New York

It's hard to express how I feel about what happened today, without the use of cutlery and other myriad kitchen utensils. I am so angry I could wallop those cowards with copper-bottomed pans of rage.

I'm writing grad school applications. Honestly, what I'd like to say in all my statements of purpose is: I'm sick of being marginalized, and making art is the one thing I have left, the one expression, to me, of dissonance from the status quo. Since civil disobedience doesn't seem to be high on the to-do list of my generation. Forgive the anti-establishment sentiments, my state senate just told me I don't deserve civil rights.

At the same time, I feel a little defeated, because nobody took to the streets tonight, including me, with candles or pots and pans or anything else, at least not here in my quiet corner of Brooklyn, but there are a lot of cowards in the state senate that I would like to strip of their dignity, since they see no problem in stripping their constituents of theirs.

Maybe I should take up Roller Derby. That could help. Is their stripping in Roller Derby? I think they allow blood on the court, anyway. Or the rink.

I Love It When You Smack Talk

Or is it Trash? Wait. Only Kelly Kapoor knows.

We're cooking up a storm this week, and I promise to share many of the discoveries with you. But a little flashback (and I'm going to be touch and go until I stop drowning in application work, third time, argh!) to October, which, frankly, the weather today calls for:

Next time: Halloween Soup (belated) and How the Heck Does Everyone Else On The Planet Use Grams, or, My New Love Affair with Ottolenghi.

Um, Okay. I'm not done Complaining. Elevator Protocol.

Dear Lis- I have been in a complaining digress tangent mode since school started. But I feel it's okay. We can talk about other things that contribute to our Fried status. Hence, this post. I hope you can relate, as we all know what those elementary school teachers are like.


Dear elevator travelers, welcome aboard. I’m your Ambassador of Decorum. I wanted to let you know of a few standards of behavior that are expected of you on your short trip today. It seems like we all need a bit of a refresher course in what’s acceptable during our brief vertical trip together. Don’t worry! It’s just three little rules, so there’s not a lot to remember.

1. This should be self-evident, but it is worth reiterating. Do not, ever, ever, eat sushi in an elevator. It stinks. You are not starving. You may be peckish, but you can wait until you sit down to eat your eel and avocado roll (it’s better for you anyway). Our ride, depending upon the number of floors, will probably take no more than say, five minutes. You can do it…

2. Do not hold the door whilst you finish a conversation with someone who is not joining us today on our journey. You’re either coming aboard or you’re not. If you have to have that important conversation that’s fine. Finish it... Don’t drag us all into it. An option: Wait for the next elevator. One will come very soon. Your fellow travelers do not want to witness your yell-fest with your a) partner, b) co-worker or c) staff. We don’t want to know all about your divorce/deal/dry cleaning. It’s icky. And well, we don’t care.

3. Do consider the stairs. Sadly travelers, we must say that some of you shouldn’t be on board with us. Now, gentle rider, don’t fret. It’s you we think of first. A general rule of thumb: if you are going one level up or down only, consider the stairs. Remember stairs? Sure you do!

It’s better for your overall health and well being, not to mention, it doesn’t annoy the pants off of other travelers who were, perhaps, hoping for an express trip on their longer journey, instead of a local. Here’s what one regular rider in a public school witnesses daily:

Group A, elementary school teachers, who work on level two (one fight up), arrive at school and press the lobby elevator button. In the time it takes the elevator to come, they could have arrived at their ultimate destination, the aforementioned level two, (36 stairs), much to the consternation and frustration of Group B, middle school teachers, who work on level 5 (approximately 186 stairs, but who’s counting).
NB: It’s worth mentioning that these are 20-somethings, and have no visible infirmities or conditions that would prevent them from walking up one flight. If this were the case, absolutely, take the elevator. We aren’t monsters, after all.

Well, that’s it. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Just three little things to remember: Don’t Eat, Don’t Hold, and Use, Don’t Abuse. This concludes our little presentation. Thanks for listening. I think we’ll all enjoy our next ride together.

And yes! Another Complaint (cap C) I had that I need to get off my chest.

So maybe I am Fried. Because I have a lot to complain about lately. Here's my latest complaint. Which evidently, others have had too, since an article appeared in the "Complaint Box" of the NY Times this weekend. It was as if someone had stolen my complaint. So that's my next complaint. When someone steals your ideas.

PUBLIC GROOMING.
Ahh… It’s been a long week. You settle in your seat on the busy rush hour Metro-North train bound for New Haven; (you have to take the train because your partner left the city earlier today to get a jump on the traffic. But you? You can’t get out early but that’s okay because New York has many fine public transportation options and you’re looking forward to that hour nap). You hunker down in your seat after long week of teaching twelve year olds so that nap is well deserved.

You have your book, and your ticket, and as the train pulls out, you slowly drift off. Pretty soon though, something invades your slumber. A curious noise, familiar and yet somehow, unsettling. A rhythmic clip. Clip. Clip. There it is again. Clip. Why, it almost sounds like, but it couldn’t be….You shudder, it is. Another public groomer; this time, it’s another nail clipper. Right there on the 4:09 express train. You wish it was a first, but sadly, the boundaries of good manners, good grooming and public transport have been muddied in recent times. And it’s getting worse.

Oh I know what you’re thinking. What about the lady who puts lipstick on? Is that acceptable? Well, she’s not leaving her DNA all over the busy northeast corridor for goodness sake! Lest you think this is a one time thing, I used to commute daily from New Haven to New York when I was poor and had to live at home (for those of you wondering, it three hours each way door to door. I know. Don't ask.). Let me assure you, that public groomers are out there and their numbers are growing.

I may have grown up in a strict Roman Catholic household where you didn’t talk about any personal grooming, let alone do it in public. Hair brushing outside the confines of the bathroom was a punishable offense. So, it may be true that my perception of what is acceptable in public spaces, especially ones from which you cannot escape, is skewed. But really, I can’t wrap my head around the scenario that goes something like this:

Commuter A leaves the office or home, he or she remembers at the last minute, “dang it, my nails look jagged. Oh well, I’ll just clip them on the train next to other people and leave the clippings for someone else to sweep.” I wonder: What color is the sky in their world? Then I wonder, do they think it’s it okay to floss, or pluck? Where do we stand on toenails?

Most recently, in June I took the train back to New Haven. I tucked myself into my seat, again with my ticket and book. Soon I was lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the car. Once more, I was awakened. This time a smell. Toxic. Fumes drifting around me. I opened my eye, looked over and there she was; a platinum blonde with a pink tank sweater sitting next to me. Painting her nails.

Now, we Metro North commuters are a passive aggressive and territorial bunch (even though I’m only an occasional commuter, I still consider myself one of the tenured rail-runners, having spent way too much time going back between New Haven and Manhattan over the past 20 years). Just try and sit in the foursome seat in the third car of the 5:34 express to New Haven. With one frosty look, those card players will have you moving out of that seat faster than you can say ante up. But that's another story...

So when I woke up and saw the horror that was going on next to me, and then the withering glares, stares and over-the-shoulder evil eyes of my fellow commuters, I knew they were counting on me to say something. I waited. A minute passed. She was oblivious and was about to start on hand number two.
I could feel their collective silent screams. “You’re sitting next to her. Take care of it woman!!!!”

“Um, excuse me…” I started tentatively, looking at the polish (OPI, “Got a Date to-knight,” I’m pretty sure). I gestured to the polish.

“Oh. Can you smell it?” She said in a breathy voice.

“Um, well, we all can.” I said in an apologetic voice.

“I thought if I sat under the air conditioner no one would smell it.” What? Was she kidding? She was a one-woman toxic wind turbine.

Well, she packed up the polish. And didn’t start again until we approached the New Haven Train yard, which is fine, since I could breath out my mouth until we platformed (that’s commuter lingo for stopping :-D).

All of this has left me feeling that, maybe I’m the one with the problem; maybe I should embrace my own public grooming. Trouble is, it all feels a bit like the gorillas picking nits off each other to me. I just find it uncomfortable.

Recently I needed to take a flight to the UK, and I couldn’t help but wonder: what are the rules for international flights? Is it okay once we’re in open waters to groom? I stood in the security line, thinking, please, please oh please, I hope I don’t sit next to someone who’s brought a pedicure kit, home teeth whitening system, or exfoliating cream. Turns out I was worrying for nothing... I only had to sit next to a loudmouthed ruddy-faced drunk. But again, that’s another story. And another complaint.

My big Complaint

Dear Mayor Bloomberg,

Want a quick easy way to generate some extra revenue and do us all a huge favor? Two words: Golf Umbrellas. That’s right, you heard me, golf umbrellas. As an object, I have no problem with them. They’re functional, come in lots of bright colors and perfectly appropriate for keeping people dry. On a golf course. If we were supposed to use them on sidewalks on busy city streets, they’d be called city umbrellas, or urbanrellas. Hear me out before you have me investigated as a crackpot….

Here’s where we, I mean you Mr. Mayor, get that cash I referred to. A fine on anyone carrying a golf umbrella (let’s call them GUs from now on) on crowded New York City streets. Heck, even not so crowded city streets. Slap the inconsiderate ignoramuses with a $25.00 fine. MORE if they have a GU and only one body underneath it - like say, double it. I’ll let you and your bean counters work out the details, but I think you’ll see that the idea has merit.

What’s the fuss you might be asking yourself, why is this person ticked off about GUSs? I’ll bet you’re even in possession of some GUs yourself. They sure do come in handy at those wet Hamptons riding events I see you attending in the Style Section. Why am I so upset? Simple. They have no place in a crowded city where they become weapon-like, designed to poke the hair, eyes and body parts of passing strangers. And they take up the entire sidewalk. I live in TriBeCa. We have some large sidewalks down here, but on rainy days, I can’t get through my six block walking commute to work without having to play “dodge the tip” (by the way, that’s what the pointy ends are called, tips. They come at the end of a rib. I looked it up.)

It’s not the umbrella per se. Truth is, I consider GUs to be a mere symbol of how far sidewalk etiquette has deteriorated. Don’t get me started on tourists who stop in the middle of the crosswalk to map-check. I know what you’re thinking Mr. Mayor - I agree; they are stimulating the economy so I bite my tongue, move passed them grumbling to myself, “step aside then map-check people.” It’s that the GU screams two things; “I golf” and “I need this amount of personal space to navigate my way down this sidewalk so all you folks get out of my way, because I am important. I golf.”

Mr. Mayor, we should be respectful to one another in the common spaces that we share. We should open doors for the aged, and give up seats to pregnant women, the elderly and infirmed on the subway. We’ve got $250 fines for people who don’t pick up dog poop but what happens to the person who jabs someone in the eye with their gargantaun bumbershoot (an old way of saying umbrella. You can learn loads of stuff when you’re on a rant)?

That’s the plan, Mr Mayor. Think about it. You don’t have to get back to me, unless you want me to be your new “Umbrella Czar.” In that case, my resume is respectfully attached.

Coffee.

Most definitely make coffee. It's your birthday! You deserve coffee. Happy Happy! (And never fret about the blogging. School gets us all in a funk.)

Well, I would have made you coffee. In my mind I would have. To be honest, I would gladly have done so, but for fear of the following things:

One. The one time you told me to grab a g&t while you changed, I could not find the cabinet. This is because the cabinet was the size of an armoire, and I did not believe that behind its ornately grooved doors resided happy hour. So if you keep your coffee in the freezer, like regular people, and there is a grinder to go with it, and these things are all within the reasonable periphery of my vision, and I do not have to tilt my head up or down to discover a hidden staircase latched by brass Italian latches resembling the game of zenga, just to get the coffee, then yes.

Two, I sometimes have trouble with appliances. Like yesterday. Yesterday, no wait, that was this morning, at 2 am, when we found that when we turned the stove/oven on it smelled like gas. You use a gas oven, genius. I know it. I do. But why should it smell like gas when it also lights? Strangely, the gentlemen from the gas company did not share our confusion as they tested the oven with their black hulking box with the little red light that would, I presume, tell us if our lives were in immediate danger, but instead told us it smelled like "childhood at my aunt's house," and then inquired if anyone in the neighborhood was doing construction where they might have used an oil-based paint. Our neighbors, in fact, have been gutting their house over the past six months. This summer I was privy to the use of a flamethrower on their back deck by some highly skilled technicians. Apparently, they did use an oil based paint, and we were smelling the fumes. I know it was the middle of the night, but my small brain could not comprehend why the fumes came from the oven. Could it be anything else? I inquired, not wanted to scream, It's coming from the OVEN!!!! THE OVEN RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!! but was assured that the sense memory of his aunt's house was too strong for it to be anything else.

So the point of this story is to illustrate my deep, resounding fear of food-making appliances. And hence I would desire, deeply, to make you coffee, but there is a chance that my conversational skills would somehow get lost in translation to the coffee maker, or even the kettle, if you had such a thing, and I might name it Bert, and speak to it for a time, and conclude we just weren't meant to have that sort of deep, lasting friendship that I finally found with your cabinet.

Meaning that, if you missed your coffee, you would have surely received a different sort of eye-opener, had I been there.

Cheers!

The story of: Shackleton's Ham-durance.

It's getting close to my least favorite holiday. But this year, it has sort of intersected nicely with Anna's desire for a sleep over party. Annie is 12, and let this be a lesson: Never have 7 girls sleep over your house unless you want to look like shit the next day and say things like "The reason I confiscated your cellphone is that no one needs to text at 1:46am."

Anyway. We decided to make a night of it; we haven't seen our neighbors in such a long time, and Annie wanted a magician.
Now, for those of you who are really in the cash and can afford a really good expensive NYC magician, hire this guy called Ben Benn. I'm sure he's got a website or facebook or he's twittering all over someone's myspace or whatever. But, if you are in CT, and you want the same quality and do not wish to blow a grand or two, hire Jim Sisti. He was amazing. All the adults and children were blown away. We had a lovely buffet; NY Times Crispy Macaroni and Cheese, Cheese platter, bread, Crudites, grapes, and a ham that is twice the size of my cat, who is no small cat. We are still eating it. If I were say, Shackleton, of Endurance fame, my Captain's log might sound something like this:


Our nightmare started on Saturday. If you are reading this, I fear we have come to the end...
Day One: 20 lbs of ham, 20 people, about 15 lbs left; where are all the big pig eaters, I wonder. So elusive...
Day two: Egg and ham sandwiches, ham on ham, and of course, ham and cheese on waffles. wait?? It's beginning to feel like every man for himself. Cannot convince the wee ones to eat it. At all.
Day three: We get creative and make a casserole, (might be a word I learn despise at week's end): butternut squash "pasta" layers with ham spinach cheese and lo-fat cream sauce.
Day Four: Egg white, ham, mushroom, spinach, cheese bake.... Am growing a cloven hoof as I write. And still friends, I make no dent in this blasted joint of meat, which, as i write, mocks me from it's foil cocoon of superiority in my fridge.
Day Five: Is that the ice floes breaking? No. Sadly it is my arteries clogging. And my nose looks strangely upturned today.
Still eating Ham, yet, we endure. Tonight, the chef mixed it with some butternut squash ("Again?" He was asked. "It's another leftover, do you know how big those suckers are?"), radicchio, walnuts and papparadelle. A bit of goat's cheese took the edge off it all.
Our journey began with such promise of big eaters, and no leftovers. Dear Friends, it goes badly for us... But we have faith.
After all this, we are left, praise Swine, with just one small sandwich bag of the dreaded pink stuff. More later....