27.8.11

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes

Remember that time I moved? Yeah, me too. Well guess what? I moved again. Today. Yup. Twice in 10 days. Bringin' back the Nomad Life. I'm here for a good long while, though.
Today's issue? Hurricanes. This one, named Irene, is supposed to be ravaging the city I'm in (Manhattan) as of 40 minutes ago. It has yet to even rain. This is silly. If you're going to be a natural disaster, you ought to at least be on time...Ah well.
There's a hurricane watching party on the 24th floor in a bit. We're going to hope nothing smashes through the windows.

22.8.11

Things I Love About The South

These are mostly food. Because if you have ever had Southern food, you know that it is to die for.

I'm already trying to gain a natural-sounding accent. I'm retreating so far into my roots I might as well be running backwards.

  • Grits, every morning if I want. Yes. :)
  • Barbecue, like the real stuff.
  • Hush puppies.
  • Caribou Coffee
  • GoodBerry's Frozen Yogurt, and the cute, scruffy employee
  • It's green all over here :)
  • The bugs make silly noises
  • Most of my extended family is an hour and a half away, maximum
  • The Accents. Need I say more?
  • Humidity. I like it, ok? I'm weird.
  • The general Southernness.
If you've no idea what the South is like, I recommend you either get your butt down here, or at the very least do some research via books and movies. Although I will have to warn you that in Southern movies, someone usually dies. Fried Green Tomatoes is my current favorite.

19.8.11

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom: The Monsanto Link

Every once in a while, I get an additional glimpse into the world of evil that is the deer. Their plans are not always clear to me, and rarely do they give themselves away, but sometimes, I get some insight.
Last week, my mom, sister and I packed up our belongings and drove across the entire country. Yes. The whole thing. Well, all but Nevada and California, but I feel we've driven that stretch enough times that it counts. Back to the story.
Everything was going swimmingly until we got to the end of Nebraska. Iowa, it turns out, was full of construction, detours, and closed roads. So we spent several days winding our way down rather pleasant country highways through Iowa cornfields and soybean patches. All this pleasant country life seems, well, pleasant from the outside. But I know better. And not in the crazy Deer-and-pigeons-are-evil way that many of my friends frown upon. No, in the well-researched, people-who-are-not-me-believe-this-also-because-it-is-a-fact way. (Not that deer and pigeons aren't evil.) You see, the life of the American farmer kind of sucks because our government favors corporations over the individual, and corporations, as it happens, can be really evil. Don't believe me? Watch Food Inc., stop eating for a week, cry, wail at the injustice, get hungry and try to grow your own food, then return to this blog. Done? Good. Now, back to my Iowa story.
There's a particularly evil corporation, Monsanto, that is doing it's best to monopolize soybeans. As Food Inc. will tell you, there is either corn or soybeans in pretty much everything Americans eat these days. Monsanto copyrighted a gene.Why is that even legal??? Ugh. Anyway. Their soybean crops have to be treated specially- farmers cannot reseed their fields with their own crop-they have to return it to Monsanto and buy new seed. It's expensive and wasteful, and frankly, I think it's wrong. But can you get soybeans without this Monsanto gene?Yes, yes you can. It's difficult, and many have tried. But there's this little snag-if ANY of your beans have the gene, you're out of luck. It's just like having all Monsanto genes.
By this point, you're probably wondering what on earth this has to do with deer, and why I went off on such a tangent. On the Iowa/Missouri border early last Sunday morning, I saw two deer in a soybean field. Eating the crop. You know what that means? They have soybean poop. My brain started working and I realized with a jolt the deer are inadvertently helping Monsanto spread their evil. If a deer eats a Monsanto bean, then goes over to a non-Monsanto field and takes a nice Monsanto-laden crap, Farmer Joe's Pure Unadulterated Field is suddenly tainted by Monsanto impurities and indiscretions. Joe's life is ruined, all thanks to Bambi & Co.
I hate deer. I really do.

7.8.11

Learning

So, remember that time I was a dork, but it turned out to be ok? Well, I went back to that coffee shop for the 3rd and final time tonight, and I was not a dork. I actually was awesome. Really awesome, as the open-mike coordinator lady said. I am kind of glowing with pride. See, said open-mike lady read some poetry from this woman, Sarah Kay, last time I was there, and I thought, "She's amazing! Imma google her!" Then I didn't. So, about three days later, I was watching TED talks (ummm...the cool kids were doing it? ...eh...fine. I have no excuse. I am a nerd. Ok!!! I'm a nerd! I said it! Happy now?!?!?!?!), and I just so happened to click upon this thing of beauty. I didn't think of three things I knew, largely because I am lazy and defiant, but also because I was fascinated by her. Her talk made me think, and that led inevitably to poetry, and so tonight, (er, technically last night...) I performed it, and people actually responded positively, during and after. Proud moment.

Learning

They keep telling me, "You learn something new everyday,"
Although they never specify what,
Which probably means they're not talking about
the things you try to learn,
the things that take concentration,
and instead they're talking about the much hazier
Learning of Experience.
But if that's true, I don't think we learn
one thing a day.
I think we are constantly learning small pieces of a bigger puzzle,
bit by bit,
like gathering sea glass to make a mosaic:
we might not be able to see the final outcome in our minds,
but somehow we know where each piece fits into the others,
working our way towards something complete.
For instance, I've been learning,
that sometimes the facts are harder to say than the fictions,
facts like:
I don't need pointe shoes to be happy;
I never really loved you; and
I'm moving 2,153 miles away so the my father can dress up like a panda bear and teach children about Jesus;
instead of the fictions:
I didn't make it, but of course I want to try again;
It was fun while it lasted; and
It doesn't matter, I was leaving anyway.
I'm learning that we can have our rites of passage,
mark off the days on our calenders with big, red Xs,
but real maturity is not so cut and dried.
I'm learning that life is a little messy, always,
and not just when we're little (and messy).
I'm learning a lot.

All of these lessons point to something bigger
and still partially obscured,
but that, too, is becoming clear,
the iceberg of my naivete is slowly melting.
So far, I've figured out
I am just like my dad,
(minus the black & white fur and the desire to interact with children on a spiritual level).
We know that it doesn't matter how long you believed in something,
if it's not true anymore, it's not worth the heartache it takes to keep believing.
We know that it's never to late to make a drastic change for the better.
We know that in any relationship,
being happy is more important than being "right."
We love grocery stores,
so full of possibilities and options for exploration,
but always familiar enough to feel safe.
I don't know if these are the things I'm supposed to be learning,
if these are the pieces of glass I should be picking up and putting down,
but I know, without a flicker of a doubt,
my mosaic is beautiful.

4.8.11

Sometimes You Win. Sometimes You Drive Into Retaining Walls.

I usually like driving. Sometimes, I love driving. Today I did not love driving at all. Picking my mom up from work, there was some horrible traffic weirdness. First, this loser cop pulls across three lanes and blocks off an entire city block...for no reason. There was nothing behind him. The other direction of traffic kept going. Then, he stands in front of his squad car, wiggling his fingers the way moms do when their kids are misbehaving. This apparently means "Large truck!! Turn right NOW, but make sure you're not the first car in the lane, so you have to dodge a bunch of others first." Eventually I made the turn, dumb truck aside. Next, construction shuttled me into the LONGEST left-turn queue onto a one-way street I've ever seen. One light cycle, the only thing that got to turn was a bus. Of course, when it is finally my turn, some horrid Subaru decides that because it's a one-way, it's totally ok to make the left turn from behind me. He's lucky I'm a ninja and didn't squash him under Beluga's mighty tires. After turning the trip from my mom's office to the bank which should have been 2 minutes into a 15 minute ordeal, I finally got to the parking lot. Where a giant black pick-up truck lurched suddenly across the lot in front of me from a parking space. They clearly had important things to be doing, and couldn't wait for me to actually park. Once again, it was lucky my foot was ready to ninja that brake. As at last I turned into a parking space, I said to my mom, "These people all just suck. They are awful at driving. AW. FUL." And that, my friends, is when I drove into a retaining wall.

My brake ninja foot deserves a medal. I didn't damage the car. Or the wall.

I hate driving, especially when it's done by other people.

3.8.11

Spices

I wrote this story as a joke with a friend, but part of that joke involves it being posted on the internet. Enjoy!


The smudged glass doors swung open, cueing a mournful “ding-dong”, dragged reluctantly from the overworked, exhausted intercom. He sighed, setting down his damp rag on the counter, feeling rather overworked and exhausted himself, and arranged his features into a falsely cheerful grin to greet the customer. When he saw her, however, a genuine smile broke out beneath the veneer, creating tiny crinkles in the corners of his mouth and eyes, imperceptible individually, but collectively brightening his appearance.

She had long, smooth dark hair, a mouth made for giggling, and large, round blue eyes which glittered when she laughed. She came here often, but did not keep a schedule. Like her smiles, her visits were a welcome surprise, a golden break in the monotony of fast food. He’d seen her debit card enough times to know her name, but he never let himself use it; to name her would be to make her real, to unravel the fantasies he created about who she was.

“How can I help you today?” he said brightly, stepping behind his register, his hands hovering above the keyboard, ready to type in her usual order.

“The usual, please,” she replied, offering up a small, somewhat sheepish smile.

He gave her the familiar total while she dug in her bag for her familiar wallet, just as they had the first time she’d walked through those doors, as they had every time since.

There was nothing inherently remarkable about her the first day. She was just another customer. It wasn’t until after she’d placed her order that he’d really looked at her, giving an identity to someone who was once just another faceless consumer. She had ordered eight tacos and water. It did not seem to be a joke, nor was there anyone with her who could have dared her. In amazement, he watched surreptitiously from behind the counter as she delicately ate each taco, dabbing daintily at her mouth with the paper napkin. Nothing so dignified had ever spent so much time in The Taco Hut and it fascinated him.

Sometimes she brought other people with her-a group of giggling girls, a somber friend, even the occasional disappointed male- but most of the time she came alone, quietly eating her tacos in a shallow booth by the largest window. She took her time, savored each mouthful, and shut out the rest of the restaurant while she chewed. It was peaceful, like a meditation or a prayer.

There had to be a reason she spent so much time in that taco dump-heap. It was not known for either its cleanliness or the superior quality of its food, it wasn’t on any main thoroughfares, and it wasn’t a chain. Usually he imagined she was a famous actress, hiding from her press, seeking refuge in plain sight. Occasionally he would suppose she came from an abusive family, that these calmer moments were her only source of respite. His imagination ran wild with her image, but each story found a way to block his reality from touching hers. He imagined himself into corners where if he dared to step beyond, to ask her name, to develop a friendship even, something foul would occur. The press would find her, her father would beat her for trying to escape with another man, or she would be frightened and never come back.

Someday, he told himself while he waited for her next arrival, someday I’ll get out of my head. I’ll ask her what her name is so I can stop pretending I don’t already know. Someday I’ll know why she keeps coming back.

As he handed back her card, he resolved, not for the first time, that upon her next visit he would introduce himself. She smiled as though she could read his mind and sighed a little before grabbing her water cup and ducking over to the fountain to fill it.

Soon she was ensconced in her booth, and he had returned to his thorough wipe-down of the counter tops. He took his turn in sighing before sliding back into the kitchen to clean up a cheese spill. As he swept the sticky orange strings into a garbage can he heard the door’s lugubrious song once again. Glancing out into the dining room, he saw her paused, her hand on the door handle, holding it open a few inches. She caught his eye.

“Goodbye.”

He smiled and lifted his hand in farewell as she disappeared.

She didn’t come back. Not that week, nor the next. It was not unheard of for her to disappear like this, but nonetheless he was disappointed. Every sound of the doorbell spiked his heart rate, but the face of every stranger pulled him down until he could feel his pulse pumping dimly in his feet. A month went by, and then another and it became clear that she was never coming back. It was as if someone had taken a giant eraser and scrubbed her out of her booth, then replaced her with a bevy of screaming toddlers and scruffy bums scarfing tacos and dripping sauce onto the sticky tabletop. She had escaped, and so he moved on.

“You’re wasting your time, kid,” his wizened manager grunted from the corner of his crusty mouth. He spit into the sink before continuing, “no one is gonna buy some damn gourmet taco. Go ahead, go to night school, blow your money on a fruitless dream, but don’t bring your whining back here when you fall on your ass.”

When he didn’t respond, eyes glued to the floor, his manager grunted once more before shuffling back into his tiny office, slamming the door. He continued sprinkling spices into the giant pan of sizzling meat. The right blend could make or break a taco, a fact his manager was keen to ignore. He ignored the gruff criticism of his superior and the ignorance of the old sod, because one day, he would own his own restaurant, and his perfect tacos would be his ticket to freedom, his chance to escape.

The day he turned in his uniform, the manager didn’t say a word, just shook his head as he grudgingly handed over the final paycheck.

*************************************************

“She’s here,” squeaked a waiter, a kid about as old as he had been when he started his job at The Taco Hut. “Madame Cutler,” the boy sighed, in awe of the famed food critic who was apparently now seated in the restaurant. “Do you think she’ll like us, boss?”

He peered through the window in the kitchen door at the back of Madame Cutler’s head. She could hardly be more than a mademoiselle; her sleek, dark hair was twisted into a glossy chignon and delicate pearls dangled from her ears. She sat perfectly straight in the soft velvet chair, shoulders exactly parallel to the floor, but she did not seem tense. Her posture and her attire conveyed an air of relaxed dignity, a woman who knew her power and her limits equally.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he clapped his waiter on the back and said, “If our service is spectacular, I’m sure she will,” and with that he pushed the quaking boy back out onto the floor.

He watched as the waiter took her order with a nervous smile. As soon as the kitchen door shut behind him, the boy let out a sigh of relief. Then he was off again, a perfect taco in the center of his tray. Fifteen minutes later, when the waiter approached his boss his relief had vanished.

“She wants to see you, sir,” the boy whispered, wringing his hands. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“You did well, kid. Wish me luck!”

His heart was hammering as he walked slowly towards her table. He hadn’t remembered this much distance in his restaurant. Suddenly his suit felt too shabby, his ginger beard too scruffy, the furnishings too lurid, the place settings too cheap, and the ambiance too fake. When at last he reached Madame Cutler, he couldn’t look her in the face, his eyes fixed on the swirling pattern of the tablecloth.

“I’m impressed,” she said, her voice a strangely familiar lilt. “I admit I was not expecting to enjoy this, but I have a fondness for tacos, and I had hoped so strongly that yours would be satisfactory.” He nodded, still not looking up. “Frankly, they’re wonderful. The spices are just right. The right blend can make or break a taco, you know.”

Her last sentence made his head snap up. Then he froze. “I…I’m glad you enjoyed them, Madame Cutler,” he choked, barely above a whisper, unable to believe his eyes.

“It was my pleasure. It always was,” she replied, her large, round blue eyes glittering as she laughed.