In my last post I said I felt like I'd spent the weekend with my parents. But after thinking about that, I realize that my description wasn't accurate. I feel like I spent the weekend with my mom/best friend and one of her friends who I've known forever but still don't know too well.
My friend's husband is old, not so much in age (although he is older than we are by not a few years) but in personality and demeanor. He wears a suit to work, with a tie, and clips his flipphone onto his belt. He looks like a dad. He wore a bright red sweater to dinner, the type that my grandmother buys my dad for his birthday and I try to stop him from wearing in public. He takes everything seriously, knows a lot about a lot of different topics and isn't shy about sharing his knowledge with you. He consults waiters about wine lists and says please and thank you. In sum, he's old-fashioned.
This contrasts SO greatly with how I remember my friend, who was always the "bad girl" in high school, sneaking off to drink on the weekends and misbehaving in class--stuff I never, ever did. She's so serious now, not in a bad way, just in a different way. We still get along the same as always, maybe even better, because I think she's now more like me, in terms of personality, than she ever was.
But their friends have kids. They have shabbat candles set up in their house, and a breakfront showcasing their wedding crystal, and an extra freezer in their basement, and a fenced-in yard for the dog to run around and poop in. They seem so happy, and so intent on "The Future."
Very few of my other friends are like this; we all seem to live in the moment and while we have jobs and responsibilities, we still go out drinking and stay up late and use curse words. I always thought I was the progressive one among my high school friends, deserting the conformity of cliques and dress codes for a liberal lifestyle unheard of in the insular world I left. And I still think I was. But now I wonder if I've continued on in that world while the others have bypassed me (and maybe that lifestyle, partially if not entirely) and moved into actual adult lives, while I'm the one conforming to some sort of mid-twenties hipster profile (I'm really not a hipster though) .
My friend and I were talking about having kids, and she said that while she was ready, I wasn't because I wasn't "settled" yet. When she said this, I wondered what "settled" meant, and if I wanted to classify myself as such. I'm married. I own an apartment. I have a stable job. But she's right--I'm not "settled" in the same way that she is.
Nevertheless, their "settled" life seemed so comfortable--jobs, volunteer groups, sisterhoods, dinner clubs, etc., but also perhaps too familiar. When I imagine the future, it doesn't always feature breakfronts and dining room sets. I still can't figure out if it's a taste of the life I've been escaping from for all these years, or the life I want for the future, or both. At any rate, it was definitely a novelty and made me feel homesick--maybe nostalgic is a better word--for something I seem to have (deliberately?) lost over the years.
I spent this weekend in St. Louis, visiting my best friend from elementary and high school and her husband. They moved to St. Louis a year and a half ago, bought a house in the suburbs and got a dog and are, as my friend fully admits, "settled." I feel like I spent the weekend with my parents, which is fine since I like my parents, but also kind of weird and disturbing.
Anyway, the highlights of the trip (besides seeing my friend) were a visit to Penzey's, where I bought all kinds of spices including a horseradish dip mix that I cannot wait to try, and a trip to Teavana, a tea store where I bought a fruity tea and a chocolate tea, which I also can't wait to try. The restaurant food in St. Louis wasn't up to par in my opinion, but we all know that I'm snobby when it comes to food so perhaps I'm being too harsh. I did, however, have a fabulous chocolate martini that ranked much better than the one I'd had at home.
The St. Louis arch was much much bigger and cooler than I'd imagined, although the Lewis and Clark museum bored me. I also saw the Mississippi for the first time, but declined to touch it for fear of contracting a disease. It seemed quite muddy.
Everyone there was so friendly--it almost scared me how nice people were to me. Every single person I encountered smiled and made conversation, and instead of wanting to punch them in the face, I wanted to act nice back! Maybe I was just happy to be on a mini-vacation, or maybe there really is something different about New York, something that blackens our souls until we leave.
But the best part of St. Louis was my experience at the airport, on the way home. I left myself only 45 minutes to check in and go through security, since I just had carry-on luggage. The security line looked pretty long though, and I was, as always, worried about missing my flight. As much as I had enjoyed the two days, I was definitely ready to go home (I always feel ready to go home when my vacations are over. It's great, I have some sort of internal meter that resets itself a few hours before I leave to make sure I can happily say goodbye. If only everything else in my life worked as well.) Anyway, I got out my id and my boarding pass and got in line, and the TSA official directing us looked straight at me, so intensely that I got concerned. Do I look like a potential terrorist? Was she going to confiscate my new spices? She said to me, "Have you been here before? Do I know you?" Shaking a little, I said "No..." And she said, after a very anxiety-producing pause, "Were you on TV?...You were, you just looked so beautiful"
I used to work on 8th Avenue, in a particularly sketchy part of town with at least 5 methadone clinics in a 3 block radius (I know this for sure because I wrote a paper on the neighborhood). Every day while walking to work, I'd see really crazy people. Like Birdman, who never wore a shirt and would yell 'Ca-Caw' as he walked down the street. One time someone cawed back, and Birdman turned around, indignant, and said "You can't do that!"
Then there was the woman who didn't have a nose, who'd wear a bandage over where her nose should've been. There was the man who asked my African-American friend "What you doin' with Whitey?" and the guy who told me "Nice jugs, momma!" Steph overheard an entire conversation where two people each insisted that they were Juan Carlos: "I am Juan Carlos." "No! I am Juan Carlos." "No, I am Juan Carlos." Etc.
None of these people comes close to the couple Steph and I encountered yesterday in Madison Square Park, on our way to the dog run. It's all Steph's fault--her dog is so cute that she can't walk more than 2 feet without people stopping to pet him and ask about him. It's annoying, frankly, and I wanted to go to the dog park so bad--probably as much as Ollie wanted to go, and that was A LOT.*
So these two crazy people passed us on our way there and of course had to comment on how cute the dog is, ask how old is he, etc....except they didn't stop asking questions at the appropriate time. I don't really even know how to describe how drug addicts speak, but it's quite distinctive and these two fit the profile perfectly. The man, who slurred most of his words, told us a horrible story about how he paid $1300 for a purebred dog that his ex-wife gave away after they separated. Apparently the dog was aggressive because the wife kept him tied up all day. The man seemed to be more upset at the loss of $1300 than at the loss of the dog. The man's companion, a female wearing way too much eye makeup, bent down to pet Ollie. Except she couldn't really bend down--she slowly jerked downwards, groaning: "Eh, eh, eh, eh." I had to get out of there! But there was nowhere to go--we were already outside, and we were on our way to the dog park.
I'm not quite sure how Steph managed to disengage from these people, but she should be commended for doing so. I was so incapacitated by their creepiness and by my frustration (and by the mandatory interaction with some other deranged individuals we'd run into immediately prior to these two--sorry guys, but I can't describe this situation although it'd be mighty entertaining) that I'd probably still be there now, trying unsuccessfully not to listen to their slurred stories and moans.
* I don't understand these people who stop strangers on the street to pet their supposedly cute dogs. Ollie is cute and all, but I'd never interrupt a total stranger to play with their animal...maybe I'm just purely anti-social, but I feel like that's rude. Just because you happen to have a dog doesn't mean that you're free to converse with crazies or even normal people at their convenience. Maybe Steph will disagree with me, but it's another reason why I won't have a dog in the city. (Although I guess having an ugly dog would be okay)
On Monday afternoon, I fulfilled one of my New York City dreams. I went to the dog park with an actual dog! Okay, it wasn't my dog, it was Steph's. And it's just a 4 pound puppy, so we had to go to the adjacent small dog enclosure--and we were the only ones there. But that ended up being a good move, since a fight broke out in the big dog enclosure, initiated by a tall, muzzled greyhound-type dog wearing a blue turtleneck.
We got to the dog park at a particularly busy time. At least 15 dogs were running around in there. Ollie, Steph's puppy, had never been around so many dogs before and was EXCITED. He didn't even care that he was by himself in the small enclosure, because he could smell the other dogs (anyone, human or canine, within a 20 foot radius of the dog park can smell them quite clearly) and that was enough.
Rather, it was enough until another small dog and his owners joined us, and then Ollie went CRAZY. He's so small that his legs don't really work right--he's kinda slow--so the other dog really put him in his place. They played, but Ollie knew who was boss--not him--and definitely showed it. The other dog used her front paw to direct Ollie, and let him chase her around, and Ollie yelped with pleasure or maybe with frustration.
This story isn't really exciting until you consider that I, Emil, was in the dog park with dogs around me. I don't think anyone from my childhood reads this blog, but if they do they're probably wondering if it's really me writing here. I've been scared of dogs since I was 4 when two German Shepherds knocked me down at Windy Valley while I was eating strawberry ice cream and waiting for my turn to ride the pony. They stole my ice cream right out of my hand.
From that day on, I hated dogs so much that I completely blocked out the fact that we HAD a dog until my brother was born. I only recently discovered this while looking at an old photo album. Fear was further instilled when I was about 9 and my parents, foolishly considering adopting a dog, took us to the pet store to look at potential adoptees. The pet store locked my family in a small room with a hyperactive white dog who caused me extreme mental trauma by jumping on me and licking me. We got a cat instead.
Javert can tell you that until recently, I really believed every dog that looked at me on the street was thinking to itself "I would like to eat her." And maybe they are. But I don't think so. I'm not really sure when this transformation occurred, but I definitely like (most) dogs now.
I doubt I'll own a dog anytime soon though, because I want a big one and my apartment can barely contain two crazy cats. Plus, I can't imagine really going out in the cold or late at night or really any time at all to walk the dog--I'm way too lazy for that. I don't even clean the litter box, I make Javert do it.
Therefore, until I have a yard where the dog can go out alone, I must remain content to watch shows like Underdogs and Dogs with Jobs and hope that this newfound fearlessness continues.
I am happy to say that I have regained my ability to stand up to the lure of processed foods.
Yesterday at work I decided I wanted chicken for dinner, probably due to Phil's suggestion that a protein deficiency may explain my unrelenting afternoon tiredness. I don't know if it's true or not, but I've wanted protein-rich food ever since. So Javert and I decided we'd have skinless, boneless chicken breasts coated in breadcrumbs and baked in an apricot sauce. I got the recipe from my grandmother, and its one I've been making for a long time. I've changed it a little, but to me its a homey meal that's supposed to taste a certain way, regardless of how unhealthy or unnatural it is. Kinda like how when I make my mom's teriyaki chicken recipe, I have to use Uncle Ben's rice, even though its crap.
Anyway, my mom made the apricot chicken dish all the time and usually served it with Uncle Ben's Long Grain and Wild Rice, until she discovered Near East brand, which she currently uses. I love this stuff. It's something in the spice sack--I was pretty sure it contained powdered crack in addition to the other flavorings. In an attempt to find out what's actually in there, I looked up the rice on the Near East website and discovered that it's not crack, but approximately 33% of your daily allotment of sodium that makes this rice so delicious. (and thats if you eat only one serving, which is humanly impossible as far as I'm concerned.)
But...I love it and I was making a homey meal. In the past, I've made my own version of wild rice, but it never quite measured up (probably since I don't put 800 mg of sodium into each serving). So using the conveniences of Google Chat I asked Javert, who in the past has scoffed at my rice's ability to stand in for the boxed kind, which rice to choose. He said it was my choice. Foolish move, Javert.
Predictably, I said "I feel bad, with easy mac and rice in one week." Javert: "I won't tell anyone." Me: "I'll still know. But if you want it, it's okay, I can blame you." Javert: "Ok, I can live with that. Since I'm the one that wanted easymac. Cough." (his fatal remark) Me: So you want the boxed rice? Javert: If you say I do, then yes. Me: What are you saying? Javert: You are supposed to choose. If you don't want to admit that you want it, and want to say I do, that's fine. Me: Well I'm not going to choose the boxed kind unless you want it. I stick to my principles damnit, unless it involves easymac.
And I made the wild rice from scratch, and for the first time, it was delicious.
