LaurieWrites

Pumpkin Party

Dan: I have no reason to blog.
Me: Everyone has a reason to blog.
Lauren: I just don't know why anyone would care about what I have to say. Like maybe three people?
Me: That works for me.
Dan: Like what do you blog about? Starbucks?
Me: Why in the hell would I blog about Starbucks? Oh...wait, now the pumpkin spice latte, THAT I've blogged about.
Dan: See, blogging about Starbucks. I can't blog.

I'd actually been thinking that it was time to blog about Starbucks again, because I had the best such latte I've  ever had the other day. EVER. And while driving along and sucking it down like I do, I may have spontaneously said aloud "It's like a party in my mouth." Not that I'd ever tell him that.

Your tomatoes suck

I love grocery shopping. I can't believe it's been more than two years since I first spoke in depth about just how much.

Since I just moved recently, I've been familiarizing myself with my environment, to include a new grocery store. To be honest, I don't like the grocery store near me at all, and it's one of the things that depresses me most about the new spot.(I won't go into the other things. Yet. Denial is still functioning at a really super high level.) It's a mostly shitty store. I judge them solely on produce - first impressions and all - and also, if you can't be bothered to make me a nice salad, I am simply not dealing with you. And since I've moved into a neighborhood that isn't at all wealthy, in fact skewing towards the lower end of the economic scale (at least until you hit the new, overpriced, "urban redevelopment" condos on the other side of the Route), I've noticed that the powers that be must think NO ONE HERE CARES ABOUT DECENT LETTUCE.  It's environmental injustice at its worst, I think, because I've also moved into a really integrated town that skews more African American and Hispanic. I'm one of the few pushing-40 (oh dear GOD it's finally happening.) white women in the store, most of the time. Sometimes the only.

I'm also prone to deep conversations with clerks. And clearly, as my new favorite one indicated, I'm in the very small demographic of people who would actually buy certain unpalatable products on the shelves of her store. Herewith, an inaccurate transcription of my absolute very favorite conversation in recent recorded memory. It makes up for every person who's ever grunted "I'm fine" when I ask them how they're doing.

Me: Hello.
Her (I shamefully do not remember her name but next time I will.): Hey.
(Scan. Scan. Scan. Scan. Stopping at pickled tomatoes.)
Her: Uh, what are these?
Me: Pickled tomatoes. 
Her: These are gross.
Me: No, not really. They're actually really good.
Her: I really don't think so. Look at them. They don't even look right. I thought they was potatoes. They don't even LOOK like tomatoes anymore. They look...WRONG.
Me: Er, actually, I was pretty happy to see you carried them at all. You can normally only get them in delis.
Her (Staring at me like this was a "What's Happenin'" episode, and she was Shirley and I was Rerun): Delis. Hmph. You like pickled things?
Me: Yeah, I do. I like...sour things. Olives. pickles. Gross tomatoes.
Her: I just think that's a bad idea. Like, where did you even FIND those?
Me: Back in the refrigerated section...with the other...umm....refrigerated pickles.
Her: Wow, I've just...I don't know. I've never seen them in here in my LIFE.
Me:Are you a picky eater?
Her: Nah. I just don't like things that look like that.
Me: Well you know, you've really made me think about this, but I think I'm going to have to take my chances. And I'll think about you every time I eat one of my delicious tomatoes.
Her: What?
Man Behind Me, to me: She didn't get it.

I laughed the whole way home.

Steel City Saturday

Day one conclusion: Pittsburgh might be the most humid place on the East Coast. This is a challenging - and unfortunate- lottery to win.

I just woke up, and my hair resembles Rick Allen's, (who is now, by the way, spiritually transformed, playing with Krishna Das, and running the Raven Drum Foundation with his wife.)

Sample quote: "I’d say that Hare Krishna has more energy attached to it in terms of thousands of years of being uttered than “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”"

Right on. Yay for evolution. But I don't know...there's some sick energy concentrated in late-80s ROCK, dude. Don't underestimate it.

Yes, Pittsburgh hair. And also, I'm trapped in some "All the Right Moves" Tom Cruise/Willy Wonka Guinness Factory. Freaky.

Other observations thus far:

1. There is a freaking Bravo here. Pasta Bravo, friends: "Our signature dish-rigatoni tossed with wood-grilled chicken and mushrooms in roasted red
pepper sauce." GUESS WHOSE face will be smack in the middle of a plate of that lovely, lovely stuff before the day is out? RICK ALLEN'S, channeled by ME, that's who! Pour some Pasta Bravo on me, in the name of Krishna Das and drum circles! Please!

We have Brio at home, their upscale version, but it's just not the same. I spent many nights at the Dayton Bravo. I even worked there for two days.

2. Speaking of drums (please see Rick Allen item), I met a nice man named Michael Vignole at the festival who will sell me a handmade bodhran for a reasonable price. He tells me if I have rhythm I can play it. And oh, that's really not a problem. There's a workshop today. I'll be there.

3. Got into an argument - an ARGUMENT, because I apparently have deeply held opinions about such things - with a guy in a Flogging Molly t-shirt at the bar last night about the necessity of indicating that such and such a band is an "IRISH" rock band, and the validity of said "Irish rock" as a genre. I seem to recall posing the question of whether aHa really needed to be labeled a Norwegian band, when "a band who are really just cartoon renditions of men, who also happen to ride reindeer" would suffice. (kidding about the reindeer part.) He totally started it, I swear. I just stated an OPINION. Why bring the noise so fast, huh? Calm DOWN. I know it's alarming when a damned GIRL has drawn a conclusion or two about music, but it might happen again. Prepare yourself for the onslaught. Of course he's from DC. Apparently these guys are supposed to change my mind. Also, Dropkick Murphys! Rawr? Ruh-roh?

4. Sandwiches come with French fries and coleslaw ON THEM here.  Seriously, this place?  Insane. And at 2 a.m.? Insaner. They're open 24 hours a day.

5. I learned in Breezewood, town of motels,  (one of my favorite roadtrip places, honestly) that there is reliable wireless internet access at over 470 truck stops nationwide.  It is not free, however. 

Also, there is a MySpace for truckers, in case your world is missing MyConvoy.

6. Beer monopolies at Irish festivals are a bad idea.

7. Pittsburgh has a ton of bridges.

8. Finally, this town is home to a band called the Corned Beef & Curry Band. Not as trainwrecky as the title could suggest. Bob Bannerjee, fiddle player and vocalist, is a very talented guy. Props to the rest of the crew, too. It was quite a jam session.

More illuminating points later. And some more embarrassing pictures, because that's my self-created job.

Yelp

I've been yelping quite a bit lately. I get to opine about the places I go and give them ratings and talk smack about them if I feel like it, which is actually turning out to be a great writing exercise if I have other work to do that I can't quite get jump-started.

The site is really helpful if you want to check out public opinion on anything from restaurants and bars to dry cleaners and beauty salons. We used it a lot on our last trip to New York, to confirm or deny locations and to get a general vibe for what people thought about restaurants, specifically. It's good if you're traveling somewhere new. I know I'll use it like crazy for Chicago places.

Go ahead - yelp yourself. It's liberating.

Self-reliance and other good things

I went to New York again - for the last time for awhile, I think, since I have to see other places - this past weekend. I think I love it so much there because it's so easy to take a good picture, and if there's one thing I like, it's taking what I hope is (and sometimes turns out to be) a good picture. The set is here.

As usual my favorites are random. Maybe someday I'll actually do something with all of these images.

NYC

The photos are up from the NYC trip. I like them, mostly, this time around, unlike Texas where I was like, "Ew, who is this unoriginal photographer? Holy shit, it's me!" Here are a few of my favorite shots.

Mom in front of CBS and the Broadway Theatre.

Majestic

Rooftop

This is my favorite person ever. He was hanging out in his windowsill on Sunday morning in Little Italy watching the crowds on the street (note the pillows he has set up for padding.) When I hesitated to take his picture, he flashed the peace sign and yelled for me to take it. Awesome. (Make sure you click on it to make it bigger or check it on flickr so you can see his expression. I wish I'd stuck around and tried some more, as I'm sure he would have been down.)

Fall Stories - Part Three, I think

I decided it was probably time to move the "Shitty" header down, as much as it's been making me laugh. And it seemed a good time to highlight some more of my pictures from some recent travels and other random fun and games. If you're a flickr contact, pardon the repetition...but I know you don't get much of the backstory on there, and you have to be dying for it. Right? ; )

First, there's my dog and the latest installment in his ongoing showdown with the fiercest rubber monster in all the land. This thing could kick some serious ass.  If it were REAL. I don't know what exactly he thinks it is, but he goes ballistic in his old, demented doggie way whenever I - of course- antagonize him by bringing it cloooooooooosssssssseeeeeeeee to his face, and then faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr away. 

Relax. Eventually I let him win. He always wins. This thing makes him nuts, so I don't make him wait as long to chase it and (I'm sure he thinks...) kill its already inanimate self. I guess it would freak me out from that angle too, though...with this coming at me and whatnot:

My friend Andrew is not a monster, but he's crazy for Greek food, and I like to feed people, so I bought him some. He smiled like this.

Let's see, what's next? Oh, yes. Before I bought him food, I took this picture. Home is pretty. Pretty, pretty home. : )

Last week I went to Indiana. Marcus, my colleague and adopted little brother, was the best co-pilot ever, and I don't just say that because he makes up new lyrics to "Chain Hang Low" that make me laugh and laugh. I mostly say it because of that, but not entirely. He also has a perfect sense of direction, and this is essential when serving as my co-pilot. We went to Bloomington, and also took a sidetrip to Dayton, where I saw Steven's new house. And then we went to the Dayton Friday's and caught up for a very short time, but it was good. He votes for happy hour, by the way.

Indianapolis was an okay city to hang out in. I went to my first NBA game, got to go to Steak & Shake for the first time since I left Dayton (thank God they don't have them here. Too much of a good thing), visited the IU campus, which is gorgeous, and showed Marcus the UD campus. I didn't have any good Dayton propaganda, so I bought an overpriced hoodie that I swear I never want to take off. It's going to be an integral part of my schlumpy winter uniform.

My friend Annett was in town for business for just that day, too, and happened to call from the airport  to see what I was up to, having no idea I was there. She lives in Virginia now, but I met her in Ohio, so it was funny that she was there, and we all got to meet up and have dinner. We were joking that it figures that I come to town for one day after being gone for seven years and I can still compose a dinner party faster than I can in Maryland some days. It's a homey place like that. This is her with some of Marcus's dessert at Bravo, where I must have eaten once a week when I lived there. He's still talking about that dessert, in fact, as evidenced by this photograph that seems to say, "Is that a foreign spoon heading towards my apple loveliness?" All I can say is that I will not steer you wrong in the culinary landscape, my friend.

I also went to the Eiteljorg, a cool museum of Native American art in Indy, and saw this excellent machine, the Art-o-mat. It's an old cigarette machine that dispenses works of art on blocks about the size of...a pack of cigarettes. It's part of the museum exhibit and also works, so it ate five bucks of my money and gave me a painting of a sheep on a block of wood. The pinhole photo one was out, so I just pulled at random and got this woman's work. Awesome idea. If you care about art - particularly innovative work - you need to click on that link, honest, or this one, where you can find out where all the machines are. And if you're a working artist, they take submissions. I bet it's not a big moneymaker, but how cool. Maybe I'll send some photos. Don't know. But click. Go ahead. You want to.

The museum has three Georgia O'Keeffe paintings, and I loved this one. I wanted it. Even a print would have done, but there were none to be had.

This photo was taken at Luna Music, a store in Indianapolis that Brittany recommended to me. If you can see the handwritten sign between Johnny Cash and Miles Davis, it says, "I am not afraid of you and I will beat your ass," which I found most fitting.

Also in Indiana, we saw Sandy Allen, the lady who happens to be the second tallest woman in the world at a Pacer's game. (And in further proof that Wikipedia is a goldmine of somewhat unreliable weirdness, check out that Split Enz wrote a song about her, called "Hello Sandy Allen". Bizarre.) People were talking to her and getting her autograph, and she seemed chill about the whole thing - motoring around outside in the rain after the game with her hood up, smoking a cigarette.

We saw a blues band who were a combo of Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future, a slightly less shaggy Garth from Wayne's World, and maybe the guy from Sixteen Candles? They were good, in any case. These signs were key to the downtown Indianapolis experience. They're animated, and are designed by Julian Opie as part of the downtown public art project. It was weird to see the street sign slinking towards you seductively, but I dig the concept. 

I came home and immediately headed to Susan and Ray's wedding. It was such a great day. She was so serenely happy, it radiated from her out into the air and standing next to her you just kind of sighed. For instance, this was the most serenely happy version of YMCA that I've ever seen. I've never seen so many smiles in one day. They just couldn't stop smiling. They are so sweet, and so happy. I love that in people.  

Weekend Update

Last weekend was fun. I've got much photographic evidence (DUH!) on flickr, so you should really go there and see, because you won't want to miss a single iota of the hilarity and wonder- dogs in poodle skirts, Moroccan men pouring tea from such great heights, a hot blonde bellydancer in an African restaurant (right?), cool reflections in a bar surface, raspberry ice cubes...You know, random stuff like that.

Friday I went down to see Dawn Avery play at the National Museum of the American Indian, which is one of my favorite spots in DC, in spite of my belief that the space is underutilized and the exhibitions not as well displayed as they could be. (Right, like I'm a curator? And an architect? No...But I can't help it.) The museum is notable amongst other things for a truly excellent cafeteria, which features foods traditional to tribes throughout North and South America. That was closed by the time we got there, unfortunately, but I'd definitely for lunch if I were in the city during the day. I highly recommend it if you're anywhere near the Mall.

Dawn is very talented, incredibly prolific, and clearly shows her sense of responsibility to her people and to her art. She is of the Mohawk tribe, and performed several of her compositions, which she primarily vocalized and performed on cello, with help from her friends on strings and percussion. One of her most interesting pieces is "Decolonization," which cobbles together native and post-colonized "patriotic" songs, so it's a statement (I'm guessing) on the destruction of the Native Americans and their way of life by the settlers. It includes a distorted version of the Star-Spangled Banner on her cello that expresses anger and sadness in a way that words couldn't.

Later we ate at Ray's the Classics, which is a new restaurant in Silver Spring. I interviewed "Ray" (aka Mike someone or the other) years ago for a magazine I used to edit, and I reminded him of that, but he didn't remember and in fact said some choice things about that publication and another that I used to write for. I already knew them, but I was surprised by how embarrassed I was even though I'm no longer a part of either one. He still brought me his special homemade hot chocolate which kicked every ass in the joint, collectively. So good. Homemade whipped cream. AAAAHHHH. I had almost forgotten that quirky "chef" personality, which isn't common to every single member of the species, but let's just say it's close. I always loved working in this industry for the sheer fact that people are off-the-wall, so it is never at all boring. Photography has been a close runner-up, but there still must be a void of some sort, as I felt a sort of nostalgic, indulgent annoyance when I was talking to him, and ignored the bartender's irritated stares whilst taking artsy photos in the restaurant. The food was really good, which is the point, I guess.

My girl Susan is getting married soon. Her shower was Saturday. We are so different on so many levels, i.e., she's a Eucharistic minister and I'm a non-church-going cradle-Catholic heathen...She's more organized than Martha Stewart pre-incarceration, and I am so not...She's a cat person, I'm a dog person. Still, opposites attracted in this case (either that or she just wanted to save my soul), and for the past year and a half, she's had my back like few other people I've known in my life.   She is one of the most genuine and lovely people I know, and I truly admire her character and her outlook on life. She also happened to meet a great guy, who clearly adores her and takes care of her, and supports the accomplished and amazing woman she is. Ray rocks. This is a situation for which the term "mazel tov" was invented, so I'll borrow it.

Saturday night was Celia's birthday, and a bunch of us went to Marrakesh, where the mint tea flows like wine, and there's bellydancing. You don't get forks at a Moroccan restaurant, which threw off some members of our group who weren't used to that sort of thing, but the food was actually pretty good. Moroccan wine didn't thrill me so much, but the chicken was awesome and so was dessert.

Sunday, I helped Annie with Captain, Harley and Raven at the Boston Terrier show in Crownsville. I was so tired, and it was so sunny and breezy out, so I kind of sat there and tried not to fall asleep with leashes in my hand. The PUPPIES woke me up though. I was like fucking Cruella DeVille with "The PUPPIES! PUPPIES! Must have the PUPPIES!!!!" There were so many of them there. I haven't had a baby dog in 11 years (unbelievable, truly) and I've more or less made up my mind that I never will again, because I get too emotionally involved, and if there's one thing that the past few years have taught me, it's that I need BALANCE. My love is like a seesaw, baby, and I need some kind of brick on the center of it to keep it from flipping me over. So in the absence of my own, these gatherings are a great place to get my fix of these little guys. It turned out that "the kids" won "most original" in the costume contest, which amounts more or less to a Boston Terrier walk of shame, but good God is it a hoot. Annie did a great job with their outfits. Herewith, the "Three Musketerriers," who were such great sports about it, considering my dog would have eaten his hat before we even got in the ring. Long may they reign.

Tales From the Scale

So I am reading Tales From the Scale by Erin J. Shea and other contributors, and I have to talk about it. I found her when I read about her blog about her weight loss, Losing the Buddha. I had no idea she got a book deal until I checked in on her blog last week, and saw that she was doing readings at Borders. Very cool for her. I like to see people succeed in publishing who start out doing it for the love of it - for free on the Web, specifically. It's a relatively new phenomenon, and welcome, I think. Anyway, the book is a compilation of essays - short and long - about weight, body issues, dieting - the whole hellish hot fudge sundae of it all. Several women who also have blogs and web sites about their own food-induced hell are the collective authors.

I was not going to buy this book. I've had less than zero desire to talk about my own weight/food/diet issues lately, much less read about other people in the same boat. It just felt like one too many replays of the same old song.

Then, a day after I read about the book, I saw what I will refer to as "the picture". And I ripped up the picture and threw it away, and decided maybe I'd had another alarming wake up call - a moment of truth, if you will. Sometimes I really hate those, as helpful and necessary as I'm told they are.

It was a picture of me. I was at my dad's retirement party last month. I was listening intently to another person talking, waiting, no doubt, for the appropriate moment to open up my big old mouth and expound on grapefruits or day trips in the Carolinas or the average career trajectory of your garden variety boy band - whatever these nice people were talking about, about which I'm SURE to have an opinion.

Let me share some observations about this photo:

*You could hang several Christmas tree ornaments from my chins. In fact, you may be able to set up one of those swanky holiday villages that lights up and has running trains on my collective set of chins - a mountainous Alpine scene would work nicely.

*My very stylish (hey, I may be fat but I'm still hip, sister...) swirly print summer top does NOT disguise the fact that an Olympic luge team could use my tummy as a qualifying run. It's like, sloping. Geez. This is new.

*I vaguely resemble Rosie O'Donnell's apple-headed baseball player character in "A League of Their Own" - although hopefully not the mentally challenged one she just played in "Riding the Bus With My Sister" (read the book - it's pretty good. Would not subject myself to the movie). All I need are some knee socks and a glove, Tom Hanks chewing me out in the locker room, Madonna as my short stop, and it's on.

*I do not look like Angelina Jolie in those photos of her on the beach with Brad Pitt in Morocco. This is eternally shocking to me, because inside, I am pure, gorgeous, humanitarian, land-mine fighting, baby-saving Angelina, minus the vial of blood around my neck and the Billy Bob Thornton tattoo, and the kissing of the brother...WAIT. What the hell? I'm so not. I'm JENNIFER ANISTON, BABY. I am pure, gorgeous, movie-makin', friend-to-all Jen. Yep. Where the hell are Courteney Cox and Coco?

*I have a slightly vacant look in my eye that indicates that I MAY be pondering whether or not there is any fried chicken left.

*My boobs even look a little bigger, and this is not something I desire or need, trust me.

*This might be photo-induced hysteria, but it appears that even my HAIR looks puffy.

It is a bad, bad picture. And it's not just a bad angle - it's just bad. I hate it with the heat of a thousand suns.

And as I studied it in my mother's kitchen, gagging on the knowledge that my body has again rebelled against its natural Rhodes Scholar slash cover model state, I started to think bad thoughts - thoughts that I do not normally allow myself to think.

I started to think that, despite my revulsion for all things Kirstie Alley, I want to go to Jenny Craig, and I want a gastric bypass, and I want whatever Fen-Phen substitute is on the market, and I want to have my jaw wired shut, simultaneously. I started to feel sorry for myself, thinking how I don't really eat THAT much, compared to OTHER people, even, and if I had just exercised more as a child and not sat there watching Superfriends and the Kroft Superstar Hour, eating cinnamon sugar and butter bread, I'd be straight...I blame my hatred for Aspartame, and years spent scarred by shopping in the Pretty Plus section at Sears...and...andd...GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH - grey matter all over my mother's nice new counters, as my head exploded, and she said, "Are you sure you're not hungry?"

It occurred to me in that moment: Something must occur. Something has to change.

I mean, I know things have slacked off some in the exercise department, and DEFINITELY with the food thing. I've been so swamped at work and so tired in general that Twizzlers and hazelnut coffee have seemed like a perfectly reasonable breakfast, and dinner may or may not be red wine and microwave popcorn on any random evening. I do try to do stir frys a couple of times a week, because it's easy and I like it, and I can throw veggies in and, oh hell, even the rest of the wine, and it's a decent, relatively balanced meal. Plus you can set it afire - always a plus.

Lunch is usually my most substantial meal, and I try not to eat anything completely outrageous, but admittedly I DO feel comfortable with our usual crew at work and don't go the low-fat/carb/whatever route. There are days, with these people, when dessert is a go at lunch. And not baby desserts, either, like Kohr Brothers-which-is-now-called-Splurge. We're talking tiramisu, and lattes, and baklava. This is unheard of in my working life. You'd think we were just released from a work camp, not an academic office. It may be a reason why returning to the office feels a leetle more like, oh, say, "lumbering" than it used to.

I don't know WHAT is going on otherwise - what has led me back to the land of luge slope tummys and Christmas village chins. I mean, I know in general, but it doesn't feel that extreme. I haven't been eating French toast at home, or even buying bread, for God's sake. I do drink regular Coke, but not more than once a day, or even every day. I don't drink melted butter, or frequent Cinnabon, or guzzle half and half out of the little containers at meetings (I mean, not often. Just sayin'.). I'm just...a normal person. With a bad picture, and a problem. And a tiny member of the Jamaican bobsled team sliding down my tummy. Clearly.

So I'm reading the book. I'm pondering what these ladies have to say, and a lot of it makes sense. A lot of it sounds like me. A lot of it is very uncomfortable to read. And I know that when I get to a point where I'm uncomfortable with myself, I need to do something about it. I'm just not quite sure what that is yet. I get crazy when my diet is restricted too much, and immediately start fiending for whatever it is I've decided I can't have. I've tried counting points and eating Jenny-O's, taking kickboxing (awesome), walking, doing the elliptical machine, treadmilled my way to Tahiti, and still...extra poundage.

Even before the picture, I knew things had gotten somewhat dire. Clothes were JUST fitting, but not quite right. I was arguing with myself on the way home from work, bored to death by the concept of another hour at the gym, but just not sure what to do instead. I haven't been feeling so good, haven't been sleeping so well, and I know this all fits together somehow.

I'm confident it's out there - the alternative to this - and perhaps this time I will get to where I've been trying to go for what, come to think of it, has been way too long.

I want to be really clear that I had a great time at my father's party, and I think I'm a pretty great person, regardless. I do not hide from life, except for when Citibank calls. I'm not disappointed in "me", but I think it could be better, with or without buttercream frosting.

This is a shot of me right before I moved home in 99. I enjoy seeing my neck - and have to say, I have a pretty hot clavicle, yo. ; ) I think things were pretty good right about here. Perhaps this can be the case again - minus the past six years of "maturing", that need to stay right where they are, I guess.

It's nice to note that my smile is still right where it's always been. The wedding cake was in my line of vision.