The link below inspired my post "All Hail the Mighty Boob". I believe that it is worth reading. Well, at least his interview and article, if not my blog post....
CBC.ca | Q
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Grammar Bitch
*insert throaty sigh*
I haven't wanted to do this. I mean: I have, but I haven't.
One: What a tired freakin' subject.
Two: Does anyone care?
Three: Shouldn't I be sleeping?
I am fairly sure that the answers are "Duh, no, yes", in that order.
Esther, I am counting on your long-distance moral support, albeit silent, on this topic. Bon, d'accord, on parle deux langues différentes quotidiennement mais je crois que tu soutiens ma thèse générale. N'est-ce pas ma belle chérie pour qui je faisais des nattes à huit heures du matin auparavant? :)
ONE: "Your" vs. "You're"
English teachers of America: Can you drive this home, please? See, when the word used is "your", it is possessive.
"Your English grades would likely improve if you knew how to correctly use the word 'your'."
Not, "Your so funny! LOL!!!!"
Alternatively, "You're an idiot if you can't tell the difference between 'your' and 'you're'."
I hate this. Make it go away.
TWO: "Get" vs. "Become"
Okay, maybe this is niggling on my part, but in my own mind "get" means obtaining a tangible thing whereas "become" means intangible change.
Or, "I get change whenever I give the cashier a dollar for something that cost 79 cents."
Yes, I understand that there are correct and current uses of "get" to describe intangible change:
"I get cold when you leave the windows open."
Or, "I get scared when I see 'Poltergeist'."
Nevertheless, I can't help but think (should I be listening to the above sentences) of someone receiving cold or acquiring scared.
Am I weird? Most likely. But the next time that you get indifferent to something, perhaps you'll become indifferent, and think of me.
THREE: Double speak
As someone who talks...too much, I am probably guilty of this, regardless of the fact that this manner of speaking annoys me horrendously in its inefficiency and redundancy.
One of my favorite examples is the following:
"Me, personally, I sleep in a T-shirt." (Thank you, Britney Spears.)
As if she, as someone else, could sleep in a T-shirt. Me, personally, I find this silly.
I love yoga and I love most of my yoga teachers, but they are not beyond my grammatical wrath. I have one teacher who, during savasana, says, "If any outside thoughts should enter your mind, dismiss them away."
Wouldn't it suffice just to dismiss them? Doesn't that imply 'away'?
Similarly, I have noticed a tendancy for a speaker to use two words or phrases (that mean the same thing) in conjunction, as if they suspect that their audience isn't listening.
"Previously, before the boob job, she had no self-confidence."
FOUR: "I" speak
"I" speak is something that I wish more people would do, more often. As human beings, we can only speak for ourselves and our own experiences. This is why I am very conscious of speech in which the speaker tries to project himself upon the listener.
If you listen, you'll hear it all the time.
An example: "When you're on the front lines, you start hearing bullets whiz past you, and then you start getting really scared."
I have never been on the front lines. I have never heard bullets whiz past me. And, in this particular interview (culled from my real-life radio listening) I would have been much more captivated by the speaker saying, "When I was on the front lines, I started hearing bullets whiz past me, and then I started becoming really scared."
I'm sure that I have more to address on this subject, but the Grammar Bitch must retire, now. When I stay up too late, I become tired.
I haven't wanted to do this. I mean: I have, but I haven't.
One: What a tired freakin' subject.
Two: Does anyone care?
Three: Shouldn't I be sleeping?
I am fairly sure that the answers are "Duh, no, yes", in that order.
Esther, I am counting on your long-distance moral support, albeit silent, on this topic. Bon, d'accord, on parle deux langues différentes quotidiennement mais je crois que tu soutiens ma thèse générale. N'est-ce pas ma belle chérie pour qui je faisais des nattes à huit heures du matin auparavant? :)
ONE: "Your" vs. "You're"
English teachers of America: Can you drive this home, please? See, when the word used is "your", it is possessive.
"Your English grades would likely improve if you knew how to correctly use the word 'your'."
Not, "Your so funny! LOL!!!!"
Alternatively, "You're an idiot if you can't tell the difference between 'your' and 'you're'."
I hate this. Make it go away.
TWO: "Get" vs. "Become"
Okay, maybe this is niggling on my part, but in my own mind "get" means obtaining a tangible thing whereas "become" means intangible change.
Or, "I get change whenever I give the cashier a dollar for something that cost 79 cents."
Yes, I understand that there are correct and current uses of "get" to describe intangible change:
"I get cold when you leave the windows open."
Or, "I get scared when I see 'Poltergeist'."
Nevertheless, I can't help but think (should I be listening to the above sentences) of someone receiving cold or acquiring scared.
Am I weird? Most likely. But the next time that you get indifferent to something, perhaps you'll become indifferent, and think of me.
THREE: Double speak
As someone who talks...too much, I am probably guilty of this, regardless of the fact that this manner of speaking annoys me horrendously in its inefficiency and redundancy.
One of my favorite examples is the following:
"Me, personally, I sleep in a T-shirt." (Thank you, Britney Spears.)
As if she, as someone else, could sleep in a T-shirt. Me, personally, I find this silly.
I love yoga and I love most of my yoga teachers, but they are not beyond my grammatical wrath. I have one teacher who, during savasana, says, "If any outside thoughts should enter your mind, dismiss them away."
Wouldn't it suffice just to dismiss them? Doesn't that imply 'away'?
Similarly, I have noticed a tendancy for a speaker to use two words or phrases (that mean the same thing) in conjunction, as if they suspect that their audience isn't listening.
"Previously, before the boob job, she had no self-confidence."
FOUR: "I" speak
"I" speak is something that I wish more people would do, more often. As human beings, we can only speak for ourselves and our own experiences. This is why I am very conscious of speech in which the speaker tries to project himself upon the listener.
If you listen, you'll hear it all the time.
An example: "When you're on the front lines, you start hearing bullets whiz past you, and then you start getting really scared."
I have never been on the front lines. I have never heard bullets whiz past me. And, in this particular interview (culled from my real-life radio listening) I would have been much more captivated by the speaker saying, "When I was on the front lines, I started hearing bullets whiz past me, and then I started becoming really scared."
I'm sure that I have more to address on this subject, but the Grammar Bitch must retire, now. When I stay up too late, I become tired.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Fresh Foods and Agnosticism
So, my downstairs neighbors are Super Christians. Okay, they don't have an insignia or cape or anything like that, but it is clear to me that they are full-on Friends of Jesus.
It's not as though I dislike Jesus. I like Jesus as much as I like Cleopatra, or Joan of Arc. If one can believe the hype, Jesus taught some super-cool philosophies: Don't be hateful and judgmental. Don't fear what you don't know. Share what you have with those who have less. And more!
The unfortunate thing is that so few self-proclaimed "Christians" seem to live Jesus' philosophy.
The neighbors have a six year-old son. He is an only child. They feed him crap food that can't possibly nourish the brain of a growing child, but that is fodder for another post. They are brainwashing him in such a way that causes me anguish when I hear him speak of his beliefs.
His father leaves for work very early each morning and his mother works from home. As the elementary school is close by, I offered to take him, with my kids, to school each morning. As a result, I have a few minutes with him every day.
He is very vocal about his Christianity and though I have NEVER told him that his beliefs are wrong, I have told him that we think differently but that we can still be friends with him, no problem.
This morning, he showed up at my door and said, "I may be moving soon, guys".
This is funny, because my Mom stayed with us for about a month just after we had moved in and she gathered pretty quickly what was up with the neighbors. She said, (with her authoritative Mom nod - oh, you know what I'm talking about...), "Oh, they'll be out of here in six months".
At the time, I thought she was silly. Why would anyone move because their neighbors had theological views which conflicted with their own?
Before I continue, I must color the story with the following: Their kid is not an easy kid. He is hyper, literal, difficult to handle. One day, his Mom stopped me and asked me if I had noticed a difference in his behavior, if he was tougher to deal with than usual. I allowed that yes, he is a handful, but that no, he was just himself. Days passed, and I reconsidered.
According to his parents, he is incredibly stubborn about diet. Once, when I asked him what he ate, he said, "Chicken nuggets, cheese quesadilla, and grilled cheese". I refer to this as the "beige" food group. One morning, he showed up in my kitchen ready to be walked to school with a blue mouth. I asked him what he had eaten and he answered, "Powerade, a Jolly Rancher, and six marshmallows." It was at this point that I decided to risk incurring the wrath of his mother.
She was remarkably cool for a woman who was hearing, "I'm a better mother than you are; let me tell you why." She even allowed that perhaps she really didn't understand what "healthy eating" meant. I respect her immeasurably for this. After all, I came to her saying, in essence, "You feed your kid processed shit and wonder why the teacher has an issue trying to get him to participate appropriately?"
Several months pass, and today he announces that he might be moving. The explanation was fascinating - I can't wait for tomorrow's walk to school.
According to him (and take this for what it's worth - a six year-old) his parents want to live surrounded by more Christians, not people like us. People who aren't Christians are "taking over our world!" Direct quote.
At this point I must add that a couple of months ago he came upstairs and into my kitchen and stated that "Jews like you who don't believe in god will go to hell". I wasn't quite sure where to begin with this. So wrong, on so many levels.
I'm not Jewish. As far as I know, most Jews DO believe in god, but not in heaven or hell. Jews? Correct me where I'm wrong.
This morning, he told me that his Mom says that my kids are bad friends (and here enters the ray of hope for the child) but "I don't think so", he says. He's okay being our friend. Duh. We're nice to him. And, we have Beyblades.
So I double-checked, "Hey, did your Mom really say that my kids are bad friends?" and the answer was, "Yeah! But I don't think so."
I answered that I was sorry that she felt that way and, as far as I was concerned, his different beliefs don't prevent me from being his friend. He answered that his Mom said that we can be who we are but that they "just wish that we would take the right path."
Well, shit. I've been trying to take the right path for a long time now. If only I had known that it was so easy.
What is funny is that despite their vehement opposition to my theological attitude, his parents have somehow been okay with me taking him to school for about four months, now. And, they send him over here to play with regularity; they never come to pick him up (they just wait 'til I send him home) or thank me for having watched their kid for free for hours a week.
And yes, my Mom did say (à propos of the neighbors), with some degree of confidence, "they will be gone within six months".
Mom, correct me if I'm wrong.
And she further stated that they would move because they are threatened by my ideas and the way I live. At the time, I thought that ridiculous. My renegade, off-center ideas about fresh foods and agnosticism? Ha!
Questions: Are they really moving out? Are they really moving out because we aren't Christian? Are they aware that Christianity teaches (in theory) tolerance and forgiveness? I don't know.
Tomorrow morning, as I (heathen) walk the child to school, I will mine more deeply for information. The following questions are: Should I confront the mother a) just about the possible move? b) about the impetus behind their move, e.g. my sacrilegious education of my children c) her calling my kids "bad friends" or d) keep my piehole clamped?
All advice and opinions welcome! To be continued....
The Gratitude Tingle
I really suck at meditating. I think that my friend Erin is really good at it. I say, "I think", because I haven't actually watched her doing it. Reflecting on that last sentence, I realize that even if I could spy on Erin meditating, there probably wouldn't be any visual clues as to her success or failure at meditating. Even I can sit really still with my eyes closed and fake it, mind racing silently along all the while, like a fine motor car.
Erin does that kind of meditating with a pillow (preferably of a sustainably farmed, biodegradable material), a statue of Buddha, some incense, and utter quiet and stillness. I think that the goal is a progressively longer period of time spent turning inward - the mind a void, the body calm - with the ultimate goal of increased peace and acceptance of oneself and one's world.
Erin, correct me if I'm wrong.
This sounds like a super plan. I have tried, earnestly, (on at least two occasions), to accomplish this tranquil centering upon nothingness. I sat, eyes closed, and focused intently on my "third eye". I even managed to feel an odd, yet not unpleasant, pulsing in the center of my forehead. However, my inability to quiet my mind while sitting so still left me feeling frustrated. Frustrated, with aching buttbones.
Instead, I do yoga. Yoga was a revelation for me: It's a solid workout while meditating at the same time. Ha! It took me some time to realize this; I'm sometimes a bit slow on the uptake. The slowness seems to accelerate with the increasing number of children birthed and years gone by.
My extensive background as a dancer (think "technique" not "tips") prepared me to kick ass at yoga in a way I could not have anticipated. So, every time I go to class, it's an ego boost. Yeeeees, (I hear voices), I know that the yogi ethos is to distance oneself from the ego, but dammit, I need a boost now and then. In fact, now more than ever.
I'm really good at it. That is nice. It makes yoga satisfying and relatively easy to do. The ego boost is a nice little ancillary benefit, as is my butt that looks better than one would think for a 35 year-old with three kids.... But the real reason that I go, five, six, all days a week? The Gratitude Tingle.
I suffer from what I call Fake Problems. I have seen and do currently see a therapist for these Fake Problems. We can also call them First-World Problems. Why are they fake? Partly, because they are in my head. Why are they First-World? Because I have never heard of a woman in Uganda, or Bangladesh, or North Korea seeing a therapist to help them with their negative self-talk. If I were in Uganda, or Bangladesh, or North Korea, I'm not sure that I would have the time to do much more than make sure that my kids were safe, healthy, and had enough to eat.
Even in our First World Nation, however, I consider myself to suffer from Fake Problems. Quite recently, I met a woman who has led a life filled with Real Problems the likes of which I hope to never know, and still, bless her, she stands.
She got pregnant at 16. Her Mom told her to abort - she didn't. Her Mom told her to put the baby up for placement with an adoptive family - she wouldn't. At that point, her Mom told her that when the baby came, she would have to get out. She had raised her own children and wasn't about to raise her daughter's.
So she moved in with the Daddy. Only he didn't act much like a Daddy. He was young, too. He drank. He beat her up. The police were called. The neighbors were involved. He sent her to the hospital on more than one occasion. So, with a little boy to care for, she left.
He called and he begged and he promised and she had nowhere else to go, so she went back. He convinced her that if they had another baby, everything would get better. It didn't. And then she really left.
She pulled herself together and toughed it out and made it work and met a really good guy, a guy who is the biological father of her third child, but the practical and real father of them all. Twenty years after it began, she's still standing, smiling and looking damn good and putting her whole self into her life. Those are Real Problems.
I really do have Fake Problems.
But the point (there's a point?!) is that yoga melts the fake. In motion, I am so centered. Literally. If I weren't, I'd fall. My body is this beautiful machine and I trust it, hell, I even forgive it when it tweaks or wobbles or makes my head spin. I am not thinking about much at all when I wipe the sweat away. The instructor is a voice and I am there to listen.
Tonight, as is common is a yoga class, the teacher asked us to bring to mind a purpose for our being in class. She asked us to name, in our minds, the reason for our presence. And so I answered, (in my head, because otherwise people would have thought that I was weird), gratitude. This was funny, to me, because at the end of class, she read several passages from what she later showed me is titled, "The Book of Gratitude".
She read several passages and they all meant something to me, but the one that she wrote down for me is this:
The way you think is how you feel. The way you feel is how you behave. The way you behave is the world you create for yourself.
Erin, I think that you might already know this one....
When I am well, when I am not suffering a "mood", I am able to see my life rightly and to understand that my Fake, First-World Problems are diminished by the gratitude I feel for healthy children, a husband who loves and provides for us, and a life perhaps not of plenty, but certainly enough.
When a yoga class ends, I am so hot and so sweaty and my blood is moving through me and lying there in the humid calm, I tingle. In my mind, I thank my husband for pushing me into this time for myself. I can see and hear my children laughing. I am fortunate.
I come home and I still have three boys and it's still loud and there's still madness and I may have to consult the orange Post-It upon which the yoga teacher wrote for me, "The way you think is how you feel..." and I know that now is not more than now.
Gratitude.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Myles
I'm going to invest a few sentences in my husband, right here at the beginning. Justin has been so great about sending me to yoga, even when it means, most of the time, that he is stuck with at least part of what I like to call Operation: Bedtime.
There have been a couple of times that I have come home from yoga right at the wrong time: All the kids are in bed and none are asleep. This means that I immediately end up tasked with getting Myles to sleep. This, in and of itself, is not bad. It's part of the job. Sure, the timing sucks, and that's why tonight, exiting the yoga studio at 8:15 p.m., I sent Justin a text asking if it was safe to return home.
I didn't get an answer to my text, but that is a topic for another day.
I came home, I even dawdled outside in the driveway, but as I climbed the stairs Justin informed me, "Myles isn't sleeping".
The child may be small but he wasn't born yesterday and even if he didn't hear me (I am soooo stealthy), he heard his Dad talking to someone else and extrapolated. And can you believe, when Myles came out of the boys' room and ran to Justin, sitting and playing stupid computer games, I heard Justin rat me out. "She's in the kitchen," I believe he said.
So, dinner would be for...later.
There is no mistaking the footfalls of a toddler. Well hell, nobody else's legs are that short. I hope.
As of late, Myles has been...gifted? plagued? Hmm. Consider the source. According to him, he's been gifted with the ability to function nearly always normally on an abnormally small amount of sleep. Counter to that, his father and I have been plagued by 10:30 p.m. bedtimes and a perky small person before 7:00 a.m.
It's not as though the child is disagreeable. The child is adorable. Yes, I'm his mother - but hang out with him for 24 hours and then tell me otherwise. I dare you.
He is a child who understands that he IS up past his bedtime and therefore, it is in his best interest to not piss anyone off. He ratchets out the cutest maneuvers for our benefit, smiling slyly as he most surely does the tacit Snidely Whiplash cackle, "My plan is working!" He makes his Daddy laugh and then he knows, he has struck gold and no ill will befall him. His Daddy will go to sleep (abandoning Mommy) and Myles will go to sleep whenever the hell he sees fit.
He is still hanging on to that bit of babyhood that allows him to be the boss, no matter what. I'm not sure that I can blame him.
And thankfully, he is agreeable: He waits cheerfully while I reheat leftover pasta (though I would have preferred something greener); he amuses me with casual banter while I resign myself to a night that is less productive than I had hoped.
Just today, he has started responding to questions in the affirmative with, "yes", and I mean a very clearly enunciated, decisive, "yes". This little linguistic sniggle will disappear, even quickly (ask me how I know) and so I want to ask him as many questions as I can to which the answer might be 'yes', just for the joy in hearing him say it.
Since he has been able to talk, when he wants me to hold him he extends his arms up towards me and says, "Help you! Help you!" I know, at this point, that he knows better: He knows that he is "I" or "me" and that the verb in question is "hold", and yet he persists. And this is perhaps because I crater every time. Never mind his obsession with my boobies. Never before has any male declared so frequently, "I love your boobies SOOOO much!!"
Justin did go to bed. The wind is whipping, quite unlike San Diego, outside. Myles and I re-reheated my pasta and we sat on the sofa to watch the DVR'd "House" from earlier in the evening. It can be difficult to let go, agitated by the undone mundane and tiresome, considering the kitchen that will have to be cleaned tomorrow and the laundry that will be done...tomorrow? and I must consciously shove myself into this mind space where I relax and sit with my child.
He was so easy and so quiet and I start to think that maybe I am like a drug to him and he just didn't get his fix today. But the calmer and quieter I become, I start thinking that maybe he is a drug to me and he is there, awake, heavy on my lap because I need him to stop me, or at least slow me down.
We sat and we watched "House". I feel marginally guilty for pouring this televisual bullshit into my kid's subconscious. His eyelids fell and his body was relaxed, the both of us curved together sitting on the couch. His head fell away from me and I kissed his neck and I can't describe what he smells like. He smells like time stopping. He smells like everything being worth it. He smells like mine.
Finally, I did go put him down, after I had lost all motivation to clean the kitchen or do laundry or anything else that is in my job description. I went to put him down and I was sorry that I had to do it. Sorry, because he will never be this little again. Because he is my last baby. I told him in his sleeping ear how much I love him.
The wind still blows, rattling the old windows. The children sleep. The husband sleeps. And yay for me, maybe I will write again tomorrow.
There have been a couple of times that I have come home from yoga right at the wrong time: All the kids are in bed and none are asleep. This means that I immediately end up tasked with getting Myles to sleep. This, in and of itself, is not bad. It's part of the job. Sure, the timing sucks, and that's why tonight, exiting the yoga studio at 8:15 p.m., I sent Justin a text asking if it was safe to return home.
I didn't get an answer to my text, but that is a topic for another day.
I came home, I even dawdled outside in the driveway, but as I climbed the stairs Justin informed me, "Myles isn't sleeping".
The child may be small but he wasn't born yesterday and even if he didn't hear me (I am soooo stealthy), he heard his Dad talking to someone else and extrapolated. And can you believe, when Myles came out of the boys' room and ran to Justin, sitting and playing stupid computer games, I heard Justin rat me out. "She's in the kitchen," I believe he said.
So, dinner would be for...later.
There is no mistaking the footfalls of a toddler. Well hell, nobody else's legs are that short. I hope.
As of late, Myles has been...gifted? plagued? Hmm. Consider the source. According to him, he's been gifted with the ability to function nearly always normally on an abnormally small amount of sleep. Counter to that, his father and I have been plagued by 10:30 p.m. bedtimes and a perky small person before 7:00 a.m.
It's not as though the child is disagreeable. The child is adorable. Yes, I'm his mother - but hang out with him for 24 hours and then tell me otherwise. I dare you.
He is a child who understands that he IS up past his bedtime and therefore, it is in his best interest to not piss anyone off. He ratchets out the cutest maneuvers for our benefit, smiling slyly as he most surely does the tacit Snidely Whiplash cackle, "My plan is working!" He makes his Daddy laugh and then he knows, he has struck gold and no ill will befall him. His Daddy will go to sleep (abandoning Mommy) and Myles will go to sleep whenever the hell he sees fit.
He is still hanging on to that bit of babyhood that allows him to be the boss, no matter what. I'm not sure that I can blame him.
And thankfully, he is agreeable: He waits cheerfully while I reheat leftover pasta (though I would have preferred something greener); he amuses me with casual banter while I resign myself to a night that is less productive than I had hoped.
Just today, he has started responding to questions in the affirmative with, "yes", and I mean a very clearly enunciated, decisive, "yes". This little linguistic sniggle will disappear, even quickly (ask me how I know) and so I want to ask him as many questions as I can to which the answer might be 'yes', just for the joy in hearing him say it.
Since he has been able to talk, when he wants me to hold him he extends his arms up towards me and says, "Help you! Help you!" I know, at this point, that he knows better: He knows that he is "I" or "me" and that the verb in question is "hold", and yet he persists. And this is perhaps because I crater every time. Never mind his obsession with my boobies. Never before has any male declared so frequently, "I love your boobies SOOOO much!!"
Justin did go to bed. The wind is whipping, quite unlike San Diego, outside. Myles and I re-reheated my pasta and we sat on the sofa to watch the DVR'd "House" from earlier in the evening. It can be difficult to let go, agitated by the undone mundane and tiresome, considering the kitchen that will have to be cleaned tomorrow and the laundry that will be done...tomorrow? and I must consciously shove myself into this mind space where I relax and sit with my child.
He was so easy and so quiet and I start to think that maybe I am like a drug to him and he just didn't get his fix today. But the calmer and quieter I become, I start thinking that maybe he is a drug to me and he is there, awake, heavy on my lap because I need him to stop me, or at least slow me down.
We sat and we watched "House". I feel marginally guilty for pouring this televisual bullshit into my kid's subconscious. His eyelids fell and his body was relaxed, the both of us curved together sitting on the couch. His head fell away from me and I kissed his neck and I can't describe what he smells like. He smells like time stopping. He smells like everything being worth it. He smells like mine.
Finally, I did go put him down, after I had lost all motivation to clean the kitchen or do laundry or anything else that is in my job description. I went to put him down and I was sorry that I had to do it. Sorry, because he will never be this little again. Because he is my last baby. I told him in his sleeping ear how much I love him.
The wind still blows, rattling the old windows. The children sleep. The husband sleeps. And yay for me, maybe I will write again tomorrow.
Friday, February 10, 2012
The Keating and I
First, I need to extend a big, bloggy 'thank you' to my new friend Lee Ann (who also happens to be an old friend to the aforementioned Luke - it's a tangled web, y'all). Thanks to Lee Ann, I got out last night. Hmm. When I reread this, it makes it seem as though she posted bail for me.
I wasn't in jail, I was at the Keating. Well, the Keating-slash-The Merk-slash-Sway. They are a hotel/restaurant/nightclub, respectively, in the Gaslamp in San Diego. Lee Ann is a concierge at the US Grant, a very lovely hotel in downtown San Diego. One of the perks of her job is that she is invited to social events that I never even knew existed, like "Concierge Tours".
Quite kindly, Lee Ann invited me to join her downtown for this event. It was really pretty cool. As you may already know, I just don't get out that much, so a concierge tour seems like a really exciting change of pace.
Besides, Lee Ann was running a bit late and I was already validating my parking in Horton Plaza when she texted me that she was ten minutes behind. I happened to be passing the Nine West store and lo and behold, there was a "SALE" sign outside. So, the evening began as a success with the rapid purchase of a very cute pair of black crochet ballet flats - sale-priced at $35 from the original $79. Hooray, me.
For the uninitiated, a Concierge Tour seems to be the following: A hotel or restaurant or club (or all three) invite concierges from the hotels in the area to sample a new menu, see new décor or renovations, and overall give that concierge reasons to send hotel guests to their establishment, be it for a single dinner or an elaborate fête.
I learned tonight that the Keating is to be featured on the season opener of a new FOX show, "Kitchen Nightmares". Sounds like a winner. Apparently, Gordon Ramsey and his camera crew followed staff around for a week, screeching this and squawking that, the result being that the Merk is no longer an Italian but a "California Fusion" restaurant and several of the guest "stanzas" of the Keating have been redone.
I was able to sample several of the new menu items, including booze, yee haw. Okay, not that much booze, but the one cocktail I tried was so delicious that I simply must mention it. And now I can't remember what it is called.... It's a martini which consists of vodka that has been "infused" with cucumber and lychee. This means that someone in the kitchen got out a blender of some sort and macerated peeled cucumber and pitted lychee nuts and poured a whole pantload of vodka over it and let it stew for five days before straining it through a sieve, chilling it, and serving it to me. I asked.
Lee Ann and I enjoyed appetizers in the "mezzanine" area, entrée items in the second-level meeting rooms, and desserts in the underground nightclub. There was a chile relleno that was muy delicioso, stuffed with quinoa and served with a tomato salsa and melted cheese. The sea bass with mussels and fennel was also yum. For dessert, the nutella-covered pizza with sliced bananas and braised marshmallows was much tastier than I anticipated.
Alas, the new menu proved to be more delicious than the décor. I wanted to like the Keating, I really did. It's a gorgeous building that was built in the late 19th century. I am a great, big sucker for historical architecture. I like my things built solid. (Exhibit A: Husband) I melted for the exposed brick and the obviously ancient door and window frames with rippled, antique panes. I believe that the banister and balustrade are original, as well as a beautiful wood-lined atrium. I only had two complaints: Lighting and flooring.
As is the case in so many public spaces, there was entirely too much fluorescent lighting, especially in the rooms. I think that there was some kind of law passed recently that dictates that warm, kind lighting is no longer available. How I pine for you, incandescent light bulb. I might just travel down to TJ for my fix. Hypocritical environmentalist I may be, but nobody ever looked better in fluorescent light.
Also featured at the Keating were strange, lowered ceilings and ugly recessed lights reminiscent of 1985. And in the night club - Sway - weird tracks of red LEDs that made me feel like I was in a Robert Palmer video. Okay, not entirely unpleasant, but off-putting, nevertheless.
Could it be that I am now old enough that "everything old is new again"? Pfft, impossible....
Anyhow, much of the public space was carpeted with a dense crimson pile that screamed, "Whorehouse!" Now, in some of the rooms, there was gray resin and concrete flooring that was supposed to mimic the deck of San Diego's own Midway - a little shout-out to our military history. Nice touch. However, and I don't like to say it, I wouldn't choose the Keating simply because the carpet is hideous.
Ah! I almost forgot the enormous, ovate Jacuzzi in the "Victory Suite". According to our tour guide, there are only four enormous, white, egg-shaped Jacuzzis in the whole U. S. of A. and the Keating has all four. It is difficult to describe with mere mortal words...suffice it to say that as I passed by, the phrase that ran through my head was, "Nanoo! Nanoo!"
Despite the vile carpeting and the poor lighting, the food was tasty. And, I very much enjoyed my little evening out masquerading as a real grown-up. Thank you, Lee Ann!
After a really entertaining evening, I returned home to my solidly built husband and he entertained me in his own, special way. I kind of feel like there should have been some crimson carpet.
I wasn't in jail, I was at the Keating. Well, the Keating-slash-The Merk-slash-Sway. They are a hotel/restaurant/nightclub, respectively, in the Gaslamp in San Diego. Lee Ann is a concierge at the US Grant, a very lovely hotel in downtown San Diego. One of the perks of her job is that she is invited to social events that I never even knew existed, like "Concierge Tours".
Quite kindly, Lee Ann invited me to join her downtown for this event. It was really pretty cool. As you may already know, I just don't get out that much, so a concierge tour seems like a really exciting change of pace.
Besides, Lee Ann was running a bit late and I was already validating my parking in Horton Plaza when she texted me that she was ten minutes behind. I happened to be passing the Nine West store and lo and behold, there was a "SALE" sign outside. So, the evening began as a success with the rapid purchase of a very cute pair of black crochet ballet flats - sale-priced at $35 from the original $79. Hooray, me.
For the uninitiated, a Concierge Tour seems to be the following: A hotel or restaurant or club (or all three) invite concierges from the hotels in the area to sample a new menu, see new décor or renovations, and overall give that concierge reasons to send hotel guests to their establishment, be it for a single dinner or an elaborate fête.
I learned tonight that the Keating is to be featured on the season opener of a new FOX show, "Kitchen Nightmares". Sounds like a winner. Apparently, Gordon Ramsey and his camera crew followed staff around for a week, screeching this and squawking that, the result being that the Merk is no longer an Italian but a "California Fusion" restaurant and several of the guest "stanzas" of the Keating have been redone.
I was able to sample several of the new menu items, including booze, yee haw. Okay, not that much booze, but the one cocktail I tried was so delicious that I simply must mention it. And now I can't remember what it is called.... It's a martini which consists of vodka that has been "infused" with cucumber and lychee. This means that someone in the kitchen got out a blender of some sort and macerated peeled cucumber and pitted lychee nuts and poured a whole pantload of vodka over it and let it stew for five days before straining it through a sieve, chilling it, and serving it to me. I asked.
Lee Ann and I enjoyed appetizers in the "mezzanine" area, entrée items in the second-level meeting rooms, and desserts in the underground nightclub. There was a chile relleno that was muy delicioso, stuffed with quinoa and served with a tomato salsa and melted cheese. The sea bass with mussels and fennel was also yum. For dessert, the nutella-covered pizza with sliced bananas and braised marshmallows was much tastier than I anticipated.
Alas, the new menu proved to be more delicious than the décor. I wanted to like the Keating, I really did. It's a gorgeous building that was built in the late 19th century. I am a great, big sucker for historical architecture. I like my things built solid. (Exhibit A: Husband) I melted for the exposed brick and the obviously ancient door and window frames with rippled, antique panes. I believe that the banister and balustrade are original, as well as a beautiful wood-lined atrium. I only had two complaints: Lighting and flooring.
As is the case in so many public spaces, there was entirely too much fluorescent lighting, especially in the rooms. I think that there was some kind of law passed recently that dictates that warm, kind lighting is no longer available. How I pine for you, incandescent light bulb. I might just travel down to TJ for my fix. Hypocritical environmentalist I may be, but nobody ever looked better in fluorescent light.
Also featured at the Keating were strange, lowered ceilings and ugly recessed lights reminiscent of 1985. And in the night club - Sway - weird tracks of red LEDs that made me feel like I was in a Robert Palmer video. Okay, not entirely unpleasant, but off-putting, nevertheless.
Could it be that I am now old enough that "everything old is new again"? Pfft, impossible....
Anyhow, much of the public space was carpeted with a dense crimson pile that screamed, "Whorehouse!" Now, in some of the rooms, there was gray resin and concrete flooring that was supposed to mimic the deck of San Diego's own Midway - a little shout-out to our military history. Nice touch. However, and I don't like to say it, I wouldn't choose the Keating simply because the carpet is hideous.
Ah! I almost forgot the enormous, ovate Jacuzzi in the "Victory Suite". According to our tour guide, there are only four enormous, white, egg-shaped Jacuzzis in the whole U. S. of A. and the Keating has all four. It is difficult to describe with mere mortal words...suffice it to say that as I passed by, the phrase that ran through my head was, "Nanoo! Nanoo!"
Despite the vile carpeting and the poor lighting, the food was tasty. And, I very much enjoyed my little evening out masquerading as a real grown-up. Thank you, Lee Ann!
After a really entertaining evening, I returned home to my solidly built husband and he entertained me in his own, special way. I kind of feel like there should have been some crimson carpet.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Birth of the Blog
The title of this blog - Eternal Wednesday - I owe to my very dear friend Luke. He gave a name to a phenomenon that occurs in the lives of stay-at-home Moms with small children. Previously, I had referred to this phenomenon by the relatively uninspired phrase "not knowing what the hell day it is."
When one doesn't work (for money), as I don't, and when one has small children, especially children who are not yet school-age, it isn't uncommon to not know what day of the week it is. For me, this problem is exacerbated when Justin is traveling - either deployed or on a training trip.
These days, I do manage to keep track of what day it is, most of the time: If Justin is home, this means it is a weekend, though I am thrown off by three-day national holiday weekends. On Thursdays, I have to remember to pick the two big boys up at 1:10. If it's Monday through Thursday, Isaiah is going to swim practice. Sunday is Farmer's Market day, Monday, I watch Dr. House, and Saturday, I could get my shit together and go to a dance class, etc.
Back in the early days of my marriage, the early days of motherhood, it was not uncommon for me to suffer quite frequently from Eternal Wednesday. That was back when we lived under the incoming flight path, Isaiah was a baby, and Justin was deployed to Guam. We had one car and no parking spot. It was all street parking, most of it metered. If I succeeded at finding a good spot - close to the apartment, not metered - I would just stay in the house until I absolutely needed to leave.
More than a few times, I packed small Isaiah into the old Honda - after three, four days of being holed up in the apartment - for a trip to the grocery store or Target or down to the beach in Coronado. I'd be stuck in traffic or playing Bumper Carts with people at Trader Joe's and cussing, "What the hell are all these people doing here?!" before realizing, "Oh. It's Saturday."
It wasn't too long ago that I was sitting at this very computer having a phone conversation with Luke. I don't even remember what he asked me, but my answer depended on accurately identifying the current day of the week, which I failed to do correctly. I began to explain to him that when Justin is gone or the kids are on vacation or sometimes for no apparent reason at all, I'm not sure what day it is. Sometimes, I'm waaay off, like two or three days off. Life all bleeds together into one mishmash of bedtimes and laundry, dishes and swim practices. And Luke quipped, "Ha. Right. Like one eternal Wednesday." Or something very close to that...to which I replied, "Hey, that would be a great name for a blog."
Another very dear friend of mine, Laura, recently sent out an email asking friends to vote on which logo they liked best for her own nascent blog, "Music for Good." Having, myself, the technological savvy of a potted plant, I'll be thrilled if I manage to successfully post this first entry on my virgin blog. It's unlikely that I will have a logo of my own anytime soon, but as I told Laura, my eventual logo will be a stick-figure woman - x's for eyes and an XXX bottle in one hand - surrounded by small stick-figure children, speech bubbles filled with scribble lines floating over their heads. Until I have the scratch to hire a graphic designer you'll just have to imagine it.
Lastly, I would be remiss if I didn't thank Rachel for getting me here. Thank you, Rachel. :-)
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)