A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Debase.

My fifth grade class was filled with mostly suburban white kids, and it seemed that our bloated, brutish, bigoted teacher preferred it that way. Those whose skin, eyes, and hair were the kind of brown that darkened his doorway got special treatment. And the fact that I remember it so vividly 33 years later means it was memorably special indeed.

This person, this alleged human who was charged with the enlightenment of young minds chose to take us on a path of verbal violence, inexplicable intolerance, and creative castigation. In addition to learning the capitals of the 50 states, we learned that an angered teacher could threaten to smash a misbehaving (or likely just mischaracterized) boy into the ground until all that was left was andIquote, “A small, black grease spot.”

Why write about this? Well, I just reconnected with one of the objects of Mr. Wheatley’s aggression, and he managed to pull himself handily out of that flattened pool of persecution. And Mr. W exposed himself years later as the barbarian he always behaved to be, when he was arrested in 2007 and earned a very special (greasy?) spot on the convicted sex offenders list. 

Well done, sir. You know which one I mean.  

It's a Fine Day...

As a young woman, I never fantasized about the perfect white (or off-white, hmmm) wedding gown and customary veil. The idea of any of that business had never entered my mind, which, among the fairer kind, was cause to question if I had the right combination of chromosomes. Always seemed otherwise like I did, though.

I was married in a red sweater with an exaggerated fur collar. I was also wearing a skirt, in case you were wondering.

And, in a tragic, last-minute turn of events, my 1920's scarlet gown that was meant to be worn for our reception the following day had to be surrendered for a black, intricately-beaded, only slightly less wonderful replacement.

I never fathomed dressing myself in a traditional white gown. But I'm not sure any pieces like these existed yet: 

By the effing goddess Georgina Chapman for Marchesa, courtesy of Vogue.

Finally, someone is speaking my language. And I am wondering if I need to get married again.

 

Peace, Man. And Woman.

If you heard any of the NPR story on Stanley Karnow, then on your mind might be some of the stories of war brutality that were told during the program. It made me wonder if all wars—well, at least those in the last hundred years or so—were rife with such barbaric behavior. Like our beloved World War II and its heralded heroes? In war, violence, of course, is expected. Killing is accepted and justified. But torture, rape, destruction for the joy of it...when did they become a part of it?

Look, let me back up for a minute. I don’t believe in war of any kind. I don’t really understand it, and it is beyond my comprehension that it could be viewed as a means to solve any conflict. It’s pointless. And it’s all an atrocity, not just those acts labeled as such. That said, I do believe that under this guise of sanctioned murder, that a degree of mutual decency should be observed. This is, of course, crazy. But I exist in a world where war shouldn’t exist, so I am already cut adrift in fantasyland.

Which brings me to a point of sorts. As a woman who believes in equality of the sexes, I should view the recent ruling that women be allowed to serve in military combat as an advancement in the cause. But, instead, it fills me with sadness. We don’t need more warriors, we need fewer reasons for warriors to be needed.

Once again, how misguided are our intentions. Just as how we bitterly argue for and against abortion, when, if both sides focused that energy on prevention of unwanted pregnancy, we’d have little left to dispute. Change out the word abortion for gun rights and unwanted pregnancy for epidemic violence and you have the exact conversation.

When it comes to equal rights, I’d much prefer that we equally have our “right” to go to war forfeited rather than granted.

What a waste.   

There's No Rhyme, But There's a Reason.

Let’s go back to that love poem written for me by a boy whose love I didn’t return.

It was 1990 and I was living with two guys—and having a covert, on-again off-again affair with one of them. I wanted it to be on all the time, and he, alternately, was always on the prowl for someone else. Unfortunately, I didn’t know then what I know now, and so I persisted with this relationship that actually was going somewhere, but that somewhere was a very, very bad place.

We had a party one weekend and roommate #2 started to take interest in another woman who was there. It was clearly heating up, and I was beside myself with distress and misery over this turn. At the point that I became inconsolable, my admirer entered the scene. He swooped me away to my bedroom, where, rather than any outcome he could have anticipated, I cried, and cried, and cried some more. I remember he was not just skinny, but painfully scrawny, and I could feel his spindly legs through his jeans as I sobbed with my head in his lap. I wasn't at my most prudent in this position with this level of vulnerability, but he didn't seem to hint at a trespass.

He chose the moment that my jagged breath started to smooth and my tears began to evaporate to tell me what he had been doing all evening—there in the corner, with a crumpled piece of notepaper cupped secretively in his hand. It was this:

"What to say.

All in the midst of people,
shine like the sunlight;
One as so bright
as the six stars of the Northern
Cross.

Two as so many before us
strive for the future, yet is unknown.
I guess into the abyss for an answer.
One hour glass to another.

Only time shall tell.

If is the life that could be the end to a friend;
yet life is the finding to an unknown.

Smile, smirk, and be cheerful my
friend.

The times shall change as Dylan.
And the foremost shall disappear.

A single chance at love.
And, once again, we pass in the night." 

I didn’t and couldn’t find a hint of attraction toward this boy. Even as much as I wanted to in that moment. But I saved the poem for may reasons. For one, it was beautiful to me; beautiful and for me. But it also was a reminder that everywhere there is love unreciprocated. For me. For him. And the reasons are myriad. But what remains constant is that this truth is unchangeable, unaffected by persuasion, and, also, sometimes unexplainable.

I also saved it so that I wouldn’t forget, in those times that I might doubt, that there was at least one person out there who thought I was amazing.

Don't Regret.

In college, I had a couple of friends who worked really hard at being a couple. Harder maybe than you’d think most people would have to work to be together, if they really wanted to. But it seemed they really did want to, and so they tried. And tried. And when they tired of trying, they decided to get married.

She was my good friend, and I agreed to wear an over-orchestrated, taffeta, seafoam-green dress while serving as her maid of honor. I remember sitting in my first apartment (the first I had on my own), tediously stitching tiny pearls to the edge of the tulle veil I made for her. As a thank you gift, she gave me this carved wooden box “to hold all the treasures that you’ll pick up along your travels in life.”

Inside: a card that she wrote with a note about our treasured friendship, a love poem from a boy whose love I didn’t return, their wedding announcement, and an assortment of photos and clippings.

All of us in attendance floated obediently through the machinations of their union, each in our minds knowing it was, of sorts, an ceremony to the forces of futility.

I stayed by her side (in spirit, as they moved several hours away) for the birth of both of their children, and, despite the irrationality of it (of me, in this role, I mean), I agreed to be godmother to their firstborn.

I visited when I could, but we spent much of our friendship over the phone in long, sometimes emotional conversations. And then, one conversation turned on us both and we argued. She hung up on me, or I her, and we didn’t speak again.

Over the years, I thought off an on about trying to get back in touch. It was a serious argument, but one I knew our friendship could weather. And I was pretty sure she felt the same way. But who knew where she was? I didn't know where to begin.

Then, in 2005, in possibly the most unfit way imaginable, I learned that my friend and her husband didn’t make it. That they’d split up many years earlier. And there was more: there, in the middle of the dance floor, with Prince bellowing something about a Kiss in my right ear, a mutual friend, whom I also hadn’t seen in years, leaned in to my left ear and whispered that she died. Just a couple of months ago, he said.

This is on my mind today as I wished her daughter a happy 18th Birthday and told her how proud her mom would have been of her.

I don’t need to explain the moral of this story. It’s really obvious, right? We know that we should cherish our friends and loved ones and never leave a misunderstanding mistaken, a disagreement in dispute, or a conflict in contention. But sometimes we still do. And that is really stupid. So don’t do it, OK?

This was also in the box. Hmmm...

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Bollywood.

I'm cheating a bit by sharing a homework assignment I completed more than a year ago for an online class through Gotham Writers. The instructor's prompt was the first sentence in the story. The rest was up to us, the students, to complete. My add for today is the video for Brimful of Asha. If you can keep your booty still during this four-minutes of beats and hooks, then you may want have someone check to see if you're still alive.

 

“Going My Way?”

Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. Well, not so much the trip itself; he had ventured to Detroit hundreds of times over the years. But he had never picked up a hitchhiker on one of those drives, or any other for that matter. The minute he swung open the door and the young woman’s tiny frame settled onto the passenger seat, he had the immediate urge to shove her back out, leaving her surprised in the gutter as he raced away. But he didn’t. And he wondered why. And also what had possessed him to pick her up in the first place.

He seemed to be staring at her a little too long, but, if she noticed, she didn’t let on. He drew a crooked line with his eye from the shrouds of colorful fabric that wrapped around her thighs, waist, and shoulder to the tiny pattern of twinkling jewels pressed between her eyebrows. He searched his mental archives of seemingly useless facts: did this mean she was married or single? What, if any, was the difference between jewels and a single red dot? 

His memory returned nothing, and then, not so inexplicably, his head filled instead with Cornershop’s “Brimful of Asha” – a somewhat obscure, but impossibly catchy Britpop song from the late nineties. 

Now she was staring. He abruptly stopped tapping his foot and reached his hand out to greet hers.

“Chris,” he smiled.

“Lata,” she smiled back.

She released the cardboard sign she had been gripping, and it fell to the floor mat, facedown so Chris could no longer read the word “Bollywood” neatly written in crisp black marker. But, of course, he remembered what it said; yet, he still felt compelled to ask where she was headed, since he knew he wouldn't be driving to India today.

“Bollywood, please,” she answered. “I assume you’re going that way, or you wouldn’t have picked me up, right?”

“Right,” he said, wondering if the sound of his answer matched at all the doubt that clouded his mind. 

Chris pulled away from the curb in mock agreement with the mission he had promised to fulfill. His head felt hot, and, like a drowning man, he gasped as he lowered the driver’s side window.

The air was a little cool as it fluttered though his dark curls. He realized that they might look like brother and sister, his amber skin and deep, almost black eyes in close harmony with hers.

He drove several blocks before the silent bubble they were in began to swell and nearly burst.

“Why Bollywood?,” he asked, thinking this was a good place to start…

Don't Try.

A little inspiration tonight from Charles Bukowski...

"if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was."

It's titled "So You Want To Be A Writer." But what Charles Bukowski wrote here is what it’s all about—not just for writers, but every person, for whatever is their passion. Because surely we all have a passion for something, right?

I sometimes wonder about what will happen when my year of daily writing is up. Will I put this blog to rest and start another fresh? Or will I continue on here, but on a more organic schedule—one that is all roar and no snore? Hmmm...

I'm also wondering: is there straight-up truth to what he's saying, or is it possible that, occasionally, something magical does come from a place of pressure, or a place of creative struggle, or a place of artistic envy, or even a place of self-doubt? Maybe. But soul rockets are better.

Fallen.

A chill much like one felt in my first weeks of life breezes past my flesh.
I tremble, but my grip is still resolute.
The sun shines a tiny bit less each day, instead of a tiny bit more as it once was.

I am perpetually parched—a thirst unquenched even by an enduring afternoon rain.
When I catch my reflection in a splash of water pooled in the mud, I see my color is fading.

I once had many companions, but steadily they have departed.
In our finest hours, we joined together to shade the blazing heat...to cast enormous shadows on the grass below...to create a rapturous rustling that carried in the wind.

But we are no more. There is just me. I am the last.

What will become of me? Will I be peeled from the heel of a shoe and tossed in a pile: wet, withered, mangled, and limp?

Or will I drop before my beauty has diminished and attract the eye of a passerby? Oh to be whisked from the frosty ground and pressed carefully between waxed sheets—to be preserved...and admired...forever.

Maybe I will simply let go.

Once we were.

     

Shhhh.

A long time ago, perhaps in a life not so distant from this one, I wrote about a phenomenon (not so unusual to some of us) called bitch regret. That is, the nearly-immediate qualm felt after letting someone (whose feelings you care about) have it. The lashing is usually impulsive, fire-fueled, and ever so slightly exaggerated. Which is why our repent is usually just as swift and forthcoming. It’s not necessarily an irrational or undeserved outburst, but it may have been better left unsaid. Or more nicely said. Whatever.

I’m having a form of that I’ll call rant remorse. Which is one of those moments when you dive into an obviously shallow pool with all gusto and no hint of caution. It has the speed and adrenaline of a retracting measuring tape with precisely the same amount of time for backpedaling. Usually there’s no victim present or clear target, which is partly how it becomes out of control so quickly. That combined with the pleasure of letting free such scandalous opinions or statements.

These missteps include:

• Waxing politically or religiously (especially insensitively so) in the company of highly dissenting individuals.
• Discussing the untoward behavior of a colleague with a person who doesn’t share your disdain.
• Unapologetically speaking at least two obscenity levels above what is the standard acceptable for minors.

What you’ve said cannot be unheard or unlearned. You might be sorry now, but it sure felt good in the moment.

That's Entertainment.

Last Friday was a day of celebration in my house with the return of Real Time with Bill Maher for 2013. He is a controversial figure, for sure, but I find that he speaks (accurately) to many of the same issues and concerns that make me pound my liberal pectorals. Sometimes he’s rude, sometimes he’s condescending, sometimes he’s arrogant, but I love him still because he is one of the few who unapologetically tells it like it is with respect to religious and social intolerance, fiscal rapacity, and flagrant political idiocy.

I’m sure that many view him as I do any of those unconscionable blowhards on Fox News. With one mistake: he is conscionable.

All this said, how refreshing that one of his guests last Friday, my newest girl crush, by the way, confronted him more than once on some of his more obvious wayward ways. Her name is Rula Jebreal, and she cited him once for abusing vulgarity for the sake of shock value—saying, without words, that he only weakened his point. And then a second time for giving pop culture trivialities any discussion time when so many consequential matters had gone un-tabled.

For the 15 minutes she was on the show, she shepherded the conversation, every conversation, to higher ground.

I like this woman. Did I mention that?

The Doctor Is In.

Before I get started, I have a request. Today, the day that we celebrate the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr., will you read, in its entirety, his famous “I Have a Dream” speech? (Or watch it?)

If you only read one piece of writing today, I’ll be OK if it’s that instead of mine. It is truly a remarkable work: highly visual, painting a still troublesome scene with thick strokes of fiery words; highly emotional, invoking a powerful flood of empathy and passionate indignation; and highly influential, galvanizing those who sought to carry out that dream.

All that and more. It, this speech, has risen up in me many times today as I consider how much has changed and how far we still have to go. So that all humans are truly created equal: women and men, homosexuals and heterosexuals, theists of every brand and atheists, all races, and who else…? Oh, yeah: everyone. Everyone.

Actually that’s all I have to say today.

P.S. Something someone else said today may have inspired this post as well. It made me feel proud and went something (exactly) like this:

"We, the people, declare today that the most evident of truths – that all of us are created equal – is the star that guides us still; just as it guided our forebears through Seneca Falls, and Selma, and Stonewall..."

What's Cookin'?

Though I enjoy and prefer to cook, with many of my evenings filled over this last year, Ben volunteered to make dinner on some of my busier nights.

Though he has a background in baking, I wondered a little about what he might make. After all, he is also loosely associated with a family recipe called “Grenada Invasion.”

Imagine pizza made without the crust: the ingredients, including large chunks of pepperoni, whole green olives, spicy peppers, and heaps of cheese, layered in a glass rectangular dish, baked until crisp and solid, then cut into squares and served. Unspeakably delicious, but so wrong there was little room to feel right about it. One left the table feeling a mix of emotions: guilt, as surely this was akin to taking the hand of the devil; regret, with the immediate tightening of the waistband and slight swelling of the fingers; and uncertainly of what might lie ahead. Would this concoction be violently jettisoned from my body, or stop all traffic for days?

I had reason to be skeptical, because it turns out that most of Ben's creations, while always oh so tasty, have slid the slope into unholy territory. For example, a skillet queso, so rich and layered in flavors that it was difficult to stop eating, but warranted questions surrounding how, exactly, it could be called dinner.

Or chorizo, chicken, and caramelized onion tacos that were so wickedly memorable, I begged him to make them again last night. (But, through delicate negotiations involving who would run grocery errands and who would :cough: :sniff: stay home, I ended up cooking, and, of course, I made way too much.)

With the abundant leftovers, I decided to create:

Guerrilla Black Bean Soup

Here’s what you need:

⅔ pound of fresh, not cured, chorizo from the butcher shop
1 pound of chicken breast, trimmed of fat and cut into thin slices
1 medium onion, sliced
Freshly ground sea salt and black pepper, to taste
½ teaspoon of Aleppo pepper, plus an extra pinch
A splash of balsamic vinegar
Olive oil

Plus:

1 medium onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
Olive oil
1 can of petite diced tomatoes
1 can of black beans, rinsed and drained
2 cups of vegetable broth
1 cup of water
½ a teaspoon of smoked Spanish paprika

Here’s what to do:

Sauté chicken in an oil-coated skillet until partially, but not fully, cooked. Season chicken with salt, pepper, and ½ teaspoon of Aleppo. Add chorizo to skillet and break up with a spatula until well crumbled. Cook on high, stirring constantly until both meats are cooked through and browned.

While chicken is cooking, add onions to a separate oiled skillet and stir in salt, pepper, and pinch of Aleppo. Cook onions slowly on medium-low until soft and slightly crisp. Splash with balsamic vinegar and cook for one minute longer. Stir onions into chicken-chorizo mix and stop here if you want to eat tacos.

If you have about 1½-2 cups of leftover meat, it’s time to make stew...

Add chopped onion, garlic, and Aleppo to a medium sauce pot with a little oil in the bottom. Cook until onions are translucent, then stir in tomatoes, beans, broth, water, and reserved taco meat (I chopped it up a little to make the chicken pieces smaller, but this may not be necessary). Simmer on medium for about 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. At this point I tasted it and it didn’t seem to need any extra seasoning, but I felt I should add something, so I stirred in the ½ teaspoon of smoked paprika. That was a good call. Cook for about 15 more minutes. Serve!
  

If It Makes You Happy...

An incomplete list of small pleasures, volume I:

1. Doing absolutely nothing. Sitting in silence, focusing on nothing in particular, daydreaming or not. I can do this for hours.
2. The smell of fresh orange blossoms. I haven't smelt them in person, on the tree, since the spring of 1986. It is the most wonderful scent ever. 
3. Kissing friends on the cheek in greeting (or for any reason, masha'allah). Especially when they aren't expecting it.
4. Worms. When they come out and soak up the wetness after a good rain. When they are in every spot you want to step, and, with each breath, you take in their earthy essence. 
5. People who don't regard your personal space. I find it incredibly endearing when in platonic, friendly situations, a person deliberately gets too close to me. It makes me feel comforted and approachable. 
6. Anthropomorphizing objects: feeling sorry for the un-chosen pumpkins at the farmers' market, or the discarded flowers of unrequited love, or the carefully-chosen gift that is stashed in the corner of the closet, never re-opened. They break my heart a little, and even though that's a little crazy, I'm OK with it.    

Goodnight.

Take My Advice.

Looking to write about something other than bleeding from my ear and then vomiting for a full five minutes (it was probably closer to one minute, but felt like five) while trying to leave for work this morning, I decided to look up some writing prompts to seed my barren pasture of ideas. While I’ll forgo the inspiring subject “evil baby orphanage” for the time being, be aware that it may turn up at a later date.

Instead, I gravitated to this prompt, “What piece of advice do you wish you were given as a high schooler?” I was drawn to it because there are oh so many. These are my tops (given to me, by me):

Take Education Seriously.
As an adult, you’ll spend much of your time and money trying to gain and regain knowledge you could and should have already had. There’s nothing wrong with being an eternal learner, but being a late learner is inexcusable.

Know that Boys Are Stupid.
Or that girls are stupid about boys is more like it. For one: over-concern about them interferes with your education. See Item A.

Secondly, you are in control and have all the power and leverage in romantic relations. But only if you acknowledge it and behave like it. Boys are only faking it. Know it and you’ll never lose an iota of dignity.

Finally, the boys who break your heart will grow up to be mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, grammatically-challenged boors. (Return to Item B2, as needed.) Oh, and the boys you didn’t give the time of day to? They’ll become International diplomats, doctoral students, and world-famous artists. True story, girl.

Wait for It.
But not idly. If you follow my first two pieces of advice, being an adult can be an incredibly gratifying and rewarding experience. Education opens up unlimited opportunities, not just in building a professional life, but in forming relationships, making decisions, and experiencing the beauty of the world to its fullest. And prioritizing romance and respecting its place in your path will free you to be and do whatever you desire.

Listen to me, silly. I know what I'm talking about; just trust me.

Oh, and one last thing: perms are overrated.

Strange Days.

I woke this morning with a pressure in my ear that reminded me of the ear infections of my youth. Thinking it impossible to degrade this way while on antibiotics, I decided it was probably just an air bubble trapped behind a blocked Eustachian tube. The idea of dragging my haggard, pajama-ed self to the pharmacy seemed equally impossible, so I started looking online for home solutions to remove ear congestion.

Oh you dubious online content, you! How scientific that I should hop on one foot (naturally, the same foot as the affected ear) until the offending pocket of air breaks loose. And how strange that you alternately recommend a steam treatment, as long as it’s not a steamed sweet potato (for example), as it might burn my flesh. My hazy, confused mind thought on this long. Why? Why a sweet potato?

Things got weirder for me, as I ventured on to browse the Museum of Bad Art, where this painting joined the sweet potato at the top of my what the hell? list.

Commentary from the site: "The flesh tones bring to mind the top shelf liqueurs of a border bistro. With an astonishing emphasis on facial bone structure, the artist flirts with caricature and captures features of Mama's face which remind us of a Presidential candidate. The upright marionettish pose of the babe hints that the early bond between mother and child is as formal as it is familiar. Good old fashioned parental respect is at the center of this celebration of color and contour."

Up next, new belly dance music filled my ears, one still slightly cloudy, as I delved into the retro funk, magic stylings of Omar Khorshid (and his guitar).

The music is fantastic, but what of this mustachioed sultan who is either about to pull a scimitar from behind her leg or break into the hustle? And who knew Kate Moss was this old? Don't let their shenanigans dissuade you: give it a listen.

This Blows.

In the summer months, birds gather in the dense trees outside our bedroom window. As the sun comes up, they chirp and sing as if it is their first time seeing such a glorious sight. At times their joyful noise becomes so raucous that it pesters the gentle sleepers who wish only for a couple more hours in dreamland.

As the leaves drop and the sky turns gray, they flit away—their presense forgotten, their absence unnoticed. Until, once again, the ground warms, the branches green, and the horizon glows with brilliant rays. And they re-appear, they themselves like fresh sprouts of spring.

Today, as I endeavored to rest, I thought I heard a faint warble, a slight tweeting and I wondered: can it be already?

No, in fact, it was only the high pitched whistle, the strained wheezing of my over-clogged right nostril.

Rest Assured.

Though advised to remain in my seat,

I decidedly stayed on my feet.

But walking pneumonia,

Has me near catatonia.

Guess I’ll rest ‘til this plague has been beat.

With a little help from my friend...

Sometimes You Have to Ride the Current.

On the chance that you haven't noticed, I'll admit that I’ve been a little lackluster with my writing for the past several (several) days. I can blame a dull, foggy head for part of it, but also the normal ebb and flow of inspiration. Which is probably why most people who write a blog don’t post every day. But here I am, writing every day: the awesome, the crappy, and the mundane.

I knew going into it that it wouldn’t be easy, but I was a little unprepared for other obstacles besides an absent muse. Like having way too much to do on a given day—on top of nothing to say. Or being in a foul mood and not wanting to communicate with anyone one any level, even in the virtual world. Or having an excellent idea, but not having the mental sorting technique to form it into a cohesive thought or the patience and restraint to hold off until I am able.

As a result, this space has become much like an open diary, where I un-dam my stream of consciousness. Where waves of thought ripple over tiny stones of insight and bubble past pebbles of banality. Where I sometimes over-wet the shores with fantasy and other times recede to the point of parching the soil.

I don't mean to say that I'm absolutely disappointed with where it's taken me. It’s just not quite what I was expecting. But hey, what is?

What Dreams May Come.

Since about three days after Christmas, I've been fighting this cold. I rarely get taken down like this, so I have to blame the toddlers who, on Christmas Eve, sneezed directly in my mouth, crammed their fingers in my nose, and slobbered over my plate as I tried to eat. The germs that children carry are potent. They kind of terrify me. That's all I can say.

So I've been up and down with this coughing and snot-making for weeks now I just calculated. I'll start to feel better and then the next day I'm beaten down again. Over this entire time, especially at night, I've been heavily medicated, which seems to have triggered my dreaming mechanisms to over perform.

I've had a few true-to-life dreams, but most have been completely preposterous, including last night's, which involved cyborg kittens. I can't make this stuff up. Which, if anything good can come from being this sick for this long, is that it's possible that some of these dreams may eventually be a muse for some fiction writing—a daunting task that I've been avoiding for...ever.

I'm dreaming, in real life, that I might be able to write someday with the caliber and the outlandishness of Etgar Keret. But because I'm not there yet, why not take a listen to this short story by him called "What Of This GoldfishWould You Wish?"

 I think you'll like it.

No Doubt.

More than a year ago, I wrote about one of the exchange students who lived across the road from me in my third year of college. She and another woman from Kettering, Northamptonshire, England became two of my closest friends, and, somehow, after so many years and miles, we are still connected.

My British friend went on to travel the world, settling here, there, and anywhere for short bits of time. When we reunited about eight years ago, she and her husband were living in Jersey (the one off the coast of France, not the one off the coast of Staten Island). Shortly after, they moved to Abu Dhabi in the UAE and then, most recently, to Dubai.

She repeatedly asked me to visit, and I always politely dodged. While I've always wanted to see the Middle East, I never could muster the interest to visit a modern representation of it, with so little history and so few artifacts to take in.

It wasn't until I watched Sex & the City II the movie (which was horrible beyond belief and it is only for this point that I admit to watching it) that I had a change of attitude. I realized that there was still much to appreciate: the desert, the Persian Gulf, the souks...and old world cities, like Oman, that are close by as well. And, well, there are also camel driven safaris.

The funny thing is, once I was behind the idea of going, I still had so much apprehension about making the trip. I planned and put off, then put off some more. I came to a point of almost forcing myself to go, just because I know that in spite of that fear, this is something I really want.

Today, I bought a guidebook and immersed myself in it for the later part of the afternoon. My fear is now gone. Surprise. And, in early March, I will be on a plane. And, I expect it will be one hell of a ride.

What?

I had a surprisingly indecent dream the other night involving Pablo Picasso and, well...a couple of strangers. It took such a surreal and interesting turn that I considered writing about it here, but decided that this is a different kind of writing to be reserved for a different kind of blog. Or forum.

But I think I can divulge this tiny detail without polluting your minds too much: Mr. P was not potbellied, aged, or balding, but, instead, young, facially hirsute, handsome, and very Italian.

A couple of mornings ago, while I was in the shower—the place where all of my best thinking occurs—I pondered this weird dream and the fact that I had chosen this particular human model to substitute my beloved Picasso. I thought: that isn’t even my type! And then I thought: wait, do I even have a type? And then I thought: well, Ben must be my type. And then I thought: but what type of type is Ben? (See, I told you: this is some high-level analysis going on here.)

It seems I haven't ever necessarily had one; at least not from an appearance standpoint. So the Picasso stand in was probably just the last person I saw on the street, showing up as part of my subconscious' obligatory sorting and archiving activity.

And now that I’ve written this much I’m not totally sure where I am going and I’m starting to realize that all of this is totally unimportant. Oh boy. But it’s what I’ve got today, so I’m going to push forward and try to pull something meaningful out at the end. ‘Scuse me while I step away for a couple of hours. Maybe a glass of wine will help…

... ... ...

And that point, I think, is that it is interesting how we evolve as we mature. (We? OK, maybe I can only speak for myself.) I’m attracted to more practical characteristics in all of the people I encounter. I can only look at you for so long. What else have you got? Oh, you want to talk about Mid-Century Modern Architecture? Or discuss the roots of the “concept album?” You want to tell me about the linguistic scientists who decided how the Arabic language would be structured? Or the artistic, literary, and psychological revolutions that were occurring in early 20th century Vienna? I’m listening. Oh, yes, I am.   

PS: You might think it kind of wrong that I would have such a dream and then tell about it, being that I’m a married woman and all that. But just like dreams about imperfect houses and teeth falling out and flunking out of college and driving your car from the back seat, the object/subject is rarely the literal representation of what’s on our minds or happening in our lives. Likely I was thinking ahead about having to do my taxes. 

Today is Tomorrow's Yesterday.

Back to the matter of determining the three words that I want to define my character and attitude for the coming year (and beyond). Here they are:

Undaunted. I originally chose fearless, but decided this is a prettier word, and maybe more appropriate. My focus here will be to try not to let anxiety and self-doubt prevent me from following my heart's desires. Like the apprehension I feel toward flying unaccompanied to a foreign country more than 7000 miles away (and also being away from home for so long). Or not pursuing my Masters because I am terrified to take the GRE. And also, that which is at the core of all of this, the worry that sometimes (but definitely not all the time) can consume me and is quite often utterly baseless.

Present. I occasionally dwell in the past, wishing I had done this or that differently, or that I had had a different childhood (though mine was nothing to complain about, trust me). I also spend some of my time in the future, wishing for experiences yet to come. Between the two, I don't give enough time to appreciating the present. To being here. Now. And yet, wasn't today a day in the past (even yesterday) that I looked forward to? And isn't today also a day in the future that I won't look back on in disappointment if I just play it right? Yes.

Generous. Fiscally, I've got this. I have no problem portioning out a nugget of my salary to share with charities, socially responsible businesses, and other people, organizations, and causes that I want to support. But I am not very giving of my heart. Or my attention. Or my empathy. The latter more (or do I mean less?) so with strangers, or humans closer to my sphere and not suffering thousands of miles away. No matter what, it is easy to give tangibles. It is more difficult, for me, to give of the self.

So there they are. And to be clear, I'm not on another self-bashing binge. We all have weaknesses. These are a few of mine. And I know some of you share them with me. I don't totally know how I'm going to embody these new descriptors, I just know I'm going to give it a good effort.

That's all. Good night, friends.

Oh, and if you happen to have three words for your 2013 and want to share them, I'd like to read them!

Shazam!

I had planned tonight to write about three words that I envision will describe my 2013. Resolutions of sorts, but with a little more vision behind them. I've settled on two, but not my third, so it will have to wait. Hey, tomorrow's another day, right?

So last Friday while I was road tripping to Detroit, I caught a story on WDET about a Pixar Animator named Everett Downing who had made commitment back in 2010 to create a new super hero every day for a year. For much the same reason that I decided to write a post every day for a year: to pull out of a slump; to force the mind to manually spark this creative outlet that sometimes doesn't send volts of electricity automatically.

It turned out that he lost steam at around day 210, which, I just realized is coincidentally close to where I am today. (I'm not giving up, FYI.) Recently, he decided to finish the project, and his progress is shown here. Great stuff. And an inspiration to me to not just write anything just to get a post up, but, like him, to form a complete thought, from title to full execution of the concept.

I like Rick Saw, The Nut Cracker, Whipper/Snapper, and Auntie Matter. Hell, I like them all. 

Could Be Worse, Could Be Better...

This past Sunday, I decided it would be a smart idea to compare myself to others and then brutally give out lashes for every way in which I don’t measure up. At 43 and two-thirds, why am I not more educated and astute? Why have I not made a measurable difference in the world? Why am I not more traveled and fascinating? I vigorously analyzed each shortcoming and mentally self-flagellated until I was exhausted and raw. What an excellent way to spend my morning, right?

When I decided it was time leave my den of of degradation, my temptation was to build myself back up by making a contrast with those who don’t measure up to me. This is a common tactic that we all use in one way or another to boost our self-esteem, but it is truly misguided. I didn’t really realize how much, though, until I read this Harvard Business Review article on Monday morning.

It’s a bit of a long read, but worth it. What I absorbed from it is that when we try to evaluate our worth by what we’ve achieved, we revel in our greatness, which masks our deficiencies and makes us become complacent. If, instead, we accept that we do have deficiencies, but focus on addressing them rather than treating them like shameful weaknesses, we have a greater likelihood to change. If we need to change. I figure that if I’m dissatisfied with my status quo, then I do.

That known, I think that my habit of repeatedly talking about what I want to with my life and repeatedly not doing it—or not doing it at the level I promised myself—is in part caused by the artful dodge that says, "At least I’m not..."

A Trip to Quebec Via the Maharajas' Express.

I’m a little disappointed in myself that I went to the trouble of creating a new recipe and then fell short on the finishing touches. Shredded meat on a tortilla, no matter how delicious, is not really a complete thought, is it? The idea of julienned snow peas as a topping was a good start, but I’m thinking something a little more inspired is in order to truly call this recipe a success. A spiced tomato salsa? A fruit chutney? Hmmm...

Meanwhile, I do have leftovers from yesterday, and, as promised, we’ll be making poutine. So what is poutine, anyway? A basic one is simply French fries topped with brown gravy and cheese curds. I hadn’t had much exposure to this dish until we visited Toronto last year and it was on every menu.

Made traditionally, it’s nothing to stand up and sing about, but with a little creativity, poutine can be a surprising combination of flavors and textures for the palate. The fries soak up the gravy, but remain crisp, and the gravy partially softens the cheese curds, but still leaves their signature chewiness. It’s definitely an experience. An experience that can be significantly enhanced by adding seasoned meat and spicing up the gravy, which is exactly what I have on hand.

My only challenge is the French fries. Whether I order them from a drive-thru or buy them from the grocery store, I’m not feeling good about adding an over-processed element to this otherwise natural meal. So, here’s my solution:

Poutindian

Here's what you need:

2 small-ish, un-skinned russet potatoes, scrubbed and sliced into thin rounds
Olive oil
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Leftover shredded curry chicken and sauce from yesterday's recipe
Half a package of natural, cheddar cheese curds

Here's what to do:

Coat the bottom of a medium skillet with oil and sauté potatoes until cooked through, browned, and crisp. Season with salt and pepper. We’ve just made American Fries, FYI.

Keep them warm while you reheat your chicken and sauce. Divide the potatoes into two bowls, layer with chicken, top with cheese curds (also divided into two portions) and cover with warm gravy.

Voilà! Et bon appétit!

I know it looks a little sketchy. Just trust me, OK?

Bhog Keejeeae!

When traveling the vast universe that is the Internet, it is simply impossible not to learn something new every day. Early yesterday morning, I gained awareness of the Indian Taco after a friend mentioned a mysterious craving on facebook. My imagination immediately turned to India, considering the words Native and American were not mentioned. And, from there, my head began to fill with ideas about what this curried creation could be.

To my surprise, a thorough search of the world wide web informed me that there is no such thing as the kind of thing I was thinking. An Indian Taco is essentially a Tex-Mex style taco served on fry bread. No offense to any of our indigenous peoples, but that is not at all what I had in mind!

However, what I made this afternoon is. I'm not practiced enough to concoct a curry on my own, so I consulted several sources to come up with a base, and tweaked it with a few of my own ideas. Get ready for:

Murgi Curry Tacos

Here's what you need:

1 medium onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
½ teaspoon of minced ginger
Olive oil
1 tablespoon of hot curry powder
½ teaspoon of cumin
Seeds from 3 cardamom pods
¼ teaspoon of yellow mustard seeds
½ teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
½ teaspoon of kosher salt
2 teaspoons of flour
1 tablespoon of tomato paste
⅓ cup of non-fat Greek yogurt
⅓ cup of natural, unsweetened applesauce
1 cup of chicken broth
1½ pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, trimmed of fat
Flour tortillas

Here's what to do:

Coat a medium skillet with olive oil and add the onion, garlic, and ginger. Sauté until onions are cooked thoroughly.

Meanwhile, put cardamom and mustard seeds in a spice grinder and whiz until ground. Add all spices, plus the salt, to the onion mixture and cook, stirring, until spices become fragrant. Whisk in flour, tomato paste, and yogurt until smooth. Cook until slightly thickened, then stir in the applesauce and broth, continuing to reduce the sauce for about five minutes.

Transfer sauce to a dutch oven and add chicken to it, turning to coat. Marinate, refrigerated, for about two hours.

Bake at 325° for about 1-1½ hours until chicken is tender. Remove chicken and shred using two forks. Spoon enough reserved sauce onto the shredded chicken to add moisture without being overly juicy. Save the remaining sauce. You're going to make a poutine with the leftovers, you just don't know it yet.

Serve on warm tortillas.

P.S. This was spectacular beyond my expectations. Wow.

P.P.S. When I was at the grocery store, I tried to think of a green that would be complementary to the flavor, knowing that lettuce and cabbage wouldn't be. I couldn't decide on one and left with nothing. But, now that I've tasted it, I think julienned snow peas would be perfect. Try it!

#%@&!

Let's talk about the F word. I could almost say it's my favorite word of all, but I think that maybe that's not very imaginative. But it is by far my favorite expletive, especially when combined with its own different forms, as in: fuck you, you fucking fucker. Or, as a senseless interjection: oh, fuckety-fuck.

I don't use it much here, partly because it rarely has a place, unless I'm talking about Pablo Fucking Picasso, and partly because I never know (career-wise) who might read this blog now or down the road. (Guess I've fucked myself now, eh?)

I could argue George Carlin's point that: "There are no bad words. [only] Bad thoughts. Bad Intentions." But I believe that the F word has such a ubiquitous reputation that there isn't much else for a person to consider when saying it or hearing it. True, it is just a word, a collection of letters in a certain order. But it's not neutral, like chair or hat. We can't help but get some kind of sensation when we're confronted with it. Even with the sexual connotation removed.

It has the power to unsettle the timid, which, although it's not very nice, I do sometimes enjoy inserting it into otherwise polite conversation just to see a reaction. And, of course, under circumstances when having an impolite conversation is the goal, it's the word that always scores the most points.

There's aren't many words that can do this much. So, really, what's not to love?

Indeed.

I Know Things.

A brief report of truths from the road...

Texting while driving is really, unspeakably stupid.

Fresh mozzarella becomes wholly cooked when served in a warm crepe.

Pablo Picasso is a fucking genius. Was.

Broken Bells' self titled album from 2010 is flawless from start to finish. That is all.

 

Aqueous Maximus.

I could have gone just about anywhere, but in the spring of 2011, my mind was set on Budapest. Part of it was the music scene:

Part of it was the architecture:

But the big draw was the baths. We chose a hotel on Margaret Island because of its spa built into the premises, fed by natural hot springs. Once my luggage arrived, I didn't miss a day to take the waters both for a soak and for a sip from the supposedly healing wellspring of sulfuric bubbles. (A word to the wise: they do cleanse.) 

While there, I mimicked the locals, alternately dipping in hot and then cold, and trying out what seemed to be a popular amusement: standing on the floor jets and letting them blast upward from ankle to armpit. These foot springs were in high demand, and one had to politely wait in the wings for a spot to open and, also, just as politely, not dominate one for an extended period. 

Though I lament not visiting more, we did make it to one other bath while there: the famous Gellert Baths. These were segregated between men and women, and because of the excessive and not at all lovely nudity, I took only one shot of its spectacular architecture—the view of the stained glass ceiling from my changing room:

In these bitter, dry winter months, I am longing for these rejuvenating baths and wondering why, why they are not in every city center. Surely, we would be a much more civilized people if they were. 

Found, Pounds, & Sounds.

Well, aside from this being the first day back to work without another business holiday to look forward to for almost five months (really, someone needs to do something about this), today was a pretty good day. I learned that our temporary gray kitten, who went to her permanent home last week, is doing well in her new digs, and, more importantly, is making someone very happy who needs a little sunshine right now. Good girl!

I also managed to outlast our holiday fitness challenge, coming in at 2.4 pounds under weight. Whew! I’m not about to start on a lunatic binge or anything, but at least I won’t go into convulsions the next time I see a tray of homemade cookies. (That said, I am currently eating a slice of cold Vitale's pizza with my left hand and typing one letter at a time with my right.)

I also spent the early part of this morning listening to this while working on a 12-spread writing project. It (the music) started to lose me at some point and I began daydreaming about Dario Argento’s Susperia. Or more, the title song, performed by a band called Goblin.

It’s not for everyone (but do give it 'til about 2:48 before you give up), and it probably sounds as dated as the 1977 film, but it certainly fills the role of creepy sounds for a creepy movie. If you're into that kind of thing.

Sew Me.

Back in the lean days, I sewed a lot of my own clothes. I made multiple shift dresses out of cotton calico, crafted a pair capri pants out of a fabric typically used for curtains, and, once, eked out a mini skirt from half a yard of embroidered upholstery textile.

I was a bit of an style oddity, but there is no question that what I was wearing was one-of-a-kind. This made me happy.

I haven't sewn a garment (for myself) in probably 10 years, but I've never lost my love of fashion or the fantasy of creating clothing under my own conditions.

Project Runway keeps me inspired, and from time to time I get the urge to start sewing again, but I've rarely gotten past the concept + shopping for fabric stage. Around my house are bags filled with all the elements of my imagined garment, stacked neatly and waiting for me to pour my attention on them. Today I finally stopped daydreaming and started daydoing. Here's what happened:

Half skirt, half pant, currently being called a "Part." Maybe a little boring of a title, but it does convey its function: part pant, part skirt, while sounding a lot less skanky than skant.

Under the skirt, the right leg wears a go-go short version of the left. Completely demure, very comfy, and, I believe, an Allison original. Whee!