This kiss you give, is never ever gonna fade away

I burped my last motherfucking burpee today. I counted down the last 10, 9, 8, 7... and then quietly said "fuck you" after my last one. 

"Enola Gay," one of my favorite songs of late 1985, was playing over the gym loudspeaker and as I stood there huffing I took the occasion to think back on my former 19-year-old self, dancing with my college boyfriend, both of us with silly hair; I considered my current self, pushing determinedly through this workout, a concern I never would have imagined 23 years ago; and of course I thought about being done, and the freedom I would feel once this chore was off my plate. Past, present, and future come full circle courtesy of a snappy synth pop song overheard between my last-ever burpee sets. A very sweet accomplishment indeed.

The day the 70s died

Two celebrities I've felt fondly about since childhood passed on the same day. 

Rest in peace, Michael and Farrah. 

Hi from the High Line!

The sun finally came out today and so I visited the High Line, the new elevated park that runs along the West Side from Gansevoort to 20th Streets. I entered at the north end via stairs on 20th Street, walked the whole length and then returned to street level the way I'd come. It's a very pleasurable stroll: there's beautiful plantings amid railroad tracks, remainders of the park's former life; great views of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty; and the elevation provides fresh views of some of the newer local buildings. I was surprised to see how modern and geometric the architecture has become, has become a bit like Legoland down there. And where was I when the Standard Hotel went up? I felt bittersweet overlooking the meat-packing district at the south end, I used to live nearby when it was more Tranny Hooker than Helmut Lang, I find the current high level of expensive hip much too exclusive. Still, a bit of grubby patina remains in those cobblestone streets and I was glad to be standing there. I'm not sorry to see the sun after so much rain, but I'm hoping further construction creates more shady spots, it felt a bit roasty up there, and though I'd brought a book I wasn't comfortable sitting out in such direct blaze. I'd considered bringing Biscuit but was relieved I hadn't: sadly, there's no dogs allowed on the High Line at this time. 

Dem bones

I like an animated skeleton.

I went to MOMA today to see a painting by James Ensor called Skeletons Trying to Warm Themselves:

[it's hard to see here but the inscription on the stove reads, in French: "No fire. Will there be any tomorrow?"]

as a bonus, I also found Skeleton Looking at Chinoiserie:

I don't consider these paintings or myself morbid, I enjoy the hint of macabre. Spooky can be fun, and skeletons are just cool. A few of my other bony favorites:

The sword fighters from The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad

The Richard Avedon series "In Memory of the Late Mr. and Mrs. Comfort."

Mexican "Day of the Dead" folk art

Jack Skellington, from Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas

And hey, you learn something new: while Googling images i found this neat bit from artist Tessa Farmer. 

That's a real bee and animal bones, she uses a microscope to create her pieces. Cool! 

What I Ate and What I Learned, or There Was Butter (kind of)

In order, starting from about 7:30 AM:

• salted caramel, chocolate graham cracker, peanut caramel. First two are outstanding, last is just OK. 

• one small and one large coffee with milk and sugar

• 2.5 Pillsbury Homestyle Buttermilk biscuits: one with butter, one with butter and melted cheddar cheese, half with butter and honey. The cheese one takes it, amazing. 

• stack of pancakes [from mix] with butter and syrup. I'm slowed down at this point, thus the decision to make them at home rather than going out. Is ruled that mix pancakes are in no way as good as out pancakes. 

• second large coffee with milk and sugar, 3 more chocolate grahams, more salted caramels.

• Chinese food lunch: General Tso's shrimp, shared scallion pancakes, shared crispy dumplings, white rice. I give my friend the rest of the chocolate grahams and the peanut caramels. 

• Cape Cod Buttermilk Ranch potato chips and 2 Diet Cokes. Never had these before, good stuff. 

• reheated biscuit with melted mozzarella cheese

• big plate of spaghetti with red sauce and melted mozzarella

• remainder of the salted caramels

Curtain. 

Gluttony is a sin--purposeful gluttony is I don't even know what--and so there's has to be lessons learned. First, I don't actually have a multi-chambered cow stomach; I got full and needed breaks throughout the day. It was a chore finishing that plate of spaghetti and yet i felt like I was on a mission to do so. Which brings me to: Second, the fact that i won't actually eat the house down even if I'm allowed to--my actual desires turn out to be more moderate than my fantasy desires. Humbling but true. And while I'm coming to terms with my foibles, full disclosure: It wasn't real butter. It was Smart Balance. Oh, the humanity!

Lastly, I wouldn't do it again. I didn't enjoy the extremity of the off/on, or feeling like I had to eat a huge amount just because the window was open. I felt overstuffed by the end of the day and slept like crap, I'm still now trying to get my physical bearings back. It was a worthwhile experiment but I'd like to find more middle ground with my food freedoms from here, get more comfortable with moderation. A smart balance, if you will. Stay tuned. 

Morning has broken

My dog turned me into a morning person. I used to need the jaws of life to get out of bed for work, hitting the snooze alarm 8 or 9 times; on weekends I would sometimes sleep until noon. Once at the beach I slept until 1:30, though i'm pretty sure Ambien was involved. And then I got a morning dog and suddenly i was up at 6:00 every morning without an alarm, but with a gentle paw tapping. Dink dink dink, you need to get up now. You can't ignore a small animal who needs to go to the bathroom, it's just not morally possible. And he doesn't keep weekend hours. So up and out for walkies we went, like postmen, even in the dark, the cold, and the rain. 

And I've come to love it. It's a whole different day when you start early. We both adapted our schedules a bit and now we're out before 7:00 most mornings--I'm often amused that 8:00 A.M. now feels late to me. It's so peaceful in the early morning, the streets are quiet and leisurely and the sky is often lovely. We walk and get coffee and I feel alert and productive. Now that I'm not working there's a delicious sense of starting out yet not having to be anywhere in particular, and I can write, go to the gym, check in with friends online [one friend gets up really early, what i consider to still be nighttime, and I usually have a greeting from her waiting for me when i log in], listen to the morning news radio, all languid and unhurried. It's a soothing warm-up that I enjoy thoroughly every day. 

Biscuit just has his breakfast and goes back to sleep. *Eye roll*

Soon you will be mine, continued

Today's post is dedicated to the memory of Steve Kessler. 

The all-day cheat is coming! I bundled myself against the pouring-ass rain and headed out to Brooklyn to get those chocolate-covered graham crackers. [I'd planned to order them online but the FedEx shipping charges were ludicrous, and hey, I don't have anything else to do. Adventure!] Atlantic Avenue is not charming, cobblestone-street Brooklyn, but the Nunu Chocolates store was delightful. It was empty--not surprising considering the weather--and a young woman working there named Rachel had lit some candles and was working on a laptop at a large farm table in the middle of the room. We chatted, she told me about the owner Justine, who made the chocolates, and their renovation plans to create an on-view production station and a bar; customers can come in a have a drink and watch chocolate being made. Not bad, right? I asked her if she'd gotten sick of munching on the product and she admitted she hadn't, she could still make a decent go of it. 

Of course i wound up buying more than just the graham crackers. At left, peanut butter caramels, at the top, salted caramels. 

I'm going to share, I swear! 

Adventure Bag

"Do you realize if we played by the rules right now we'd be in gym?"—Ferris Bueller

First there was a cryptic email from my dear friend J.: "Do you like dragons or modernistic pink blobs?" J. is crafty [a trait I admire as i am totally not] and so I had some idea where she was going with this. I answered "dragons." A few weeks later, and a few days after I'd lost my job, her package arrived. She'd made me a tote bag from scratch, and included a card that read "Happy Spring!" It had been mailed before I got the axe, so the card didn't say "Here's something I made with love to cheer you up at a sucky time!" but that's what i read. 

Here it is:

In my new life at a strange time, her gift has become my Adventure Bag. It's roomy enough to carry my writing/scrapbook, a magazine or other reading material, and a bottle of water, but is light enough to not feel cumbersome. Adventure Bag was born from creativity and now stimulates my creativity. Adventure Bag turns a relatively simple excursion into something special: an hour spent reading at Starbucks, a trip to a museum, an afternoon movie is now an adventure because Adventure Bag make me feel free and expansive. They're adventures because wherever I am at that time is a place i wouldn't have been before, because I would have been at work. I'm off the grid now, I'm not playing by the rules anymore. I'm Ferris Bueller, having adventures! Adventure bag helps me feel alive and optimistic and incredibly grateful. Happy Spring! 

Two biscuit haikus

When i pick you up 

you'll drip from all the butter;

one week to my mouth

Tiny dog lives in

my house and deep in my heart.

The chewiest bear.

Puck yes!

Congrats to the Pittsburgh Penguins, who took the 2009 Stanley Cup last night. I didn't follow this series, or any for the last 10 years, but now I miss watching hockey. I started following the pucks, as my dad calls it, in January 1994, not knowing the next six months would become the most excitingly nail-biting, obsession-inducing, TV-riveted period in hockey history as the NY Rangers ascended to Stanley Cup victory. And when I say I "started following" I mean one morning I picked up a newspaper at a diner and started reading the scores. Just like that, totally out of the blue. The sports section was foreign territory to me until this point, but my father and brother are long-time puck fans so I'm convinced a genetic switch had suddenly kicked in. I was meant to watch the pucks, and what an incredible ride it turned out to be; made that much sweeter because I shared it with my family. It was all we could talk about, on the phone two or three times a day as the series progressed. I shared it with my city, too, at that fantastic victory parade. There's been a few times when I've felt especially proud to be a New Yorker, and that was one of them: over a million joyous fans showed up to toast their team, and it was beyond thrilling. What a gift. 

Those players have all since retired and I now read the newspaper on a laptop, but maybe this October I can get some puck magic back. The genes are still there, lying dormant but still ready to be called into the game. Let's go Rangers! 

There Will Be Butter

One unfortunate side effect to being laid off is the financially prudent cutting of services. My first-tier whack reduced my Pilates training and Biscuit's dog walking schedules, and is the reason for the impending breakup with the online trainer i've been working with for a year. As part of wrapping up our time together, I have agreed to a Two Weeks No Cheats challenge, which means i eat ONLY the meals he plans for me and nothing else for fourteen days. My prior record was eight days, so it will actually be challenging. 

The reward? I'm considering this a final exam of sorts and an homage to Trainer's support over the year, and I get to say "it was hard but i did it!" And hopefully I'll make enough progress to keep me motivated to continue working hard on my own. But the real reward? One whole day eating whatever I want. Whatever. I. Want. There's a physiological benefit behind his instruction, a reduction phenomenon called a refeed that i don't quite understand and don't really care to. When your trainer says "free day!" the only answer is "yes, please!" A guilt-free, totally sanctioned Augustus Gloop fest is going to go down. 

I'm thinking the first meal will be pancakes, with lots of butter and syrup, and soft-cooked bacon on the side. The place across the street from me does this decently. [You can screw up a pancake. Overcook it and serve it with cold butter pats, bleh.] Coffee with milk and lots of it--this will be going on all day. Then maybe i'll bake up some biscuits, or if i can't wait i'll pop some out of a can. They will be buttered liberally. Lunch time! Grilled cheese. Or macaroni and cheese. Something with cheese. Israeli couscous with cheese! And butter! OK, I might need a short break here. Then eventually I'll roll myself downtown for dinner at Momofuku, my current favorite place in town, for the insane steamed pork buns and other piggy goodness. You have to love a place that baldly states "We Serve No Vegetarian Fare." And then the pièce de résistance, Milk Bar cookies for dessert [these need an essay unto themselves, to come]. I'll see if i can fit in any peanut M&Ms and/or Twizzlers anywhere, and then i think that'll do it. You've been refed! 

Random memory exercise, for Dad

My dad, my older niece, Grace, and I went to pick up my younger niece at the child care place where she went for preschool. There were a lot of security codes and sign-in protocols to deal with which surprised me although it shouldn't have; eventually we made it through to a small, enclosed outdoor playground where about 15 four- and five-year olds were horsing around. My niece, Sydney, spotted us--or rather, spotted my dad--and yelled out "Grandpa!!" She ran over excitedly and jumped up into his arms. And apparently, the word and figure of "Grandpa" has such power to small children as a symbol of benevolence that all the kids came over, like they were magnetized, circling around him. Grandpa. A Grandpa is here. We must go to him. It was like the end of "Close Encounters" when the little aliens are clamoring around Richard Dreyfus, eager to touch and experience him. I don't think my dad or Grace took special note of it but I know I was standing there with my mouth hanging open. Sydney giggled and told Grandpa her friends' names. 

They let us leave and I asked Sydney what she'd had for lunch that day and she said "cheese." I asked what kind of cheese and she said "yellow." 

No pain, no gain

Behold the current bane of my existence: the Burpee. Also referred to as the squat-thrust. And for four sets of 12 reps, the most dreaded part of my week. I count down toward emancipation and mumble a lot of Nike-esque affirmations to myself while i'm lying there huffing on the mat and then finally, I'm done. Done for the week and in three more weeks, done for eternity. Because as god is my witness, I will never do another burpee again. *cue "Gone with the Wind" soundtrack*

But. 

There's a lesson here in doing shit you hate. I laid there yesterday trying not to stroke out and lectured myself about how reaching one's goals isn't always fun. That there's strength to be gained in pushing through unpleasantries and sacrifice. Growth, even. My trainer is in Toronto, i could have gotten up and left any time I wanted--but i didn't. It didn't even occur to me. Does this make me a better person? In a small way, yeah, it kinda does. The next challenge is always around the corner, and becoming expert in Sucking It Up can only serve me well. And if I can get through burpees--unsupervised!!--well then hell, I can get through anything. 

Great moments in boozing history

Since we're celebrating. 

• The first time i enjoyed red wine: at dinner with a Spanish houseguest and her parents, who didn't speak a word of English. Houseguest and I were also stoned. Super fun night ensued.  

• The perfectly made, ice cold dirty martini I had at Cité after an all-day work conference. It went down like Fresca and remains the yardstick for every DM i've had since.

• My 40th birthday party beverage: Sucka Punch. I have no idea what was in it but it was delicious. Fantastic day. 

• Champagne on the Met roof deck and then drunk at the Ivan Albright exhibit. Like being in the museum at night wasn't exciting enough. 

• My first Bloody Mary, enjoyed with good friends during a post-ski trip layover at the Denver airport. A love affair is born: This is the only drink i really miss. *sniff*

• Getting served banana daiquiris at the South Street Seaport when i was in high school. Gag. Yet thrillingly illicit. 

• Cotes du Rhone on a particularly good date at Lucky Strike; Sancerre and early evening on Fire Island.

• Spending so much time at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame after I'd first moved to NYC that I'd get served a vodka tonic without asking. I got phone calls there twice. 

You don't have to go home but you can't stay here

Last call. I haven't had a drink in 12 weeks. 

I've sometimes used the expression "sober" but something about that feels insulting to those who stopped drinking because they've struggled with alcohol. I haven't struggled at all, I don't drink that often and I'm a total lightweight when i do. I'm not drinking now but I assume I'll go back to it, so again, "sober" doesn't feel quite right. 

Maybe "indefinitely sober?" "Intermediate sobriety?" Whatever. I'm not drinking now and I haven't for 84 days. What started out as a diet and workout aid has taken on a life of it's own. In my current unpredictable life state, it's one constant. I may not always make the right choices at the gym or with my food, but this is a decision i've refused to unmake. It feels good to stand steadfastly by this one commitment. 

I've gotten lots of raised eyebrows, a few pats on the back, a few dismissive shrugs. Some people make subtle, defensive grips around their glass like I'm going to suggest they stop drinking too, right now! Again, whatever. This isn't college anymore, ultimately no one is that interested in my consumption or lack thereof. 

But today is an anniversary, so let's celebrate. A club soda with lime, please. 

You are still in the running

News this week about the death of actor David Carradine, apparently from erotic auto-asphyxiation gone wrong. If you're found hanging naked in a Bangkok hotel room with your junk tied, you're obviously keeping some things secret, and if the context appears to be too much for Quentin Tarantino to talk about, you are not screwing around. Dude liked to get his freak on. 

Which brings me to my own freaky secret indulgence, one I'm not proud of but feel helpless to stop. It's not raining, and i'm not sick, but I'm going to watch TV today. For several hours. On purpose. 

Yes. America's Next Top Model. 

Don't look at me. 

I freaking love this show. The Oxygen network shows seasons in full as a marathon, so i can glut myself bender-style on an entire narrative arc in one sitting. Oh, the glamour! The camp! The pseudogravitas! Tyra teaches me I should model through my pain, y'all. I could smile with my eyes all the time. 

You can understand why I might want to keep this enthusiasm under wraps: I'm well out of their target demographic--I'm older than everyone except the former supermodels they resurrect as judges--and you know, it's not exactly PBS's Pride and Prejudice. There are many, many other productive ways I could spend a Sunday. But there must be others like me out there, sophisticated women [and gay men!] my age who know who Miss Jay is and aren't ashamed. Let's find each other at that next dinner party and let our freak flags fly. 

Nom, nom

There's a memorable scene in Thomas Harris's book "Red Dragon" [which was made into a movie twice: Manhunter in 1986, and Red Dragon in 2002; i preferred the former, done pre-Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter franchise] where the villain Francis Dolarhyde, insane and obsessed with the dragon in the William Blake painting The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun, travels to the Brooklyn Museum and poses as an art researcher. He arranges a private viewing of the watercolor--which is so fragile that it's not on display--and once there, chloroforms the curator and eats the painting. Eats it. Fantastic. 

~Let me take a brief aside for a moment to compare the portrayals of Dolarhyde in the two movies. Before eventually becoming a cartoon, Harris's Hannibal Lecter was a scary motherfucker. But I've always thought Dolarhyde was a creepier character. He's portrayed in the first film by the golem-like Tom Noonan [who i find pretty creepy in anything he's done] and in the second by Ralph Fiennes, who is a fine actor and makes a respectable effort but is just too pretty to be that scary. A simple comparison can end this argument pretty quickly:

Right? 

OK, let's get back to eating paintings. This chilling scene stuck with me the way it did because I too have had the urge to eat a piece of art that moves me visually. A feeling comes over me when i'm particularly touched by a painting, like just seeing it isn't nearly enough; I have a visceral urge to actually consume it, to take it in in the most powerful and literal way. This only seems to happen with paintings. I've been moved terrifically by photographs and sculpture but both mediums present enough of a cool, mechanical distance to impede the desire to meld with it organically. I've wanted to take them into my brain but not my stomach. Are you still with me? 

I've wanted to eat Schiele, Kahlo, Klee, Freud. I wept over Van Gogh's shoes in Amsterdam and wanted to smuggle them home in mah belly. A small Vermeer would go down easy, pop! Bonnard. Picasso. Cezanne, yes please. Oooh, Miró. I stood swaying like a dieter in front of an ice cream sundae over this Bacon at the current Met exhibit: 

and this one, yum:

 

Alas, the passion doesn't always strike. Sometimes an exhibit is just an exhibit. Very nice, even beautiful, but without craving. I like Hopper quite a bit but i've never wanted to eat anything of his. A Chuck Close is just too big. Basquiat, meh. Pretty, but too pointy. But that feeling is so sublime, such an out-of-body high, such a rich pleasure, that I'll go back again and again in search of it. Who doesn't want to be moved like that? Maybe Thomas Harris was onto something, having his characters consume their desires. With fava beans and nice chianti. 

A pitcher of lemonade

Shortly after being laid off i started a series of plucky Facebook posts about the new advantages of freedom I was discovering, based on the adage "when life hands you lemons, make lemonade!" I had several people tell me I should spin this into some kind of regular feature, but they became repetitive and as panic over finding my next job has set in, my thoughts have leaned a bit more toward absinthe. 

The Lemonade List still has potential to grow, but in the meantime, here's a compendium:

Making lemonade #1: The gym is so nice after the morning rush!

Making lemonade #2: Now I'm home at 5:00 to watch Barefoot Contessa. I love Ina!

Making lemonade #3: it's easy to get a table at Balthazar for a Tuesday afternoon!

Making lemonade #4: i'm in no rush to get anywhere after Pilates, time for the Milk Bar! And the Union Square Greenmarket!

Making lemonade #5: being able to enjoy my family without work stress hanging over my head. Happy Mother's Day!!

Making lemonade #6: I can see the new Terminator movie that afternoon! I can't resist Christian Bale in a big loud summer blow-up.

Making lemonade #7: now have ample free time to build a time machine to take me to 1957 Paris. Get to the Avedon show at ICP, everyone! Is to die.

Making lemonade #8: no post-holiday weekend dread.

Re: All Day Cheat

Chocolate-covered graham crackers with sea salt from Nunu Chocolates in Brooklyn. Soon you will be mine. 

Yes, I know

"Recently unemployed person starts a blog!" is straight out of The Onion. But hey, it's raining today, i have nothing else planned and why not use some of my new-found free time on creative pursuits? Can easily fit in Blogging alongside Going Out to Lunch, Coffee Runs, and Museum and Dog Park Visits. 

Funny about writing: i was trained to be a journalist but writing on demand fills me with anxiety. I wrote both for my college paper and a magazine I used to work for and on every occasion i'd have the dry heaves before turning my assignments in. So perhaps we'll consider this a polishing-up exercise. 

I've starting keeping a written journal again after online journaling for the last several years and have had fun with it turning it into a scrapbook of sorts, collecting souvenirs from my daily adventures around town: Starbucks receipts, restaurant cards, etc. YOU ARE HERE. 

Ironically, with all this eating out talk i have in fact committed to a Two-Week No Cheats diet challenge with my soon-to-be Ex-Trainer. I start this Sunday 6/7, so stay tuned for plenty of moaning about that. I do get to follow it with an All-Day Cheat, so that will be fun to plan. 

Food, Diets, Job Pursuits, Writing, Art, and of course, The Dog. Woooo hooooo!