Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Summer School

Ah, here we are again with Fall looming down upon us. Like Jeremy Piven’s hairline, Fall disappeared for a bit, but it is now back with a vengeance. White is out, winter white is in. True Blood is over, Glee is finally here.





Always ahead of the ball, CVS has put out a smorgasbord of Halloween candy. (Apparently the general public needs a 45 day window to buy pumpkin shaped Reese’s peanut butter cups.) And as with every changing season, I tend to get a wee bit reflective.

In ruminating on Summer ’09, various memories stand out and it strikes me that each taught me a valuable life lesson. Of course most of them taught me a literal lesson, e.g., if you’re going to drink wine at a summer film festival, make sure to put the “empty” in your purse so it doesn’t roll past thirty rows of film critics during the silent lull right after the filmmaker asks the audience if there are any questions. However, a few summer events also provided greater insight.

My summer started off with an amazing trip to Lake Como, Italy. One of my dearest college friends, Erica, and her adorable husband Cory, invited me to join them for a week long stay at their friend’s summer house above the town of Menaggio. Amidst the breathtaking backdrop of the Lake surrounded by snow capped mountains and historic villas shrouded by lush gardens, I learned a plethora of lessons that I’ll never forget.





First, one should never, ever, EVER stay up till 4 a.m. drinking wine and smoking cigarettes the morning before a ½ day hike up a mountain (no matter how beautiful the fire or how charming the Italian). Trust me, despite a panoramic view that likely mirrors the one from God’s back deck (and tres cute hiking boots), the hike will fall on the pain meter somewhere above tromping through 10 miles of sand in too-tight stilettos and below, I don’t know, let’s say, natural child birth. (I also learned that you should always call your bank before you travel abroad and try to spend a mortgage payment at Furla.)
More importantly, Lake Como taught me that we all need to slow the hell down. Crikey. It took me 3 days of a 7 day trip to stop checking my work email and take off my watch. Why Americans do not embrace the 3 hour lunch, I’ll never know. And, as I’m sure Erica would agree, there are few, few things in life better than having a cappuccino and catching up with a friend. Of course it will taste better if you are sipping it in front of the Duomo in Como (with bags of gorgeous silk scarves at your feet), but a local coffee shop will work.

Summer marched onward, hours were lost at the office, and weekends were always too short, but on the horizon was a girls’ white water rafting trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains. My college group of friends and I are diligent about getting together. The six years since UNC Commencement Weekend 2003 (stop calculating my age and keep reading) have been filled with not only weddings and bachelorette parties, but numerous vacations just for the hell of it. This year was no exception. We decided we would trek up to Boone, NC to stay at Courtney’s in-laws’ cabin (read: 5 bedroom luxurious mountain resort equipped with chef’s kitchen, pool table, tiled baths, and wraparound porch) and try out white water rafting.

Before I even arrived in Boone, I learned two valuable lessons: 1) Nestle Tollhouse Cookie Cafes prohibit “erotic messages” on cookie cakes; and 2) apparently, “We Love White Water" constitutes an erotic message. (I learned this upon a phone call from NTCC that I stupidly answered while two co-workers were in my office, panicked when put on the spot for a back up message, and ended up with a cake declaring “Mountain Weekend 2009.” Quotation marks included). See FN1.

I learned the bigger lesson from “Mountain Weekend 2009” while on the Nolichucky River. After going on numerous whitewater rafting trips as a child and a few more as an adult, I pride myself on being a (somewhat) experienced rafter who certainly is not afraid of a little bit of water and some rocks. (Of coursed I missed no opportunity to tell my friends this sentiment.)

Indeed, the rapids were not the problem. The Nolichucky, however, is not one continuous rapid and it houses several flat plains that require more muscle than skill to navigate. While paddling down one such plane, I took the time to notice the peaceful mountain scenery, enjoy the sun on my skin, and think about the mother of all bloody marys I was going to make once we got back to the cabin.


Suddenly, quicker than a fat girl going skinny dipping, I was fully submerged in the water. I bobbed, bewildered, in the water looking up at my raft and back to the one behind me trying to figure out what had happened. There was nether a rapid nor a rock in sight. I had fallen out of the raft on a portion of the river that would have barely rocked baby Moses in his basket of reeds. (And even now, I cannot bring myself to write about the scene that was the river guide hauling me back into the raft.)


Yes, I learned to keep my ego in check. Better yet, I was reminded that even during the calm, peaceful times of life, you should brace yourself for the unexpected. It isn’t always the rapids that rock the boat and what will knock you on your ass (or cause your ass to be sticking in the air hanging over the side of a large inflatable raft) is typically the thing you don’t see coming.



But I have to say, the most valuable lesson I learned this summer happened during a Braves-Phillies game. A stroke of good luck (and a friend with good connections), gave me two tickets to the 2nd Braves-Phillies game, 20 rows behind home plate. However, the Braves had lost the first game in the series and a win that day seemed unlikely.

The first 2 hours of the game were a bit slow - the Braves scored 2 runs in the bottom of the 3rd which the Phillies answered with a run in the 4th and a run in the 5th. (I did learn during that time, however, that it is mighty hard to tomahawk and drink your Beam & Coke at the same time.) The Phillies scored another run at the top of the 7th. I made another drink and ate some peanuts in the 8th. The Phillies failed to score at the top of the 9th which put the Braves at bat needing 2. Garret Anderson had a leadoff single but the turning point occurred with Matt Diaz at bat. Diaz made a sacrificial bunt and a crazy turn of events occurred. The Phillies’ pitcher made a wild throw to first and the ball bounced into right field. Anderson raced from first to score the tying run, while Diaz made it to third. The crowd went nuts. Peanuts were flung, dip n’ dots went flying, and the tomahawks came out (I’m pretty sure I even put down my drink). In the midst of the frenzy, my friend Joel turned to me and screamed, “Diaz just bunted his way to 3rd!” I laughed incredulously and we went on to watch Omar Infante hit a single to left and Diaz score the game wining run.


The Braves beat the Philles, 4-3. And it all turned on a bunt. Diaz went up to bat fully expecting an out. He would sacrifice for the greater good. But then a series of events occurred that resulted in his feet running over home plate to win the game. It's hopeful, no? You never know what’s going to happen and you certainly won’t find out if you don’t step up to the plate. Even when the likelihood of failure is high, great success is still a possibility.





It's with this lesson in mind, that I post this entry. People may enjoy it or they may find it less palatable than fat free cheese. Regardless, it is highly doubtful that I’ll ever win a Pulitzer or write for the NY Times. Then again, you never know, every now and then, we all bunt our way to third.





FN1. For a thorough, historic examination of the cake decorator’s love of the quotation mark, see http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com/.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Hold the Hummus

One of the many reasons I love my gorgeous but spunky friend *Raleigh is that she tends to look at situations with the same reckless abandon that I do. I emailed her on Monday knowing that V-day was looming down upon us and asked if she had any interest in getting sloshed and telling each other how fabulous we are. Within less than a minute she replied she would host, we were going out, and that there would be dancing. (Like I said, she rocks.) There would be no greasy take out/wine drinking in sweats while avoiding all things lovey-dovey for us; we planned to throw ourselves right into the middle of Cupid’s snow globe and shake that puppy up.

Pan to Valentine’s Day Night and I’m running late to meet Raleigh and the crew she’s assembled at 4th & Swift ,because I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to wear black tights, grey tights, or no tights, and I had a bit of an almost-emergency-room-worthy fiasco while applying a full strand of false eyelashes (I wanted to channel Audrey Hepburn, not look like a caterpillar had crawled on to my face, started spinning its cocoon on my eyelid, and gave up mid-spin to take a nap). Fortunately there is very little that a quick leg shave in the kitchen sink and a vat of Vaseline can’t fix.


I hit a stoplight and take the opportunity to take a deep breath and smooth my hair. I look over to my left and peer at the woman in the passenger seat of the car next to me. She looks miserable. I lean forward to get a look at her beaux (I’m ridiculously nosy like that) and as I suspected, he looks miserable too. Both are starring straight ahead with stony expressions and seem to be desperately trying to teleport themselves somewhere else. I imagine she is cold and frigid in bed and he is taking her out to dinner solely so people at the office won’t think he is a total schmuck. (I also bet that they are listening to Michael Bolton and will order hummus as an appetizer at dinner.) (Don’t get me wrong, I’m a girl that loves a good blob of hummus, but seriously. Yawn.)




The light changes and I eventually find 4th & Swift, warm and welcoming, tucked up on a cozy hill off North across from City Hall East. As I’m dashing in the place (making sure that my dress is not tucked up inside my panties like that one time at the airport), I can’t help but think of the couple in the car and how the ice woman probably would never show up anywhere by herself on Valentine’s Day evening. Even though she looked miserable, I ashamedly wonder if the convenience and reliability of a relationship might be worth it. Would I trade the unpredictability and uncertainty that comes from being single for a guaranteed, but perhaps miserable, hummus-filled relationship?

I’m unable to ponder for long because as soon as I walk into the restaurant, I spot Raleigh amidst the most gorgeous group of people in the entire place. (Have I told you how much I love Raleigh?) There is sweet, adorable Maggie who is the youngest of the group coming in at the ripe old age of 25 and maintaining that level of hopeful naiveté that is appropriate for her age. Then there is Klein, good looking and cocky but refreshingly honest and entertaining (it isn’t until halfway through dinner, after asking Maggie and Raleigh, I discover I have given him a European accent that is typically coupled with such confidence even though he doesn’t actually have one). Raleigh excitedly explains that Klein is “hungry like the wolf” and that we will certainly get to see him in action later in the night. Sloan, Raleigh’s cousin visiting from NYC, is tall, dark and stylish with porcelain skin, a brilliant smile, and easy laugh. I can tell immediately that she is an old soul like me. (I am certain that the eerie ability to recognize a soul like your own is a documented scientific phenomenon). Sloan wins further points in my book when she tells us that she has left her boyfriend back in the City so she can hang with Raleigh for the weekend (my kind of girl). Oh and of course, there is handsome, polite Charlie who cannot get a word in over me, Raleigh and Klein, but who laughs a lot with genuine sincerity and has a mischievous sparkle in his eye. We guffaw through dinner and dessert, telling ridiculously honest stories – one of those rare occasions where the entire group takes an immediate liking to one another – and it feels like we are old friends catching up with one another. Sometime between the first two bottles of wine, my martini, and third mojito, we decide to take the party to the W Midtown.

The W is a bit tame and the DJ leaves a lot to be desired, but we make the best of it. Klein orders a round of mojitos (my kind of guy) and dancing ensues (including my own personal performance to Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” which interestingly goes - "don't bring me down... gross" and not "don't bring me down...bris" ). There are lots of laughs, a little bit of grinding, and we are all feeling pretty swell about life. Our special misfit V-day group is so entertaining and magnetic even Klein doesn’t go on the prowl (the wolf will have to be fed another night).

Not feeling quite ready to go home, and time pressured by Fulton County’s 2 a.m. booze cut off, we decide to head back to Raleigh’s for a night cap. I mix up a drink I call “bartender’s disgrace” which consists of stoli vanilla, some other clear liquor, pineapple mango juice, and frozen strawberries (the thought of which now makes me dry heave), and we proceed to continue our discussion from dinner on love, relationships, and sex. I imagine we are what would result if one merged the editing scraps from Sex and The City Season One and Reality Bites.

Charlie (who has avoided “bartender’s disgrace” like it was a glass of hot lard and has been pounding waters) senses the party is nearing its finale (I think Raleigh’s light snoring from the couch is a huge clue) and announces he is going to head home. He graciously agrees to drop me off on the way. On the short drive to my house, Charlie finally has the opportunity to speak. We talk about breakups and how being single is really quite awesome when you think about the terrible alternatives that are out there. I get out of the car thinking about how often it is the quiet ones that have the most to say.

As I enter my condo, greeted by dancing puppies, I smile at the stack of presents my mama has sent me for the holiday, and I laugh at the hysterical text message my best friend Katie sent earlier in the evening. I think about the amazing night I’ve just had and I know the resounding answer to my question. There are not enough candy hearts, rose petals or dinner reservations in the world to make me trade places with the ice woman (there may be enough Lindt truffles but that ruins the metaphor).


Maybe there is such as thing as the best of both worlds, but for now, hold the hummus; the single life is hard to beat.

*All names have been changed to ensure that people will continue to hang out with me despite my love of blogging about our escapades.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

A is for Asheville

I realize that I do not necessarily have the golden touch that Oprah does (I still can't get my mama to read the last book I recommended.) And the last time I checked, swarms of people did not descend upon Craft in Atlanta because I ate there a few weeks ago. However, I'm so delighted with my first vacation spot of '09, it would be a shame to hide it under a bushel (who knows, you may read something here that lights a fire under your hiny, forces you to stop checking the balance of your 401K, and motivates you to take your own little mini-break).


Over MLK weekend, I met my best friend, Katie, and some of our Charlotte gal pals in Asheville, North Carolina.

Along with San Francisco, Chapel Hill, Charlottesville, Wrightsville Beach, Italy, and anywhere with white sand and turquoise waters, Asheville is on my "I could live here" list. (Atlanta is on that list when the traffic doesn't make me want to stick my head in a cannon and I don't have to listen to old white men pontificate on the non-existence of racism, or watch overly-large women roam around in ridiculously tight pants plastered with Gucci logos).

Asheville is refreshingly laid back and full of splendid haunts:
  1. Barkwells. Holy smokes. Barkwells is doggy heaven on Earth. It is a mountain resort where every cabin has its own fenced in back yard, a doggy gated porch, and a doggy door for canine access into the interior (and a hot tub. for humans). Your pup has miles and miles to roam free and unlike here in Midtown were my bitchy neighbor complains every time a dog barks in a 3 mile radius of her unit, no one cares if your dogs gleefully bark every now and then. Here's a pic from the Barkwell's website that captures the spirit of the place perfectly.






(I mean Gatsby was so excited about the place, he humped uncontrollably all weekend. )

And as Katie, who is not a pet owner (yet) pointed out, she'd go to Barkwells even if dogs weren't invited to her mountain party. The cabins are nice (like granite counter top, flat screen tv, and hardwood floors throughout nice) and reasonably priced. We even rigged our cabin so we could watch the Carolina game from the hot tub. (Can you say sweet?) It's just a 3 hour drive from Atlanta and a 2 hour drive from Charlotte, people! We're definitely going back when white-water rafting season hits (and bringing more wine so we don't have to make 3 grocery store runs).

2. Mayfels. We headed into town to brunch (it's a verb now, didn't you know?) at Tupelo Honey, but as it had been almost a full 2 hours since we last ate, we decided not to endure the 45 minute wait there and beboped the 10 feet over to Mayfel's instead (such a good move).


What a great spot. The food was delish (I opted for the omelet special and then drooled over the french toast the girl next to us had ordered) and the decor in the place was incredibly charming. Vintage china rimmed the walls and kooky crystal chandeliers dripped down from the ceiling.

And a wonderfully wacky wire sculpture divided the dining area from the hostess stand/server's station/kitchen window.


Barkwells and Mayfel's alone are worth the drive, but of course while you're up there you should hit up the Biltmore Estate, hike the arboretum, visit the slew of independent restaurants and bars that line the streets of downtown Asheville, and check out the art galleries showing local and national talent. I can be pretty critical (shocker), so trust me on this one kids. Asheville is a perfect mini-break. I came back from the weekend more mellow than a John Mayer song. If I could bottle up the spirit of Asheville and drink it on my lunch break, I would. But alas, I can't. So instead, I'll blog about it and remind myself that mini-breaks are under-rated and that Asheville is right up the road.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Janus and the Revolving Door


The tradition of New Year’s Resolutions goes all the way back to 153 B.C. The early Roman calendar used March 1 as New Year's Day but Julius Caesar changed the calendar to coincide with the seasons and named the first month of the year after Janus, the god of gates, doors and beginnings. Janus had two faces, one looking forward, the other backward. The Romans pictured Janus looking back at the old year and forward to the new, and New Year's Day symbolized remembering the lessons of the previous year while vowing to improve the current.

I tend to favor this more open-ended way of looking at the New Year and Its Resolutions. Every year I have three categories of resolutions: 1) Never ending stories; 2) I-really-mean-its; and 3) revolutions.

Never Ending Stories

Never ending stories are not so much resolutions as they are values and principles in which I believe and on which I have to concentrate and practice. They are not goals one can perfect in 365 days and then move on.

For example, I was in Mac’s liquor store the other day (shocker) and the clerk asked a gentleman in front of me about his New Year’s Resolution. The man replied that his goal for 2009 is to be a better husband. I couldn’t help but wonder if that meant he could be an asshole again in 2010. (I also couldn’t help but think that the man was getting awfully personal with the liquor store clerk. Personally, I tend to answer this question from strangers by saying something bland like “I’m gonna keep on keepin’ on” or by being ironic – like here I would have said “give up booze.” But hey, to each his own.)

That said, I do see the importance of reviewing my never ending stories ever year and reminding myself of my weaknesses. For example I need keep in better touch with family and old friends (other than my mama, who would be the next guest on Nancy Grace if I ever went 2 days without talking to her, and my best friend Katie whom I tend to stalk). Also, I’m continuously working on controlling my temper, and I’d like to one day be the type of person that spends more time outdoors than in. Although I’ve realized that only so many people in your life are obligated to love you regardless of how many times you go stunningly bitchy on them, and that spray-tanning while taking vitamin D is not the same as going to the park, I still need to put these lessons into practice. I also would like to get and stay buff. (I wish pushing a buggy around Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s looking for vegan cookies was considered a work out). Even if I greatly improve in these areas, I’ll always have to work at them; they are never ending stories (and yes, for those of you who have seen the movie, I do wish Bijou could fly so then I could call her Falcor).

I Really Mean It

The “I really mean it” pile is limited to those resolutions that I whole-heartedly intend to keep and turn into habits. Previous years’ “really mean-ers” have been 1) stop dating complete tools I’m not interested in just so I have someone to call/text when I’m bored (which unfortunately dried up the dating pool like Atlanta Summer ’07 on Lake Lanier); 2) travel more (I can go anywhere on Dramamine); and 3) be more friendly to strangers (especially good looking ones that don’t appear to need spare change or legal advice). Here are 2009’s resolutions that qualify for this category:

1) Blog more. Yes, I realize I made this resolution in August, September, October, November and December ‘08, but like a good chemical peel, 2009 is going burn off the failures of 2008. I will stop putting off my blog like a trip to the OBGYN and will write prolific, soul-wrenching prose regularly (read: will write down my self-absorbed opinions on life with greater frequency rather than just think them).

2) Avoid meat and dairy. Now this resolution stems from my great idea in November to go Vegan (after reading Skinny Bitch and watching a bunch of PETA undercover footage from slaughterhouses). However, I quickly realized, as many predicted, that such a lifestyle was as practical for a girl like myself as a Kitchen Aid (which has been used once in two years - when my parents came down for Thanksgiving and my mama made homemade yeast rolls). Let’s be honest, I will always believe in wearing and sitting on leather; I cannot deny that the fried goat cheese balls at Ecco are nirvana for my taste buds; and I have a love affair with cheeseburgers. So this resolution is a watered down version of going vegan. I know, I know, this is like being kinda preggors, or “dating other people” instead of “breaking up.” But I hear that by going totally vegan, a person can save 90 animals a year. I figure that if I switch to eating cheeseburgers on rare occasions instead of days that end in y, and give Almond Breeze a try, I can save almost 30.
3) Figure out what "Twitter" is.

I believe I can conquer these three goals in 2009 with monumental success which is part the reason why they are on my list. I mean a girl needs a few resolutions she knows she can keep and accomplish; otherwise she may as well just title her list “future failures.” And, let’s be honest, I have enough failure in my life that I don’t see coming; I don’t need to create opportunities for it to thrive.

Shame on Me

This brings us to my “Shame on Me” category. I think of the objectives in this bucket as “revolutions.” These are the goals that creep into my new year, year after year (along with a bad hangover) because, without good reason, I did not accomplish them the prior year. My top five revolutions are 1) learn how to play golf, 2) write a novel, 3) open a savings account, 4) learn Italian, and 5) get a Georgia Driver’s License.

2009 is no exception. I haven’t learned that owning a set of clubs and a golf bag does not a golfer make, nor do I really understand why one needs a savings account if she has credit cards. I’m taking great strides towards number 2 and yes I realize that number 5 is relatively easy. (But dude, the line at the DMV is longer than the Apple Store check out line during Christmas.)

However, I’m going through the revolving door with great resolve this year – 2009 could be the year I actually enter the lobby of Hotel Self Satisfaction. (The porter can bring in all my baggage later.) And if I can’t make it out of the door, and I enter 2010 only knowing “ciao bella,” well then, Janus can kiss it and I’ll keep on revolving.