Kitchen Dancing

Although I was advised not to, I did it anyway. I cooked dinner for someone. It was stuff I was already making for myself, and it turned out fine. No Bridget Jones style aspirations and resulting fiascos here. Just vodka penne, vegetarian chicken parmesan, gorilla salad, and brownies. Did you catch that? Gorilla salad? While I’m forbidden from discussing the exact details of gorilla salad, I can say it is spinach leaves with strawberries, blueberries, and pecans snuggled in. I suppose I could mention it was introduced to me at a party where someone wore a gorilla suit. And that the decorating theme for the party, inexplicably, was "bananas". So you might not get the idea, but again, I can say nothing else about it. Right then.
Natasha was concerned because I’ve tried this before. I would invite someone over for dinner, over think it and get stressed out, finally crumbling under the pressure and cancelling. I’d evolved a bit and started ordering pizza instead of begging off, no doubt leaving my guest confused about: a) why I bothered; and b) why I was frazzled and disheveled.
My culinary wizardry paid off: it turns out my dinner companion is an Ali G fan. Just like me. Which means I got to borrow Season 1, where I discovered the delights of Ice Cream Gloves and Borat in Savannah. I LOVE that Borat came to see a Sand Gnats game, and that Sacha Baron Cohen was in my town. He also went to UAT as Bruno, and the people there were the nastiest of any I think Bruno has encountered. Typical.
The cooking success can be attributed to one thing: Kitchen Dancing. While the vodka sauce was simmering and the pasta was somersaulting underwater, I was Kitchen Dancing. Kitchen Dancing is the way you dance when there is some good cooking going on and you are giddy with the anticipation of eating something yummy. Kitchen Dancing is the way you dance when no one is watching. Or it is also the way you dance when with really good friends, and you are trying to show off your best goofy skills, just to make each other laugh. Kitchen Dancing is performed by people who don’t take themselves too seriously. It is the purest dance form - simply full-on joy minus the self-consciousness of dancing in public. Oh yes. My moves are premium.

Cats Hate Me

Okay, so I’m an admitted dog person. I do love animals, I just happen to understand dogs the best. My mom and sister are allergic to cats, so I’ve never lived with one. Consequently, I get it wrong - my interactions with cats are as haltingly awkward as a geeky teen at a school dance. I’ve tried to play on their terms. I let them approach me, I use a soothing voice, I let them rub the sides of their face against my motionless, placating arm. I used to draw a fierce Garfield.
Every now and then, I babysit cats for a neighbor or friend. As far as I can tell, the results are mixed I don’t mind helping out, because I am keenly aware of how hard being a single pet owner can sometimes be. There was one cat I looked after for what should have been two days. Except her owner had a serious car accident, leaving her hospitalized and forcing me into a bigger commitment than I wanted. This cat hated me. She would swipe furiously at my legs as I walked by with her food. She hissed and jumped out at me. One time I even called my mom, sobbing, after getting my ass kicked by a 8 pound furball of fury. But I got over it, because on the opposite end of kitty behavior are Victoria’s cats and Nicole’s cats, gentle and affectionate.
This weekend I’m in charge of three new cats while my neighbor is out of town. They are sweet, and one is an incredible fluffers. But they are all under investigation for Feline Naughtiness. Someone (ahem) knocked over a vase of flowers. Thanks a lot! I loved cleaning up broken glass first thing in the morning. Especially when I still had to face the litter box. GAG. I’ll be sending Lady Buttercup to sort you lot out if you don’t behave. Let that be a warning to you.

Packing Heat & Standing on Your Feet

Good news is always welcome. In the past few days, two friends have gotten the jobs they wanted more than any other. So congratulations Victoria and Nicole! I have to say it’s especially good to move on when you’ve despised your job for as long as Victoria has. Plus, she gets to carry a gun. That is fierce, people.

Bathroom Report

Have you ever had a favorite public restroom? I know I’m not supposed to talk about it, but some bathrooms are so memorable and different that it’s actually kind of fun to go in there. Natasha has always been a fearless explorer of public restrooms - I can’t think of a single restaurant we’ve eaten in that she didn’t inspect the bathroom. She dependably returns with a report on the soap and paper situation. One of my best blackmail photos of Natasha is one of her emerging from a public, freestanding toilet in the middle of downtown Glasgow. It was basically an upgraded porta-toilet that you had to pay to use, but she said it was clean and there was a sink and everything.
In Athens, Georgia, my favorite ladies room was in the horticulture building on campus. It had one huge, half-circle shaped sink instead of a few individual sinks. The best part: to turn the water on, there was a foot pedal. Completely satisfies my germophobe tendencies by not having to touch any handles.
I only used the loo at Durty Nellie’s pub in Ireland once, but I’ll never forget it. The wall behind the toilet had a window, just slightly propped open, with a view of the most lusciously green countryside. After drinking Guinness in a smoky, stifling pub, the bathroom was a fresh and airy respite.
Panama City has an Indian restaurant with thoughtful details in the restroom. They have a mouthwash dispenser with little plastic cups, and the towels are thick and generous. I also like to find pay phones in the bathroom, for those pre-cell phone times when you might have to sneak away and call a friend during a dreadful date. I also like the posh restrooms with fancy little soaps and fresh flowers.
There is a new bathroom at work, and it already feels like an oasis. There is a window next to the sink so you get the natural light. It has a full length mirror near the door so you can make sure you have a graceful exit. Plus, the door pushes out so you can skip that whole paper-towel-hands routine on the door handle. Hell yes.

Vegas for Hillbillies

I saw a woman in Kroeger wearing a t-shirt that said, "What happens in Panama stays in Panama". And yes, it was airbrushed.

The Little Yellow House

The past few weeks that I’ve spent apartment hunting have resulted in a few conclusions. The first is that things haven’t quite worked out according to plan. Mr. Right has yet to materialize, and somehow (at age 32) I’ve managed to find myself still single, still renting.
The places I’ve been looking at - let’s just say real estate listings are astoundingly deceptive. It illustrates perfectly how language can be shaped or manipulated to serve someone’s purpose, revealing only what the writers want you to know. If I could rewrite the listing for some of the places I’ve looked at, this is what they should say:
-The little yellow house next to the meth lab
-Enjoy winters spent crouched, shivering, in front of space heaters
-So far out in the country that you’ll never again get a date to pick you up
-That funky smell that trails you everywhere will soon be identified as your clothes, once they’ve hung inside the rotting closets
And so on. Victoria and I saw an actual drug deal, in broad daylight, just down the street from one of the places we looked at. There was a dude standing in the middle of the street who handed a baggie to someone sitting in a car. How we avoided screaming as we sped out of there is amazing.
I tend to be a trust your instincts kind of person. I’m not entirely sure I would like living downtown - it has all the drawbacks of living in a big city. Traffic, a longer commute, no parking, street noise, not feeling safe. As Natasha pointed out, we just aren’t big city girls. It is time to face it - I like having a dishwasher and knowing I can walk to my car without getting jacked. While people are scrambling to make the rent to live downtown so they can stumble home with their go cup, I’m able to go home for lunch and sleep later in the mornings. I'm not ready to buy a home yet also.
So for now, I’ve decided stay put and rent a little longer. Where I’m living suits me, and even though it will soon be sold as a condo I’m not kicked out yet. Besides, this buys me some time so I’m not giving up on my dreams: the dream of owning a home that suits my taste exactly, the dream of living somewhere that has four seasons, the dream of living in the same town as my sister, the dream of living in England for awhile, the dream of buying a home with the man I love and want to share my life with. And that little self-preserving voice that keeps saying resist...resist....resist.

Foam Fingers

Last Thursday I went to see They Might Be Giants with Bianca Vanderhooten and her brother and sister-in-law. Other than the novelty songs that I remember from college, I haven’t listened to They Might Be Giants a great deal, and wasn’t especially excited. But Anna had told me they were a fun concert, and I hate to miss good live music.
As I was waiting for the Vanderhootens, I watched a guy remove his flip-flop. There was a hole in the bottom, and he stuck his finger through the hole and was casually swinging the flip-flop back and forth. The smoke machine output had seeped all the way into the lobby of the Lucas Theatre. In addition to the usual concert fare of t-shirts and cds, They Might Be Giants foam fingers were for sale. Quite a few people were wearing their band t-shirts, not even worried about looking cool. Or maybe they haven’t seen High Fidelity. The place started to smell a bit like infrequent bathers and feet, and I began planning my excuse to duck out early.
The opening act was a guy that was wandering around the theatre prior to the show, and I had this feeling he was related to the band. He turned out to be a ukulele player called Michael Levitan (no idea on the spelling), who sang earnestly about his unlucky love life. He was quite charming, even though at first I was concerned about his gray polyester pants being too short.
As soon as the show started, the Vanderhootens began mixing cocktails from their traveling kit of mini bottles. We didn’t plan this out, but I had also brought my flask. Clearly I’ve chosen wisely on the concert companions. Just as I was pouring the vodka, an usher walked by and I jerked my hands up and inadvertently dropped the cap of my flask right into my drink. So now I have an open flask in my purse, the cap sunk to the depths of a vodka and ice, and I’m trying to discretely balance it all in my lap. After I’ve gotten myself pulled together I notice the correct way to mix drinks. Put the cup on the floor, set your bag in front of it for privacy, and then lean over to pour the drink, as if you were merely sorting through your bag for something. Ah, to watch experienced pros in action.
The concert, by the way, was fun and unpredictable. For a band that’s been around for 20 years or so, they are still creating new sounds rather than just riding on their standard issue hits. They gave us clear and simple instructions on what was expected from the audience. The first half of the show we were asked to sit in our seats while they played new songs, written about each of the venues on their last tour. The guys were cute and funny and the range of their music was broader than I’d thought.
Our instructions for the second half were to stand up, and the audience flooded to the front of the stage. The energy picked up from polite listening to lively (yet awkward) hopping and flailing. We got confettied, we watched cell phone displays sway like fireflies, and the Vanderhootens and I got tipsy. What I liked best about They Might Be Giants is they seemed humble, appreciative, and connected to their roots. They were generous with their enthusiasm, playful, and don’t seem jaded after all these years.

Observe Closely the Listmaker

I feel the need for lists lately - in abundance. Already I’m a devoted and energetic listmaker, and this tendency has been churning overtime. Lists are good for approaching life changes and big events, and soon I expect to be moving house. Lists allow me to feel more control by seeing things laid out in a sensible scheme. They also alleviate mind clutter when I’m daydreaming about things I can’t afford or accomplish just yet. It kicks off the process of going from unprepared and anxious to confident and ready.
I was born to make lists, and can claim having many a listmaker in the family. We believe in the power of the list. We enjoy the soothing satisfaction of crossing items off. Few topics are immune to my interest in sorting, ordering, and connecting them in a list. When I get excited about something - like cute chefs on tv or choice names for dogs - a list is the fastest way to collect my thoughts before they evaporate. It’s a race against time to document my obsessions rather than suffer the consequences of trying to remember what I was thinking about. Writing it out in sentences and paragraphs slows me down and ensures I’ll forget something.
As someone who likes to be prepared, I look at a list and it just makes sense to me. It is succinct and light and not overly ornamental. When I look back at my journal I can see at a glance what I was obsessing over at that time - be it baked goods or my health. So a list of items to send in a care package to kids in college one day is actually me beginning to think about what kind of parent I’d like to be (if life brings that to me). Apparently the kind who sends quarters for the laundry, beauty products, and brownies. It is a method of capturing what my younger self dreamed about for my older self.
My favorite New Year’s tradition is to create a list of everything I can look forward to in the coming year, from the big excitement of concerts and vacations to the small delights like new bath towels or movies coming out. It is a remedy for the post holiday blues.
There is a book - 14,000 Things To Be Happy About - entirely in list format. Page after page of a list of simple pleasant things, such as the sound of walking over gravel or the sensation of someone playing with your hair. Reading just a few pages puts things in perspective.
Some of my favorite lists are not useful or practical. These lists serve no purpose other than to make me feel I’ve accomplished something or set things in order. Or sometimes a random thought crosses my path, and it becomes a list. Like this one that I’ve titled American Women Married to British Men:
-Gwyneth Paltrow & Chris Martin
-Liv Tyler & Royston Langdon
-Madonna & Guy Ritchie
-Gwen Stefani & Gavin Rossdale
-Jennifer Connelly & Paul Bettany

The Universal Appeal of Mr. T

I have always appreciated Mr T - he is such a unique character. His fierceness, his style, and those catchphrases - I love it. Ever since the days of the A-Team, I was fascinated with how he could say whatever he wanted and back it up. He is the complete opposite of me, except for the scowls.

I’ve actually read Mr. T’s autobiography. My favorite photo is one of him with Nancy Reagan, because it is bizarre and random. A couple of years ago, I ran across an item that I was contractually obligated to bring into my possession: a keychain called "Mr. T In Your Pocket". It has six buttons, each corresponding to a Mr. T catchphrase that he recorded. Push one button, and it says, "QUIT YOUR JIBBA-JABBA". Another one says, "DON'T GIVE ME NO BACK TALK, SUCKA!". Victoria left that one on a friend’s voice mail, and all he heard was the end of the message and thought someone phoned him up and called him a cocksucker. That wasn’t just someone Fool, that was Mr. T.!

This delightful toy came with an order form where you could get two free Mr. T stickers. And you know I sent off for those. I gave one to Natasha, and saved mine for the longest time while trying to figure out how Mr. T could be of service. He finally took his place of honor on the back of a pristine new clipboard I bought for work. I convinced Natasha of the brilliance of doing the same, thinking that someone would notice at least one of us and be secretly pleased that such cool people walk around with Mr. T clipboards.

Today, it happened. One of Natasha’s colleagues came up to her and said, "Oh wow, you really do have Mr. T on your clipboard!"

The word is out, people.

Sidewalk Art? Or Distress Signal?

I wish I knew the story behind this piece of sidewalk art! This was my favorite, because of the funny.