my roommates are diligent and creative cooks: don't think that I would just happen to have okra lying around), so I flash boiled some (2 min, then doused with cold water), chopped it up, and added that too.

The cat watched. We are tentatively on good terms.

Hot Curry made some delicious slaw:

Boxed wine is kind of the best thing ever. Thanks, Josh.

Awesome. Fin.

Hot Curry

2011-08-08T14:23:00.000-07:00

Week One of Half-Marathon training complete. Logged 14 miles overall and an hour of weight training. Pretty light to start, but it only goes up from here. I am still holding onto my "how to eat an elephant" mentality of one thing at a time. Gazing overly long at the training schedule in its entirety causes immediate fatigue. Best to avoid fatigue when one is training for an athletic event.

In other news, I successfully made pulled BBQ chicken this weekend for Josh, Lee, and Lee's fiance. (She reads my blog and really, at this point, is quite deserving of her own nickname. Except that I really just want to call her Hot Curry. Which she might find hilarious. Or blatantly annoying, one or the other. I should probably give credit to her accomplishments and soon call her "Doc." But that sounds butch. I dunno. This might be an ongoing campaign: procure handle for Lee's fiance.) The evening was quite fun and evolved (or devolved, in some cases) into a very abstract and poignant game of Scattegories. The funniest bits, naturally, cannot be rewritten here as our senses of humor can be somewhat less than politically correct and substantially fortified by bathroom humor.

I actually managed to document the cooking of the chicken and will be posting delicious photos this week. This is part of my campaign to regularly use my fabulous birthday gift from my parents: a new camera.

On the docket this week: 21 miles to run, 6 of which will be done during a night race on Saturday. The NCR's annual Full Moon Run, done entirely under the cover of darkness. I am extremely hopeful that I will not trip and bring down the boyfriend, Cool Runnings-style. Or any of the other runners, of course. But mostly him, because I have to drive home in the car with him.

Also, it's Restaurant Week. Happened into it last night at Aldo's in Little Italy, and enjoyed a three-course meal of Italian Summer Salad (tomatoes, cukes, onions, and basil in a balsamic drizzle with thick brown bread), rib eye grilled in black truffle oil, and a berry panacotta. Delicious.

Photos of culinary adventures to come soon.

Vroom Vroom

2011-08-04T14:20:00.000-07:00

In case you hadn't heard, Grand Prix is coming to Baltimore city.

This gem of a city fundraiser has involved nearly a year's worth of road work throughout downtown, causing the worst gridlock traffic I've sat in since moving back to Maryland from Tampa. Seriously, awful.

Not that the roads didn't need vast improvement.

They did.

(And it was partially on someone else's dime, so, really: go Sheila Dixon. Well-played on that decision.)

(SRB is the one who's going to have hell to pay if this thing gets royally screwed up anyway, so that was a win-win for the Dixon House of PR.)

But the problem is that the race course stretches across Lombard and Pratt streets, effectively bifurcating downtown and cutting off Federal Hill and South Baltimore from all points north. Considering that I commute from Federal Hill to Hampden, this is...problematic. At best.

So, faced with the fact that I'm going to have to park my car in Fed Hill on Thursday night, kiss it goodbye, and wish it well until the following Tuesday, I figured I might as well fork over some money for tickets to this MAJOR EVENT. THAT EVERYONE IS GOING TO. I mean, if you have to be in town, might as well BE THERE.

I know nothing about racing, or cars, or race cars. I know they are loud. I know there will be beer. The latter is enough to entice me, in general, to pretty much any event.

So, I bought a ticket. Imma go to the MAJOR EVENT with the loud cars and the beer that will probably cost me a chunk of my retirement. I'm going to watch the cars, marvel at the loud noises, and traipse around downtown Baltimore in typical city-event style; with some sort of defining wrist band identifying me as poor because I bought the cheapest level ticket I could find; and try to get things for free, like extra beer, or admission to VIP areas. Both of which I have been smashingly successful at pulling off in the past (in places like, oh, you know, MARATHONS and LAS VEGAS....) I have a feeling the most competitive aspect of the races, for me, will be the garnering of free things and privileges to which I am not supposed to be entitled.

Start your engines.

Via the Cure-ate

2011-08-04T12:38:00.001-07:00

Perspective.

Thanks.

The Cat Might Lose Another Life....

2011-08-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

See, Mom?

See how diligent I am being in my posts?!

My mother (the queen of noticing unmade beds, finding crusts of sandwiches hidden under plate rims, and gazing steely-eyed through flimsy statements like, "Of course I am not going to ride around in that Mustang with that boy with the long hair without your explicit permission!") is one of my biggest fans. I get friendly little reminders that she's bored of the content of my blog when I don't update enough. And I listen to her. Because the fans shall have what they want! And, you know, she's my mom. Trump card.

I digress.

So, last night was typical Book Club. 7 pitchers of sangrias, probably thirty plates of tapas, three different desserts. Over the years, we have graduated from the $5 wine tasting to spectacular dinners where we always have to leave exorbitant tips because we (a) are loud, (b) drink so fast the wait staff can't keep up, and (c) due to said drinking, have a tendency to become loud about inappropriate topics.

Yes, we discussed the book last night.

I even made a list of questions prior.

Book Club has SOME structure; a free-for-all it is not.

I digress.

Day Three of training, which meant I was up at 5:45am to go to a weights class at my gym taught by a fabulous fellow writer/bartender/fitness enthusiast. This was especially rough given the aforementioned Book Club Dinner which lasted until about 10pm and throughout which wine flowed freely. But I made it through. My body will most likely revolt tomorrow when I go to strap on Ye Olde Running Shoes and discover I have lost the ability to run. Or, you know, move.

In other news, the cat and I are going to have words. I don't understand his insistence on puking. For years, we coexisted peacefully on this subject with a simple understanding: he puked only on hardwood floors, and only where I could easily locate said puke for ready cleaning. Now, all of the sudden, it seems he wants to puke in secret locations, i.e., wherever my poor roommate Jaunt wishes to set her foot.

This has caused her to become very upset when she's already running late for work and has to wash cat puke off of her foot.

This is not bearing well on her already tentative relationship with the cat, who thinks he is incredibly cute and can do disgusting things willy-nilly and expect no repercussions. He and I have had harsh words before regarding his complete inability to think about others. He will usually behave for a day or two, and then, WHAM, puddle of puke on the table by the front door, or WHAM, hairball on the mail.

I have tried to make excuses for the cat. It's spring, he is shedding his winter coat, this causes him to puke more. He dislikes the new food I bought. He is having mental distress due to the federal deficit. I am running out of explanations.

Soon, I'll have to tell him: Jaunt grew up on a farm where animals were not pets; they were working, contributing members of a whole. If he doesn't get his act together, there will be consequences.

That sounds like Jaunt is going to sell and/or consume the cat. I know she would do neither. There is, however, a risk that she might sell and/or consume me, and I am not risking this for the damn cat.

Straighten up and fly right, cat, or we're both going to suffer the consequences. Maybe no more tuna juice for you, hmmm? Or butt slaps. (Show me a cat who doesn't live for a good slap on the butt, and I'll show you a dead one. Seriously. They love it.)

In other news, the big debate this week is whether to go to AVAM's Flicks on the Hill tomorrow night or to see Harry Potter. I am excruciatingly divided. I love FOTH, and it's the closest to camping I'm gonna get this summer. But I'm also jonesing to see the final HP. I've read all the books, seen every movie, and must admit that I am looking forward to this with not a slight bit of trepidation only because when those final credits roll...that's it. Then there's nothing to look forward to until Twilight craps out another glittery sensation or Hunger Games finally releases a trailer. (And both, believe me, will be high points for me and my affinity for young-adult-literature-turned-film-sensation.)

In other news, there's a call out for a short story contest for the Boston Review. I'm tempted. We shall see. Earlier attempts at stunted fiction (as I began to see the short story genre) were not so successful. Then again, a contest creates accountability and a deadline. We shall see.

In other news, 35 days until vacation. I totally purchased the Living Social deal ($27 for a limo ride to BWI from the city - WHAT A STEAL) and so have already raised the bar on the expectations for said vacation. After all, if you can't party with class...I don't know where I was headed with that turn of phrase, but WHATEVER, A LIMO IS SUPER CLASSY. And it sure beats bargaining with friends for a ride to the airport. Oh, the promises I've made in exchange for such...

How To Eat An Elephant

2011-08-02T07:34:00.000-07:00

So, somewhere in my complex and ever-so-slightly warped sense of taking on challenges, I decided that I would sign up for - and ostensibly run - a half-marathon this fall.

It's something I started spouting the second I finished the marathon relay last year; six miles to hand off a velcro "baton" to my teammate in the middle of Druid Hill Park. The relay was so much fun, and six miles - why that's nearly halfway there! If I can pull off six miles, I can certainly pull off 13.1. They're practically the same, really.

Except...not.

But, here's the thing: if I say I'm going to do something, and I mean really say it - not like that whole "I'M MOVING TO NEW YORK" half-decade of my life, or the time I was going to move to a writer's camp in Vermont for a summer and cut off all communication with everyone, or the time I thought I might convert to Judaism, or that one fall when I realized that my entire life's work was wrapped up in writing a screen play (and all of this is making me re-think my frequent announcements of Things I Am Going To Do!) - I'mma do it. Mostly. All ostentatious claims aside.

I think the biggest step was plunking down that $85 for an entry fee. Nothing like the greater part of a hundred bucks to say, "Yep, I'm in. Let's do this thing."

The next biggest step was the procurement of a decent training plan. I have many friends who've dared the half before (and some, like Legs, who have gone full-tilt batshit crazy and done an entire marathon), and so I asked for their plans. Everyone's got one, most are cobbled together from racing sites, running groups, even some books and training manuals. Putting together your own plan, however, is a delicate and personal thing.

I'm 11 weeks to the big event, and already running 4-6 miles on a regular basis. My minimal runs (maintenance runs) are about 3-4 miles, and once a week I'll try to log 5-6 as a long run. I ran the Survivor 7-Miler in June with a bit of aplomb, so I like to think that somewhere in my muscle memory I could dredge up 10 miles if I had to. In two weeks, I have a 6-mile run (at night...on the NCR trail...no lights...just moon...). Somewhere in the next two months, however, I have to find 13.1 miles in me. 12 tops to train, then 13.1 for the big day.

It would not be outrageous of me to say that this is one of the bigger challenges I've faced. Writing a thesis, getting a job, running 7 miles...all of those things required diligence and patience and work. Sure. But 13.1 miles is not 7 miles. And this is not something you half-ass.

My goal: I will not walk. I can slow down, I can jog, but I Will. Not. Walk.

What both complicates and makes things easier at the same time is that I have partners in crime. Catalano, my dad, and my boyfriend have all signed up for this adventure too. I will have running friends, we will all push one another, and while we may not cross the finish line all together, we will finish just the same. However solo I've wanted to be in my tasking in the past, having a group of people taking on the same challenge is pretty encouraging.

And then we will drink gallons upon gallons of free beer. It will be glorious.

So, I'm two days into the "eat the elephant one bite at a time" training. That saying, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time," reverberates. How am I gonna run a half marathon? One mile at a time. I did three last night. Four this morning. Good start.

One bite at a time.

Daniel Craig In Chaps

2011-08-01T12:13:00.001-07:00

So, I did it. I went to see Cowboys & Aliens. And while I framed it primarily as a gracious act performed for the boyfriend (retribution for which I shall reserve until such a point in time I find something truly and deliciously girly), truth be told I was a little bit curious.

Ok. A lot curious.

Ok, I actually really wanted to see it.

I secretly have a penchant for action, shoot-em-up films, but only in movie theaters. I have a fatally short attention span for these kinds of movies on a standard television, but I get readily sucked into them if seen as they're meant to be seen: on the big screen. Special effects, loud noises, things exploding...sign me up. I normally draw the line at gratuitous violence (and have been known to cover my face in the presence of such), but there's something about action films that somehow makes it so over-the-top ridiculous, I can go with it.

Cowboys & Aliens was exactly what I'd expected: completely camp dialogue, horribly predictable plot line, ridiculously archetypal characters, amazing special effects, and some very nice views of Daniel Craig in chaps. It was entertaining, to say the least, though I hesitate to say engaging.

Tomorrow night is Book Club, where we will be discussing Sweet Valley Confidential and heading to Catalano's after dinner and drinks to watch some of the series that came out in the late 1990's. Coupled with last night's action movie viewing, I feel that I may have to do something vastly intellectual quite soon.

Then again, it's also Shark Week....hosted by Andy Samberg....I may just retire any lofty ambitions to be deep and meaningful until the fall.

Summer Burn Out

2011-07-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

IS IT VACATION TIME YET??

42 days until I jet outta Baltimore City for five days in Key West. Yes, I am counting.

Words and Things

2011-07-26T10:42:00.000-07:00

I am currently reading three books. This is not uncommon.

The first is the current Book Club book, which happens to be "Sweet Valley Confidential." Say what you will; those of us who grew up on Francine Pascal's fairytale stories of blonde twins in Southern California were chomping at the bit for this latest incarnation which sees both girls in their late twenties, Jessica already married and divorced, Elizabeth living in New York City and working as an off-Broadway reviewer. The writing is absolutely, undeniably horrible. Jessica prefaces every sentence with "Like," and Pascal seems to have schooled herself in the Harlequin School of Literature when it comes to cliches and descriptions. The story is predictable, the characters laughable. But it's perfect summer reading because it plays on nostalgia and, well, it's completely brainless. The kind of thing you can easily process after a three-martini happy hour.

The second is Junot Diaz's "The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao." And it is utterly fantastic; hands-down one of the best books I've read all year. This book has been following me around for years- literally. I was gifted a paperback copy, and it sat on my nightstand from 2008-2010. I finally donated it in a fit of ridding my life of things that made me feel like a failure: unread literature being chief among them. Almost immediately afterwards, Joel gifted me a second-hand hard copy of the book, and I decided that the Universe really wanted me to read it. It had come highly recommended, but for some reason it was just one of those books (like my copy of "A Moveable Feast" - another potential life failure on my part, unless I get cracking soon) that sat around and never got opened. Eschewed for a new Jane Green or the Book Club book I was supposed to begin three weeks ago.

The third is my lunch break book, "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin. It's a delightful piece of nonfiction that I nibble away at in thirty-minute increments, when I don't have errands to run or have to work through lunch, that is. I embarked on my own Happiness Project a year or so ago, and now find clean delight in principles I'd come up with on my own that I see reflected in Rubin's research. Reading this book now is a reminder to return to the constant practice of those principals, for which I'm grateful. If I had tried to read this book in the past, I fear it would have struck me as preachy or, worse, unrealistic. But having carved my own path to some steady flow of happiness in my life has opened my mind to other peoples' journeys as well. Sure, I might have thought, Rubin has the resources to go about studying her own happiness: she's not a twenty-something bartender laid off from her freelance job due to the media outlet's pending bankruptcy. She probably even has luxuries like "health insurance" and a retirement plan. What audacious wealth! Those years are, blissfully, part of my past now. It's a little easier to contemplate happiness when you're involved in a job that brings you fulfillment, and living a lifestyle that blends much better with your personality.

I go back and forth on the subject of writing my own book. Part of me wholly believes that I lack the life skills and determination to come out with a solid body of work at this point, and part of me sees this as procrastination. The things I learned in my twenties could certainly fill a book, and a funny one at that, but humor requires a certain amount of distance from life experience. I am just now coming around to the idea that decisions I made at 22, 23, 24 are downright comical in how uninformed and dramatic they seem now. But to parse through all of that and come up with a solid plot line requires a little more tying together of loose ends; something that I'm still dealing with.

I will say, I am no fiction writer. Real life is too rich, too amazing, too eerily coincidental for me to make things up. Certainly, I see a definitive value in dressing up the truth as fiction (because, let's face it, I'm also a consummate over-exaggerator-slash-storyteller), and I have a feeling that at some point whatever work I come up with will be a curious blend of the two, if that's possible. I fiddle around with word choices, with story ideas, but nothing yet has compelled me to sit down and churn out a solid book.

I've been told multiple times to just compile all the emails I write for trivia and turn them into a book, but I fear that my audience would be...two hundred individuals living in or around Baltimore City. Which is nothing to sneeze at, but in terms of royalties...not ideal.

Rewind

2011-07-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

There are days, like today, when I wake up, and suddenly realize that I have been living here for four years.

This may not sound like a legendary announcement.

Allow me to explain.

Routine. Alarm, gym, coffee, shower, throwing lunch in a bag, out the door, traffic, parking, rushing, booting, reading, answering, calling, reading, answering, calling, reading, answering, calling, meeting, eating, re-booting, reading, reading, reading, answering, answering, calling, meeting, meeting, reading, reading, traffic, parking, snack, cleaning, errands, dinner, reading, bed, STOP. REPEAT. You get caught up in this cycle.

Of course there are breaks. There are dinners, luxurious mornings of sleeping in, long runs, delicious treats, family, friends, boyfriend, cats, breakfasts, lunches, happy hours, films, books, festivals, travel. These are the things you remember the most, however, and the other days just seemed to get sucked into the tornado of routine, if it can be described as such.

The things I remember most are high highs and low lows. The everyday mundane tends to get swept under the rug, and it is moments like these that I am eternally grateful that I keep journals diligently. If not for this compulsion, we would all be devoid of gems such as this:

July 23, 2003
Denmark, Maine
Summer Job - camp counselor
2011 comments in italics

7:56am- Wake up.
8:00am - Breakfast. (Remember the days when you could wake up and be somewhere in four minutes? Like college. Strong prerequisite: not giving a shit what you look like when you roll in somewhere.)
9:00am - Stables, watched K8 (my nickname for one of my British friends, who is still a good friend of mine, and whom I still refer to as K8) ride new horse.
9:30am - Bunk inspections. Hadn't done them in over a week, but higher powers finally caught on and confronted me at breakfast. Foiled.
10:00am- Cleaned our room. Discovered beds are slightly more bearable with only one mattress instead of two. (Ahhhh, camp beds. For an entire summer, we lived on squishy, tissue-thin mattresses on military cots. With no air conditioning.) Got clean sheets for once - am tired of sleeping in own filth. (I went through a Bridget Jones-phase of writing in my journals. This lasted approximately four and a half years, and immensely entertained me.)
10:30am - Nap. Hungover from drinking in the C______ House (a run-down shack further down in the woods where all of the counselors snuck off to after the kids were asleep to drink Natty Lite and listen to music on someone's shitty boombox. Totally the stuff of horror movies.) Must make 34 costumes. Am very stressed. Solution - nap. I miss the cat. (I was in charge of costumes and set design for the camp's theater program. Sushi, who was only about a year old at the time, lived with my parents that summer. I think they still miss him.)

Someday...I shall post more journal entries. There is a statute of limitations in what I feel is appropriate to post, but I will admit that the Bridget Jones years are points of hilarity in a long history of melodramatic journal entries that read like Danielle Steele novels. (My mother once pointed out that my writing - MY EARLIER WRITING, I WOULD LIKE TO CLARIFY - was reminiscent of Danielle Steele. I am still not over this comment. I may need therapy.)

Journalling has been my constant compulsion. I once made Snap promise that, in the event of my untimely death, she was to immediately round up any and all journals in my estate (as if I have anything that would constitute an "estate" beyond a car lacking working shocks and two fairly brain-damaged cats) and lock them away. She - and only she - had full permission to weed through, decide what would be too humiliating for public visage, and post the remaining entries online. If she could find any that aren't too humiliating, that is. I have a tendency to...well...have literary diarrhea in my journals. Probably about that caliber of writing, too.

The Conversation

2011-07-18T13:50:00.000-07:00

Oh, Artscape.

Headed up for a few hours on Saturday, dropping out of the party every now and then to get some respite from the sun. And by "dropping out of the party," I mean "dropping into the bar/restaurant scene." Brewer's Art, City Cafe, Joss. A trifecta of Mt. Vernon perfection.

Honestly, though I know it pains thousands of hard-working artists to hear, the best part of Artscape has got to be the people. It is a coalition of every single archetype of character in Baltimore City, and I'd wager to throw in an "AND BEYOND!" there too. I spent the entire afternoon rubbernecking the attendees.

But, in what can only be described as 'freakish luck,' we happened upon a Puerto Rican gentleman who had been imbibing for the better part of the day (if not the better part of 2011, sounded like) who proceeded to explain to us why his (white and half-his-age) girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) tried to run him over with her car.

It was suggested without the slightest hint of braggadocio, without exaggeration, and just plain and straightforward: "My girlfriend, who I love with all my heart, tried to run me over with her car."

"Why?"

"She found a Russian in my shower."

This was most certainly a story we wanted to hear.

It turns out that said attempted vehicular manslaughter was the result of the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) coming home and chancing upon a scenario that involved the makings of a romantic dinner and a girl (who was not, in fact, herself) taking a shower. Upon said discovery, the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) stormed out of the apartment to the garage and attempted to peel away in a fit of (rightly attributed) anger, whereupon the gentleman (who was, at this point, being refused drinks by the clearly-perturbed bartender) inserted himself between the automobile and his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart)'s escape route and nearly found himself pancaked by the grief of the cheated-upon.

But why, we asked, was there a Russian girl in his shower?

Naturally, clearly, plainly, we did not understand the needs of this man. We could not conceive of the idea that he could love his girlfriend with all of his heart and still feel the need to stash away a Russian chick in his shower. And cook her dinner.

The two, he insisted, are separate issues.

Apparently it was common sense to him. Perhaps not to us. Or to his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart).

But even better than this story was the company he was keeping at the bar: a young, fete'd-out paaaaaarty boiiiii with the brightest blue color contacts I'd ever seen in my life, who was cruising the bartenders in between telling us stories of growing up in New York City proper ("Whatever, I have so shanked a bitch before and I'll do it again!") and his dog (who is, apparently a "ghetto Jack Russel terrier" with "his own wine tasting").

You cannot make these things up.

Oh, and there was some art and stuff. Culture and whatnot.

Artscape Weekend

2011-07-17T12:07:00.000-07:00

It's Oh-So-Much-Worse Than Expected

2011-06-28T13:42:00.001-07:00

Bristol Palin's memoir, "The Juiciest Bits."

Post-Race Sky-Gazing

2011-06-26T13:13:00.001-07:00

Ran a hard race this morning and took about two minutes off of my time from last year. There were 7 races in between, over the last year, so this is Improvement. Still not my best time (which was an unprecendeted 24:11; in the pouring rain; on a hilly course) but felt good, so I'll go with that. Hit up brunch afterwards, then randomly decided to cash in a coupon for a full-body massage, and now going in and out of naps by the pool. Most excellent day.

In other news, hooray for New York and progressive policy-making. Perhaps the rest of the nation will follow suit.

In other news, Bristol Palin's memoir apparently reveals details that smack of sexual assault by Levi. Too many wine coolers on a camping trip in the wilds of Alaska. While I would never encroach upon any woman's right to the safety of her own body, I have to wonder why this is coming out now, years later, in a book. If BP is such an advocate for abstinence, why would she shy away from the vitally important message that sexual assault is something to be reported? Her mentioning of the incident in a memoir, long after the fact, cheapens it and relegates the act to the unfortunate hush culture of similar assaults. And where the hell was Grizzly Mom Palin, advocating for her daughter's rights to due process in the aftermath of what BP describes as confusing and without her consent? Busy proselytizing about teen abstinence and family values, no doubt.

I'm not going to try and debate whether or not what Levi may or may not have done in a tent on a camping trip constitutes rape. But I take serious issue with BP bringing it up now. If that's indeed what happened, speak out against non-consensual sex and underage drinking, and the relationship between the two. To do anything else smacks of an attempt to reconstruct a public image in the light of Good Girl.

Granted, I have not read the book, so I could be missing something. But the review I read mentioned nothing about follow-up to the incident or advocating against date rape and for the voices of silenced girls to speak out against their attackers. And that, to me, is a greater issue than worrying if BP might have remained a virgin until marriage.

In other news, the BF returns (hopefully) later this week from a long work trip overseas. I hope he brings me a pony, as requested. I do not think this is asking too much. Miniature ponies, when babies, are even small enough to pack as carry-on, and I'm sure customs will have no problems processing its sheer cuteness.

Me 2

2011-06-23T06:20:00.001-07:00

From U2

2011-06-22T17:10:00.001-07:00

At the concert. Madness. My two major thoughts are:
1. Why are there so many unattended children? It's as though someone let loose a farm of Justin Biebers. Is it not a school night? Oh, wait, summer. Still, I can't recall a time when my parents would have sent me off, twelve and unchaperoned, to a major concert. Dateline must be here, somewhere.
2. The care and thought that goes into concert outfit selection is mind-boggling. Not only is it considered a rash faux pas to wear a band T-shirt to the concert of the band you're sporting, I expect the rules must go double for wearing a self-distressed T with the name of the band puffy-painted on. Not only are you violating Rule One of concert attendance (DON'T WEAR THE T-SHIRT OF THE BAND YOU ARE SEEING- EVERYBODY ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE A FAN OR ELSE YOU WOULND'T HAVE PAID CASH MONEYS TO BE HERE), but you didn't even at least spend the 25 bucks to buy official bandwear.

In other news, Florence + The Machine can do no wrong. Ever. She is the perfect love child of Stevie Nicks and Freddie Mercury. I love her forever.

Waiting for U2 to take the stage. Psyched. There are appoximately five bajillion people in this stadium (just an estimate) and the energy is huge. Rock. On.