The Look of Love

Sometimes I look around and see couples canoodling and holding hands and sharing "moments" and it leaves me with a sad emptiness. There I am, juggling my wallet to get the right change for a single shot espresso at a table for one, and there they are in a love seat holding hands with a Smitten Mitten sharing a fondue for two.

But nothing has left me feeling as lonely as this portrait of true love. Love's ideal; the Gibran poem in the Hummel figurine world:

Taking the Cooperative out of the Co-Op

Having returned to Brooklyn from a gloriously sunny Thanksgiving in Guatemala, I felt thankful to be living in a country where I don't have to worry about driving at night, taking the bus, or being a single white female in an urban area. I also returned to an empty refrigerator, so I decided to head to the Park Slope Food Co-Op for healthy provisions. A steady diet of fried plantains and red wine not an un-puffy girl make.

The moment I crossed the threshold, I knew I was in trouble. The patina of my holiday started to fade the moment I heard the screech of a child followed by the dulcet tones of a mother trying to reason with a 3 year old. I just thought to myself "In Guatemala, I never once saw a child misbehaving...not even at the airport..." Granted, I also saw a lot of children doing a lot of manual labor, but still!

I went to the bulk goods section in search of oats and coffee. I laughed to myself thinking of how my cart sometimes looked like a hobo's shopping list as I approached the free trade coffee bins. In mid-dispense action, a cart clipped my ankle and I yelped in pain. The woman driving the cart looked at me and without a flicker of apology or embarrassment said "I need to get over there." I looked at her for a moment, took in her floor length poncho that probably cost a small fortune in a Woodstock boutique, and replied "So simply say, I beg your pardon, may I make my way past you. It's quite easy. Let me know I am in your way, and chances are very high I will accommodate your wish." She just grunted and whacked me again with her cart.

My mind raced through the whole week I was away and did not encounter one rude person. In fact, everyone I dealt with the entire time in Guatemala was incredibly friendly. At first I thought it was because they knew I was a foreigner, but it wasn't just in the service industry, it was everywhere. On the street, at the airport, at the local bar...Maybe I was deluding myself and maybe it was because I am not from the region. But the intense irony of buying Guatemalan coffee in a store where common courtesy is out the window struck me. In fact, I am sure that poncho could have been woven by the nimble hands of any one of the young women I saw in Antigua, Guatemala. They have very little, but they smiled. Why can't the privileged wearer of such do the same?

Italian Goth Candy

Whilst buying Smartwater before my brickoven yoga class, I stood in line at Walgreen's in the candy aisle waiting for the next surly cashier to ring me up. There, in this aisle of discount Hallowe'en candy, I set eyes on what I thought to be an illusion. It was a box of Dots candy with one of the signature gumdrops depicted as a mini lumpy vampire- with wings and and a menacing look in its eye. Excitedly, I picked up the box because I figured "FINALLY! A pure licorice box of Dots. Hurrah!!!" But on closer inspection I saw that they are in fact blood orange flavor. WHA?! HOW HOW HOW did the candy gods come up with this one? Does the Tootsie company have an office in southern Italy? (I make this association because the first time I set eyes on a blood orange I was skiing in the Italian Alps with a bunch of Germans. Don't judge. I was 18.) I was afraid of trying them. Not for fear of them being vile, but what if they are THAT GOOD? I took my chances and at first I was a bit put off by the bitterness of them, and deemed them "acrylic painty" in flavor, but then I let the box breathe, like a fine wine, and the second blood orange bat Dot was tasty. I am in awe. Not too sweet, just tart enough, with the perfect signature soft gumdrop Dot texture. A trick for the eye, and a treat on the tongue.

Washington Irving's Tea Bag Quote

Oh come ON!
I finally get a temp assignment and yes, everyone is nice, the commute is a breeze (I don't even have to go above ground- i wikkid heart Rock Center sometimes), the environment is lovely, breaky and lunch are provided, yet...no access to private email! As Squeezannah put it, “It's like the olden tymes!”

It’s not even 2:00 p.m. and I have caught up on all my news, even a bit in German. (Showy offy, you might say, but really, does reading about Amy Weinhaus really count?)

All in all it is kinda nice to have structure in my day. Ask me again in two weeks.

I like the warm glow in the elevator bank. As I wait for the lift down, I marvel at how there is something about cherry wood walls coupled with 60 watt bulbs behind faux deco glass that makes me feel like a professional. Then I make my way to the cafeteria and see not only a spread of fruit and yogurt, but coffee buffet complete with sachets of Swiss Miss cocoa. Gone is the patina of professionalism and all I can think is “Imma gonna make a poor man’s mocha! Woot Woooooot!”

I refrained from concocting this gluttonous bachelorette drink, and instead opted for cherry herbal tea. Once I sat down at my corner desk, I noted the quote: “Great minds have purposes, other have wishes.”

Dude, I wish I had made that low brow mocha.

Trashy Ideas

Nobody likes a hobo joke as much as I do, but this line of bedding makes me uncomfortable (IRONY!). I am saddened and irritated that the company who produces these linens is called Dutch by Design. Put down the hashpipe and pick up your checkbook to make a donation to your local homeless shelter. Though 30% of the cost goes to support a homeless organization in the U.K. it seems like a bit of of unnecessary exercise in tongue-in-cheek economics. What's next, a Smeg refrigerator made to look like a NYC garbage can?

Think, Bitches, THINK!

so, i have been waiting for a package from UPS all morning. i went out to do laundry, and the truck was out front, so i waited inside. waited. waited. then i went outside again CHOMPING AT THE BIT to do laundry, and see the truck about 1/2 block away. i find the driver and ask if he has a package for 555 president street. he asks my name. then i say, apt. number. he shows me the package and says "yeah, i didn't know what this was, so i couldn't deliver it". i just looked at him and said "so you what would have happened to this package had i not tracked you down?" it would have gone back to the center with a MORE INFO request.

this is how the address was written out on the package:

TO: A9

Jessica van Campen

555 President Street

Brooklyn

are you fucking kidding me? perhaps he recognized A9 as his IQ score. i can see where that could get confusing.

Summer of Love

Summer is winding down, my tan is fading and I have incorporated the scarf back into heavy rotation as part of my uniform. Not much happened in the way of news for me, but I had two crushes. Dear reader, I present you with both of them:

This is Roscoe. He has a mohawk and no yap.

This is an apple on a picnic blanket. Note the perfect little red blush on its brow. It looks great on tartan.

And that was my summer, folks!

Capital(istic) Punishment

I cried on the train today. I was on my way to an early yoga class, and finishing up a piece on Todd Willingham, the man who was sentenced to death for killing his three children in a terrible fire. With mounting sadness and frustration, I read the excruciating story that further reinforced my belief that the death penalty is wrong. Towards the end of the horrific tale, tragedy befalls the one person outside of his mother and father who visited and supported him through his period of incarceration. She believed in him, and on the day of his execution, she was in a car accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down. It was at this moment that on the Q train between Canal Street and Union Square that I cried in public. The stinging burning cry that comes out of nowhere, the kind of silent tears that are borne of anger and sadness. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The deputy fire inspector was wrong, the jury was wrong, Willingham's ex-wife was wrong. All because of ego and the need to have a pat answer.

This is where I don't understand the "superior" minds of the law. How do you make a decision like this, sending a rippled effect into the lives of the community and the world, and live with yourself? Despite study and intellect, how can a person be granted this much power? Is it about money? Is it about power and pride? Or is it just ego? I can't really wrap my head around it. I don't know how people move on after this sort of tragedy in their lives, when all I could do was try not to cry in public.

Ladies' Luncheon

Yesterday was meant to be just a simple museum/lunch day with my friend James.

After a little walk-around at the Met, we ventured to Del Frisco's (in a TERRIBLE cab ride, I should mention. One of those that leaves you shaken and nauseous). We we ushered to the V.I.P. table in the main floor dining room, where we were given the V.I.P. cocktail to calm our nerves. This cocktail is basically a pineapple martini. Just vodka, just pineapple. Pineapple infused vodka. It is delicious. Then we chose a wine, well, James chose a wine with the help of our sommelier.

What followed is a blur, but it involves the following:

Ceasar Salad/King Crab Gnocchi/Wine/Creamed Spinach/Sauteed Mushrooms/Wine/20 oz. Lobster/Butter Urns/Wine/Six Layer Lemon Cake/Wine/Ice Cream/Wine

So much for simple ladies' luncheon. But it was divine.

i think he hates me.

Bikram to the Bronx - A day in the life

The day started in a hot steamy room and ended with a wild ziggurat of plantain, garlic and pork belly stuffed with garlicky shrimp.

I finally started my three month unlimited gift certificate to Bikram yoga. I think it is important to mention that I decided to do this on the hottest day of the summer so far. I went through all the stages one might expect when doing yoga in a steamy room kept at 105 degrees Fahrenheit. First excitement, then elation, then a resounding this is bullshit, then i am a fat weakling, then maybe there is something to this, then why won't the instructor let me touch my water, to this is awesome, to wow, I cannot wait to do this again.

I had just enough time to run home (sweating), shower again and join a journalist friend on a trip to Sonia Sotomayor's old stomping grounds. Walking around the Bronxdale projects where she grew up was fascinating. One couldn't help to think, "OK, this isn't that bad." But then one must consider the late '70's and '80's when most of New York City was a bit of a dump. The surrounding area is a bit run down, but I was amazed at the incredibly high tech, modern playground jungle gyms that were scattered throughout the area. The Bronxdale Community Center has a large indoor basketball court and a jungle gym that boasts of a sort of Mobius strip ladder AND a climbing wall.

After a little tour around the neighborhood, we stopped in at Joe's Place where we met with Joe himself. He seemed a bit standoffish at first, but soon warmed up and was buying us Mojitos and Margaritas and telling us about the neighborhood back in the day. After a while we sat down for dinner which is when I decided to try mofongo. It is here that I should warn you that mofongo is not a light snack by any means. It is fried plantains that are then mashed with garlic and pork fat and then shaped into an impossible sort of brick. No, it doesn't sound appetizing, but with a red sauce and garlic shrimp it somehow works.

Riding back home on the train with 3/4 of a starch tower, mildly intoxicated from the Mojito and exhausted from the morning yogics, I thought a lot about what it would be like to live in the Bronx in the '70's. Even worse, what it would be like growing up in the Bronx during the crack years, hoping and working hard to get out of that environment. It made me wonder once again if our generation is just too soft. I don't know anyone from a troubled or turbulent background. I don't know anyone who had to strive to get past racial and gender barriers

Myself included. The toughest part of my day was doing a sweaty yoga class without passing out. Joe of Joe's Place spoke of how things were better for his kids; my generation. But is it really better? In the name of progress, we get a bit lazy, and this does worry me a bit.

Hot Weather Injuries

Walking my bicycle (the most frustrating sensation on the planet) to the bike shop proved to be quite painful yesterday. I was feeling fresh and bonny and blithe in my summer frock and comfortable, albeit strappy, sandals. Within minutes the bottoms of my feet burned and the horrendous affliction known as "chub rub" was crippling me. I slowed my gait, but it only made things worse.

Bring on crisp cool autumn.

Final Countdown

Tomorrow is D-day--I start Bikram yoga. I have mixed feelings about starting hot sweaty athletics during hot sweaty times. My (twisted) logic leads me to believe that it will be soothing to do this now as when I leave class it will seem cool outside. Much like the notion of drinking hot coffee in the desert. Then again, I loathe the idea of walking outside and instantly feeling like I need to shower again. My sweat fu manchu appears instantly, and if I am wearing a skirt or dress, the chub rub begins. It's the unsexiest time of the year. So why not pile into a steamy room with scantily clad strangers and feel the burn. Why not, I ask?

Friday Funtimes

I woke up and new it was gonna be a scorcher.  I also had it in my mind to see a midday film at the Film Forum as a) I hadn't been in a long time and b) it was gonna be hot.  I think b) was a bit more of an excuse, a means of justifying midday movie watching.  There is little more satisfying than sitting in a cool dark room with a bunch of strangers watching a film, if it is black and white, all the better.  If it stars Humphrey Bogart, I consider it a slice of heaven.

The train was slow, so I wound up having to dash to the counter just a minute before the movie time.  It was at that moment that I realized what my first spoken sentence of the day was going to be.  When I got to the ticket window I gulped, tried to put on a brave face, and said in a clear, hopefully toneless voice "One for "In a Lonely Place", please."  

Gunjumpin' Saturday

Today was the sort of day that I had to force myself outside, and when I did, I knew it was not going to be fruitful or productive.

I packed up my things, ready to hit Prospect Park and decided for a number of strange reasons, the primary one being laziness, to take the train.  I waited for about 20 minutes (could have walked to the park by then) and when the train finally arrived, it was virtually full.  I sat down in the last remaining seat and immediately worried why it was still available.  It didn't smell bad, no vomit on the bench, so I sat and started reading my book.  It was one stop later when I realized the object moving in the corner of my eye was much closer than I had initially thought.  I slowly turned my head to the right, and found myself staring into the eyes of an iguana who was perched on my neighbor's shoulder.  It's tail was threatening to touch my shoulder.   It was just a few seconds later that the doors between the cars opened and a man with one leg propelled himself into our car and started rattling his change cup.  The noise distracted me only slightly from the pain--the guy had rolled over my right foot.  I looked up suddenly and surely gasped a bit when it happened.  The man just looked at me in disgust, told me to watch my feet, shook his cup full of coins, and rolled on.  If anything I should have gotten a bit of cash, but no, he's in the wheelchair. fine.

I walked around a bit, overheard weird conversations about the farmer's market "Yeah, of course they have food...it's a market" and realized I needed to get to the sanctuary of home. STAT.

Let's Name Him "Four Legged Joke"

Sometimes I hate it when people go on and on about the expression in their dogs eyes.  To me, a typical dog's emotional range is "happy to have food" to "happy to eat you as if you were food".  They always seem kinda dumb and overeager to me, which is why I like cats because even though they are dumb sometimes, they don't show it.  

This myth was dispelled the other day when I found this "canine model".  Look at his face.  That look is humiliation.  I sincerely hope it turned to "I hate you" and he took care of his stylist.

--More:  I just stared at this again for a little while and realized that not only are the front legs all messed up in this photo, but that display window looks like a yellow ball.  The result is that this poor beast looks like a seal with a big tongue.  Even the tongue looks superimposed.  OF COURSE he is panting!  You just wrapped a furry creature in rubber.  It's hot in there.  

Culinary Anthropology

My good friend Stacey was an exhibitor at the 55th Annual Fancy Food show this year, and being the little doll she is, she got me a pass for the final day.  I have never been to the fancy food show, but it sounded fun and why not?  I would get to see Stacey and there is the added bonus that I would get to hang out with her live in boyfriend for a bit - he happens to be my little brother.  Yesterday was one was of those urban summer days that starts off hot and humid and you can't help but to think that even the concrete is inconvenienced by the heat.  Worst yet, I had to do that dreaded walk to the Javits Center which is like walking through another city--a crappy one, at that.  They shouldn't even call that corner New York City.  It should just sort of be something else.  For now I shall call it "Javitstown".  Sorry Jacob, your town kinda sucks a little.

Alas, once I got there I was happy I made the effort.  Nice cool open spaces full of delicacies from around the world. Nice nice nice...now how to find the Promise Me Chocolate booth?  Whilst consulting the vendor tome trying to make sense of it all, a plate of truffled triple cream brie and mini toasts with an onion marmalade was thrust under my nose.  A perky cheese monger with a grey bob I immediately coveted was plying her wares.  What the hell? I was hungry and a bit hungover, and it isn't as though I sought her out, she came to me.  Thank you wonderful breakfast delivery lady!   Happily licking my fingers free of crumbs and cheese, I headed towards booth 5400 with resolve and determination.  

After a few moments of greetings and congratulations, I took some time to walk through the enormous space and check out what people were trying to pass off onto the rest of the world.  I was in the New York State section, where everything was very colorful and the exhibitors were quite eager to give samples and talk about their products.  I tried blueberry pesto, pomegranate Greek style yogurt, pineapple coconut water, and whole wheat pasta shaped like a dinosaur in the first 20 minutes.   At the next row things got a bit weirder with crunchy corn snacks whose packaging boasted of "fire" flavor (Asia), apple gummy candies and a spicy paneer masala that came in a tiny box.  Finally, I decided to head upstairs the Mediterranean section.  The stark contrast was incredible.  Clean white modern booths with rows and rows of oil and brined goods stood on shelves with a small tray of bread cubes and tiny bowls of their goods.   Most booths had tiny cafe tables and well dressed men (and a very few women) sat with leather binders and Mont Blancs and talked to one another.  It looked like everyone was having a business meeting, and they were, but the difference was that the rest of us could just walk on by without a glance.  At first it was nice to be able to amble along at my own pace and pick and choose what I wanted to taste or inspect.  But after about an hour I sort of missed the chatting and being persuaded to try new things.  I felt intimidated by my lack of knowledge in the canned sardine realm.  I wanted to go back to where I was wanted.  I wanted to go back to where I belonged - in the New York aisle.  Mostly, I wanted more Greek style pomegranate yogurt, from New York.

Suckage

Today sucked.  There, I said it.   But really, it sucked a lot.   I woke up and immediately knew things were not gonna go well.  Before I went to bed I broke my kitchen light ON.  Like, the pull string snapped and now it is permanently ON.  So the morning was spent waiting for an electrician.  Finally, I grew impatient so I went to the library.  Nothing terrible occurred on my way there, but walking through the Botanic Garden on my way back was when I heard that a certain "something" was ending.  Via text message.   DOUCHENOZZLEDOM!

By the time I got home Farrah Fawcett had died.  I tried to doze and watched Chaplin.  A real pick me up.  Talk about tears of a fucking clown.  Yeesh!  That guy's life sucked.

 I cooked collard greens.

And then Michael Jackson died.

Not the best Thursday...no....

Two Tickets, Please!

and pack your bags tonight.

MTA rates have increased and nobody is happy about it.  I recommend they try to keep up with the competition when it comes to destinations.

The Stick

There are times when I really wonder about life, the whys and whatfors,  and from time to time the cosmic and nihilistic "what is the point of it all?!" crosses my mind.  During these times I rarely come to any great conclusion, but I usually think it is to create.  Whether it be for the good of mankind and progress, or simply for the grandeur of mankind.   Be it art or science, human beings need to thrive for the next best thing.  I think we can all be thankful for penicillin, modern laser surgery, and developments in cancer research.  Many can praise those who have made advancements in the realms of vision and hearing, some dole out accolades to the scientists who have brought us viagra and silicone implants.  I am thrilled to be writing this from my kitchen table while I boil eggs (this recipe is killer).  However, a new item has come into my life which has altered my existence instantaneously, and I have no idea how to thank the creator enough.  Ladies and Germs, I introduce you to the Dirt Devil StickVac.

If you live in a city apartment smaller than 800 square feet with hard wood floors, area rugs and lots of pre-war molding, this is the must have item of the season.  Make that year.  It is 4 pounds of plugged in power.  Not only can it cover rugs and bare floors, but it converts to a stick for the hard to reach crevices that some half rate contractor figured would just fill in with grime.  THEN, it can be a hand vac, which is great for small dark corners and terrifying your cat when he is trying to eat.

All this action for less than 25 bucklngs.  I had my doubts, but they were sucked up and chucked away along with the large grey wig I managed to collect in the bagless canister.  Life altering, my friends.  Life altering.