In 1994, I spent "Holy Week" with my girlfriends Melinda (American) and Margaroo (Australian) visiting another friend, Anita (Irish), in London. I put it in quotes 'cause there was nothing particularly holy about that week for us. We spent the days shopping and the nights in restaurants and/or at shows.
Just being elsewhere is fun. Yet being anywhere with Melinda is fun. I could tour a rendering plant with her and get the giggles. Melinda is the epitome of the loud American; however, thankfully, she's also beautiful so she can get away with it. Big smile. Warm personality. Non-stop entertainment.
Anita's flat, at the time, was in Croydon which is a short train ride into the London city center. So every day Melinda would unintentionally have the entire train car laughing at her antics. Everyone loved her. Young men. Old women. Babies. Margaret and I thought it was hilarious. Anita, on the other hand, was absolutely mortified.
Having had enough of us toward the end of the week, Anita went out with other friends so we were left to fend for ourselves. Not knowing what to do, we walked into Croydon that evening looking for a pub. Being Holy Saturday, everything was closed. They're clearly more observant in Croydon than expected or desired. We were directed by a passerby to a disco but, upon arriving, weren't allowed in because we were in jeans. Oh no, where else can we go? The bouncer told us that there was only one other bar open that night: The Blue Anchor. Okey dokey. Sounds good to us!
So there we were: three fresh-faced girls in bright, preppy clothes, including Melinda in a short, vivid red raincoat, stepping over a large number of barely visible people who were splayed across the floor in a blackened hallway (doing God-only-knows-what) just to get into the only pub that would serve us. We entered a dark pub filled to the brim with leather coated, tattooed, grimacing, metal heads. Hi! It's us! (Can you spot the tourists?) As difficult as it was to get to the bar, we somehow managed -- where there's a will, there's a way. And then we never left. We spent the night fully immersed in dangerously high decibels of Green Day, Faith No More, Nirvana, STP, Hole, Radio Head and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. At some point we started dancing with the locals. We were finally kicked out at closing time.
Whew! Happy Easter!
We awoke on Easter Sunday with neck aches from a night of head banging. Literally. I could barely move my noggin from violently shaking it due to an abundance of overindulgent, "when in Rome" dance-like-the-natives moves. To recover, slowly, we went to the cold, gray beach in Brighton with Anita and her snobby, self-absorbed, not-fun-at-all friends who refused to partake in any of the arcade games.
Even 16 years later, this ranks as one of the best nights ever followed by a dreary day jam-packed with colossal buzz kill. And to this day, I would much rather be noticeably embarrassed with happy-go-lucky friends than invisibly carrying on a boring, politically correct conversation with elitist wannabes.
I just want to dance.
I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Rocks and Stones Themselves Would Start to Sing
It's Holy Week. So what does that mean? Christ vs. the Easter bunny. Anguish vs. pastel baskets. Death vs. coloring eggs. Joy vs. hunting for eggs. It's such a tug-of-war between the extraordinary vs. ordinary. Pretty much just as it was back in the day, right? A carpenter? From Nazareth? A king riding into Jerusalem on a donkey? What the french, toast.
For me, I need to take the time, as I've been attempting to do throughout Lent this year, to reflect more deeply on the meaning of Easter.
That our God walked among men. What? Un-friggin-believable. (Truly unbelievable, to many!) He used to come in a cloud or a burning bush and scare the hell out of people. This time he joined us, taught us, fed us and loved us.
That, like Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Isaac (and then some), God gave his only son to atone for our sins. And Jesus fully accepted his death on the cross for us. What? Is he crazy? (No, he's just a failed prophet, cite some.)
That, after the tomb was found empty, Jesus appeared not only to his disciples -- in a closed and locked room nonetheless -- but also to hundreds of people thereafter. But not like Casper the Friendly Ghost. He ate and drank with them. They felt his wounds. What? Is is a resurrection even possible? (It might happen, tsshyeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt.)
If I were attempting to create a world religion, I don't think I would have my star character killed. I would have him dramatically rescued at the last minute. Perhaps a light-filled ascension right from the cross, like being lifted into an alien spaceship, with a bit of a "Ha! Told you so!" thrown in for good measure. Dude, that was really him? Man did we screw up.
Instead, darkness came over the land. The earth shook and the rocks split.
Also, I wouldn't write that he came back to earth -- especially since the first texts were written roughly 30 years after his death. Or, if I were making it up, I would have changed the dateline so that people couldn't refute my ridiculous claims. Yeah, it all happened 200 years ago. Too bad there isn't anyone around to chat about it.
But, much akin to idiots claiming that the Holocaust never occurred even when survivors are still living to this day, these texts were written when the people who actually saw the risen Lord were still alive and could back up the claims. That's way better than saying you were at Woodstock. And trust me, if someone published a book today making crap up about events at Woodstock that never took place (like the *fact* that Jimmy Hendrix actually performed in neon pink wig and floor length YSL ballgown), I guarantee people would not buy into it.
So what gives?
As Christ was entering Jerusalem and people were screaming "Hosanna in the highest," he said, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out." Luke 19:40
Even without anyone shouting, all of creation testifies to his glory.
For me, I need to take the time, as I've been attempting to do throughout Lent this year, to reflect more deeply on the meaning of Easter.
That our God walked among men. What? Un-friggin-believable. (Truly unbelievable, to many!) He used to come in a cloud or a burning bush and scare the hell out of people. This time he joined us, taught us, fed us and loved us.
That, like Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Isaac (and then some), God gave his only son to atone for our sins. And Jesus fully accepted his death on the cross for us. What? Is he crazy? (No, he's just a failed prophet, cite some.)
That, after the tomb was found empty, Jesus appeared not only to his disciples -- in a closed and locked room nonetheless -- but also to hundreds of people thereafter. But not like Casper the Friendly Ghost. He ate and drank with them. They felt his wounds. What? Is is a resurrection even possible? (It might happen, tsshyeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt.)
If I were attempting to create a world religion, I don't think I would have my star character killed. I would have him dramatically rescued at the last minute. Perhaps a light-filled ascension right from the cross, like being lifted into an alien spaceship, with a bit of a "Ha! Told you so!" thrown in for good measure. Dude, that was really him? Man did we screw up.
Instead, darkness came over the land. The earth shook and the rocks split.
Also, I wouldn't write that he came back to earth -- especially since the first texts were written roughly 30 years after his death. Or, if I were making it up, I would have changed the dateline so that people couldn't refute my ridiculous claims. Yeah, it all happened 200 years ago. Too bad there isn't anyone around to chat about it.
But, much akin to idiots claiming that the Holocaust never occurred even when survivors are still living to this day, these texts were written when the people who actually saw the risen Lord were still alive and could back up the claims. That's way better than saying you were at Woodstock. And trust me, if someone published a book today making crap up about events at Woodstock that never took place (like the *fact* that Jimmy Hendrix actually performed in neon pink wig and floor length YSL ballgown), I guarantee people would not buy into it.
So what gives?
As Christ was entering Jerusalem and people were screaming "Hosanna in the highest," he said, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out." Luke 19:40
Even without anyone shouting, all of creation testifies to his glory.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Mangia Italiano
A few weeks ago, my bible study girlfriends and I went to see the Cooking with the Calamari Sisters: Mangia Italiano at the Downstairs Cabaret Theatre. It's a Wayne's World-esque, public access cable show, featuring two sisters (i.e., men in drag) who cook for the audience and sing everything from Doris Day to Devo. They even bring audience members on stage (including an Italian American dude actually named Carmelo: nice pick) and incorporate them into the act. As such, there's quite a lot of improv which was, at times, even better than some of the scripted materials. Definitely a fun night out. Rated R for racy.
Last night, thanks to a fabulous Christmas gift from my mom to the hubby, he and I went to an Italian Easter Dinner cooking class at Cibi Deliziozi, a converted church, where the food was prepared by a proper chef, Rosita. (Aside: that name launches my brain into elementary school Spanish class, "Rosita, este es mi amigo Ramon." "Mucho gusto." "El gusto es mio.") Unlike the Calamari Sisters, this event was rated E for everyone; however, akin to Calamari Sisters, there was audience participation -- mainly between the chef and the in-season, locally grown, pesticide free, gluten free, non-stop chattering, free-range, organic foodie in the audience. Initially, I declined a glass of wine but after over an hour of said foodie yapping about what farms were bringing what produce to a location nearest you, or how to ensure your organic greens weren't coming from a gray market like China (and a serious, two-second, vertical nap from which I quickly recovered after being tapped on the shoulder, and shocked back to life, by the hubby), I caved. Yes. Merlot. Please.
Shortly thereafter, the older woman seated next to me turned her entire body toward me and moaned, "Please make her stop." And thus began the banter that turned a seemingly endless night into a lot of fun.
Rosita was a bit flighty but sweet and charming nonetheless and the food, in particular the salad with lemon pesto dressing and prosciutto, was yummy (technical term). I'm not a big fan of lamb (or salads!) but it was well prepared and delicious. Apparently lambkins was also young which presumably made it tender and less gamy. Ignorance is best: I prefer not to know the innocent age of my freshly mauled dinner.
Every time Rosita prepared a new dish, or picked up a new ingredient, she prefaced her comments with what she's doing (e.g., leaving the chunky vegetable droppings in the gravy for flavor) vs. what an top chef would do (e.g., strain it for aesthetics). And, each time, the hubby would quietly interject, "But for you slackers" or "But for you tourists" just to make us laugh.
In short, an interesting night out (thanks mom!) but I don't see a Throwdown with Bobby Flay happening anytime soon.
Last night, thanks to a fabulous Christmas gift from my mom to the hubby, he and I went to an Italian Easter Dinner cooking class at Cibi Deliziozi, a converted church, where the food was prepared by a proper chef, Rosita. (Aside: that name launches my brain into elementary school Spanish class, "Rosita, este es mi amigo Ramon." "Mucho gusto." "El gusto es mio.") Unlike the Calamari Sisters, this event was rated E for everyone; however, akin to Calamari Sisters, there was audience participation -- mainly between the chef and the in-season, locally grown, pesticide free, gluten free, non-stop chattering, free-range, organic foodie in the audience. Initially, I declined a glass of wine but after over an hour of said foodie yapping about what farms were bringing what produce to a location nearest you, or how to ensure your organic greens weren't coming from a gray market like China (and a serious, two-second, vertical nap from which I quickly recovered after being tapped on the shoulder, and shocked back to life, by the hubby), I caved. Yes. Merlot. Please.
Shortly thereafter, the older woman seated next to me turned her entire body toward me and moaned, "Please make her stop." And thus began the banter that turned a seemingly endless night into a lot of fun.
Rosita was a bit flighty but sweet and charming nonetheless and the food, in particular the salad with lemon pesto dressing and prosciutto, was yummy (technical term). I'm not a big fan of lamb (or salads!) but it was well prepared and delicious. Apparently lambkins was also young which presumably made it tender and less gamy. Ignorance is best: I prefer not to know the innocent age of my freshly mauled dinner.
Every time Rosita prepared a new dish, or picked up a new ingredient, she prefaced her comments with what she's doing (e.g., leaving the chunky vegetable droppings in the gravy for flavor) vs. what an top chef would do (e.g., strain it for aesthetics). And, each time, the hubby would quietly interject, "But for you slackers" or "But for you tourists" just to make us laugh.
In short, an interesting night out (thanks mom!) but I don't see a Throwdown with Bobby Flay happening anytime soon.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
On Language
When we were little, my brother Markie sat at the end of the kitchen table during dinner underneath the rotary phone that was mounted on the wall. Almost nightly the phone would ring, it would be for him (most likely a call from Dave next door), Mark would answer and respond, "Reetin."
Definition: I can't talk with you right now, we're eating.
Today, Son #2 is filled with such linguistic slurrings such as "Q," "Shy" and "Ki."
Definition of Q: A request being made of my time/attention/money
Usage: Q play basketball with me? Q buy this book for me?
Definition of shy: A request for assistance in reasoning
Usage: Shy go ride my bike? What shy do?
Definition of Ki: A request for permission
Usage: Ki have a sleepover? Ki go to the playground with Connor?
I've also been noticing lately that my coworker Jennifer truncates the "g" off most of her words: workin, eatin, sleepin. And my boss says comp'ny.
What do I do? Apparently, when I don't hear someone fully, instead of asking him/her to restate it politely as in, "pardon?" I ask, "Hey?" Drives the hubby crazy! You should try it sometime.
Definition: I can't talk with you right now, we're eating.
Today, Son #2 is filled with such linguistic slurrings such as "Q," "Shy" and "Ki."
Definition of Q: A request being made of my time/attention/money
Usage: Q play basketball with me? Q buy this book for me?
Definition of shy: A request for assistance in reasoning
Usage: Shy go ride my bike? What shy do?
Definition of Ki: A request for permission
Usage: Ki have a sleepover? Ki go to the playground with Connor?
I've also been noticing lately that my coworker Jennifer truncates the "g" off most of her words: workin, eatin, sleepin. And my boss says comp'ny.
What do I do? Apparently, when I don't hear someone fully, instead of asking him/her to restate it politely as in, "pardon?" I ask, "Hey?" Drives the hubby crazy! You should try it sometime.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Power Pop
I can't believe it's been over a week since I wrote in this space. Life is definitely taking over. But during that time frame, I had a really, really nice weekend with one of my BFF's, Margaroo, who was in town briefly from Australia. We didn't actually do much of anything but we hung out, ate cheeseburgers, visited our alma mater to buy t-shirts, took a walk along the pier, watched movies, and chatted about all of our typical mutual interests from music to (of course) God.
Thanks to the hubby for allowing (nay, encouraging) my parental absence for days and thanks to Mroo for driving all the way up here just to sit around!
Spiritual path aside, one question that Marg posed still has me baffled. When people ask "what type of music are you into," how do you respond? My typical response is "alternative" but even my version of alternative isn't really alternative anymore. It's mainstream alternative, if there is such a thing, and it's barely current. Nothing edge-of-your-seat underground for sure. But, then again, many of my friends have never heard of some of the mainstream bands I've liked over the past few years (e.g., Wilco, Rilo Kiley, Travel by Sea, New Pornographers) including Margaret's favorite, Supergrass.
On the radio yesterday, I heard an old school favorite: Matthew Sweet. As I sang along, I thought maybe "power pop" might be a better qualification. That definition allows my musical taste to span many decades and doesn't imply that I'm onto anything really cool. Now I have to Google what power pop really means . . .
Thanks to the hubby for allowing (nay, encouraging) my parental absence for days and thanks to Mroo for driving all the way up here just to sit around!
Spiritual path aside, one question that Marg posed still has me baffled. When people ask "what type of music are you into," how do you respond? My typical response is "alternative" but even my version of alternative isn't really alternative anymore. It's mainstream alternative, if there is such a thing, and it's barely current. Nothing edge-of-your-seat underground for sure. But, then again, many of my friends have never heard of some of the mainstream bands I've liked over the past few years (e.g., Wilco, Rilo Kiley, Travel by Sea, New Pornographers) including Margaret's favorite, Supergrass.
On the radio yesterday, I heard an old school favorite: Matthew Sweet. As I sang along, I thought maybe "power pop" might be a better qualification. That definition allows my musical taste to span many decades and doesn't imply that I'm onto anything really cool. Now I have to Google what power pop really means . . .
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Dump and Dumper(er)
Thanks to JetBlue, we had the honor and privilege of taking a three-day tour of Jamaica! And by Jamaica, I mean Queens, of course. Is there any other?
So, of course, I had to write my reviews on TripAdvisor. I'm a sucker for giving feedback.
In case you're ever stuck at JFK, I would recommend:
Since I intend to drive everywhere I go from now on, I hope never to step foot in any of these hotels again.
It's a holiday in(n) Jamaica; it's tough kid but it's life . . .
So, of course, I had to write my reviews on TripAdvisor. I'm a sucker for giving feedback.
In case you're ever stuck at JFK, I would recommend:
- The pool at the Hilton Garden Inn, if you're with kids
- The cleanliness and up-to-date features of the Doubletree Hotel, if you value normalcy
- Nothing at the Holiday Inn Express. Actually, they had some bright, colorful paintings of Manhattan on the walls. So if you choose your hotel based on artwork, this dive hotel comes highly recommended. Also, we discovered this too late but, their take-out drivers will pick up booze, if needed. (And it's needed.)
Since I intend to drive everywhere I go from now on, I hope never to step foot in any of these hotels again.
It's a holiday in(n) Jamaica; it's tough kid but it's life . . .
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Best of Travel with Kids
TripAdvisor just posted my review of Turtle Beach Barbados. It sounds a bit negative because I’m comparing it with other recent all-inclusive experiences but we really had a fabulous time (JetBlue aside).
I think combining all of our trips into one amazing hotel experience would be fun—preferably within driving distance. To do this, we would take the best of the best from each which brings me to . . .
The Night Sweats' Best of All-inclusive Travel with Kiddies Awards (2004-2010)
1. Majestic Colonial, Punta Cana
I think combining all of our trips into one amazing hotel experience would be fun—preferably within driving distance. To do this, we would take the best of the best from each which brings me to . . .
The Night Sweats' Best of All-inclusive Travel with Kiddies Awards (2004-2010)
1. Majestic Colonial, Punta Cana
- Meandering pool snaking throughout property
- Top-notch food
- Elegant lobby and premises
- Miles of walk-able beaches
- Sweet little church on site
- Sauna-like pool
- Tons and tons of kids; very family friendly
- Fun kiddie cocktails
- Club Nitro kids’ disco
- Flea market next door
- Convenience from airport
- Pool with tall, fun slides
- Ocean facing room with lanai
- X-box game room
- Calm, warm ocean for kids
- Safe island
- Kids’ Club
- Nothing (I repeat, nothing)
Saturday, March 13, 2010
She's So Stinkin' Gorgeous
"I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles."— Audrey Hepburn
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wonderwall
It's not usually my style to tell other people's stories on this blog (that should be reserved for their blogs) but I heard Oasis on the radio this morning which always reminds me of one of the dads in the neighborhood next to ours. I barely know this man, aside from buying our kitchen floor from him this past year, but he's probably one of the funniest people I've ever met.
He's also a gigantic fan of Oasis and claims that the band changed his life. Specifically, "Oasis rocked my world."
One weekend a friend of his, a concert promoter in Philadelphia, invited him down to an Oasis concert. Backstage passes. The whole nine yards. Turns out that afterward, Oasis was playing a private show at an upscale nightclub in Atlantic City. These guys ended up getting invited by the band, taking a limo to Atlantic City in the wee hours of the morning and attending this private party filled with rich and famous people.
To make his story even more over-the-top, the party was sponsored by some high-end, Grey Goose-like liquor brand and atop the bar were a string of almost-naked, dancing models who were wearing, based on his description, a light steel-rim contraption that served as a bra (of sorts) complete with motorized propellers over the boobs.
Of course, this 40-something man -- who left his wife and kids at home in suburbia -- was completely agog. Just as he was ordering his martini, the model directly above him, stepped down from her perch to take a break and stood right next to him for a moment. He looked her in the eye and said, "You are so hot."
She replied, "No shit."
And then she walked away.
I simply love the obviousness of her response. No shit.
He's also a gigantic fan of Oasis and claims that the band changed his life. Specifically, "Oasis rocked my world."
One weekend a friend of his, a concert promoter in Philadelphia, invited him down to an Oasis concert. Backstage passes. The whole nine yards. Turns out that afterward, Oasis was playing a private show at an upscale nightclub in Atlantic City. These guys ended up getting invited by the band, taking a limo to Atlantic City in the wee hours of the morning and attending this private party filled with rich and famous people.
To make his story even more over-the-top, the party was sponsored by some high-end, Grey Goose-like liquor brand and atop the bar were a string of almost-naked, dancing models who were wearing, based on his description, a light steel-rim contraption that served as a bra (of sorts) complete with motorized propellers over the boobs.
Of course, this 40-something man -- who left his wife and kids at home in suburbia -- was completely agog. Just as he was ordering his martini, the model directly above him, stepped down from her perch to take a break and stood right next to him for a moment. He looked her in the eye and said, "You are so hot."
She replied, "No shit."
And then she walked away.
I simply love the obviousness of her response. No shit.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
We're Through Being Cool
Just over a year ago, my girlfriend Margaret and I went in search of awesome cupcakes in NYC. We ended up at Magnolia Bakery one afternoon where I bought my mom a cute I cupcake NY t-shirt. Fun.
I hadn’t really thought about it much again until this week. As I mentioned in my post two days ago, a local blogger is searching for the best cupcake in Rochester. Fun again!
Yesterday, my girlfriend wrote a cute yet snarky comment about cupcakes becoming the “it” dessert on her FB page. Cupcakes again? I defended the otherwise helpless cupcakes and jokingly stated that I didn’t realize they were the “it” dessert until recently.
In response, one of her friends wrote: The cupcake has been the “it” dessert for awhile now, and its “itness” is fading.
OMG. Has it come to this?
Instead of dealing with obnoxious emo-cutting-edge-music-mega-dumbass comments like “I listened to Chali 2na way before they were played on air” or “I discovered so-and-so before they even had a recording contract,” we now have to contend with hipsters claiming that cupcakes are on their way out after, I'm guessing, a hundred plus years? What’s next: that bacon is also so last year?
They’re only cupcakes people. Cupcakes. If loving them is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.
Señor uber-trendy can go have his pain perdu (i.e., French toast for elitists) or perhaps some vegan, artisan chocolates. I’ll have my lard-laden cupcakes with sprinkles, thanks.
I hadn’t really thought about it much again until this week. As I mentioned in my post two days ago, a local blogger is searching for the best cupcake in Rochester. Fun again!
Yesterday, my girlfriend wrote a cute yet snarky comment about cupcakes becoming the “it” dessert on her FB page. Cupcakes again? I defended the otherwise helpless cupcakes and jokingly stated that I didn’t realize they were the “it” dessert until recently.
In response, one of her friends wrote: The cupcake has been the “it” dessert for awhile now, and its “itness” is fading.
OMG. Has it come to this?
Instead of dealing with obnoxious emo-cutting-edge-music-mega-dumbass comments like “I listened to Chali 2na way before they were played on air” or “I discovered so-and-so before they even had a recording contract,” we now have to contend with hipsters claiming that cupcakes are on their way out after, I'm guessing, a hundred plus years? What’s next: that bacon is also so last year?
They’re only cupcakes people. Cupcakes. If loving them is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.
Señor uber-trendy can go have his pain perdu (i.e., French toast for elitists) or perhaps some vegan, artisan chocolates. I’ll have my lard-laden cupcakes with sprinkles, thanks.
Life's a Dream
Sunshine. Highs in the upper 50s/low 60s. Beautiful sunsets. Heaven!
Early yesterday evening, as I crested the hill over Irondequoit Bay, there was steam rising over the thawing ice. If I ignored the dashboard of my Jetta (and the restaurant/marina down below), I could see for a split second the gorgeous view that the Native Americans must have cherished. Pale blue sky. Big cliffs. Snow covered lake. Golden cattails on the shore.
I wonder if they ever took it for granted.
Early yesterday evening, as I crested the hill over Irondequoit Bay, there was steam rising over the thawing ice. If I ignored the dashboard of my Jetta (and the restaurant/marina down below), I could see for a split second the gorgeous view that the Native Americans must have cherished. Pale blue sky. Big cliffs. Snow covered lake. Golden cattails on the shore.
I wonder if they ever took it for granted.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The Great Cupcake Chase
I agreed to bring cupcakes to my small group tonight to celebrate a girlfriend's birthday. Not at all my suggestion; however, with Karley at Chic and Green roaming our little city in search of the best(est) cupcake ever, the craving for cupcakes has definitely been haunting me for days.
Stop #1 last night on the way back to work for a client: Sugar Mountain Bake Shoppe. D'oh! Ye olde shoppe sadly closed on Monday.
Stop #2 this a.m. after coffee with a client: Dolce Cupcakery. D'oh! Not open until 10:00 a.m. Not quite as sad as my mom bought a big box of these for my birthday last December and they were dry as a bone. Decidedly gorgeous but not the moist, sweet life, taste explosion one would hope for in a shop that specializes in cupcakes. And it's hard to frame cupcakes.
Stop #3 at noon today: Goodness Cakes. D'oh! Closed on Tuesday.
Call #1 (finally thinking ahead for obvious reasons): The Little Bakery. D'oh! I kid you not when I tell you, the woman over the phone just said, "We have never run out of cupcakes before but a man just came in and bought 50." I asked, "Any idea where he was going?" and she laughed. "You planning to chase him down?" Maybe . . .
Finally, through calls #2 and #3, I found the elusive cupcake hiding places: The Baker Street Bakery (which is actually windin' your way down on Park Ave.) and Leo's Bakery. Since both close at 6:00 p.m., Baker Street it is. Proximity is key.
I'm leaving (for) there too soon, leaving there too soon.
Stop #1 last night on the way back to work for a client: Sugar Mountain Bake Shoppe. D'oh! Ye olde shoppe sadly closed on Monday.
Stop #2 this a.m. after coffee with a client: Dolce Cupcakery. D'oh! Not open until 10:00 a.m. Not quite as sad as my mom bought a big box of these for my birthday last December and they were dry as a bone. Decidedly gorgeous but not the moist, sweet life, taste explosion one would hope for in a shop that specializes in cupcakes. And it's hard to frame cupcakes.
Stop #3 at noon today: Goodness Cakes. D'oh! Closed on Tuesday.
Call #1 (finally thinking ahead for obvious reasons): The Little Bakery. D'oh! I kid you not when I tell you, the woman over the phone just said, "We have never run out of cupcakes before but a man just came in and bought 50." I asked, "Any idea where he was going?" and she laughed. "You planning to chase him down?" Maybe . . .
Finally, through calls #2 and #3, I found the elusive cupcake hiding places: The Baker Street Bakery (which is actually windin' your way down on Park Ave.) and Leo's Bakery. Since both close at 6:00 p.m., Baker Street it is. Proximity is key.
I'm leaving (for) there too soon, leaving there too soon.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Death Bear
Today's NYT "Modern Love" column contained a great story about a dude named Death Bear who will come to your home (assuming you live in Brooklyn or thereabouts) and "remove painful reminders of your past and give you the chance to start fresh in 2010."
I want to be Death Bear! Imagine the strange encounters he's experiencing daily under that giant, furry suit. Anonymous. Nameless. Faceless. (Unless masks and pseudonyms count.)
Imagine the stuff he's collecting.
Imagine the book he'll be able to write.
Imagine the satisfaction he must feel helping people move on.
I want to be Death Bear! Imagine the strange encounters he's experiencing daily under that giant, furry suit. Anonymous. Nameless. Faceless. (Unless masks and pseudonyms count.)
Imagine the stuff he's collecting.
Imagine the book he'll be able to write.
Imagine the satisfaction he must feel helping people move on.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Orr Not . . .
My coworker/friend Jennifer gave me the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Trivia Challenge calendar a few weeks ago. It's a short, daily challenge that we rarely get right.
Case in point -- today.
Me: Sandra Dee received a divorce from what Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee in 1967?
Jenn: Bobby Orr?
Me: Bobby Orr?? No, Bobby Darin.
Jenn: Bobby Darin was a hockey player?
It's been confirmed: I'm not the only one having a long week.
Case in point -- today.
Me: Sandra Dee received a divorce from what Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee in 1967?
Jenn: Bobby Orr?
Me: Bobby Orr?? No, Bobby Darin.
Jenn: Bobby Darin was a hockey player?
It's been confirmed: I'm not the only one having a long week.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Back in the Saddle
Back in the day, I would go out partying with my girlfriends until the wee hours of the morning and go to work the next day barely missing a beat. Flash forward 20 years: not quite so agile. Friday night I pulled a sober, working, all nighter (again) and just today, six days later, I'm finally feeling okay.
I went through much of the weekend in a coma-like stupor. At a party for my next door neighbor's 40th birthday, I kept drinking Coke -- which I never drink -- just to stay awake. I was hoping to hang with my brother who was in town just for one night but my overly caffeinated body and I promptly fell asleep. Thankfully he ran errands with me the next day (that's what friends are for) and we had a nice lunch together before my much needed Resiliency workshop at Physikos with my beloved Body-Mind Centering teacher.
Yesterday, I popped a million aspirin before coming home on time for the hubby's birthday. (Kudos to me!) I brought him a partially melted ice cream cake (that I buried in a snow bank outside my window at work as a poorly executed, preventative measure) and, per Son #2's whispered request to me during dinner the night before, a six-pack of Stella Artois. My eight year old knows him better than I apparently. When asked how he knew what to get daddy, he responded that he overheard him saying how much he liked that brand at Christmastime. Yes, he not only listened, he remembered. Note to self.
So in the midst of my complaints about my headaches, broken foot (crushed when Son #1 knelt on it), fractured cheek bone (from crashing wave-related injury), workload, lack of sleep, blah blah blah (someone shut her up, please) my girlfriend calls and tells me that she's been in the hospital for almost two weeks with hepatitis and pancreatitis -- and was just taken by ambulance to Upstate Medical Center for emergency gallbladder surgery. She originally called two days ago because we had plans to go skiing/snowboarding this weekend with the kids and was freaking out about letting me down (!) and then again a moment ago because she didn't remember calling me the first time.
What, she can't take her hospital bed down the slopes at Greek Peak? Well, clearly she's aging, too, 'cause in our twenties I think she would have tried it. That's what hospital drugs are for, right?
Dammit.
I went through much of the weekend in a coma-like stupor. At a party for my next door neighbor's 40th birthday, I kept drinking Coke -- which I never drink -- just to stay awake. I was hoping to hang with my brother who was in town just for one night but my overly caffeinated body and I promptly fell asleep. Thankfully he ran errands with me the next day (that's what friends are for) and we had a nice lunch together before my much needed Resiliency workshop at Physikos with my beloved Body-Mind Centering teacher.
Yesterday, I popped a million aspirin before coming home on time for the hubby's birthday. (Kudos to me!) I brought him a partially melted ice cream cake (that I buried in a snow bank outside my window at work as a poorly executed, preventative measure) and, per Son #2's whispered request to me during dinner the night before, a six-pack of Stella Artois. My eight year old knows him better than I apparently. When asked how he knew what to get daddy, he responded that he overheard him saying how much he liked that brand at Christmastime. Yes, he not only listened, he remembered. Note to self.
So in the midst of my complaints about my headaches, broken foot (crushed when Son #1 knelt on it), fractured cheek bone (from crashing wave-related injury), workload, lack of sleep, blah blah blah (someone shut her up, please) my girlfriend calls and tells me that she's been in the hospital for almost two weeks with hepatitis and pancreatitis -- and was just taken by ambulance to Upstate Medical Center for emergency gallbladder surgery. She originally called two days ago because we had plans to go skiing/snowboarding this weekend with the kids and was freaking out about letting me down (!) and then again a moment ago because she didn't remember calling me the first time.
What, she can't take her hospital bed down the slopes at Greek Peak? Well, clearly she's aging, too, 'cause in our twenties I think she would have tried it. That's what hospital drugs are for, right?
Dammit.
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