How chopping off the tip of my finger got me cooking

It's been a hot summer in New York, which means it's been a slow one in my kitchen. We might as well have turned off the gas for all the love the stove has missed out on the last three months. But it can't be helped. R and I have already cordoned off the bathroom and kitchen with drapes that loosely seal in the coolish air that is pumped with all of its might out of our tiny and ancient air conditioner. Thus, the kitchen has become a summer war zone: We are in and out, collecting only the necessities. 

What is impressive -- or a lucky oddity -- about R and me is that we can survive on very little. For the past two months R and I have soldiered out our nightly meals surviving on one dish: The Greek salad. Those Greeks, they are incredibly resourceful -- packing a hefty amount of calories into a, basically, healthy yet hearty meal. This particular salad was introduced to me by my aunt who picked the ingredients fresh from her immaculate garden. Each vegetable - tomato, celery, cucumber, fennel - is cut the same size and mixed with a meager amount of lettuce (the least interesting part), olives, feta, and, when it's on sale, stuffed grape leaves. The whole thing is doused with some home made vinegarette and it's pretty tasty... the first time we ate it. Actually, it was still tasty when we ate it the rest of the week and the week after that. But when we started to get into the double digits of summer weeks, the epic Greek salad began to lose its flavor.

Don't get me wrong, we peppered in some other meals -- we took a vacation (grilled), spent a few weekends at my parents house (grilled), had a few wedding to attend (poached salmon), and ate out (thai, sushi). But during the week days it's been the same old salad.

That was, until, I chopped the top of my finger off. Chopped isn't the write word, since the weapon was a vegetable peeler, heartily skinned is more like it.

Ew, I know. I apologize.

It was a Tuesday night. R was out of town and I was diligently returning from a drink with a friend to make dinner at home. I had left some ingredients for The Salad at work so I was scrapping together an even sadder salad plate of greens. Without any feta or olives, I was desperate to add something, anything, extra when I eyed a nub of a parmasean rind in the back of the fridge. I managed to peel off a few hearty ribbons of rind into the bowl, but got a little greedy and tried for more when the position of my hand, the cheese-less-ness of the rind, and my overall destracted, hungry state mixed oh so badly. 

I felt it and looked down to find my finger covered in blood. But I had knicked myself on a veg peeler before and, besides, I had just received 7 stiches in my thumb six months before with a huge knife -- I was convinced this was just a nic this couldn't be that bad. R happened to call and I told him I had cut myself and I managed to open the paper towel to examine how bad it was while I was on the phone with him. I scanned the bloody digit and noticed half of my pretty purple mani was missing and started to panic, quietly.

"I'll call you back," I said to R quickly.

I tried to look a little closer but it was hard to discern through the blood. I started to pace, which was when I noticed the other half of my pretty purple mani... lying on our stove top.

I called R back: "Part of my finger's missing."

Silence.

"I'll call you a cab."

So off I was returning to my neighborhood ER from whence I came not six months ago with another bloody digit.

Against my wishes my lovely friend and her husband kept me company through the wait and the grueling stitch-up. There wasn't actually anything to stitch and, not that I could bare to watch, but it involved a few needles, not enough numbness, and a giant match. I buried my head in friend's arm and distracted myself with quiet screaming.

The brisk ER guy handed over a few pieces of guaze and some yellow wrapping that "wouldn't stick to the wound," and we were sent on our way - not before, of course, friend unzipped my business-casual dress so I could get out of the thing before crawling into bed for a restless, painful night sleep.

Weeks: The  vague time frame I was given for healing, first by brisk ER guy and then by brisk, Russian clinic doctor. By the clinic check up I had unwrapped and wrapped the finger up twice trying to quickly cover the black wound with some children's 'no tears' Neosporin spray-foam, but it was hard to not examine it along with my Russian. 

It was also hard to keep the vomit down. And I suspect the same was true for Russian. He pushed it out of his eyesight when it was finally naked and quickly worked at covering it back up first with the used yellow, bloodied bandage I had on there to begin with and then enough gauze to fix an NBA star's knee injury. 

I took my manhandled injury and a general sense of defeat home, and decided it was time to cook. 

Back on the horse and all that.

I couldn't return to the salad. Maybe it was because a salad is what started all of this, but, more likely, it was that I had eaten upwards of 100 salads that summer and that was 90 to many.

Jumping on the end of season bandwagon, I first dove into a corn taco dish. While my local grocery store's fresh corn selection pales in comparison with my hometown's it was still worth a try. The recipe called for a mix of raw (to be sauted) and open-flame roasted. Yup. I had my skeps but the blogger had done it in her tiny NY apartment, so why couldn't I.



With the cucumber-sized gauze wrapping around my injured finger dangling dangerously close to the open flame on my old stove, I dutifully rotated and held, rotated and held, one ear of corn and then another. My hands got toasty as did the metal forks I was using to rotate the thing, but my finger wrap never caught on fire (success!).

The raw corn sauteed along with olive oil, butter, and onion for a good 30 minutes and it was rich and creamy. That mixture combined with the hand-roasted corn and was all topped off with a simple cabbage slaw to make an incredibly satisfying, homemade, vegetarian meal. It. Was. Bliss.



And it didn't stop there. While the corn meal spread itself out one more dinner for two and two lunches, I hurried back to the kitch on Wednesday to drum up some gazpacho. By the weekend it was chicken sauteed with lemons and olives -- simple and delicious.



Mmmm



Since then I have whipped up a veggie-laden mac & cheese casserole for the hurricane that hardly came, a leftovers scramble, and chicken curry (cooking away in the croc pot.

While the salads were easy and took the guess work out of preparing dinner for the week, getting back into cooking has invigorated me a bit - gimpy finger and all. It's incredible the sense of accomplishment that comes with working from a new recipe and presenting a home made meal that is actually yummy. Now if i could just cook said meals without endangering any more fingers, it might be a true accomplishment. But I'll take what I can get.

Come on, Irene

House and 'hood

A light weekend in and around Long Island City:

Finishing a project

It started with a bag I bought in London. A Cat Kitson bag purchased on Portobello Road.

Actually, that's not right. It really started with this chair. This squat, wooden, paint-chipped, sad-looking thing that came whether-we-liked-it-or-not with a craigslist desk purchase.

This sad little chair sat where a sad chair sits: In the shadows. But I saw its potential. Or at least in the haze of my early retirement/summer-time unemployment I saw a project.

Inspired by the loud print on my London bag, I was going to transform the chair with a similar, painted design. Sure. Why not? Once in my life I used to do creative things and isn't that what unemployment is about? A good old fashioned project? Or, is that retirement.

Well, off to Home Debot I went. Things to sand with, a range of paint brushes and teeny tiny colored paints were purchased. The paints were genius. Paint people have finally realized that we -- the people who think we can do projects on our own and so come to Home Depot with such anticipatory dreams or artistic mastery -- are idiots. We buy things, in this instance house paint, because they have yummy-sounding names ("Tangerine is exactly the color I should paint my living room") not because they are a practical design solution to a boring living room ("Yes. No, I thought it'd be more cheerful than electric-black-lit."). So now paint people make tester sizes so you don't waste your time and money on an electric-non-cheerful room because it sounded nice.

Supplies and inspiration in hand I set to work.



The bitch of it all was getting that damn chair down to a functional working point.


Oh the chair wasn't red. Nor, after a few hours stripping away the red with a few sheets of sand paper in the hot summer sun, was it yellow. Unfathomably, beneath the yellow were chunks of blue that finally gave way to some wood.



And so I painted. Two coats of a white base+primer. But that was nothing. After a solid day of sanding and painting in the front yard of our Cambridge apartment I brought the chair inside to get to the detail.

And this is where time passes. First I drew the design and then I painted. It worked well at first. I would spend weekend days or an afternoon here and there drawing and painting these little splotches of flowers. But then it would get a little old and the chair would be shadowed again.

And then summer ended, as did my unemployment and we moved. The chair came with, of course, as did my make-shift box tool kit of supplies. The chair was newly situated in our brighter apartment, already out of the shadows, and placed prominently in our bedroom. And oh did it's unfinished nature glare in that brightness. It stared me down when I was in the kitchen. It mocked me as I sat on the couch. It taunted me after I came home from work.

And then on Saturday in the middle of winter, I attacked that thing. With the same gusto that found me sweating and laboring through three layers of ancient paint that warm summer day months before, I finished that damn chair.





And now it looks so cute in our room:




I was proud of my incredibly delayed accomplishment and actually giddy that I had finished a project I started seasons ago.

I think it's a new side effect of my profession, but I have gotten into the habit of taking on projects and not following through. They can even get incredibly close, and yet they remain unfinished black holes.

Part of it is work. Getting home late and feeling burnt out -- my creativity and motivation abandon my head and heart and run to the safe confines of the pads of my pointer and thumb fingers that allow me to muster the energy to turn on the TV.

R and I have even instituted rules and obstacles that can force us into productivity.

1) We don't have cable (a financial decision, initially that we thought would inspire motivation)
2) Our couch isn't one that invites lounging.
3) As part of a New Year's resolution I (we) decided to dedicate two week day evenings to projects. We first called them workdays, but gave the whole concept a negative spin. So they were just loosely called no TV days.

And it worked, at first. Like all resolutions, this one's expiration date was bumped up a few months when laziness and winter doldrums kicked in.

During the actual workday I would get inspired by something I saw or thought of and want to blog about it or look into a story idea. Then the day would progress, finally end, venture the subway home, and I would walk up those four flights of stairs famished and tired and not want to do anything but nothing.

So, how does one finish projects? How do you stay inspired? As I fight my way through this competitive field I recognize that I need to step up my game, finish the projects i start and try to avoid the couch-suck. But, oh, it's hard.

Which is why the chair gives me hope. It inspired me to write a blog post, at any rate (which, let's be honest, has become a few-and-far-between kind of a thing).

I started it. I finished it. And I'm proud of it. Sure it took the better part of a year, but who's counting.

Next?

A chance read; a clear, life-changing event

It started with a conversation.

We were discussing books, which we tended to do (media, after all, for journalists, is an opinionated safe house). It was January and someone was reading Freedom, the latest Jonathan Franzen tomb that topped most of the years best books list. To be honest, if you were going to read Freedom, it was already getting too late in the year to do so.

I wasn't going to read Freedom. I was feeling pretty good about this decision. It was counter. I'm not usually a counter kind of a person. I didn't enjoy The Corrections. It was too awkward for me. In fact I had to stop half way through. And I never stop reading books (three-quarters of a way through Anna Karenina my free time was spent "hate reading").

A friend mentioned Franzen's book of essay called How To Be Alone.

"I like Freedom," she said. "But I loved How to Be Alone."

Less awkward, more thought provoking, was the idea.

I had it on my list of books I wanted to read. It was a growing list. Also, by now, it was a month after this Franzen conversation and my memory of it already fading. It's Saturday and we walk past the book-crowded corner on which The Strand stands and I say lets go in.

What are you after, asks R.

This book a friend recommended, How to Be Alone... by David Foster Wallace.

It had been a while and many media-related conversations. So, yes, I had an authorial morph and assumed another, unread, high profile writer.

We pass on The Strand. It's crowded and sweat-inducing and there are street cupcakes to be had.

It's Sunday and R and I are out and about in Brooklyn. We hit up a flea market and were feeling less inspired and more dirty by its collection of other peoples junk, but a week-end malaise takes us to their second floor.

A pile of books welcomes us to the stairwell and I happens to look through it. And what do I find? How To Be Alone. By none other than Jonathan Franzen (a fact quickly remembered).

It was mine for $2.18.

Had I followed The Strand/David Foster Wallace path How To Be Alone may not have been mine. But it is. And somehow this feels important. And... not to put a lot into it, but, this collection of essays is likely to change my life.

It's only right.

The first essay sets Franzen in his apartment on Valentines Day (Valentines Day is tomorrow, ah hem).

He's talking about memory, specifically his father's Alzheimer's, but also how memories tend to be a collection, not just one specific event. For example, he writes

I retain general, largely categorical memories of the past (a year spent in Spain; various visits to Indian restaurants on East Sixth Street)...

True, I have no year in Spain, but I DO have (countless) visits to Indian restaurants on East Sixth Street as my own memories.

See? This book, Mr. Franzen, me: It's destiny. Yes, BYOB Indian restaurants proves that. And just to solidify the bond, I pause, think about one of those restaurant memories, and further ingrain it in my memory.

And then this happened

Almost.



Ok.

That.



Hello, you.

You see... I was fittin' to post about all the cultural activities R & I got up to over the MLK weekend (some music, a bit of art, a view,a jaunt through a museum), which was all very fun and interesting. And then a week passed and it became Sunday. And I decided to make a roasted pear upside down cake.

Bold move.

I was snooping around on Food Gawker (hours wasted), my sweet/hangover tooth aching for something. There were the classic chocolate goodies (my go-to) but somehow this completely out of the blue pear cake just spoke to me.

I might have helped that we had three more-than-ripe pears begging to be consumed. R kindly jumped out into the cold (nothing can motivate a Sunday person like a home baked dessert) to get the provisions (who has corn meal on hand, anyhow?). And off I went.

There was one misfire when I found I needed baking soda AND powder (damn you two leavening agents!) but it turns out if you use three times the amount of powder for the amount required of soda, you're good to go.

Honestly, it may look impressive (you're not allowed to say otherwise) but this was one of the easiest desserts I have ever made.

AND. It. Was. Delicious. It had that salty-sweet thing going for it and the cornmeal gave it a fantastic grainy texture. It was light but moist and the bottom layer adds the kick of sweetness (a layer of sugar butter. That's right. Sugar. Butter.). The pears roast down to a delectable softness that melts in your mouth and then the rosemary offers this hint of savory flavor. Awesome.

And THEN just to top it off. I made this genius asparagus, goat cheese and lemon pasta from Smitten Kitchen.



I swapped regular pasta for the curly cute kind (because it's all that I had) and I swapped rosemary for tarragon for the same reason. The rosemary worked out fine, though I'm sure tarragon would have been EVEn better. It was creamy with that goat cheese bite. We wolfed it down. And it really only took 20 minutes. Amaze, amaze.

So, there it is. Back on the cooking wagon (not that I really strayed).

Next time, the cultural adventures... I swear.

A day that will live in Bellamy

While snooping around yesterday for interesting stories I noticed a curious, shall we say, epidemic, possibly global, infecting men by the name of

Bellamy.

Yes.

When was the last time you heard that name? I think I know of a comic by that name, so it rings light-hearted and happy to me. But it turns out, Bellamys have a dark side.

Particularly on 1.12.11

Here's the latest on this late-breaking conspiracy:

The brothers Bellamy.

Who, might you ask, are the Bellamy brothers and, what, pray tell, do they have to do with Britney Spears? In no other world, besides, possibly porn, would two aging mustachioed country-pop kin and one struggling pop princess be connected. And yet here we are.

Ms. Spears debuted her new pop dance floor single, "Hold it against me," on Monday, after years of meltdowns and scandal. Surprisingly, despite her helium-soaked vocals, the tune was mildly heralded and quickly became the no. 1 download on iTunes.

The pop princess returns!

Nay! Say the Brothers Bellamy. In honor of the 35th anniversary of their "massive debut pop hit" "Let Your Love Flow," the Bellamy Brothers are reentering society in scandalous form. "Hold it against me" is OURS, the brothers proclaim. Those four seemingly innocuous words are country pop gold when strung together and preceded by the pick-up line, "If I said you had a beautiful body..."

Did Britney rip off the country crooners? Or do the two pop groups just have the same taste in common lyrics? The debate continues.

Baby Bellamy.

Who the hell is Matt Bellamy?

He might be in a band, but more importantly he is giving Kate Hudson's baby Ryder a sibling!

The couple have been reportedly dating for nine months and word on the street is that said baby Bellamy was not planned but the couple is "embracing it."

Cue exclamation points!!!

Don't famous people have birth control? I mean, I know my monthly BC takes a hit out of my already empty wallet, but somehow I don't see Kate suffering from the same affliction.

Well to each his own.

And now we can all thank our lucky stars that Matt Bellamy has entered our world. We definitely needed another pasty emo rocker with sculpted hair. Yipee Skip.

Manchester Bellamy.

And in the third, and what could make this a global, Bellamy phenomenon I bring you Craig Bellamy.

Again, who?

He is a soccer player with a bit of a temper, it would seem. Not that that is a surprise. But the reason he appeared in my news feed at all, it seems, is that he's, like, Beckham famous, so...

Here's the breakdown: former Wales captain Craig Bellamy got into a brawl with two other men (man babies - merely 20 and 26 years of age) and some peeps may have walked away with bloody faces.

The clincher is that the fight came HOURS after Bellamy's team and another team tied 1-1 in the FA Cup third round.

GASP!

And that's all the energy I can muster to care about that.

BUT I think we can all admit that the coincidence is a weird one. Just be thankful your last name isn't Bellamy. And if it is, well, stay out of trouble.

Slow cooking the shit out of 2011

It was a culinary kind of Christmas.

Santa brought not one but TWO slow cookers. Something, or someone, was trying to tell me something:

I want meat, and I want it tender.

And so we began 2011 with a three pound cut of beef chuck roast, Not Your Mother's Slow Cooker Cookbook and a programmable Cuisinart slow cooker.

If you are to enter into the slow cooker way of life there are a few things you should take into consideration:

1) Do not begin your maiden meal at noon on a Sunday
2) Best to do your grocery shopping the day before so that everything is ready to go
3) For God's sake, take the contraption out from it's comfortable Styrofoam nestle of a box

Since we like to live dangerously, we opened our precious piece of meat half past 1 in the afternoon for what was quickly becoming a late night pot roast snack.

But it was hard to stop. I mean look at that thing. It begged to be slow-cooked.



We chopped a few veggies, braised the beast in the new All-Clad pan, simmered a little dry - or available - wine from our Box 'O and plopped the whole thing in the slow cooker -- setting it to a generous eight hour timer.





And away we went.

We were giddy with the idea of all that flavor and tenderness working away without us. We had hired out, or out-right stole, Cinderellas little bird and mice friends for an afternoon of free cooking labor while we hit the town. It seemed scandalous.

Four hours later we were starving and had exhausted our neighborhood activities.

We returned to our meat-smelling abode with stomachs growling and patience waning.

We watched a movie, flipped through old issues of US Weekly and, being desperate for the passage of time, tidied.

It was brutal.

We ate a salad appertif in ten minutes that was meant to kill two hours.

I began boiling water for the egg noodles with 90 minutes to go. Within 30 minutes we were slicing up that tender puppy, weak in the knees, not caring a lick to wait any longer.

I threw some flour in the cooker and jimmied together some gravy. I piled egg noodles, the falling-apart meat and the soupy gravy high in a bowl and we just stood and stared at our non-work.



Sure it was 10 p.m. but... It. Was. Glorious.

Somehow in all the commotion of those first cooking moments I neglected to pour salt and pepper on the mound of meat (Me! Forgetting salt!) so it did lack a little depth of flavor, but the tenderness made us quickly forget any such negligence.

It was indulgent and delicious and, I can say from experience, even better the next day.

Of course three pounds of chuck roast is WAY more than a couple needs, but it did get us three meals worth and its more meat than we would have normally eaten in six months.

Oh, glorious, slow cooker, I can tell we are going to have a very happy and caloric life together.

What to do when you're not running

I'm still out of running commission.

Since the marathon I have gone, somewhat diligently, to the gym, but all those machines get painfully boring.

I bop from the stationary bike to the elliptical and to some thing that makes me prance in place like a gazelle with inappropriately different length legs. I attempt to know what I'm doing with some weights, I manage some sit ups, but in the end I am BEYOND bored. I mean, it's painful.

And then I found boxing.

It's a class at the gym that I assumed was a set-to-music version of tae-bo from my VHS days. But OH no.

This is Rocky in non-contact form.

The teacher, a former boxer, is our drill sergeant and we his running, jumping, hitting peons. The first class was utterly terrifying. I have been to my fair share of gym classes, sampling a variety of classic-type teachers -- the self loathing passive aggressive, the disgustingly bubbly babbler, the plain old hard ass -- but none that use a healthy dose of yelling, deafening music and a fog horn (yup).

I was a few minutes late and boxer teacher gave me a piercing look and then pointed to the ground where I was meant to join a snake formation of students doing the "bear crawl" round and round the small, dark studio. The group was, and continues to be, mostly women and a few heavily tattooed men. After crawling and running and sufficiently breaking a sweat I gingerly pull on some slightly damp gloves and take to a punching bag that a middle aged woman, sporting eyeliner and pink gloves, is already pushing around.

Others in the class share the bags scattered around the room and begin punching the shit out of them -- literally pieces of cloth spew from the hole at the top. Meanwhile me and pink gloves are paddling our bag back and forth like a fat toddler swinging on a Sunday afternoon.

Ultimately our punching bag stints turn into 2 minute drills where we move around the studio -- doing exercises in between punching like crab walks, weighted sit ups and push ups with a hand clap in the middle, something I thought only military recruits were forced to do in muddy waters in the rain.

The 20-or-so of us make it around the studio doing the variety show of drills until we each get a turn with boxer teacher. Even from a far this look terrifying. Not knowing how to throw, land or take a punch if my life depended on it, I was shaking in my gloves, wondering if I can take the push-up-hand-clap torture over a physical tete-a-tete with this Rocky remake. Pink gloves goes first and by the end of her two minutes her eyeliner has given her proper black eyes and her breathing is moving into heart attack territory, but she's smiling. There's hope.

I go next. It's not like he's hitting us, but, rather, we are hitting him -- his upper body, even, and pads that he wears on his hands. During the first bit he instructs me how to stand and to stop Stevie Wonder-ing with my head.

After a few tries I get into a rhythm that has me feeling every part of my body (though, especially my knuckles). As we move into a jumping, hitting routine he starts to get into it.

"Hit ME" he yells, I respond with a wind up that just misses his shoulder.

"Hit me like a GIRL" he screams through gridded teeth. Is that good? Bad? I thought I DID hit him like a girl.

I throw a punch and land it. I smile for a moment, he doesn't, I get back to the task.

Soon enough the rest of the class is joining in on the calls - "Hit him!" they scream "Keep at it!" Bolstered my the sudden team-like setting I do a rapid fire round where

I'm twisting and turning and my sweat-soaked hair is whipping my neck (I never did get the hang of keeping my head straight) and boxer teacher is pushing me and I'm pushing him back and he just reeks of man sweat and I'm wondering how long it has been since I've washed my gym clothes and he yells at me to do upper cuts and the sound of my glove hitting his pad starts to echo around the room and I think my hands must be bleeding already and my stomach can't take another twist and all of a sudden it's done.

And my heavy breath mixes with some sweat and I am slapping everybody's gloves as a "job well done" and I look at myself in the mirror and I look crazed and slightly like a beast and it feels damn good.

And all before 8 a.m.

Best work out ever.

Next up: how to keep your breakfast down during 90 minutes of hot and sweaty yoga.

Twin Peaks series finale, really?

Is what I wrote into my Google search button.

I mean, what the hell, David Lynch?!

I realize I'm a decade too late but is Twin Peaks the Best Show Ever with the most open-ended series ending in HISTORY?!



Five years ago I started this journey with R in his Carroll Gardens apartment. We would watch one episode whenever I slept over there and it was mind blowing. For one, HOW was this show on prime time television?

There's rape, murder, spousal abuse, schizophrenia and good old fashioned money-motivated deviant behavior (not to mention a lady who talks to a log).

Slowly but surely we made our way through. I found comfort in Special Agent Dale Cooper, Norma and Ed, and the small pleasures of a damn good cup of Joe.

But we stopped after we found out who killed Laura Palmer. There were some rumors on R's end that the second season wasn't as good and I was creeped out enough to take a break.

Five years later I find myself with an empty apartment, a computer and the full season of Twin Peaks. Having no idea where I actually dropped off, I popped in a disk and let the story unfold again.

And, yes, the Laura Palmer storyline is the clincher. But there's clearly something else going on in this funny Alaskan town and I was instantly hooked on the whole weirdo clan.

And things were going well. With Special Agent Dale Cooper's leadership we were able to find out who killed Laura Palmer (yes, again. I backtracked). And found spice and stories of long-lost love in our favorite FBI agent's past when a former partner comes to the once-sleepy town to terrorize via chess game.

Slowly but surely "Coop" gets incorporated into the town -- is stripped of his FBI suit-fatigues and even meets and girl.

I creep toward the end of the special edition set. R returns to our new humble abode and I pop in the second to last disk. Each of the three episodes is stranger than the last but we take comfort in that one last disk sitting in it's case, reeking of answers and closure.

We get to the third episode, pop it in haphazardly on a Friday night. It's weirder than most, steering the plot into the other-worldly, mysterious part of the show that lives in red velvet drapes and characters back from the dead.

But we swallow it, putting our trust in Mr. Lynch.

Audrey and Pete go into a bank and don't come out and Coop kind of comes out of the velvet-draped dream land but we're not entirely sure and then the creepy spirit appears in the mirror and Coop is bleeding from the head and talking funny and the credits come and we're all, what the what?

Thank GOD there are more episodes.

Except there aren't.

There weren't.

The next day we take a break from unpacking and pop in the last disk ever so carefully and flick through a menu of... extras?

The realization came slow.

Wait, that was the... end?

We go back to the last disk. Fast forward a couple of scenes, see if we missed anything.

Same Dale, same mirror, same bloody head, same creepy spirit.

Same ending credits.

I search the blogs.

What was that ABOUT, I ask?

But there are no answers. Only speculation many years too late.

It had to be this way, they said.

But it's not fair.

Cooooooooop!

COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

Enough with the dramatics. But it was weird, right? Has anyone seen it lately? If not, I implore you to check it out again. Seriously, how was this show on prime time? And how did the TV-viewing public allow Lynch to get away with a series ender so full of cliff hangers? If only I had been there, old enough, to watch it. Mr. Lynch would have heard from ME -- in frantically written letters sent on torn out sheets of school book paper penned in different colored ink. He would have read my wrath. But now, I'm too late. And I'll never have Special Agent Dale Cooper back. (sigh) I even tried watching the 1991 SNL episode where Kyle McLaughlin hosts. It wasn't the same.

I'm even renting the weirdo movie that acts as a precursor to the series because one blog wrote there were some allusions to what happened at the end. I'll take anything I can get.

xoL

Birthing the marathon

Running a marathon is, I've decided, a lot like giving birth.

True, I have yet to have an actual baby. But considering the anticipation of said event and the physicality that comes along with it, I'm going to go ahead and say the comparison is not a stretch.

Thus, my marathon birth story.

*Spoiler alert* I won.



How amazing is this guy? Yup. Running buddy.

Alright, so I didn't quite win it. But I finished. I think my time was 4:37 minutes - give or take.

But let's back up.

I was talked into running this puppy by my friend who has run three other marathons. I love Chicago, I love this friend and I've always wanted to try so sign up we did.

You may recall my trials and tribulations with training. It worked out well, in the end as I was unemployed and could contribute larger chunks of my week to hitting the open road. Then I got injured. Then I recovered. Then I got a job and training got pushed to the back burner but I managed to clock in 18 miles the week before so away I went.

Friend and I had a hotel right by the starting line and after a lovely day of distractions with Chicago friends and a hearty meal with my family who flew in for the even, we made our way up to our room for a short nights rest.

Up at 5:45, we dedicated an hour to stretching and preparations and made it down to the starting line just as they were blocking off some entrances. We squeezed into the 10 minute mile slot along with a couple thousand other people and...walked a crowded slow distance up to the start.

It started off great, as I'm sure these all do. It was a beautiful, if super toasty, day and the crowd was already thick and excited at the 7:30 start. We meandered through the crowd of runners in the loop and made our way up to the lakeside and into my old neighborhoods Lincoln Park and Lakeview. We even passed my old street (twice)!

Lakeview was definitely the most rocking of the neighborhoods, what with Boystown to support the runners in the Trannies-in-costume-dancing-to-Lady-Gaga category.

Friend and I ran side-by-side until about the halfway point. She was having some knee problems and we gradually drifted apart (sniff) until I couldn't see her anymore.

Then I saw my parents. It was somewhere between miles 13 and 14 and my dad popped out of the crowd and ran with me for a moment offering me sips of water and dates. Brilliant. It was also a lovely distraction. He told me they would be around miles 17 and 20, so it was always something to keep me going.

Turning west I tried to keep an eye out for Chicago friends who I knew would be hanging around the Diversey/Greektown area or thereabouts but, sadly, I never saw them. The crowd thinned in parts in the western neighborhoods but there were always people around and I was never not running in a crowd.

Around mile 16 I started to get a pain in my knee - a familiar one, that annoying IT band strain. But it was early and every so often it would go away so I just ran on.

Just as he promised, I saw my dad around 18 and then somewhere in the early 20s when things were starting to go downhill. At this point I was just running through the knee pain but it kind of provided a distraction from the regular old body pain that was starting to present itself with little bursts. I tried to keep up the eating but it seemed the last thing I wanted to do.

The latter part of the course weaves itself around the south side. Whenever I thought we were starting to run back north we'd take another turn and head south again. But it wasn't bad. Ignorance was bliss as I had absolutely no idea what was up ahead.

Between miles 20 and 23 I had this flash of optimism. I was getting down to a handful of miles and the crowd was getting thicker and more supportive. I even braved a sip of beer around 23. I had my ipod sitting with an hour long mix for motivation back up and somewhere around this time period I turned it on. I totally misjudged the type of music I would be up for. Some advice: less 80s and 90s ballads and more Beyonce. I think it was around 22 that 'Halo' came on and I literally got chills as I rounded a corner and saw the loop in the distance. The mix took a dive from there but it was a really nice 2 minutes.

And then 24 hit and there seemed absolutely no possible way that I could run two more miles. Like, none. The crowd was awesome but downtown Chicago just did not seem to get any closer. I was to the point of hobbling with my knee. Actually, when I ran it was better but whenever I stopped for water a shooting pain ran up my left leg.

Also at this point I had no idea how slow I was going. How long was 2 miles? 20 minutes? Please kill me, 40 minutes?

Then I started to see it. The crowd was a mass of color ahead of me. The mileage markers started to count down in kilometers, which helped me gauge the distance not at all. You had to turn right, run up a slight hill and then take a left and head in to the final mini stretch. People were screaming, just yelling their heads off for every runner trying to make it up that mini mountain. At one point I look over and this woman who had already lost her voice yelled, 'You're my hero, I could never do this.' And that got me over the hill.

When I rounded the corner and the giant red finish line was clearly in front of me I started to laugh cry and, I think, said 'oh my god' a few times until I got looks from nearby runners. But, I'm sorry, are you really going to finish this thing in silence?

I crossed the finish line with arms raised, like friend told me too, and totally and completely wept. Man it felt good.

Then it felt terrible and then I was given water and cookies and bananas and bagels and a cape of some sort and told to grin in front of a camera (I can only imagine out framable that one was) and wander TWO miles down to where family and friends would be reunited. That walk must have taken as long as the marathon. I was dazed and limping and feeling slightly ill just trying to retain a tight grip on all the goodies I was shoveled.

Finally, at the designated meet-up spot, I saw my Mom and brother and have never been so excited. They hugged me, sweaty and all, and it was the best moment.



My Dad, who was trying to find me up by the finish line, returned and we compared stories. A little while later, from out of the crowd like a sweaty little angel, appeared friend! She finished despite running on a bum knee for the entire second half of the marathon. I limped up to her and we hugged and both cried and it was hilariously emotional and awesome. We treated ourselves to free massages, very slow showers, a clean change of clothes and a panini and french fries afterward.

It was a crazy experience and I was surprised by the emotions and all I kept thinking is, why would anyone ever want to do this again?

And yet, as the days passed and my aches and pains faded it was really just the anticipation and excitement and shared experience that remained. I tried running the other day and got 10 minutes into a job before my IT band acted up. So it's going to be a longer recovery, but I'm OK with that. I did what I had to do. I finished/won and have my life back now that training isn't a top priority. But with the New York marathon happening this weekend it's hard not to think if maybe that's a possibility sometime in the future.

A long way in the future.

Happy running.

xoL

Ode to a Dad

Growing up, my Dad has been many things to me.



A tickle monster
A storyteller
A sailor
A captain
A coach
An athlete
A pusher
A know-it-all
A teacher
An adviser
A cheerleader
An intimidator
A snowboarder
A type-A personality
An audiophile
A Canuck with acute American political beliefs
A broker
A road biker
A planner
A fan
A support

He's not really a chatter, though he won't think twice to tell you what's on his mind. He's a straight-to-the-point kind of Dad who will tell you how it is and not cushion the blow. He's a dedicated, hard-working and loyal friend, colleague and team mate. He loves a good political joke (especially one that might rag on "my president") and will laugh out loud at clever commercials. He's a fair-weather sports fan but will always return when the seasons anew. He's a bit of a wimp when it comes to movies - no terror, suspense or gore - but that's OK, because so am I. He's a die-hard Leonard Cohen fan and thanks to him, I'll be one too. He's got calves that have taken him on 100-mile bike rides and maybe one day, together, a marathon. He's a fantastic speech writer and impressive consumer of news (so to keep his know-it-all status, of course). He's a grill master of the cooked-raw variety. Though his list of home-cooked menu items are few, his Christmas waffles are hands down the best I've ever tasted.

As much as he jokes that I must have been swapped at the hospital, I know I am my father's daughter and I have never been so proud to be.

Yes, my Dad has been many things but tomorrow, though he'd shake the label off, he is a superhero. And it's just one of the things I love him for.

xoL

Training day: Longest and finalest run, T-minus three days

Here we go party people.

What was once 16 weeks has dwindled down to a measly four days.

Saturday was my last attempt at a long run and it was, dare I say, a success.

I clocked in 18.75 miles.

I ran from Greenpoint to Williamsburg, across the Williamsburg bridge, across Broome Street in Manhattan and an already bustling Soho, up the West Side (lovely), across 106th street, into Central Park (where I saw, I kid you not, a gaggle of dogs doing circus tricks, a rare bird show and the end of a half-marathon race), South through the winding park paths, East across 59th street (the bowels of the tourist industry), across the Queensboro Bridge, down through my new hood (Long Island City, people, get into it!), across the Polaski Bridge, and back through Greenpoint ending and at an early Halloween celebration in McCarren Park.

Sure I wanted to chop off my throbbing legs, but I survived and it was enjoyable.

Now I just have to tack on a teen tiny seven (SEVEN?!) more miles come Sunday and we're golden. Pooped, but golden.

I have become completely and totally paranoid about injuries but I'm trying to take it easy. I'm fitting to do some sprints tomorrow to keep the stamina up, a Bikram yoga class Thursday night and a leisurely run Friday morning before jetting off to good ol' Chi-town.

I feel the potential to forget my sneakers in Brooklyn is so real I can reach out and touch it. The more I think about the possibility the more it seems they will sit this trip out. To prevent this first-and-last-marathon-ending scenario I have left post-it notes around my belongings as reminder. My belongings, at this point, comprises the remains of a suitcase in the corner of a living room, but you'd be surprised how many helpful notes can be tucked into the corners of said luggage.

SHOES, screams one piece of paper. SNEAKS yells another. DON'T FORGET demands a third. I may have even set an alarm on my phone.

Hey, this is serious people. By Friday, if I forget these puppies, I should bypass the plane and go straight to the mental hospital for surely this is a case for earliest-onset Alzheimer.

Should anyone be interested in tracking my progress/near-death experience you can try out the Runner Tracker as provided by Bank of America. My bib number is 43542. It may not actually activate until I register on Saturday, but try your luck. Now, no judging on my less-than-stellar times. The goal here is survival. Survival and beating Katie Holmes's time (no offense, of course, to Ms. Cruise, but that was pretty brutal and please just put me out of my misery if I'm running for five hours and 30 minutes).

A lovely friend mentioned the coincidence that the marathon date is 10-10-10 and this year I am 10+10+10 so it must be good luck. Let's hope she's right!

xoL

Gettin' low

I had my first New York low point.

Alright, it's not my first.

And certainly won't be my last, but it was a special kind of low that clearly needs sharing.

It was Thursday, 7:30. I had just forfeited my credit card to the most depressing New York Sports Club location (midtown West) - a narrow subterranean place that houses enough post-work tension to actually block natural light. It was September 30th, the last day to squeeze into a deal to join for $20, and with the gym's proximity to my work being inescapably convenient (and I do so want to spend as MUCH time as possible in midtown), I resigned myself to the inevitable.

But I was in a rush. Having fled work for the gym, and now the gym for the subway and what was to be my second attempt at a pre-marathon bikram yoga class, time was not on my side.

But my tum rumbled and the bikram class did not start until 8:15, spitting me out into the dark, all sweaty and starving, at 9:45.

I stopped into a vaguely-leftover-chinese-food-smelling corner deli to grab a Cliff bar (blueberry crisp) -- guaranteed satiation for a yoga class or, should the opportunity arise, a mountain climb.

I bopped and weaved out the deli and down the street to the subway that would take me to another subway that would take me to Williamsburg.

It was 7:40 and empty for a post-work commute. Not being able to wait, I fumbled for the Cliff bar packaging wavering between a rip-down-the-side and the potato-chip-bag opening. Deciding on the latter I pulled the two ends with full force and witnessed the granola-nugget launch out of the packaging and onto the subway platform 30 yards away like a faulty grenade.

And there it sat, all tasty and kind of sticky, on layers of New York history that comprised, at best, human bodily fluids, rat excrement and boat loads of garbage, taunting me. Without slowing down I bent over, picked up the target, placed it in my purse, bypassing the multiple garbage cans, and walked to the end of platform debating my dance with the unhygienic devil.

My belly rumbled as the subway screeched into the station. The doors opened, invited me in, and I took a seat on the wide, blue bench, clutching by bag like a stolen treasure. I made it one stop before I ripped a chunk of my sodden treat and popped it in my mouth, swallowing the morsel whole.

The mood in the train cab changed. The woman next to me shifted down a notch. The kid with the kid-sized backpack stopped talking to his buddy. The garbage-bag-guy at the other end of the car picked his shoulders up a bit seeing as his former roll as Most Desperate member of current society had recently found a new soul.

I didn't take another bite. I tried not to think of the bite I took. I made a list of slightly padded excuses in my head should anyone following this pathetic show ask what the hell I was thinking:

I hadn't eaten all day
It was my last two dollars
It barely touched the ground

All of these things were false. But I digested that bite. I got off the subway at my designated stop. I threw the evidence in the first garbage can. Stopped into Ed's Crazy Corner Deli, picked up a substitute and walked away from the whole situation.

And I'm still breathing. I didn't even puke or anything. I hit a low New York point and I survived. If I can eat a treat off of the subway floor and live through the night to blog about it, I'm sure I can expect great things ahead.

That's how it happens right?

Or maybe I should just pack more treats. Or remind myself that I am not, despite homelessness and near poverty, a bum.

Training day: Long run countdown

We (me and my bum legs) are back on the horse. After three weeks of no running, and a slow build up the long run ladder, I am back where I left off: at 16 miles.

Alright, that's padding it.

Let's back up.

A month and a half ago, at the near-peek of my marathon training, I made the mistake of running on a treadmill and injured my calf (insert: fist shaking at treadmill).

I put running on hold to mend this puppy through torture sessions with massage therapists who said helpful things like "it's a necessary evil" and "I'm not sure how long your long distance running career will last." I guess that's why they stick to massaging muscles instead of egos.

Two weeks later I tested out a long run that recalled leisurely Saturdays of yesteryear, like, say, June 2010. I made it through seven miles, heaving and hoeing, but, alas no major muscle eruption (mini hallelujah). Yup seven sad but successful miles, just five weeks before the marathon.

Buck up, buttercup.

The next week I ran 11. Huffing and Puffing, but 11 nonetheless. I returned to the long-distance-really?-therapist for a turn-muscle-into-pulp session and she said I didn't have to come back and maybe I could "run this thing yet." I hobbled out.

Yesterday I continued to up the mileage. I strapped on my sneaks, stretched and dithered about the house avoiding the inevitable, then set out for my planned 15.6 mile run. But the thing is, it was hot. Like, no way this is September hot, and all my waiting around set me up for a long ass run during the hottest part of the day on an empty stomach (woo hoo?). Little suburban streets turned epic and fuzzy as I placed one foot in front of the other. I made small but important deals with myself:

"If you can make it to the end of Pine Tree Drive you can walk up the next hill."

I had to run up the next hill.

"If you run up the next hill you can stop instead of doing that extra little loop."

You better believe I ran up that next hill.

Somehow I pulled one tuckered leg after another to complete a not even-close to marathon distance 14.3 mile run.

But onwards and upwards people. Today, on request of my training torturers, I tried a bikram yoga class, which is supposed to help with deep stretches and all those things.

I've done bikram once before and I did not recall it being so bad. But then again, time heals all wounds. So I limped into the already scorching room with my small, lukewarm bottle of (in hindsight) precious water, lay down my mat and towel and got to sweating.

I learned a few things during this adventure:

1) Bikram classes are 90 minutes
2) I can sweat a lot and the sensation of bending forward while sweat drips down your face and up your nose is a lot like drowning
3) It is best if you eat something before sweating the weight of a small child from your sleep-deprived body
4) Water, more water

I'm sure it was helpful. I'm sure I stretched my body in ways that was not normally possible. I'm sure I swallowed a little bit of bile at the end of that last pose and I'm sure I saw a few black spots while filling up tiny water bottle at the fountain.

So, now that I'm fully stretched, completely exhausted and permanently dehydrated, I am ready to conquer my last two weeks of training.

The week ahead will hold three days of longer runs, which means earlier and darker mornings. I will also try to cram in one more yoga class before my next long run.

Saturday will be my last attempt at a pre-marathon long run. We're talking 18-20 miles, people. But I'll be in the city, I will have my broken-in-but-still-new sneakers and, hopefully, cooler weather on my side.

I hate to admit it, marathon, but I am beyond ready for you to be over.

The good news? I'm not that crazed marathon-addicted person. See? Learning new things about myself at ever turn.
xoL

Monday brings some firsts

Well, one, in particular. Today was my first day of work in the business that I have been elbowing my way into for a few years now. It is my first full time paid position (paid! slave wages, but it counts.) in this biz that is all spark and ingenuity one moment and dead as yesterday's used newspaper the next according to media friends and foes. That's right friends iiiiiiiiits journalism.

But it's also my first day of working in New York after being away from this city that I love. I was nervous, what with the commute, the fabulous ladies of fashion surrounding me at every turn and, well, the commute (listen, it can be pretty bad).

But that latent New York kick-it-and-go attitude sprung up in my like geyser once those subway doors opened and the rest of Greenpoint and I were trying to squeeze in. I strolled into the center of the train and never looked back.

Somehow my blood boiled enough to get me from one subway to another and back again at the end of the day, spits of rain and a sleepless night and all.

Now that I'm slightly more eased into working life and my outfit is already picked out for tomorrow, I'm hoping I can catch some Zzzzs so I can get up for a much-needed run in the morning. Because, oh yes, I'm still training for that marathon. I have four weeks to go from 7 miles to 26.2 so it's now or never.

I can only do things like, get a job, find an apartment, train for some sort of feat-o-strength all at once. Dog pile on L. It's all or nothing people, but it's nice to be doing something even when it's everything.

xoL

Training day: Long run hiatus

I'm behind, I'll admit it. I survived the long run no. 9 (11 miles) and the long run no. 10 (a whopping 16+ miles). I even tripped and fell at the end, alright, it was more of a crumple, but the run was good, really good and I was proud of myself.



And then my calf ripped in half.

Dramatic? OK, yes, a bit. But I'm beyond frustrated. I've made it 10 weeks into my training, was about to jump up to 18 and then 20 miles and then this happened. Whatever it is.

It started off as a soreness. I was scheduled to have a massage and I mentioned it to the masseuse who worked on it. Then a three day down pour arrived and I was stuck running on a treadmill and within a mile it popped. I stopped and finished up some exercise on an elliptical (probably not the best idea) and then took a few days off.

I skipped my next long run (10 miles) and tried jogging at a toddlers pace on Sunday and, again, with in a mile - Pop.

So, here we are: Five weeks out until the marathon. My longest run was 16 miles and I'm losing any sort of fitness with every passing week. Not to sound like a whiner but what the crappity crap?!

I mean, have you SEEN my calves? If nothing else these puppies were made for running, that or Glatiatoring if it were a different era.

Just when I was hitting my stride.

Just when I ran more than I've ever run before.

Just when that magical anti-chafe glide stuff entered my life!

I've obviously wallowed a little bit and I might be continuing down that road.

But today I made an appointment to see a massage therapist, which, according to all the online forums and even the trainer I accosted at the gym suggested, is the first step. I'm hoping this guy can asses the damage, give me some sort of recovery regiment and then tell me I'll be good to go in a week. Wishful thinking? Definitely.

At this point I just want to complete the dumb thing and not be keeling over in some sort of pain afterward. I hope that's not too far fetched of a goal.

Just so I'm not ending on such a sour note, the hiatus hasn't been all bad. For one, it allowed me time to move. For two, it's been hot as balls outside (I think that's a technical term, hopefully I'm using it right) and running in this would have definitely been detrimental to my health. And maybe by the time I can strap back on my running shoes I will be so excited to be able to run that the adrenaline alone will get me through the mileage.

ho hum.

Training day: Long run no. 8

This one was a doozy.

First, it was my first longer-than-I've-ever-run run: 15 miles. Even tracking it on map my run was intimidating.

Second, I was squeezing in a run before an 11:30 phone call, which is normally fine but I just had no idea how long this would take me or if I would survive at all.

Third, I may have had one glass of wine too many, meaning two, the night before during a August birthday celebration so rising was less shiny at 7 a.m.

I repeated by Jamaica Plains run with the added few miles that brought be around and past the Museum of Science along the Charles River.

Figuring that this run would take me more than 2 hours I had to boost my audio support. BUT I couldn't sacrifice another This American Life so I needed an alternative.

Enter: The New Yorker Fiction podcast. I know, I know, it's not exactly the Rocky soundtrack of marathon training but I'm telling you, having people speak to you about sometimes interesting things is fantastically entertaining.

For This American Life I had episode #412 Million Dollar Idea. The first two stories were less exciting but it worked out since they came on when I was still alive and well. The third story, though, about a guy who became obsessed with winning game shows was fabulous. It was sad and weird and made me actually laugh out loud. All good.

For the fiction podcast I chose Joshua Ferris's The Dinner Party as read by Monica Ali. I have to admit that I was not familiar with Monica Ali but she is accented! And that Britishness makes the read so much more enjoyable. I had read Ferris's first nove, Then We Came to the End, a few years ago and LOVED it. It was a bit of a slow build, as a novel about office life might expect to be, but the character development was spot on and the story took some odd and entertaining twists. Beyond all of that it was actually laugh out loud funny. Needless to say, I had some high hopes for "The Dinner Party."

And, for a running story, it was the perfect mix of entertainment. It kept me distracted, it was weird and cringe-worthy and a nice story arch for a short piece. I also liked that Ali and the New Yorker fiction editor discussed the book afterward because they pointed out all the interesting bits that I definitely would have missed as I was trying to put one foot in front of the other.

Besides the ipod, the run started off pleasant. It was sticky hot by 8 so the light sprinkle that met me at mile 5 was more than welcomed. Jamaica Pond was pretty as usual and because it was a weekday it was empty.

Back near the Charles River, where I was getting through the double digit mileage, I had drunk nearly all of my now-hot water and sports drink and was pretty much dying of thirst. Right before the Longfellow Bridge on the Boston side of the river is a water fountain, which I gulped out of for a good three minutes. Water never tasted so good.

By this point - about mile 12 - my legs had been feeling OK. Definitely fatigued but I was getting by. But when I tried to start up again after refueling my legs were not having it. Just a few minutes back into the run my IT band started to flair up, which is NEVER an awesome thing. In fact it's incredibly frustrating because if it really goes you have to just not run to fix it. And in this point of the training not running isn't really recommended.

So, at mile 13 I finally said, fine. I'll walk. So I speed walked and when things got really boring and frustrating I tried running again but IT band said no way Jose.

What began as a good, solid, I'm-not-doing-so-bad run ended up sucking it up.

The good news is that I took the weekend off - three glorious days run free - and when I ran again on Monday and Tuesday my knee was OK. I fully blame the water skiing. That was definitely not well thought out on my part.

So if you're training for a marathon, take my advice and don't do other sports, especially not water skiing. That 30 seconds of standing semi-triumphantly can really bite you in the ass.

Thus,
Distance: 13 miles running + 2 miles speed walking
Time: I'm not even going to try.
Overall: 3 (pros: the audio entertainment, random rain, water fountain savior; cons: the IT band).

xoL

Thirty, flirty and thriving. Right?

Well, it happened. I turned 30.

Who would have thought this kid could have made it past grade school? She can barely get her hands out of that jacket!



I would just like to point out that I am now older than my mom was in that photo. Terrifying.

I was never a girl who conjured up images of the future me; dressing future self up like a paper doll in different outfits.

Here is L the veterinarian
L the teacher
L the Olympic swimmer (OK, I did imagine that once)
L the college graduate
L in a pants suit
L the bride
L the mother.

I remember sitting cross legged in a pale pink room. It was still grade school - fifth or sixth grade, I think. This is still during the time when my then-best-friend and I would coordinate outfits and come in wearing the same exact thing (a favorite: white jeans, Keds, over-sized Joker t-shirt) so you can see the maturity level was already ripe.

In this pale pink room, three little friends and I were talking about marriage, like you do. And it was during this heated discussion that I felt the pressure to divulge an age. You know, that age at which you think all things happen. That age, for young girls, when your life merges with what you imagine is adult, something that resembles your mother and the life you grew up in. For me, this age was 28.

It seemed WORLDS away. My occasional 16-year-old babysitter was ANCIENT so 28 was practically extinct. Did people still live that long? I wasn't sure.

28, I said in my most feminist-sounding pre-pubescent voice, would give me enough time for "my career." Then a husband would show up at my door and small children would follow.

My friends said slightly younger ages, 24s and 25s and since I still wasn't entirely sure where those future kids would pop out from I packed on a few years to ensure I had some time to figure things out.

It was so far out in the future, dangling like a baby carrot from a fishing rod that anything was possible. Wouldn't we be living like the Jetsons by then? I would be busy flying a car and eating jelly-bean-sized three-course meals and, sure, I could squeeze in a husband, a career and a few kids to bop around the apartment-in-the-sky.

During my 20s I inevitably started to hit those "my-mom-was-this-age-when" marks, at which point I brushed off responsibility and adulthood like the fading idea that a monster still lived under my bed.

At 22 I had the vague understanding that my mom was this age when she got married.

That was legal?

At 24 I knew my mom was this age when I was born.

The authorities don't automatically take children born of children away?

At 27 my mom had by brother and when I turned that age I was driving across the country about to embark upon a career change and graduate school and could barely feed myself let alone two ankle-biting kids and a grown man roommate. I mean, really.

I passed 28 reliving my early 20s in my first roommate-less apartment in Chicago with friends closer to college than 30.

During the 2010 year when my fellow 1980 pals were ticking over into that new decade I had witnessed enough anti climatic responses to recognize that this wasn't going to be a volcanic-epiphany time. But still, when I opened my eyes Friday morning I thought, maybe I'd awaken with some understanding of life.

Instead I woke up with a faint headache leftover from a night of too much.

In short, things are exactly the same. I feel motivated to kick this career into a higher gear, settle into a new apartment and city and fall into a new decade that offers, I'm told, a bit of assurance and know-thyself attitude. Which is great, because I'm still in the dark about a few things, like, am I really allergic to mushrooms? What about nectarines? Because I think my lip feels tingly after I eat them. What's up with that. Those and other such questions to be answered over the next ten years.

For those of you still slogging through those fun and frantic 20s I did want to leave you with a few items. Just a little grab bag of things I lived and learned after ten years of living in a few apartments, a handful of cities and, luckily, only one really bad hairstyle.

1. Don't cut your own bangs. I know this may sound silly as a starting point for advice, but it's a good one to remember. You may get lucky and make a clean sweep the first time but the odds are against you and sooner or later you're going to mess those puppies up and you'll end up trying to pass of the angled bang like it's sweeping the nation.

2. Best not to live with the opposite sex. Boys are fun. Boys can be great friends. Boys tend to not make awesome roommates. For one, it's hard to yell at a boy when they are not your boyfriend because they do yell back. For two, if you start doing the dishes that have been piling up in the sink said boy(s) will likely assume that doing the dishes is something you ENJOY doing, ergo dishes will always be piled in the sink.

3. Privacy settings are your friend. If all of your friend's, friend's, friends can view your facebook page, then so can your potential employers.

4. Edit yourself. Speaking of facebook, how about you don't post those drunken-last-night shots, eh? Or if your awesome friend does it for you, untag yourself. I was lucky enough to live through a Facebook-free 20s, but some of the interns I've looked into hiring have not and, trust me, the stretched-happy-face is not a subtle, sober look.

5. Beware of contracts. This goes for gym memberships, cable companies, yes, even library cards. In the end, everybody is out there trying to set up their own racket. If you sign a contract you are obligated to stick it out and, look at you, you're 22/23/24/25 you can barely get up in the morning. How are you supposed to comit to anything longer than three months? Forget cable, everything is online and look into month-to-month options. Also, crying does not always help you get out of a contract especially when speaking to someone across the globe over a phone.

6. Make a photo copy of your drivers license and your passport because you will absolutely lose it/both at least once if not multiple times. It sucks. Don't get attached to cute wallets. I'm still mourning after that red number with the embroidered hearts on the front that I left on a cab seat. {sigh}

7. If you live alone make a few copies of your keys and give them to friends, trustworthy neighbors or, if you're really ballsy, hide a few around your apartment building. Sure this could encourage theft, but it really sucks to get locked out of your apartment and to have to call your landlord who tends to be condescending about things like locking yourself out of your apartment and says things like, "Aren't you too old to be losing your keys" when EVERYONE has a bad day and perhaps there was a lot on your plate! Geeze.

8. Help a friend move. I really believe in the moving karma. Moving BLOWS and it's so super helpful to have a few (preferably larger man friends, but, really, anyone will do) on hand. Reward helpful friends with pizza and beer afterward or at least the promise of helping them down the road. And you MUST help them because it only takes one burn to lose a mover. This karma thing also goes for wayward friends looking for a couch and lending clothes out. It all comes back.

9. Bring your lunch to work. This is SO old of me to say, but, cereal, it really does cut down on costs. My Dad told it to me when I was 22 and I scoffed at him for a few years and then, when I had $1.30 in my bank account and three days before payroll I had a very quick change-of-mind. Also with every lunch you bring to work you get one free-to-brag-about-it-option. It's proven.

10. Avoid the Save-the-Children or other such selling-you-something-on-a-busy-street-corner people. They may say it's only $0.15 per day but that adds up. And you're living in New York City, the most expensive city out there, are you insane to give up $0.15 of your paycheck? One minute you're just taking an afternoon break and the next minute you're mother to baby Ruth in the Dominican who writes you sad little letters with drawings of the items she was able to buy with your measly monthly fund: apple, banana, pants. When you overdraft the next time you try purchasing the on-sale magnum at your liquor store you damn yourself, think of Ruth, and then pity your single-parent status and how lucky you are to at least have pants. The guilt and the overdraft fees are not worth the tax break. Though helping the Baby Ruth is a good thing and should be encouraged, there are other, more financially settled people who can step up to the plate for now. And if you're really stuck on doing something good, volunteer at a soup kitchen. There's no need to be the hero when you can barely make your monthly rent.

xoxoL

The round up

I bet you didn't think this was going to happen again, didja?

True the last round up was made during far more wintery weather, but that doesn't mean I haven't been combing and bookmarking all things arts, culture and just plain dumb (in a good way).

Without further adieu:

to read: A few months ago I happened across NPR's My Guilt Pleasure. And yes, it's just as indulgent as you would imagine. Writers divulge their deepest darkest literary treasures - the mostly embarrassing concessions of romance novels, best-sellers or, worse, vampires. I think Flowers in the Attic is one of my faves.

to check out: This fabulous French woman Sandrine Estrade Bell has a talent that usually leaves us commoners after the age of five: she can see imaginary creatures and people in everyday street scenes. They are quirky and hilarious and I wish it were mine. It looks like she takes photos and lets her imagination unfold in basic colors and voluptuous shapes. Check it out at My Modern Met

This guy, Made Thirsty, is my pet:



to procrastinate: Terribly addicting for very little reason, Hugh Crawford's Polaroid-a-day will suck you in with no apologies. Crawford took, as is plainly obvious, a Polaroid photo every day for 28 years. I mean, that's crazytown. But it is also fantastically addictive. Seasons change, nameless friends pile on puffy clothes and strip down to bold-colored tanks. Parties are had and food is (presumably) eaten or at least, photographed. The best part is that the lengthy photo album is a time capsule of that glorious fashion-questionable decade: the 80s.

Here is what was happening the day I was born.


Aren't you just dying to know what goes down next?

to long for: Sabrina Dehoff creates playful, colorful jewelery that will lighten your mood just enough to forget you're clomping around in high-heeled shoes (if that's the sort of thing you do).

I love the rope bracelets, a modern twist to those sailor rope bangles I collected as a kid.


Or the cloud necklace...hello? Adorable.


Speaking of adorable, this New York Times feature a while back on tiny houses is certainly to lust after. I would definitely like, no, need a mini Victorian house to live in. Sure it doesn't have indoor plumbing or heat and barely a door to speak of but it is so frickin' cute I could put it on a cupcake and eat it.



See the full slide show via NYTimes and prepare to drool.

And finally to cuddle:



What the HELL is that? I don't know but I shall adopt it and call it Fat and love it forever. It's a zooborn, get into it.

xoL