2/25/05
Last weekend, on the snow day, I saw Nobody Knows, which might seem like an odd choice for someone who appears to be a child hater. I’m totally not a baby basher, kids can be very cool, it’s just that I don’t run into that tolerable variety very often. And really, it’s the parents who make kids beastly, it’s doubtful they’re born that way. I was excited at first because we were the only ones in the theater (Cobble Hill Cinemas, which is kind of oddball, and the only place I know that has $5 movies during the evening. It was the only place in Brooklyn showing this movie, though, and it’s walking distance.) and unplanned private screenings like that are hard to come by in NYC, even during a snowstorm (the last time I experienced the thrill of watching a film in an empty theater was at About My Mother in Swindon, England during this multiplex’s weekly “art” film night. I guess Swindon residents weren’t too keen on those indie flicks.). Unfortunately, about ten people trickled in at the last minute (I just noticed that it’s not even showing at this theater anymore--it was there less than one week--or anywhere in Brooklyn) and ruined my potentially solitary pleasure. The opening sequences of the movie resonated eerily with me. The mom lies to the landlord that she only has one child, so the other three are snuck in, two in suitcases (my upstairs neighbor apparently also fibbed about how many kids she had to the landlord. I still don’t know what has transpired up there. I do know that she is gone, there is no more childlike pitter patter and that their stroller has been sitting outside for over a week. But there have been footsteps and there’s a TV glow in the darkened apartment at night. Very bizarre, I have no idea who’s up there.) And the big deal is that they need to keep quiet so no one notices them. The mom leaves the kids on their own for extended periods of time till eventually she takes off for good, abandoning them to marry some guy who doesn’t know she even has a family. And of course it all ends up miserably (though not tidily, it’s such a foreign film, like all of a sudden it’s over and there’s completely no answers or resolve) as such tales often do, and it’s based on a true story from the ‘80s so it’s all the more tragic and hard to watch. Then at the end when it’s all bleak and you think you might start bawling this maudlin ballad starts playing and the translation is so insane that you can’t help but want to guffaw aloud. I think the song is supposed to be bittersweet, about the beautiful and the ugly, but the subtitles were going on about angels, dirt and the putrid stench of gems. Though unintentional, the bizarrely humorous lyrics were a welcome antidote. Speaking of the (former?) neighbors upstairs, I couldn’t help but notice a big envelope from the Berkeley Carroll School addressed to this Dana character on the communal foyer table where magazines and oversized mail goes to get pawed and pilfered. I assumed she had requested information and I wanted to know what some fancy learning facility in the neighborhood cost, and it wasn’t like she’d be needing the brochures anymore, so I ripped it open. Most of why I’m so down on kids is because all I ever see are the coddled pampered precocious genre, and now I’m even more sickened and resentful after seeing that kindergarten costs $19,000 a year. I don’t feel so bad hating on people who spend this kind of shit for children. I’m still paying off undergrad loans from ten years ago and those four years cost around $19,000. It is sort of amusing that this woman was possibly going to use scammed money to get her little monsters into good schools (though from what I read, it’s a competitive program, just having the dough isn’t enough). I don’t even know that her kids went to school, though one was clearly of age. We live literally 50 ft. from a public school, which strangely enough I’ve never seen white kids walk into, I don’t know if it’s horrible or if the area parents just have really high standards. Speaking of overindulged kids, I’ve been looking for a new duvet cover, and the only ones I like are way too expensive. There are millions of styles out there, but they’re 95% hideous, all I want are bold graphics, simple yet cute design and good colors. Dwell Bedding completely fits the bill, but I’m not willing to fork out $170, ideal bed covering or not. I couldn’t help but notice their whole new Dwell Baby line. Adorable as it is, I just can’t imagine spending $300 for linens that are going to get peed and spit up on. So, so wrong. I swear I’m just going to move to a cabin in the woods (or my mom’s mobile home park) where kids are all freaky and home schooled, wear hand me downs and sleep on plain white poly blend sheets.

2/23/05
I’m afraid that I’m verging on a mini crisis brought on by all sorts of superfluous circumstances that rationally shouldn’t matter much. For the past few Wednesdays I’ve been doing a letterpress class, which for no good reason I’m not that into. I was annoyed at myself because I read the schedule wrong and missed the first class. It’s $300 for six sessions, so it was a $50 mistake, but dollars aside I’m a freak about detail and procedure and I totally missed all the basics. Every class I feel clueless and stressed that I’m not going to get my project done properly in the time remaining. Whatever, but my main freak out came from the fact that like 1/3 of the class (who is 9/10 female, of course) is using the workshop to print their wedding invitations. On one hand that’s practical and economical, but on the other it’s just gross. Being around all these exuberant women makes me feel icky. Then yesterday my sister emailed to say among many things (I guess my mom didn’t completely fuck up her birthday party) that she was proposed to by her boyfriend. That’s nice, for real. But I don’t feel as enthusiastic about it as I probably should be. Maybe because she’s going on her second, and I’m still free as a bird (it struck me odd that all the women I can think of in my family got married at 20 or younger, much younger is a few cases. So maybe I’m the freak. I’m also the only one with a college degree, two now. There’s probably some correlation, though I’m hardly what you’d call a career woman). It’s this thing I have with others who’ve been together shorter amounts of time than James and I who do all these milestone things. Even when I’m not into the milestone. Like yesterday I emailed former coworkers to see if anyone wanted to meet up for drinks since I hadn’t seen any of them since leaving in the fall, and one of them (who weirdly enough was friends with James in Baltimore in the early ‘90s and went on a semi-date with him) is now almost six months pregnant. I mean, she met this guy maybe three years ago and they’ve been married less than two years. I never ever want a baby, so it’s not jealousy. Marriage I could go either way on. It’s just not a subject really I discuss, though if I were to bring it up in a serious way I don’t think James would necessarily be opposed. But I don’t want to have to bring it up. Maybe that’s what I’m irritated about. Even if neither of us were gung ho on the concept of marriage, he should at least give the impression that he would marry me if presented with the choice. Does that make any sense? We’ve been together longer than just about anyone I know, and during that time many couples with less history have married and started families. This annoys me, and not because I want to be married and start a family, but because I want these other people to not. What freaks me out is the passing of time, that everyone else clips along doing the expected things while I stay totally the same internally (though not externally. I swear my 30s are really starting to take their toll all of a sudden. I always thought lines and wrinkles would become my worries, but that’s the least of my problems. See, I’ve always had a problem with photogenics. Seriously, I’ll leave the house looking perfectly cute, but as soon as my image is captured on film it turns ugly. It’s practically become a joke with friends, every snapshot I’ve got some insane expression. I think it’s because I’m usually very animated and talking loudly, and these faces when frozen in time aren’t glamour shots, exactly. And now with ubiquitous camera phones and digital cameras at every bar and party, I’m offered even more opportunities to mar film frames. So, I’m aware that I’m the opposite of picture perfect, but the photo a friend took this weekend takes the cake. I honestly have never seen myself look so scary. The expression on my face is predictably insane, that was no surprise. But it’s my face itself that is so frightening. It’s as if I’ve channeled Carol Channing, I look 85 years old. My face is all bloated, palsied and jowly and my neck is all sinewy and turkey-like. James likened my visage to his mother who’s pushing 70, then softened and said I resembled Nixon. How does this happen to a person? Maybe the photo is really a magic mirror into the future, and now I know how I’ll age. I can’t post it here out in the open because that’s too traumatizing all around, it’ll have to stay tucked away on its own deep dark page. Use extreme caution, please.) while I stagnate into this haggard immature old maid. Ok, here’s another example, albeit a superficial one—when I randomly met Henry Thomas in ’98 he was single, totally unattached. I’m the same person I was then, but he’s since been married twice and had a kid. That’s weird to me. I wouldn’t do those things. It’s very bothersome to my psyche. Is this the crap people pay therapists to discuss? I feel bad, my stomach is churning, I’m angry inside, but I don’t know why…let’s talk through these scary feelings. Eh, I don’t get it. I might as well keep typing away here instead. At least it’s free and I have the power to bore complete strangers to tears with my musings.

2/18/05
The world is going completely nutty. Last night my sister called, which was unusual due to the five hour time difference we really only talk during afternoons, and sporadically at that. I knew something must be up. She was all spazzed out, couldn’t sleep, then posited “Guess who just showed up at my doorstep?” I honestly was baffled. Our 20 year old cousin (whose high school photo prompted a friend of mine to ask, “Is she Samoan?” Uh, no.) has been doing a semester in London, but she wasn’t the unexpected guest. It wasn’t her (ex?) husband that she recently received a 1,000 pound cheque for and had been trying to enlist me to help cash somehow. No, I ran out of guesses. The surprise visitor turned out to be our mom, which is completely fucking nuts because that’s not really the kind of thing she normally does, and it wasn’t terribly welcome on my sister’s part. It’s going to turn very ugly, I predict. There’s got to be more to this story, the mom has good enough sense to realize this wouldn’t be an ideal birthday present. We suspect she’s had a falling out with the stepdude, or god knows what. I’m just afraid it’s the beginning of the end, and we’re going to have to deal with increasingly kookier behavior the older she gets. At least our father wouldn’t commit such a rash act, he was kind enough to forget our birthdays altogether. Then later last night I was making a stir fry with lotus root (a very cool looking vegetable, I’ve only recently started using) and semi-watching The Apprentice when our door started buzzing. James and I ignored it, as we always get wrong buzzes, being apt. #1 on the ground floor. But it kept buzzing. Fear gripped me for a second as I imagined my mom standing out front, but getting to NYC from London that fast would’ve been impossible. James caved, answered to door and it was two plain clothes detectives, totally Law & Order (though hardly the fat-men-in-training Vincent D’nofrio and Chris Noth). They assumed we were the landlords (I told you, the first floor causes trouble) and wanted to know if Dana something or another lived in the building. We both blanked for a second, but I do know that’s the first name of the new tenant upstairs with the out of control kids. Oh boy, something juicy was totally going to happen. We could hear the cops upstairs for at least 30 minutes (I missed the Apprentice boardroom scene because we had muted the TV to try and eavesdrop). They eventually came back down and asked us if we had the landlord’s name and number (I’m still not clear why they didn’t/couldn’t get this info from the woman) and asked if we had noticed anything weird going on upstairs. It was so mysterioso, and they wouldn’t say what was up, only that they were conducting an investigation and were trying to find the guy who was supposedly living upstairs. They also were curious about what her rent would be ($2,300, I’m pretty sure, which actually had me suspicious from day one--how this stay at home mom with three kids afforded such an expensive apt. Not to stereotype, but women like her usually live in dumpier digs. She isn’t an unattractive mess, she has sort of a sporty Gap look that fits in with the surroundings, but she lacks the requisite helpful white upper middle class male counterpart. Women with children in Carroll Gardens have men who are equally if not more involved in the parenting, they do everything together, and gleefully so) It then occurred to me that I hadn’t seen the man who’d initially helped the family move in, and who I’d assumed was the father/husband, around in weeks. We speculated all night about what could be going on. We were giddy at the prospect of the horrible neighbors not just being on our shit list, but also the long arm of the law’s. So, the details are still vague, but James was contacted by the landlord this morning to discuss what is going on. It appears that this Dana character is a con artist who tells a sob story about a husband being stationed in Iraq (oh, and that he’s in the F.B.I. total grade school mentality kind of exaggerated fib) and somehow is able to use his ID to cash checks (the very thing my sister has been trying to pull off minus the ID) and commit all sorts of identity theft. It also appears that the guy we saw with her is probably a boyfriend/accomplice. But Dana had been staying in this supposed Iraq guy’s apt. in Manhattan and had pulled a scam where she subletted it to six different people, then ran with the money. I’m guessing this is how she is affording the rent upstairs. And if she hasn’t already packed up and skedaddled, I think she is going to be arrested today. This is so awesome, I can’t stand it. It’s pretty rare that I’m annoyed and put out by someone and the thorn in my side is so quickly removed. Of course, a kinder, gentler person would worry about the precious children. You know, the real victims. Me, I don’t mind if they go into foster care as long as they’re not stomping above my head any longer. Actually, this story has all the makings of a charming fish out of water movie or sitcom. Through some weird quirk of the law or a bizarre but binding clause in our lease, James and I end up becoming the legal guardians of the three rapscallions upstairs and all five of our lives are forever changed…for the better. There’s a long proud tradition of this kind of tale. The protagonist is either a corporate ladder climbing workaholic, tough guy, womanizer or plain mean child-hating asshole. They’ve somehow managed to make it well into adulthood without reproducing, kid(s) unexpectedly show up, style is cramped, hell then hilarity ensues, hearts are ultimately warmed and life lessons learned. I will look to Baby Boom, Three Men and a Baby, Punky Brewster, and more recently (apparently this saccharine genre skipped the ‘90s, or else I’m just drawing a blank) Kevin Hill and The Pacifier (total Kindergarten Cop rip off) for strength and inspiration.

2/17/05
I don’t really have a grasp on how random trends start. I’m not presently concerned with color (though there was an interesting article recently in the Wall St. Journal (subscription only, can’t link) about how the brown/blue combo is big for 2005 and has much to do with Pantone and their hyping up of colors, usually to clients two years before consumers start noticing it. I noticed the blue/brown thing quite a while ago, in fact two Valentine’s Days ago, when I was charmed by the Marie Belle packaging [I gave it rather than receiving it, which was sort of odd because it’s very girly chocolate], a company cited in this trend piece. West Elm was doing it maybe eight months ago. It was all over Ann Taylor maybe two months back. I had been talking about trying to do our living room in blue/brown shades, but James was all, “you’ll get tired of it.” Yeah, yeah passing fancies are like that. I guess it’s good to be around someone who’s immune to design whimsy. I’ve also been trying to figure out ways to use flocked wallpaper without actually papering the walls, but that’s another flash in the pan décor device I’ll be sick of in a matter of months), but about food. Red velvet cake in particular. I kind of knew of its existence previously, but it really came onto my radar last July when we summered in the south. I was trying to sample quintessential foodstuffs, red velvet cake being one, though I never actually got around to having any. Pralines and pecan pie sort of consumed me. For my birthday in late July I finally got to taste my first slice of the cake courtesy of Cake Man Raven in Fort Greene. Really, it’s just devil’s food cake made red with food coloring and topped with white cream cheese frosting. Um, but that’s a pretty good combo, confectionarily speaking. I think it just plays into my love of unnaturally colored food. Cake shouldn’t be that red and that’s why it’s so pleasing to me. Why it’s become pleasing to practically the entire nation in the past six months is what I find baffling? Britney Spears served the dessert as her wedding cake last fall. On the previous series of The Apprentice teams had to come up with an ice cream flavor for a task involving Ciao Bella Gelato, red velvet cake was one of the offerings. And every blurb I read on new bakeries opening around the city, red velvet cake is inevitably mentioned. Baked NYC being one (note the Red Hook Red Hot), and Landscape Café in “Billyburg” today on Gothamist (I’m a retard and don’t understand TrackBacks—whenever I try the URLs at work they don’t work) being another. Oh, and two Fridays ago, we spent a glorious evening shopping at our favorite all-purpose grocery store Western Beef (we practically had the whole store to ourselves, it was amazing) and in the weirdo bakery section at the entrance they had red velvet cake, which I’d never ever seen there before. In fact, there were numerous things I’d never seen at Western Beef before. I’m not sure if they’re increasing their variety or that when we usually come on a Sunday everything has been bought up. There were displays of South American and Mexican pastries and a sassy line of Entenmann’s called Delicias Latinas with dulce de leche and tres leche cakes, guava pastries, and all sorts of sweets using tropical fruit. It was very cool. I’ve also always been fascinated by something often at the Western Beef bakery called meat bread, but not fascinated enough to buy it. The red velvet cake totally doesn’t fit in with this Western Beef’s demographic (their slogan is “we know the neighborhood” and supposedly each location has carefully chosen items. Like the one we like in Ridgewood, also has lots of Eastern European goodies, despite the Hispanic to Polish ratio of the shoppers being practically 20 to 1) so I can only guess that its new presence is an indicator of its growing popularity with the masses. Whole grains, white tea, regional (i.e. Galician or Catalonian rather than the broader Spanish) cuisine are a few of the supposed food trends for 2005. Tamarind, sumac, yuzu, bergamot, whatever, we all know the hot new flavor will be red velvet cake.

2/15/05
I don’t know if this Mary Kay Letourneau/Vili Fualaau wedding registry is real or not, but I hope so because it’s so good. I tend to say it’s legit because the items are straightforward rather than jokey. I do like the Pacific Islander touch in wanting a rice cooker. Of course, I own a rice cooker and am not Asian, but I don’t see that appliance being a Mary Kay choice. She’s totally a mac and cheese/spaghetti and meatballs type. I bet she eats Caesar salads with grilled chicken, too. Their charities are pretty amusing—save the children, indeed. See, baby-lovers can find happiness in this world. True love knows no bounds, it totally transcends jail time and rape charges. Personally, I would go with Club Wedd (wow,TV trays are the fourth most popular registry item. Target is my kind of people. Honestly, I haven’t touched a TV tray since my youth, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the concept). So, Megu was fun and decadent, not really obnoxious or pretentious at all like I’d feared, and I drank too much (I dropped my “slightly sweet egg” on the ground while trying to crack it in this nuts dish/cup combo that magnetically held the shell at a 45 degree angle. So wrong [and that was a dessert], I don’t even think the sake had anything to do with my sudden onset of butter fingers) and didn’t get enough sleep (nah, not what you’re thinking—we didn’t get home till 1am and still had to watch the episode of 24 we’d taped. Ooh, those bad, bad sleeper cell Muslim-Americans getting Islamic advocates all upset). and I’ve been a complete zombie all day so I shouldn’t write any more of it’ll be a jumble.

2/14/05
Whew, I can breathe a sigh of relief, Valentine’s Day wasn’t forgotten, after all. Really, I’m lucky to be taken anywhere out in public at all. I’m hardly ungrateful, but there have been more than a few special occasions where I would’ve preferred less manly/meaty food (and I love manly/meaty food). That’s why I was surprised by the email I just got from James saying we were going to Megu tonight. He never ever eats Japanese food, and whenever I suggest it (which frankly, isn’t all that often), it gets shot down. All I can think is that someone he has a high opinion of at work mentioned the place or that he read about it somewhere recently because I don’t see him choosing this restaurant completely out of the blue, not that he normally has bad taste, of course. I get the impression this is one of those over the top, high presentation, hyper sceney (easily deduced by our 10:30 reservation time, despite not being made last minute), way pricey, tiny servings deals, which always makes me a little nervous. Oh, I just made the connection in my head between Megu and a post I recently read about getting freshly grated wasabi in the eye at this swank establishment. Heck, they got free meal out of it. I’d take a wad of Japanese horseradish in the peepers if it saved me four hundred bucks plus. Maybe I could try staging that tonight, like folks who purposefully slip in stores or get rear ended intentionally. What could be more romantic?

2/10/05
Ok, not to beat a dead cheval, but there was another freaking piece on the Veuve Clicquot CEO who wrote that book about French women and their exquisitely svelte physiques in the NY Times (yesterday). Read it, and you might start to feel like shoving a stale Au Bon Pain croissant up her unexercised ass (French women don’t need to work out). At least the article’s author pointed out many French women have smaller frames than melting pot Americans (I don’t know if this is true for a fact, but I do know that when I was an exchange student in ’89, the females in my host family and their extended family were teeny tiny. Not just skinny, but short and fine boned. They thought I was a total giant, and I was a very average sized 16 year old) and that their culture is more chauvinistic (not using that term), how men are very vocal about their women needing to stay thin, and the ladies are very conscious of this. You could say the same is true in America, but just because the men are all “no fat chicks” doesn’t mean that’s what they’re going to get. Anyhoo, Valentine’s Day rapidly approaches and I haven’t heard even a peep of a plan so far. I’m hoping this is because there’s a huge wonderful (food-filled) surprise in store for me and talking about it would just ruin the fun, and not because this week is supposedly one of James’s most stressful and horrible ever work-wise (all the weeks seem the same to me, I can’t tell) and he’s too preoccupied with data delivery or risk analysis, or whatever the heck it is that he does. Maybe my lack of remorse over my fat American ass has soured the Hallmark holiday. I’d pick up a copy of “French Women Don’t Get Fat” at the NYPL branch a block from work, but darn if there aren’t already 423 holds on the 22 copies in the system. If any of you are Gawker readers, you’d think that the streets of New York are paved with B-List celebrities to be sighted. But me, all I ever get eyefuls of are D-Listers, if that. Yesterday, that guy from Surprise By Design (I know, no one has any idea what this show is. Weirdly, it happened to be on around 11pm last night while I was randomly flipping channels) was totally lollygagging next to NYPL (something Fashion Week related, I suppose) and totally irritated me because he was in my way with his slowness and I take pride in speed walk maneuvering most city sidewalks. It was almost as exciting as the time I spotted that zany, wound up, free money guy coming out of Canal Jeans (it wasn’t hard, what with all those question marks plaguing his suit).

2/6/05
Ok, I’m skimming the NY Times online while dreading the arrival of James and “mama and papa” (despite his insistence to the contrary, his parents come to NYC way too frequently) and getting ready to prep for our Super Bowl party later this afternoon (I’m don’t really follow any sports, but I thought it would be a good excuse to cook fun American food instead of the slightly fussier S.E. Asian fare I usually go for. Actually, I’ve started getting on a Spanish/Basque kick, which is odd because I’m not so keen on European styles. But I’m also always annoyed when practically every cookbook or TV chef constantly goes on about family tradition and learning all they know from a beloved Italian grandma or whatever. Fuck their rich lore-laden roots and heritage. I’m probably just jealous because all that was passed down in my family was the knack for microwaving frozen food and the ability to open cans. Despite never knowing her [everyone on the Garcia side dies disturbingly young], my dad’s mom was Basque, and Basque cuisine is like the hottest shit in the food world right now, so I should really claim and embrace this heritage. Basques are cool, they have their own language that predates most European dialects and uses lots of Xs and Ks, they blow things up, they have different DNA than other Europeans.) Anyway, before I started making nachos, spinach dip and crab rangoon (my newest fixation) I glanced at that little “most e-mailed” box that’s often on the right side of the nytimes.com screen. Usually the top slots are op-eds, I hardly ever read them, but apparently they’re popular pass along material. But as of 12:30 this afternoon, the number one position belonged to ‘French Women Don’t Get Fat’: Like Champagne for Chocolate, a review of the book that makes me want to barf despite not ever reading it (though the whole first chapter is available on nytimes.com). It’s a pretty positive review, though coming from a senior writer at Vogue it’s hard for me to lend it credence. Though the article must be spreading like internet wildfire according to its ranking. Someone enjoyed reading it. I’ll enjoy scarffing down a plate of Buffalo wings more, I suspect.