In my previous post, I made my annual bid for You! Write! My! Content!, with your brilliant incisive questions about L/tU/aE (points for geekery decoding there). Here, I will begin to answer them, as they come. Got your own? Ask it down there, a minion will be with you shortly. Let us begin.
If you had a parental birthday present coming to you and were planning to request gift certificates to exciting New York restaurants so that you could take your boy out to really cool places you might not go to otherwise, which restaurants would you choose?
- Jenn
This is the best question ever because boy, do I love eating on OTM! Other’s People Money! So here are the places I’d suggest:
1. Otto but for the love of god, if you don’t get at least one pizza, three gelatos, the parmesan reggiano souffle, and a cheese platter, just get out already. I have a friend that went there on my recommendation and ordered NONE of those things and I was shattered when he didn’t like it. But don’t be fooled by its “casual” and “inexpensive” listings – you can drop over a hundred bucks in the blink of an eye, for two, and you’ll enjoy every penny of it.
2. Tabla, or, more to my style, the Bread Bar at Tabla, is something I’ve only had the pleasure of enjoying once, with friends who were as awesome about sharing a dozen small plates as I was, and man, was it a blast. Take the boy there and explore your way through delicious little treat after treat and if you don’t try the Bacon Naan, you’re dead to me.
Frankly, those two are so great and personally recommended that I’m going to leave it at that (and I’m assuming your parents aren’t Rockefellers so asking for roughly 100-150 greenbacks for either of those meals won’t insult them with your insane spendy ways, who did they raise you to be anyway?).
I’m curious about this apartment-hunting that you’ve alluded to. Is that still happening? If so, what prompted the move and what are you looking for?
- Jaimie
Um, ha ha, I meant to put a disclosure at the top of the call for questions saying something to the effect of how I have a gag order on all things related to this, a self-enforced gag order of superstition, so you will all have to bear with me for a little while longer until I can spill some excited beans and use many, many capital letters. Mmkay? Pinky swear? Sweet.
Things I Actually CAN Answer (and one more I can’t) In the Extended View…
Sitting around waiting for an interesting blog post to just spring fully formed out of my skull is obviously not yielding anything. When all else fails, here is a list:
- Good news! I am starting to write reviews for nymag.com (that’s New York Magazine to you people far away), in their under-$30 section, which means I get to eat out! a lot! Which I love. First review isn’t up yet but I’ll build it into the sidebar so you New Yorkers can follow me like so many rats to a fiddle. Muah-ha-ha.
- I met Kristin, formerly of Debaucherous and Disheveled, last weekend, and people, she is exactly as awesome, and as tall, as you think she is. We drank lots of wine and ate saganaki and risotto and bonded about life and family and love and she is just one of my new favorite people on the planet. She should be yours, too. And! There’s a spot on her dock in Vancouver whenever Stuart and I scrape enough pennies to make it there.
- I had the following conversations with one of my 1st graders this week, whom I’ve dubbed The Ladies’ Man because for a first grader, he sure is:
TLM: “I’m going to ask out _______ (a girl in the fifth grade).”
Me: “How are you going to do that?”
TLM: “I’m going to buy a car, and drive to her house, and ask her to marry me.”
Me: “Where are you going to get a car?”
TLM: “I got a job. I work at Dozy’s making fruit salad. I get five bucks an hour.”
Me: “How old are you, anyway, TLM.”
TLM: “I’m 24.”
Me: “And you’re still in the first grade?”
TLM: “I’m slow.”
Seriously, it doesn’t get any better than that.
- The weather! It’s nice! I’ve been going out for regular run/walk type things (what, I hate running so I let myself powerwalk most of it although I won’t call it that because that implies polyester jumpsuits) and every minute of the breezy 60-something degree weather makes me think, why don’t I live in Northern California? And then I remember – hippies.
- I’ve been writing using this program called Scrivener and one of the great things is that you work in chapters, all under the banner of one draft, which means I don’t see the whole thing together at the same time until I did, yesterday, and I’m about to break 20,000 words! Damn, dudes! That’s a lot of words on one subject. I am le thrilled.
- Lastly, I’ve done this before and it seriously is SO much fun, so I’m dedicating today and tomorrow to Question Time! Ask me anything. I’ll probably answer it. Or get my minions involved.
Stuart and I met three years ago today. There was a lot of this going on that weekend, and there was a lot of this, too. It was magical and intoxicating and in many ways, was the best week of my life to date, and in the top ten since.
But possibly my favorite memory from that week wasn’t the first time we talked about books, or how Stuart met me outside my office building and threw his arms around me, or the Wednesday that I skived off work and we stayed in bed all day, or even him proposing out of the blue on Saturday afternoon. It’s not the walk through Central Park, or introducing him to Beth and having her smile like she got that I finally got It, or even calling my parents and telling them, you have to come to New York because this guy is the one.
All of those things are beautiful. They’re treasures. But my favorite memory was from Monday night. Shiv and Biscuit were coming over for chocolate fondue. We spent twenty minutes in Trade Fair talking and kissing and laughing, and as we stood in line with the chocolate bars and the milk or whatever, Stuart asked, “What are we going to dip into this chocolate?” and we realized that we’d managed to get two people from the register without any strawberries or pound cake or caramels.
It’s not the most romantic of moments, but it’s certainly the most telling. When you’ve found something that rare and beautiful, you don’t really bother making sure your feet are still on the ground and the right ingredients are in your shopping cart.
I still forget to get the right ingredients or sweep the dust bunnies or mail that form, because I’m too busy being in love, three years later. I’d apologize for it but it needs none. It’s perfect.
february 18th, 2007 – photo taken by the stupendously talented jason, as usual.
Monday morning, I woke up in a mild stupor. I did nothing all morning. Sure, I did some administrative tasks, fiddled with chores around the house, made vague plans to write, plan the week’s meals, go for a brisk walk.
I did none of those things. As a result, I had a terrible day. I was cranky with myself, disappointed with myself.
On Tuesday, I woke up at the same time, pattered about having breakfast and bonding with the Today Show, tidying dishes and books from the night before. I threw on sweats, my red fleece hoodie and sneakers, and took off for an hour around the neighborhood. I passed the pedestrian steps for the Triboro and on a whim, climbed up there. I ended up walking all the way to the second pillar of the bridge, above the Ward Island Park. Up in the center-most part of the suspension bridge, there’s no chicken wire, and you’re fifteen feet above the cars and four hundred feet above the East River. It’s not exaggerating to say it’s fucking brilliant up there.
I got the heart rate pumping, smiling like an idiot at the sun and wind and crisp city skyline to my left. I turned around and headed back, passing a couple of bikers who smiled back because we were sharing a day when so many other people were inside. I got home energized, downed a bottle or two of water, took a shower and made myself a yoghurt and tea mid-day snack, and settled down to the computer. And then I wrote nearly two thousand words in less than two hours.
I’ve been absorbing and processing the difference in days since then. The key to feeling better about this tenuous, self-reliant lifestyle is doing the things that make my days better, that give me a sense of satisfaction at the end of them. Tempting as laziness and procrastination are – and looking at September through December, they are astoundingly tempting – they don’t make me feel better.
So far, 2007 marks the first time I followed the only real resolution I made – make the changes that you want, the changes that support this less beaten lifepath you’re taking. It hasn’t been perfect; there are glitches like Monday. I can’t pinpoint why I only wrote 2000 of my projected 4000 weekly words a few weeks ago. But amazingly, astoundingly, it’s working at maybe a 75% success rate. I’m actually doing the things I know I need to do to make my days better.
I guess what I’m saying is, I never quite grasped what a whole-life approach was. I thought that the only thing that would make it easier to write was just to WRITE. But it turns out, it helps to wake up early, get some exercise, know there’s lunch in the fridge, do the chores when they demand doing, get eight hours of sleep, and enjoy your evenings and weekends. It turns out when I do other things right, the writing comes a lot easier.
Who knew, right? I must be growing up.
From Tiresias, the bling pig keychain.
Fellow wordsmith and man-about-town Biscuit recently noted some of his favourite words and his IM asking me to chime in with mine didn’t make it in time. Since then, great words have been zooming by me and my ears are more finely tuned than usual to pick them out, roll them around, and delightedly romp in the hay with them. Yes! Words are great. Here are some of the words I like to take out on a Friday night and call my baby, say hey waiter, bring on the bubbly, nothing’s too good for these girls:
Reciprocity!
Chicanery!
Vitriolic!
Cacophonous!
Electorate!
Alacrity!
Flotsam!
Debauched!
Fecundity!
Esoteric!
Somnambulant!
Chimera!
Effluvia!
What wonderful words! What humdingers! And you know me, I rarely get crazy with the exclamation points. But damn, these words are charging guns ablaze through the swinging saloon doors and taking the entire sentence hostage with their sharp, shiny edges. These words, they’re like the electric guitar in the polka hall of language.
What are some of your favourite words?
“If you try and take a cat apart to see how it works, the first thing you have on your hands is a non-working cat.”
- Richard Dawkins quoting Douglas Adams, in his eulogy for Adams, September 17th, 2001
This is going to sound strange, and perhaps I’ve been reading too much science fiction and fantasy lately, but I think I woke up Victorian.
I’ve been getting steadily, normally sick for days – pesky cough, lumpy sore throat. Nothing unusual. Still, feeling particularly crappy on Friday, I called in too sick to risk getting the kids sick. I felt stuffy all day but rallied enough to hang out with Stuart when he got home late from work, and eat a couple slices of pizza.
With which I then parted ways, rather irrevocably and violently, at 4 in the morning*.
When I finally got back to sleep after much sipping slowly of water (not even ginger ale in the house!), we slept until 2PM. And I woke up mal du spleen, in the blacke humoures, or with some other vague fainting-couch type illness.
Coughy, headachy, weak as a kitten after triple bypass, achy, tingly, and did I mention, lest you just think this is a cold, my stomach? My stomach felt like someone had poured still-wet concrete into it. Bloated, rumbly and sloshy.
See how all my symptoms end in -y? No good can come of a diagnosis where all the symptoms end in -y. I tried to get some sleep early, around 11, but I’d been quietly sipping too much diet Coke (not around in 1875 London) to really fall into Nod.
Without a real temperature or, not being in any serious pain, and you know, without any REAL SYMPTOMS, I’m left with Pepto for the tummy concrete, Advil for the aches body and head, and Robitussin for the itchy cough. And the Internet for distraction. Four cures that should be able to beat out any Victorian vaguaries and an unexpected case of suddenly turning into some fluttering hand-on-forehead maiden.
But hey, armchair MDs, diagnose away. I’m still sort of hoping it’s my spleen.
* it’s gross, but critical at this juncture, to note that my body has a bizarre but effective habit of promptly jettisoning any food it disagrees with. The only sense in which this is disturbing is when there’s nothing tangibly wrong with the food.
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