This Fish Needs A Bicycle

tear in my beer

I try not to keep alcohol in the house. If I have it, chances are I will drink it and that’s where we begin to have problems.

Several months ago, I noticed that every time I came home from a long day and poured myself a glass of wine with the purpose of relaxing, without fail and within the hour I was crying. Things were all around more complicated then. Love was tricky, life was confusing and drinking alone became an invitation to a pity party.

Things are decidedly less complicated now, so when I dropped my purse on the ottoman this evening, I made a beeline for the bottle of Syrah that was decorating my kitchen counter. A birthday gift from Jen, it had been biding its time waiting for a dinner party or some other event because, well, I don’t drink at home alone. But tonight, I decided I was well and whole and so very even keel that not only was there not a thing in the world that could bring me to tears, a glass of wine might even send me to sleep a little bit early.

Boy howdy, was I wrong.

I poured some wine, took a swallow and made that “ahhh” sound you make when you kick off a pair of uncomfortable shoes or take a sip of really good coffee in the morning. Then I ran a bath. When I got out and dried off, I poured myself another glass and retired to the bedroom. I lit some candles, crawled into bed and entertained some remarkably profound thoughts like, Oooh, my toenails match my sheets.

So far, so good.

Then I switched on my computer. I read a few emails, dallied with the idea of paying a few bills and clicked over to CNN to catch up on the day’s news. Now, some people may not consider a mother cat nursing a baby squirrel to be news, but I am not some people, and had to watch the news clip immediately.

I made it nearly halfway through the clip before the waterworks started. It was not a sobfest by any means, but I did feel a tear forming in the corner of my eye. I put an immediate halt to it.

Come on! I mean, crying from cuteness is a vast improvement, but I have to admit that melancholy seemed a much more respectable reason for tears. And what’s more, I’m not in bed asleep; I’m wide awake and blogging about what a ridiculous sap I am.

I really should learn to stick to my own policies. Or at the very least, learn to like whiskey. Because tears or no, after two glasses, I’d be out cold.

yes, i really did

I know, I know. I’m such a launch tease.

But I swear it’s not my fault. I almost don’t dare tell you the new date for the Big Change, because it’s not likely you’ll believe me after all this crying wolf. Let’s just leave it at this: It’s like, falling in love. It’ll happen when you least expect it.

There, don’t you feel better?

I’m wearing a suit today, which means that something else big is up. Please to do the crossing of fingers. Fueled by anticipation of the something else big, I spent last night in a flurry of nervous energy, tearing my apartment to little bits. It started out as simple straightening, but then, hey, what’s this in the cupboard? And before I knew it, I was in the middle of a massive reorganization.

Somewhere between rediscovering my Belgian waffle maker and adios-ing my ten year old, hardly used spice rack, I missed the movie I’d bought a ticket for. That’s when I knew I’d gone too far. Though, it still did take all my power to stop myself from taking down the curtains and washing them (probably ironing them, as well, if I am being honest about my own sickness).

I do that sometimes. I also get worked up and clean fixtures with Q-tips. So on the Neurotic Cleaning Scale, last night’s binge wasn’t so bad.

Except for the part when I actually vacuumed the cat.

like it was my job

The Sunday Times crossword is lying in my hallway, next to my overnight bag which, if history is any indicator, just may get unpacked before it’s time to go out of town again. I have a sunburn, a sliver in my tush, and mysteriously, a rogue grain of sand in my bellybutton.

“Let’s not go back to New York,” I told the driver of the rent-a-Kia this afternoon. I’d started seeing signs for the City and hit panic mode. Having been in charge of the music, the climate control and the Q&A, I didn’t see any reason I shouldn’t get to pick our destination.

“Where do you want to go instead?”

“Mexico.”

A car passes us and I see a souvenir in the back window -- a hat with a band that reads, Puerto Vallarta. This was a sign. But still, we ended up back in the city, and I’m back in my apartment where the fridge is empty, the laundry basket is full and I have zero inclination to remedy either situation.

God, what a rebel I am.

When things have been feeling just so wrong for long enough, a touch of just so right can be a bit of a system shock. A weekend away, free of complication (the Times puzzle aside) and filled with mac n’ cheese, pink fruity cocktails and puppy piles on the sofa watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding make the idea of getting up for work in the morning a new brand of torture.

I mean, even the sliver in my butt is charming in comparison. A totally different kind of pain in the ass.

The only thing that will make this work week bearable will be the pictures that should begin circulating soon – images of dancing to Michael Jackson’s Sweet Young Thing with spoons on our noses and other proof of having spent two solid days doing absolutely nothing and having done it really, really well. You know, like it was my job.

Actually, I think I’m going to go on Monster.com now and see if someone needs me to do that full time. I’d be a pro.

(PS. The whole, butt sliver thing, you think that will just go away on its own?)

songbirds

It felt sort of like being at girls’ camp. It was dark. There were candles on the tables flickering in a way that reminded me of campfire, and a girl with a guitar singing over chitchat and laughter.

But we were in a West Village bar. I’d come with Tanya to hear Josey Miller play, and when I leaned across the table to say it felt like camp, Tanya said, “Intimate. I think because it’s an intimate setting.” Maybe. But maybe it was more about something comfortable. Josey sang a few songs I knew (I particularly liked her Joni Mitchell cover) and a bunch I didn’t, and the ones I didn’t were just as appealing. My favorite songs are the ones that tell stories. I like wondering what really happened – what got ommitted and condensed to fit into a few lines that rhyme, and what my imagination does with those lines – what pictures it paints trying to fill in the holes. The bar was more chaotic than girls’ camp, but Josey was a voice to be reckoned with and I didn’t much notice the noisy patrons or the Mets game playing in the corner.

Last week, I had the pleasure of catching Jaymay’s CMJ show at the Living Room. She too was absolutely captivating, but in a completely different way. There was something so quirky and so foreign about her music, that as I listened, I couldn’t help but think, “What kind of person writes songs like this?” I have to assume that if her music is any reflection, she’s a bit of a handful. Her songs can be unsettling, evocative and sad. But simultaneously wry and funny. And very worth staying out too late on a school night.

I’m still waiting for Hillary Huffard to come out with a CD. A few months back, her cover of a Cake song surprised the hell out of me when I found myself blinking back tears. Another surprise was that she didn’t have to fight to be heard in the small, noisy Saturday night bar. When she took the stage, she looked quiet and unassuming, but the moment she started singing, some quality in her voice – one I can’t find words to name – silenced the crowd. Reverence, I suppose. More than once I had to reach for a cocktail napkin to wipe my eyes -- more than a little overwhelmed. You go to church for the kind of edification I felt like I got that night. Perhaps it’s a good thing Hilarly doesn’t have a CD; if she were readily available for my consumption, I might not know when to stop. Being moved, even toward melancholy, can be addictive.

It's no secret that I have a history of falling for musicians. There has been a drummer, a guitarist, a singer-songwriter. Actually, make that two drummers. And I think there may also be a high school band trumpet player in there somewhere. I can’t really tell you what the attraction is. But after writing the above, it’s pretty clear that I feel a very similar sort of pull toward talented female artists. Which makes me think my amor has everything to do with loving being touched and nothing to do with actual love. Not much of a revelation, I know. But it does help to remember, when I’m sitting in an audience, melting over some new dreamy wounded heart with a guitar, that it’s just a show. I can love from the audience, or through my iPod earphones, and that’s where it stops.

I have decided that the next man I fall for will love calculus or golf or dead languages. And he will have some other way of moving me.

peggy ann mckay

I cannot go to school today
Said little Peggy Ann McKay

How’s that Shel Silverstein poem go again? I know if I asked Biscuit, he’d be able to recite it for me. But he’s not here and I’ve had the same couple lines (the only two I know) running through my head since I got up this morning.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.

Only, I’ve been saying, “I have a stye in my right eye.” ‘Cause I actually thought that’s how the poem went and because, well, I do. I do have a stye. And I seriously considered that as a reason to stay home today.

That should tell you about the state of … things.

I gotta say, for such a small thing, a stye is a terrible, wicked thing. Like fire ants. Or paper cuts. Or toddlers. Okay, just kidding about the toddlers. Except the ones on airplanes -- they are definitely small, terrible things.

Anyway.

A while back, remember how I taunted everyone with a ‘big change’ that clearly never happened? Well, it will. I promise. And hopefully on Monday. In the meantime, I will be running back and forth to the ladies’ room to make certain my stye has not taken over my entire eye and turned me into a taller, girlish Quasimodo (Quasimoda? Does the masculine/feminine adjective things apply?).

Sanctuary!

chocolate-dipped ever after

I had my suspicions that Saturday’s wedding would fill me with matrimonial envy. I’d be overcome by every little awww moment (I do’s, first dance, best man’s speech) and walk away from the whole event just itching to get hitched. But I left the reception convinced not that I needed to get myself a husband, but that I must have a chocolate fountain.

And if I have to get married to have one at my reception, I will.

The wedding was flawless. The ceremony was brief (no kneeling!), every detail was exquisite but not overdone and even the standard wedding cheese was made bearable by a touch of humor. Like when it came time to cut the cake, Adam Sandler’s Grow Old with You played in the ballroom.

Classic.

I had thought I’d seen everything when we made our way into the reception hall before dinner and found ourselves in front of a Mojito fountain. Brilliant. An attendant filled your glass and then added some mint leaves and sent you on your way. I had two. But that was the closest I came to taking advantage of the open bar, and aside from champagne toasts to the bride and groom, the only thing I had to drink. I was playing designated driver. As it turned out, the hotel was not exactly next door to the reception.

As impressed as I was with the mojito fountain, when toward the end of the night, J appeared with a plate full of chocolate covered strawberries and told me they’d come from a chocolate fountain, I was overcome. A chocolate fountain? Who was doing the catering -- Willy Wonka? This I had to see for myself. Lo and behold, there it was in the anteroom, a four foot, three-tiered fountain of chocolate. And even though I was stuffed to the gills, I got in there with a couple speared strawberries. It was insanely good.

I managed to dribble some of that fine chocolate down my cleavage. Saving it for later, I guess.

When everyone was walking away with their centerpieces (I had no idea this was okay, not to mention tradition), I made one last pass of the anteroom to see if maybe that centerpiece was included in the deal. It wasn’t. Too bad no one got to take that home – not even the newly weds. But what a kick-ass thing to have at a wedding….and what a way to assure wedded bliss.

Because, I mean, what says Lifetime of Happiness like a tower of flowing chocolate? Exactly.

i'm blaming all my problems on the united nations

Tomorrow after work, I’m getting on a Boston-bound train. Hopefully, I’ll have clothes to pack in my bags, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

When J called yesterday to firm up plans for the weekend, I was still pretty foggy on the details. All I knew is our good friends were gettin’ hitched and I was looking forward to putting on my dancing shoes. Which is not a lot of information. So when we’d gotten the pleasantries out of the way (a good five minutes of Zoolander and Life Aquatic quotes), I went over my questions.

Attire?
Formal.

Shit! What is this, Father of the Bride? As visions of white tents and twinkle lights danced in my head, I flipped through my desk calendar. Three days. I had three days to either lose the eighteen pounds required to fit into something I already owned or high-tail it around town and buy a new one. For no dollars and fifty cents. Because that’s exactly how much money I could afford to spend. I scratched a note on my Post-it to-do list. Black formal dress.

When and where?
4:00 in one of those W towns. Like, Wooster. Or Woburn. The hotel is right next door.

4:00 is good. I’ll get to sleep in, spend time fussing and by 6:00 or so, I’ll be well on my way to getting silly on the dance floor with all my old pals. And if the hotel is right next door…

“Wait, what?”
“The hotel is next to the reception.”
“Why are we staying in a hotel? It’s only 30 minutes away.”
“Yeah, and it’s open bar. Who’s gonna be able to drive back?”

Not to suddenly morph into my mother, but… oh dear. I’m mostly not worried about sharing a hotel room with my ex-superdrama; I’ll just have to be on my best behavior. You know, angel on both shoulders kind of a thing. Besides, right now, I have more pressing concerns like…

The United Nations.

Apparently, the UN being in session affects my local wash-n-fold / dry cleaner and they may or may not have my clothes back in time for me to go tomorrow. I dropped off a load last night. This morning I was told that due to traffic, etc etc, they might not have my clothes back from their factory until late tomorrow. Hmmm. That. Is. Not good. Among the items I left were any and all jeans that currently fit and the new dress, which needed to be steamed. My fingers and toes are crossed that they are returned in time. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to get real creative with my wedding attire.

Incidentally, the new dress cost slightly more than no dollars and fifty cents. But that’s what credit is all about, right? Emergencies. And if this isn't an emergency...

Don’t worry, I’m rolling my eyes at myself for you.

tarts & tricks

It was Christmas in September and we were making tarts.

I don’t have a kitchen counter to speak of, or a table to eat on, so when we have big cooking projects, we make do. Pecans were crushed in a plastic bag with a rolling pin by a cross-legged Biscuit on my living room floor. Bowls of melted caramel, chocolate cream and sundry ingredients dotted every available surface. And extra ingredients eventually found a home on one corner of my living room desk.

When I left for work Monday morning, everything was still there. A nearly-full bag of caramel cubes – hastily twisted shut and sat on its top end – was among the items neatly waiting a home in the cupboard. But when I came home in the evening, that was no longer the case.

It happened once with mini marshmallows.

I came home one night last winter to fluffy white wonderland and my lunatic kitten racing around the apartment, batting wildly at what had been almost an entire bag of tiny, hot chocolate sized marshmallows. I found marshmallows in my bed, in my shoes, under the couch and in the bathtub.

Same sort of situation with the caramel cubes. In Sir Hal’s food dish, behind the commode, and just now, a very Princess and the Pea moment when I settled in with my laptop and… what’s this behind my pillow? Oh yes. Caramel.

I swear, His Excellency must get on the internet while I’m at work and Google “ways to wreak havoc in small spaces.” He’s just so damn good at it. And so good at waiting until I’m nowhere near him with the squirt bottle to implement his evil plots.

I gotta say, I think I prefer the caramels. Much easier to clean up.

i need a phone call

On my birthday, my father was in the hospital. I still waited up for him to call and even slept with my phone next to my pillow thinking maybe, what with the time difference and all…

I didn’t know if patients in the cracker box get to use the phone when they want to, but he never called.

A month later, I flew out West to visit. He didn’t show up to Sunday dinner and instead, hermited himself at some fishing hole or another. He didn’t call then either, but cellular reception in the canyons is always tricky.

If I call and he doesn’t answer, I hold the phone away until it beeps, avoiding what I know his voicemail will say. “Hi, this is Mike. I don’t feel like answering the phone right now.” Sad, tired. When I hear it, it scares me.

His emails are harder to swallow than his voicemail. They’re always about how much he loves my mother still. Unbearably. Phone conversations, though, are easier to manipulate.

How’s the new place?
Any sign of the baby hawks?
No, I’m still not seeing anyone special.

“Nothin’ more important than love,” he says, nearly every time.

“I’m doin’ okay without it.”

“Me, too. Me too, kiddo.”

And he pretends to believe me. And I pretend to believe him, too. ‘Cause I’m my father’s daughter.

and all the king's men

Enough is enough.

I thought I hit my limit yesterday at the gym. During the lunch hour rush, there were two empty treadmills: one, in front of a TV monitor covering US Open and the other, news on Hurricane Katrina. I chose the news. I couldn’t care less for tennis.

I chose poorly.

The feature was on mothers being separated from their newborns during the evacuation of New Orleans. One moment I was running at a steady pace, jaw clenched, eyes transfixed on the screen above me and the next, feet planted on the sides of the treadmill, doubled over, hand covering my mouth sobbing. Right there in front of everyone. I hit the emergency stop button and ran for the locker room.

In the face of all the media coverage, I’ve felt overwhelmed, angry, heartbroken and helpless. Mostly helpless. And I am consumed by it. Get me in front of a computer and I will refresh CNN.com until my index finger goes numb. I will stop in front of every TV screen and stare. I will be unable to go to a party and talk about anything else. I will have nightmares about drowning babies.

After yesterday’s breakdown at the gym, I thought I had learned my lesson about over consumption. But this morning, I was back to my old ways. First thing, I fired up the laptop and started watching CNN news clips. Cue the nausea. I made a dash for the bathroom and as I hovered over the toilet, I decided that enough was finally enough. It is one thing to be informed, but it is quite another to be obsessed -- especially with something so powerful and disturbing. It’s taking its toll.

Like most people who are concerned, but so far removed, I’ve struggled with the What can I do? question. The answer has been, Donate. I don’t live an extravagant lifestyle -- despite any misinformation to the contrary. I’m a fierce budgeter. So, when news of Hurricane Katrina rolled in, I did some fierce re-budgeting and parted with what few indulgences made up the left-hand column of my excel spreadsheet. I gave up my cab money (I have a MetroCard, I should use it) and then my bi-monthly pedicure fund. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.

Still, I don’t feel any less helpless. And I know that my own unrest is only a fraction of what others are feeling. My recent CNN obsession hasn’t been any help to alleviate it, so I’ve begun making plans. Plans that no longer involve places like Barcelona in the fall. Instead, when Habitat for Humanity sees fit to open the area to volunteers, I hope to be there. Will physical labor make me feel any more helpful? I don’t know for certain.

But even if all I do is drive a few nails, it will be one concrete step toward making a difference.

Reminder: drinking for a good cause

From Intern Amy:

Thank you for all your calls and emails. The communication black hole doesn’t help much during this unimaginable disaster. It is really hard to see these images on TV of the city I grew up in.

….at night I have been volunteering with the Red Cross at LSU’s temporary Triage Center, which facilitates medical needs before the disabled are transported to other shelters around the country.

….we will rebuild New Orleans again. Though this disaster is something I never want to remember, this past week has been filled with experiences and emotions I will never forget.

Just a reminder: Tomorrow night, I will be joining my friend Tanya for her Hurricane Relief Event. She's really gone to a lot of effort and word has it, it’s made the Daily News.

If you can spare some time and some cash, drop on by. All donations go to the American Red Cross for victims of Hurricane Katrina.

When: Thursday, September 8, 6-8 p.m.

Where: Stitch Bar – 247 West 37th St.
between 7th and 8th Ave.
UPSTAIRS.

UPDATE: The night was a success! I heard we raised a good chunk of change (to be doubled by matched donations) to be donated to the Red Cross. For pictures and recaps from Miss Tanya's Hurricane Relief Event see:

Miss Tanya

Benjamin Wagner

Mindi

Curly

Torrie

stomping divots and busting chops

“So, I guess that means dinner is a no.”

I was lying across the bed, toes curled on the dormer windowsill, hair still wet from the shower when the phone rang. Unwilling to sit up in order to answer, I fanned my arms out until my fingertips made contact with my cell phone. Lazy, I know. I was reveling in my vacation stupor. It was late Sunday afternoon when Wes called and I was sunburned, well-fed and miles away from New York City. And I had an armory of stories from my last minute New England getaway. There was a sunny cliff walk, big, family style dinners, futbol and even a picnic polo match.

“Polo? Are you trying to out-snob me?”
“I think it would be impossible to out-snob a European. But nonetheless, it was pretty intense.”

Polo was not quite the highbrow affair I’d have thought. Not that there weren’t a handful of people in silly lobster embroidered outfits, but for the most part, the US v England match was about beer cooked onions and bratwurst, candied apples and one amusingly drunk commentator from across the pond.

Then there was stomping the divots. What could be more far removed from my everyday life than stomping divots at a polo match? It was all very Pretty Woman. I couldn’t have been more thrilled, though secretly, I wished I’d worn a fancy hat and something with Swiss dots.

I heard the slap of bare feet on the floor outside and a knock at the door.

“Get up! We’re going fishing in like, five minutes.”

I promised to catch-and-release and said goodbye, grabbed my flip-flops and a sweater and joined Stephanie, Phil and the others downstairs for some sunset fishing. A dozen of us spent the evening spinning yarns and swapping playful insults. Nothing goes so well with night fishing as busting chops. When we returned a few hours later, we’d caught nothing but mosquito bites, seaweed and the sunset. It was absolutely perfect.

The trip had been unplanned and I’d almost declined the invitation. I hadn’t packed. Who would feed the Sir Hal? The excuses could have been endless. But on Sunday night, when dinner had wrapped up and we were scrunched onto the living room sofa attacking the crossword puzzle (eight heads are better than one), I was so glad I’d not made them.

Thanks to Ari for some last minute pet sitting. All photos by Stephanie and Phil. No fish were harmed during the making of this post (except for the ones we used for bait but I had nothing to do with that).

drinking for a good cause

From Miss Tanya's Hurricane Relief Event:

If you've watched TV or looked at a newspaper over the past few days, I don't need to tell you how bad this is. It's really, really bad. I keep thinking back to how the whole country rallied around NYC during 9/11, and now it's time to return the favor.

A mere $10 gets you a drink and automatic entry into a raffle for gift cards, clothing, CDs, books, and a host of other prizes

We’ll also be passing the hat for additional donations, so drink up and loosen your purse strings. All proceeds will go to the American Red Cross and AmeriCares specifically for Hurricane Katrina relief.

Bring some friends, make it a post-work hang, or just throw your money in the kitty and leave. Look, you’re going to drink anyway…might as well put that $10 to good use as well.

When: Thursday, September 8, 6-8 p.m.

Where: Stitch Bar - 247 West 37th St.
(between 7th and 8th Ave.)

If you get a chance, please stop by. If you can't, please know there are many ways to help. The link in the post below can help you find the best way to do that.

Hope to see you Thursday.