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February 22, 2006
Foamers for Life...Maybe
Two things on my mind that have recently confused me:
1) Memory foam: Too good for its own good?
Rafe's brother was in town this weekend and somehow got a free memory foam mattress topper when he bought his mattress and, knowing that we sleep on a ten year old futon, was kind enough to let us have it. Where this futon we've been sleeping on originally came from is a mystery but sleeping on it is like sleeping on concrete. Last week, I woke up and I could not turn my head left...nor right, nor up, nor down. That was a problem. So this topper, you might guess, is a Godsend. Or...is it? I find myself unable to move my body out of bed when my alarm clocks goes off. If I had less morning willpower than I do, which trust me is not a lot, I would just not get up, ever. Once you get into your groove for the night, that's it baby, just try and pry yourself off the fucker come morning. It's like ripping a bandaid off of a hairy arm. While I enjoy not feeling my bones ache with the intensity they once did, I'm a bit weirded out by the foam. Everyone raves about it a bit too passionately. OOHH YOU HAVE THE FOAM? I HAVE THE FOAM! (knowing glances exchanged) It's like a cult. But I think I like it.
2) Domestic Partnerships: What the hell were we thinking?
Actually, I know what we were thinking. We were thinking, Hooray, Debbie can get health insurance! It was never just a joke on Aetna but on the other hand, I mean technically we are domestic partners, in that we share a home and are partners, but we weren't taking the thing too seriously. We went down to City Hall, signed some papers, took a lame digital photo of us kissing, went to work, then went out a nice dinner. That was that. But now it's turned into a sort of a gay-marriage-but-for-a-straight-couple ceremony.
We're having a party soon and while yes, we're the ones going around saying we're official partners, we're not sure what this all means. We were just innocently proclaiming our love. Friends are inquiring about a registry. And will there be rings? Who will walk me down the isle? While several people very close to us are getting married soon and wedding fever has struck all our peers it seems, we're not right there right now. We are celebrating our love pure and simple, sans labels (um, except for that Domestic Partnership label) We are simply having a party in a lounge to celebrate this, in addition our impending voyage to Honduras. On a side note, to add to the gayness of our partnership status, we just found out the venue we want to have the party at is now a gay bar. But no matter. We can have our DP party in a gay bar, we're down with that.
Speaking of gay things, last night we went to Galapagos for the Gayronic Art Jam. Laura was performing with her group, the fabulously funny "The Lesbian Overtones." It was a fun time but when I came home, that's when I pretty much freaked out, along the lines of: What does it mean to be domestic partners? Is this what people do who don't want to get married? Why is everyone getting married anyway? What does this say about us? What are doing? Where are we going? AHHHHH!!!! But then, with some help, I calmed down. We're ok. We love each other. We are in a very good place. We are watching our relationship grow. And that is something great and to be thankful for.
So I guess I'm not confused after all. I'm enjoying my memory foam and I am comfortable with my relationship. All is well.
Posted by debbie at 11:08 AM | Comments (1)
February 16, 2006
Supermarket Sweep- Ghetto Style!
Yesterday on my way to lunch, Laura's husband called me and alerted me to the fact the ghetto Key Foods on Court Street was closing and having a one day 50% off sale. Everything was on sale- the entire goddamn stinky store! The store literally stinks and everything in the meat department is freezer-burned and dripping with blood. I've also bought (unbeknownst to me at the time) moldy cheese and expired tortillas there. But, come on, half off! People were going crazy, myself included. I got that possessed feeling again, similar to the one I get when I step into Ikea, Target, dollar stores, and thrift stores. When a large variety of things are cheap or on sale, I become a shopping monster. My eyes turn into laser beams, I become unnaturally focused, and my debit cart begs for mercy. I didn't think that there would be much left by the time we arrived, but there was. It was like a fucked up version of Supermarket Sweep (a show you can still catch if you're lucky on PAX, the Christian channel). There weren't enough carts so people were carrying as much as they could in their hands or milk crates or whatever they had available. Old people roamed the isles looking for canned goods, while the young ones went for the good stuff, i.e. the beer. Suffice it to say our pantry is now brimming with six-packs of weird beer (He'brew anyone?) and bulk packages of toilet paper.
After that exhausting excursion, we just plopped down in front of the TV to watch the Winter Olympics and right then and there, it struck me- the Winter Olympics suck. This article from the Washington Post sums it up very well and is really worth a look:
Where the Rich and Elite Meet to Compete
Posted by debbie at 12:45 PM | Comments (1)
February 15, 2006
WARNING: This post contains uncharacteristically uncynical musings on love and happiness
Poo-poo Valentine's Day all you want- it's overrated, it's so commercialized, it discriminates against singles. Yes, all true. But for some reason, I was basking in its shmaltzy goodness. Yesterday was such a good day in fact I was convinced something bad was going to happen, specifically that I'd slip on some ice and break my hip or that an icicle would come tumbling off a skyscraper and knock me down. The spirits of all my neurotic ancestors have instilled in me this type of nonsense. But lo and behold, nothing bad happened.
I guess I have trouble sometimes accepting that I can be happy. I question it. I break it down, I beat it up, I expect it to escape me and replace itself with something else. But as the day wore on, I said fuck it, this is nice. And then right as I was thinking that a bird shit on my head. That's a lie. But if that had happened, I would have laughed and skipped down the street, whistling along with the imaginary blue bird on my shoulder.
The day began sweetly enough. Early in the morning I squinted open my eyes and I made out Rafe's
shadowy figure tip-toeing out of the bedroom with a tall bouquet of something, but what I couldn't quite tell. Later when I awoke, he called me from the road and told me go into the dining room where waiting was a huge bouquet of very tall pussy willows on the table. Pussy willows I've decided are fantastic.
During my lunch hour, I sat in a coffee shop to write in a card I had made for Rafe and as I was writing, I felt so full of emotion that I began to cry, right there in the Cosi in front of people eating their overpriced salads. Maybe it was PMS, or maybe I was just a fool in love. And when I came back to the office, I finally, finally after weeks of proscrastination, worked up the courage to tell my boss about my plans to take off a month to go to Honduras. Instead of firing me, she said congratulations and that my job would be waiting for me when I returned (sans pay, naturally, but still).
For dinner we went to 360 in Red Hook which was everything I had hoped for, culinary speaking. Apparently, it has been a "destination restaurant" for a few years now (that is, classy foodies from Manhattan--all the way across the river!-- gladly trek here for a taste of the goods). Hype or no hype, I'm a stickler for high quality food at a value and I had been wanting to go here for ages. Their prix fixe menu is just $25 for three delicious courses of refined French food. And while the food is sophisticated, the ambience is downright relaxed- mellow reggae in the background, tea towels for napkins, and um, the portly waiter was sporting a stained hooded sweatshirt (maybe a little too relaxed there buddy). All in all, I highly recommend the place. There are some funky little bars nearby too, including Lillie's, Bait &Tackle and Pioneer Bar. So yes, a happy day. The end.
Today is a brand new day, unfortunately. My period just started, and I'm in a really sour mood. Fucking day after Valentine's.
Posted by debbie at 11:33 AM | Comments (1)
February 13, 2006
Thanks Vince, for sending me this photo and reminding me of the good old days when I knew how to rock out.
Two things I learned this weekend:
1) Don't forget to wear boots the day after the biggest snow storm in New York history. Mesh sneakers really just don't repel two foot puddles of gray slush.
2) Don't buy a fondue set from Goodwill and expect it to be intact when you get it home and have your authentic Swiss fondue cheese mix all ready to go.
All in all though Storm 2006 was a success. We ventured out yesterday in the snow and we didn't die. In fact, we ventured all the way to Alyssa's apartment for Soup Night. The soup was delicious, and at my drunken urging, we all played the celebrity version of charades. I believe it's called "Celebrity." I think I performed pretty well, especially when I had to act out Star Jones and Anna Nicole Smith in the same round.
Posted by debbie at 4:28 PM
February 10, 2006
Friday with My Pal O
I was given the day off today. Certain projects were wrapping up and there wasn't much for me to do so I was "given" the day to stay home. Lucky me, except I get paid by the day and could really use the money right now. There's freelancing for you. Oprah DVD box set here I come. I have no inspiration or motivation to do anything of value today (although there is some value in Oprah, don't get me wrong). Today is Me Day. And yes, I read about this concept in O Magazine.
Also, a snow storm is coming. A few weeks ago, I bought a fondue kit from Goodwill so with that and some NetFlix, we should be all good.
Posted by debbie at 2:11 PM
February 9, 2006
The Joy of Cooking
I have a sudden urge to make empanadas. That's the great thing about being an adult with moderate skill in the kitchen--I can find a recipe, follow it, and (at least half the time) relish the result. I can just go ahead and do it. Like when I have an urge for cranberry-walnut bread- I can just go in the kitchen and make it...sounds simple enough, I suppose, but I find a lot of joy in this. But my interest in cooking goes back a long way actually, to when I was but a wee child....[cue dreamy flashback music]
When I was seven, my best friend was a mean-spirited little girl who lived in a giant apartment complex near the highway with her mom, Fabienne, and a cat named Pinez. Because they were French, they pronounced its named pretty much like "Penis." Not that "Pinez" sounds much different than "Penis" in an English accent, but still, they were French and I'll leave it at that. This cat was obese and sported a veiny wart on its ear. Also, my friend had an ugly habit of rolling down her socks so they looked like little life preservers around her ankles. This much I remember, but it's all besides the point. The real point of this story is that when I would go to her apartment, which was often, she would coax me into her kitchen to "bake" something that we could sell downstairs to her unsuspecting neighbors. We would "bake" brownies, cookies, cakes even, whatever we fancied. Of course, we had no idea what we were doing and God knows where Fabienne was, probably chain-smoking on the patio, but I recall that we had practically no supervision. Regardless of what we were baking, the ingredients were always the same: flour, water, food coloring, baking soda, and lots and lots of salt. Recipes were useless to us. We would simply stir, dump, and bake in the oven until the smoke alarm sounded.
When we figured out how to dismantle the alarm, we would cart our rock-hard goods downstairs and set up shop. We had one of those TV tray tables and we would arrange our goodies on it just so, and then tape up a sign that said something along the lines of "Bake Sale for Charity" while we sat back, smiled our gap-toothed little smiles and raked in the cash.
I feel bad about it now...but not that bad. We were entrepreneurs, evil little entrepreneurs capitalizing on our cuteness. We were wise to do it then; we wouldn't be able to get away with something like that now...
Posted by debbie at 10:56 AM
February 8, 2006
There's Just No Competing with Buckminster Fuller
Old pal Gentry rode her bike over to the apartment last night and we drank whiskey and discussed love, travel and other topics. Rafe's gone at a conference till Friday so I get free reign of the apartment, which is a nice change of pace because for a few days there remains actual un-eaten food in the kitchen and I get to take up more than 33 percent of the bed.
So Gentry introduced me to the basic ideas behind Buckminster Fuller, a fellow she's been really getting into lately. Doing some cursory follow-up research today, I came across some random trivia about him: In addition to all his other accomplishments (which I'm too lazy to go into but rest assured he did more than design the Epcot Center), he documented his life every 15 minutes from 1915 to 1983, leaving behind 270 feet worth of journals. His is said to be the most documented human life in history.
When I think about my documented life, I think about my 20 or so journals that each contain at most 15 filled pages. I have no problem starting a journal, it's just the sticking with it that seems beyond me. After writing steadily for a few days, I inevitably skip a few days, which then turns into weeks, and
then months.. And then, when I want to start writing again, I dig up my journal and realize that the last entry I wrote was six months beforehand. And I can't write another entry in the same journal because then it would appear as though I hadn't done anything of note for all that time... and if someone were to stumble upon this journal in the future, it would be misleading and I would look boring, or so my neurotic logic goes. And so then I start fresh, as if each journal is a literal new chapter (or volume) of my life, and then eventually I repeat the cycle of journal abandonment. It's really pretty sick.
And so now I blog. I blog so that in the future, my grandkids can Google my name and find out about my sordid past and then, God bless my old soul, they will know Grandma Debbie as a person and not just as a smelly elderly person. It's all for the little ones.
Posted by debbie at 3:45 PM
February 6, 2006
What Is it about Cone-shaped Cups?
Last night I checked out a new bar on Atlantic Avenue called Dragon Lounge. Because I don't really review bars anymore, I'm not going to expend the energy in writing something exacting and witty about their impressive selection of well-crafted cocktails or their subtly sexy ambience. Nope, none of that right now. Suffice it to say the place is a charmer and I think I'd like to have a party there to celebrate A) my upcoming 25th Birthday B) our new(ish) domestic partnership C) our upcoming trip to Central America. Those seem like three fine reasons to celebrate.
But while drinking my Jasmine Martini (that would be with homemade jasmine tea liquor and some...other kind of liquor) and feeling like a pretentious jackass who orders things like jasmine martinis, I was reminded that I barely had the capabilities to drink from the glass at all. And no, I was
not drunk, but imagine how much harder it would have been if I had been! And so, here in this forum, I would like to complain about cone-shaped drinking glasses, or more commonly referred to as the martini glass. Some might (ahem) argue that a martini isn't a martini if it isn't in a martini glass...but to that I say, wouldn't you be more relaxed and enjoy your martini more if you weren't so worried about the liquid sloshing right out of it? Who does this custom serve? Only those who have fine balancing abilities? The act of walking my martini from the bar back to wherever I'm sitting reminds me of those pressure-filled relay races common to children's birthday parties in the mid-80s (and I'm sure at other times too but that's when I was a kid). The kind where you have to carry an egg on a spoon, the spoon is being held in your mouth, all the while walking really fast to deliver it to the next kid on the relay race line. Do kids still play these kinds of stressful games? Or are they too busy going to oral sex parties? Questions.
Now usually, I try to just avoid the martini glass altogether, but where I work, we only have access to what I refer to as the disposable martini glass Before this job, I had never seen even seen these apparatus (nerd note: contrary to popular belief the plural is indeed apparatus and not apparati). I couldn't find a fully assembled one depicted anywhere online but I did find the two components and so here they are: 1) The Cone Base and 2) The Disposable Plastic Liner Cup.
These darn cups don't hold enough liquid, they are awkward both to carry and to sip from, and you have to reuse the base over and over because we are allowed one of these per person. The whole experience I find rather demeaning and, ultimately, dehydrating.
Posted by debbie at 11:28 PM
February 1, 2006
Beating my Addiction
Bush's State of the Union last night made me angry and physically ill. Normally I can't even stand to watch him because I get so angry and I don't think it's healthy to be that angry- but last night while we were eating our Thai takeout, Rafe forced me to watch because he is mean. And because we don't have cable and there was nothing else on. One question: why the hell was Laura Bush standing between a black guy and a Muslim woman? Who were those people? Probably her best buds, right? Can someone please explain? And all the fucking clapping and standing ovations, goddamn. But he was right on one thing: our addiction to oil. Bush made me realize that if I ever learn to drive, I will start an addiction, one I simply can't afford. So I've decided I'm never going to learn to drive. I kid- I will. One day. To my credit, I did get my permit, but that was in California, and now it has expired. And recently, I did go to the DMV here in New York to get a driving manual but I was stupid and went to the one in Herald Square. And the line was probably a hundred people long, and that was just the line to figure out what line you were supposed to stand in next. I broke free, ran inside and frantically tried to find a stray driving manual but, alas, I couldn't find a one. And so I will be relegated to pedestrian-friendly towns for as long as I live.
Posted by debbie at 11:15 AM