knees and onions.

a topic suggested by the super-fancy, very kind michelle dobrowsky. she hosts an open mic at the parkside lounge almost every thursday that was my personal introduction to performing written material and i will never forget that awesome stage.

knees and onions. my first-impulse stories for both of these are pretty sad-sack so i am going to go in a slightly different direction for both.

one of my favorite meals in the universe beef stroganoff, served over egg noodles. as i believe i have stated elsewhere in this blog, i have the palate of a 10 year old. beef stroganoff fits entirely with that taste profile. if you are unfamiliar with the dish, it's basically a creamy beef stew, usually quite salty, with chopped onions and mushrooms, often served with or poured over noodles. also, i am not sure if i mentioned this already, IT IS DELICIOUS. just a really great combination of flavors and textures when it is made well; tender beef, al dente noodles, soft yet firm mushrooms and sliced onions giving it just the right level of crisp. seriously, it's awesome.

i have not had it since september 2005.

in early fall 2005, after having graduated from college, and working at trader joe's for 3 miserable months, i had quit and gotten a job working at the barnes and noble cafe, starbucks' developmentally disabled, stingier cousin. it was pretty lame, living in a home town i had NO social connections in, and without a real, 'career' type, job. but i was dealing with it by trying to focus on getting healthier and recovering from a junior -> senior year of college that almost killed me, literally. i was still in the process of discovering what i could and could not eat. at the time, i probably thought i could still eat vegetables if they were cooked (i can't), which explains why i thought it would be a great idea to cook beef stroganoff for my mother's two sisters and significant others when they came to visit.

a bit of background; my parents are both from decidedly new england and specifically boston families; my mother is the daughter of recent (catholic) scottish, irish and portuguese immigrants; the kind that took ahold of their adopted land fiercely and completely, and my dad is the son of vaguely WASP-y swamp yankees. my mom has 3 sisters. all of whom seem to think they are smarter, and therefore, better than her. to some extent, that perception has extended to my two sisters and me. i deal with it by being tight and resentful and overly proper around them, alexis shuts down, and suzi gets silly and then cries later at how much their caustic, sarcastic remarks hurt her. i should have known how they would react to me trying to do something as complex as making one damn meal.

when i decided i would make beef stroganoff for them, i was honestly excited. i am not a great or consistently interested cook, but what i make usually tastes awesome. i like cooking, when i can be bothered to do it (and deal with the clean up). i decided to go all out and really dress up one of my favorite dishes. i got red onions and some shiitake mushrooms (there's really not much you can do to dress up a recipe originally found in the 'economy' section of a 1967 Fannie Farmer Cookbook). coming home from the store, it occurred to me that i probably shouldn't play around with a recipe when my hyper-judgemental relatives were coming to visit.

it was a disaster. i was cutting the onions too small - they cut the other half of the onions in long slices when i had been dicing. i was slicing the the beef in the wrong direction and in the wrong size - one third of the beef was sliced in long flat strips like stir fry, the other 1/3 in cubes. that the mushrooms had to be soaked. no, not soaked, rinsed then sprayed then put in the refrigerator. finally i just opened a can of mushrooms and put them in the pan. at this point, i knew i could either flip out and assert myself and what i was cooking, or i could give up and let them cook the beef stroganoff how they wanted, and they would walk over me in their casually and unintentionally cruel way for the rest of my life.

i put down the knife, washed my hands and went to the family room to watch an episode of the fairly odd parents on nickelodeon. the meal was terrible.

laziness, 1 ; assertiveness, 0.

my knees are weird looking. i have knobbly ones. a girl in on the track team in HS teased me about them to my face once, and mike fafard, a kid i went to pre-school with but never really had a conversation with, actually defended my weirdo knees. it was the only time that a guy in i grew up defended me against being made fun of; it was 8 or so years past the point when having someone stand up for me really mattered, but it clearly made an impression because i still rememember that chilly practice sophomore year, sitting by the baseball diamond after school quite vividly. interesting sub-note, mike married my best friend from HS two years ago. they have been together for almost a decade now, and we've still never had a conversation.

things i have eaten today:

a solitary twix bar
one (1) bottle of water
1/2 of a small cheese sandwich

explanations forthcoming. maybe. come to champagne and cupcakes followed by summer fridays with thank you, robot with guests bad data (yay!) and newer team, we can't live in a cave.

i would like to give you a... HUG FROM THE HUGMONSTER STOMP STOMP STOMP!

a reason i feel inadequate as a writer.

a good deal of the reason i never feel up to par as a writer (beyond the fact that i am lazy with my diction and also just lazy generally) is that basically everything i want to express has already been written. specifically, it's already been written by Douglas Adams. he passed away in 2001, but not before shaping much of my comedic and written sensibility. most of what i write is in a specific style i attribute primarily to him. he worked in radio and comedy before becoming a novelist, and therefore most of his books SOUND many times better when read aloud than when read silently on the page. if you know me at all in person, and you imagine me saying the words instead of just reading them on the page... it sounds more... right. i am not sure if that is a deficiency of the writer for not being to create a written voice that can express itself in a verbal way ONLY, or if it's a specific effort to take into consideration the aural aspects of communication. regardless, there is a very specific, very English rhythym to Douglas Adams' work that affected me deeply, in addition to his quirky, playful, dark and intense worldview. hearing George Carlin talk about his incredibly dark views of humanity in recent retrospectives has convinced me of two things; 1) i should have worked harder to familiarize myself with Carlin's stuff long ago and 2) Adams was the British, novelist version of Carlin. Carlin aside... aside, i miss Douglas Adams terribly, and suggest his books (specifically the books on tape that he read) to anyone and everyone. below is the specific passage that i was reminded of shortly after writing yesterday's 'pizza and boobs' entry. this is from 'The Long, Dark Tea Time of the Soul', the main character is Kate Schechter, a New York writer who now lives in London.

She enjoyed the notion that New York was home, and that she missed it, but in fact the only thing she really missed was pizza. And not just any old pizza, but the sort of pizza they brought to your door if you phoned them up and asked them to. That was the only real pizza. Pizza that you had to go out and sit at a table staring at red paper napkins for wasn't real pizza however much extra pepperoni and anchovy they put on it. London was the place she liked living in most, apart, of course, from the pizza problem, which drove her crazy. Why would no one deliver pizza? Why did no one understand that it was fundamental to the whole nature of pizza that it arrived at your front door in a hot cardboard box? That you slithered it out of greaseproof paper and ate it in folded slices in front of the TV? What was the fundamental flaw in the stupid, stuck-up, sluggardly English that they couldn't grasp this simple principle? For some odd reason it was the one frustration she could never learn simply to live with and accept, and about once a month or so she would get very depressed, phone a pizza restaurant, order the biggest, most lavish pizza she could describe - pizza with an extra pizza on it, essentially - and them, sweetly, ask them to deliver it.
"To what?"
"Deliver. Let me give you the address - "
"I don't understand. Aren't you going to come and pick it up?"
"No. Aren't you going to deliver? My address - "
"Er, we don't do that, miss."
"Don't do what?"
"Er, deliver. . ."
"You don't deliver? Am I hearing you correctly... ?"
The exchange would quickly degenerate into an ugly slanging match which would leave her feeling drained and shaky, but much, much better the following morning. In all other respects she was one of the most sweet-natured people you could hope to meet.

hugs

another topic suggestion from kim ferguson.

i like giving hugs. i am a good height for hug-giving i think. and i give real hugs. none of this pussy, barely touching the shoulders bullshit. when i hug you... you motherfucking STAY hugged. it weirds me out when people hate hugs. i get that some people just aren't into touching each other, and that many have tragedy or abuse in their past that makes them uncomfortable with personal contact. my intentions are always innocent, and just a way to reestablish our personal bond, whatever the specifics may be. it reassures me, and in my selfish way, i want it to reassure you as well. i like to use hugging like bonobo chimpanzees use sex; to say a really quick 'hi', to reeassure one another, to maintain healthy social ties in the group, to show that i've missed someone, etc.

SO LET ME GIVE YOU A HUG! BAAAAH I'M A HUGMONSTER! STOMP! >hug< STOMP! >hug< STOMP!

pizza and boobs

i am soliciting topics to write about. this topic is from the illustrious and well spoken kimberly ferguson.

my favorite pizza is made by a place on main street in uxbridge, massachusetts called 'Harry's Famous Pizza'. they make a really great 'greek style' pizza. greek style isn't really common in new york at all, but you can find it all over the more developed parts of mass. it differs from thin crust, 'italian-style' pizza by having more cheese, and usually a combination of more aged, flavorful cheeses, as well as a slightly more savory (not sweet) tomato sauce. additionally, the crust is usually thicker and more bread-like. it's difficult to describe, but trust me when i tell you that it is AMAZING. i had it for the first time in 6 months when i went home over my birthday in June. it was so great. the overall experience was slightly dampened by the fact that we at it at harry's, sitting in an awkward booth decorated like 'greece', instead of driving home with it, smelling the hot steam and cardboard, then giving in and trying to steer, shift and stuff pizza in your face while not burning your face/mouth/hands with hot cheese oil, which is how i spent a large portion of my high school and college breaks. it's really excellent pizza. the cheese and sauce portions are always ideal, and they cook it long enough to carmelized the cheese so it's super hot and crispy on top. oh man you guys. i had to go get lunch halfway through writing this, and my cajun roast beef sandwich was nigh-on unpalatable in the face of the memory of a fresh harry's cheese pizza. oh man.

that is the one thing i miss in new york. really excellent greek style pizza.

as for the boobs portion of the entry i shall say that they seem pretty nice. like most things of a sexual nature, i don't really feel one way or the other about them. i want my own to provide a certain shape for my clothes, but that is a purely aesthetic desire. i dunno, boobs are not particularly offensive usually. although, i saw a woman today on 56th street in a strappy, boob-enhancing dress... but she had one at least 'D cup breast and one TEENY not-quite A cup breast. i was like 'um... er... uh.' and then i kept walking. it was weird. if she had breast cancer and can still show off her body, good for her. but if she's just a hippy or weirdo or hasn't noticed... um, ew, lady on the street. sorry to judge and all... but not a good look. yucktown, population you and your one huge super-boob.

hay guise, give me more topics to blog on! it's like an improv show, only i specifically have to write it beforehand.

a guy

a guy tried to grab my crotch while walking down 8th avenue yesterday. at 6 pm. while we were walking in opposite directions. he'd been leering creepily at the two hipster ladies in sheer cotton dresses in front of me, and i had been judging him for it. then he walks past them and totally tried to casually grab at the lady bits. i IMMEDIATELY, without thinking at all, yelled "FUCK YOU!" and kept walking.

i really wouldn't have expected that to happen in chelsea.

how can anybody know / how they got to be this way? (-the national)

my thoughts are pretty confusing and frustrating this week. a combination of continual lack of sleep, hormones and generally being a moron are mixing together into a lovely maelstrom-cocktail of me being a pathetic, panicky weirdo. and because i am chronically extroverted, when i feel these crushing waves of panic and ennui, i react by being even louder and more annoying and offensive than usual. often, my behavior is pretty funny, since until i get to the point where i am just inappropriate, i am a witty and energetic person. i have also found that people tend to laugh in panic when a crazed, small woman starts being incredibly weird at them in public. i think it must be an instinctual physiological reaction. a desperate attempt by our deepest lizard brains to subdue that member of the tribe who's completely lost it. laugh, and subdue the crazy person. chuckle, and help me with this rope. grin, and you grab her arms.

basically, on a semi-regular basis i tend to freak out and become a brittle and discomfiting weirdo, who is highly sensitive and negatively and intensely introspective. i am trying to work on it. partly by being more honest about what i am feeling. i always suspect that none of my friends really like me and when i feel weird or off or upset i usually clam up instead of expressing to people about how i feel. i had (improv, not red hot chili peppers) john frusciante as a coach recently, and he told me that when i am about to say a line that is loaded with emotion in a scene, i will say 'oh ____' or 'BUT ____' or 'REALLY _____' and put all the emotion into that first word, and let the rest of the statement fall flat. it's away of expressing my emotions a little bit, but then distracting everyone with a bunch of words at the end! and i totally do that in real life too! constantly! ugh. so now that i am aware of it, i am going to try to watch displacing my emotions away from their sources and feeling things in a more 'regular' way. in addition to hoping that i will grow as a person if i work on that, also, selfishly, i am hoping it will help me be a better improviser. hey, if you aren't an improv nerd, you don't really have to read that last part. i guess i could have told you that before. but i didn't.

there is a douglas adams passage about black, crushing despair and how it always hits students when they have essays due. i am no longer a student, but i do have several projects that i desperately need to sit down and focus on, including my resume, and writing my 1 person show, and doing the 4+ loads of laundry that i have been procrastinating doing for 2+ weeks (i am awesome at washing necessities in the bathroom sink you guys!) so that may be adding to the deep despair clutching at my heart and scrambling for a toehold in my soul. MAYBE. or maybe i am just allergic to inexpertly handwashed socks.

tonight, i am just going to sit and shut up and watch harold night. maybe i will give people hugs and just try to reconnect with people without doing a million bits.
YIKES.