For Scott, who needs something to do at work and implored Bich: "For God's sake, start blogging again, you two" over a few pints at McGee's a few weeks ago:
It would appear that the infinitesmally small corner of the blogosphere we inhabit has been pretty empty as of late. Shu hasn't been blogging -- I think maybe he's over it -- and our favorite blogger, Jersey Girl, was off galavanting around the country and has recently returned from her own blog hiatus (yay!). I just don't have anything to say these days, let alone anything interesting. Is everyone else just Twittering?
We're ramping up for a rather nutty month: We're heading to Chicago for a long weekend, then slogging down God-awful Route 13 to Norfolk for Mo and Meghan's annual MeMOrial Day party, then another weekend of traveling somewhere, probably a bar mitzvah or a wedding (who keeps track?).
Ah, wedding season.
So far, we're lined up for six weddings this year (I'm tempted to count the ridonkulous bar mitzvah as No. 7), one in Rhode Island, one in Virginia Beach, one in London. The other three are scattered around Central Jersey -- and no, I don't want to hear any arguments about "South" vs. "North" Jersey and where those boundaries actually end and begin. In any case, I hear there will be Jell-O shots and firefighters at the Rhode Island gig. Anyone else think the cops are already on standby?
I'll aim to put up some photos soon -- this weekend, it's hanging with Leeza, a top-down hose-down of the apartment and dinner with Rich's parents, then the inaugural trip to Citi Field for a Pirates-Mets matchup. That means Rich will be in full Yankees regalia. Oy.
Random thoughts:
-- We're toying with splitting Penn State season tickets with Mark this year (though we either missed the deadline or Mark went ahead and bought them). We'll probably go to two games. Anyone interested in buying tix for the other two games?
-- I have no interest in buying a Kindle. Nothing beats the good old-fashioned Web for paper-browsing. And I like my books ... well, as books.
-- Good bar: Valhalla. Good city BYO, and awesomely cheap: Nook. Thanks to Charlie and Denise for taking us to both. And then many more bars.
-- Best New York moment ever: last weekend, on the top of a 50-story building, a bottle of excellent wine and conversation with two of our closest friends.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Two strikes, totally out
Woman's World, you helped me find a way to get to sleep faster (we'll address "staying asleep" later, but that might require marriage counseling). But you are NOT helping me eat better.
Rich was quite proud of himself as a result of our dinner at Daniel: When Chef Boulud came over to say hello, Rich told him, "My wife here is a burgeoning chef." Totally embarrassing and adorable at the same time. But it did inspire me to keep cooking and trying new things. So this past weekend, I kept at it.
On Saturday, I thought I'd try a salad recipe that's appearing in an upcoming issue. I sent it to Rich to feel him out, and he replied: "Looks yummy." Well, that's a green light if there ever was one, so I did a little shopping and gathered the ingredients for a grilled steak-and-potato salad to go with a delayed showing of the Battlestar Galactica finale.
Hey, it's got horseradish in it. (Rich likes.)
Hey, it's got steak in it. (We both like.)
Hey, it's got lots of veggies in it. (Again, we both like.)
How could I miss?
Oh, badly. So, so badly. Rich coughed the entire way through dinner because of the horseradish (I impatiently told him to stop being so melodramatic), which totally ruined the lettuce. The steak was good and the potatoes were very good, but really? It was a disaster even worse than Woman's World's Brussels sprouts (which I revamped on my own to restore my tarnished name not long after).
On Sunday, I went to the real experts: the blogosphere. Thank you, Pioneer Woman, for helping me make some truly glorious braised chicken.
Chicken is hard to get right, especially roast chicken. Braised is almost as hard; you can easily overcook chicken, or you can undercook it, then pop it in the oven again, which really just leads you to overcooking it, and you get stuck with dry chicken. And don't forget to brown it quickly first. I'm learning, though, and this was a huge, huge success at Chez Bich. It paired nicely with a very simple, very lush green salad and fresh French bread.
It's almost like how celebrity deaths come in threes: A bad dish is almost always followed by an awesome dish. Go, me.
Oh, and Woman's World? Your recipes are Dead. To. Me.
Rich was quite proud of himself as a result of our dinner at Daniel: When Chef Boulud came over to say hello, Rich told him, "My wife here is a burgeoning chef." Totally embarrassing and adorable at the same time. But it did inspire me to keep cooking and trying new things. So this past weekend, I kept at it.
On Saturday, I thought I'd try a salad recipe that's appearing in an upcoming issue. I sent it to Rich to feel him out, and he replied: "Looks yummy." Well, that's a green light if there ever was one, so I did a little shopping and gathered the ingredients for a grilled steak-and-potato salad to go with a delayed showing of the Battlestar Galactica finale.
Hey, it's got horseradish in it. (Rich likes.)
Hey, it's got steak in it. (We both like.)
Hey, it's got lots of veggies in it. (Again, we both like.)
How could I miss?
Oh, badly. So, so badly. Rich coughed the entire way through dinner because of the horseradish (I impatiently told him to stop being so melodramatic), which totally ruined the lettuce. The steak was good and the potatoes were very good, but really? It was a disaster even worse than Woman's World's Brussels sprouts (which I revamped on my own to restore my tarnished name not long after).
On Sunday, I went to the real experts: the blogosphere. Thank you, Pioneer Woman, for helping me make some truly glorious braised chicken.
Chicken is hard to get right, especially roast chicken. Braised is almost as hard; you can easily overcook chicken, or you can undercook it, then pop it in the oven again, which really just leads you to overcooking it, and you get stuck with dry chicken. And don't forget to brown it quickly first. I'm learning, though, and this was a huge, huge success at Chez Bich. It paired nicely with a very simple, very lush green salad and fresh French bread.
It's almost like how celebrity deaths come in threes: A bad dish is almost always followed by an awesome dish. Go, me.
Oh, and Woman's World? Your recipes are Dead. To. Me.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Cooking at home
After the heavenly experience that was Daniel, I forgot a little that the next day was actually my birthday. I did nothing. All day. It was great.Then I realized Rich deserved a nice dinner for all his hard work, so I willed myself to get off the couch and go grocery shopping. Oh, I also put on my new Jersey plates; I got tired of all my fellow Jersey drivers honking at me simply because I had Virginia plates (it's the only way I can explain why people were honking WHEN I WASN'T DOING ANYTHING WRONG).
Anyhoo. I stopped on this nice Thai dish and replaced the tofu with beef cubes; on the side, a cold soba noodle salad with cucumbers (I skipped the shiitakes; we'd spent enough this week). I've served the soba before for dinner parties -- it's easy, smells great and has a beautifully subtle flavor that accompanies main dishes so well.
And no wine. Can you believe it? I didn't even realize it until yesterday. Guess I'd had such a great anniversary and birthday that I didn't even bother.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The luckiest girl
They gave my purse an ottoman.
Rich had been telling me for a few weeks that for our anniversary, we would celebrate at a steakhouse downtown that we've been to before -- he actually took me there three years ago on the night he told me he was taking me to Ireland as a surprise trip (the trip where he proposed). Not that I have the best "surprise radar"; I find that expecting nothing and being prepared for anything means never being disappointed. But I had a feeling something was up.
Yesterday, being St. Patrick's Day and our second anniversary, Rich and I planned to meet at Denise's bar on 55th for a few pints, then head to dinner. He told me to dress up because I do love getting into a cocktail dress, and he had to wear a suit for a meeting in the city that he'd planned with a source from Chicago so he didn't want to be mismatched with me. Again, I felt something was up, but couldn't put my finger on it.
We had a couple of Guinnesses at McGee's and hailed a cab ... and Rich gave an address that definitely wasn't where Angelo and Maxie's was. I felt a mixture of excited panic and intense curiosity: Where in the world was he taking me?
We were quiet in the cab as we headed to 65th Street between Park and Madison. (Yeah, THAT kind of Manhattan neighborhood.) Poor Rich -- he kept telling the cabbie, "This is good," and he wasn't listening. Finally, Rich gets the cab to stop, and we're standing on the corner of Park and 65th. I have no idea what I'm looking for, and Rich was terrified I'd figured it out in the cab or seen it.
He playfully says, "Hmmm, if I were a restaurant, where would I be?" I'm looking at a beautiful building that clearly housed no restaurant I'd ever recognize, and I start to look around me.
My eyes fell on Daniel.
I simultaneously began jumping up and down (no small feat in stilettos) and crying. I looked at Rich, and I'm not even sure I can describe the look on his face. But he knew he'd done good.
You see, I've been dying to go to Daniel for a very, very long time. Even Frank Bruni can't say anything wrong about this place. It's restaurateur Daniel Boulud's flagship restaurant -- he has many around the world, including in Paris -- which is one of just five New York restaurants that currently hold a four-star rating from the New York Times. I'm pretty sure I broke out in hives.
We walk into the restaurant and into a different world. Not that Park Avenue is exactly the noisiest in Manhattan, but through the gold-and-glass revolving doors, and it's like walking into a sleek candlelit cotton ball. We walk down steps, past a sumptuous-looking bar and lounge, and the restaurant opens itself up with cream pillars, dark accents, mirrors, white tabletops, art on the walls and tropical flowers as a backdrop. (Oh, I was still crying as we reached the desk, and the girls good-naturedly laughed and waited patiently as I tried to gather myself.)
We're led to a table separated by cream leather walls with a view into the restaurant. Still crying, I sit as our maitre d' welcomed us warmly ... and brought me a foot-tall ottoman for my purse. "So you do not have to lean over for your bag should you need to," he says. And then he goes to a champagne bucket in the corner, from which he pulls out the 1989 Schramsberg blanc de noirs we've been saving for our second anniversary. Tears begin again, and Rich is just reveling in my excitement and overwhelmedness. It was just as good as we'd hoped.
About a minute later, I'm brought a second ottoman. And I knew -- he'd gone even further and bought me The Bag. They bring out a cream-colored bag (clearly the color of the night), and inside was the bag I've wanted for years. More tears, proclamations of love, etc.
So we finally take a look at the menu, and decide on the 15th-anniversary three-course menu Daniel has been serving in honor of their, well, 15th anniversary and recent renovation. We make our choices, and then a trio of beet amuse bouches arrives -- I was amazed, while Rich wasn't so much a fan, especially of the beet puree with a miniature breadstick. The salade, we both enjoyed, while the first had just a sliver of beet on a shrimp with a bit of herbs. The presentation was simply gorgeous: The three rested on a plank of dark wood in tiny white porcelain bowls, all on a beautiful charger decorated with Daniel's logo.
We decided to add an appetizer -- of course, lobster: a paprika-crusted Maine lobster tail with tempura broccolini, a pine nut gremolata and piquillo coulis. Gorgeous. The bread basket comes around, and though we're not usually big into the bread, we never turned her down when she came around; one of the rolls I chose was an olive and rosemary bite, and there was even soda bread for St. Patrick's Day. I could have had just butter for dinner and been satisfied.
For my next course, I chose the frog leg and watercress veloute with truffled mousseline, black garlic and chervil; Rich chose the Maine peekytoe crab with Fuji apple, celery creme fraiche and hearts of palm. Both, of course, were amazing, but we almost fought over my veloute. Wine pairing: a chardonnay from Au Bon Climat in Santa Barbara County, complete with Daniel's own label.
For my main course, I went with the spiced Elysian Fields farm lamb chop with ras el hanout, chickpea panisses, a "cannelloni" of lamb shoulder, bulgur and apricot. It could just be the best lamb I've ever had in my entire life: cooked to a perfect medium-rare, utterly delicious. Rich apparently liked his duo of dry-aged black Angus beef -- a red-wine-braised short rib with sunchokes and a seared ribeye with hazelnut-potato croquette -- that he didn't even share the mushrooms on the side of his plate. Wine pairing: a Graves Bordeaux, again with Daniel's own label.
One of our waiters comes over and says, "The chef is here tonight." My head, basically put on a swivel at that moment, spins as I try to find him. I figured he was at a table actually eating with friends, with rich regulars -- but no. He's in a chef's jacket, and he's been in the kitchen, and I was so stunned as the waiter gently pointed him out (I knew what he looked like but didn't actually think a guy this big in the food world would be cooking in his own restaurant). We're giddy.
We decide on post-dinner cheese -- and our dreams come rolling in on a perfectly appointed cheese cart. Two blues, a Comte, an ashy goat cheese, a French stinky cheese and a hard cheese I can't remember but adored, go figure -- the proper French coda. Rich indulged in a tawny port.
About 40 minutes after our Daniel sighting, a wall of servers that had smoothly placed itself in front of us parted, and Daniel Boulud himself came over to our table. He says hello and smiles, shaking our hands, welcomes us to his restaurant, congratulates us on our anniversary, and bows out gracefully. "I swear, I couldn't have planned that if I tried," Rich says, the two of us grinning, me still holding my hands over my mouth in disbelief.
Just after that, they bring out a stunning display of dessert plates on tiers, with a chocolate sculpture and flowers -- dammit, why did I not bring the camera! -- and we fight over the plates of chocolate pastries, mango confections and coffee-flavored ice creams, including a chocolate brownie with mascarpone with Ethiopian coffee ice cream, a hazelnut mousse with gianduja and caramel ice cream. It was all accompanied by a late-harvest white and a message in chocolate on a white plate: "Happy 2nd anniversary."
Then it was time for cappuccinos, lattes, petit fours and pastry bites that, to me, compete with French Laundry's sugar-dusted macadamia nuts for "Best Bite that Could Double as Cocaine, It's So Addictive." Our maitre d' comes by and says, "So, would you like a tour of the kitchen?" He might as well have asked us if we like food. We're whisked into the most beautiful, and impossibly clean, kitchen full of worker bees around an insane number of stations, with the chef's glass-walled office just above, overlooking shining green tile walls and a buzz of activity.
We were just knocked out by the staff -- perfectly attentive, attuned to our every need, and yet approachable and easy to talk to. (We found out our maitre d' lives in West New York and shops up in Edgewater.) Our every desire was taken care of in blissfully fast fashion, and while it was clear we aren't exactly the types who have the money to frequent a place like Daniel very often, we were treated like royalty.
Yet a third ottoman arrives, and the staff has brought us the night's menu in a folder, which we open to find a message from Daniel Boulud and his autograph. It should accompany our French Laundry framed menu quite well.
On my Facebook profile, I've jokingly said that one of my pursuits is "finding a restaurant that tops French Laundry." Last night, I did. Rich couldn't have given me a better anniversary and birthday present. It wasn't just a cake with icing -- last night was icing upon icing upon icing for a very rich and incredible cake.
At one point during the night, I found my way to the ladies' room; a woman with a beautiful scarf was at the sinks -- let's be honest, they were probably gold-plated marble bowls -- and I complimented her on it. She says, in a great Southern accent, "Why, thank you. You look lovely. Isn't this just the most wonderful restaurant we could be at tonight in all the world?"
I grinned. "It certainly is," I said.
Rich had been telling me for a few weeks that for our anniversary, we would celebrate at a steakhouse downtown that we've been to before -- he actually took me there three years ago on the night he told me he was taking me to Ireland as a surprise trip (the trip where he proposed). Not that I have the best "surprise radar"; I find that expecting nothing and being prepared for anything means never being disappointed. But I had a feeling something was up.
Yesterday, being St. Patrick's Day and our second anniversary, Rich and I planned to meet at Denise's bar on 55th for a few pints, then head to dinner. He told me to dress up because I do love getting into a cocktail dress, and he had to wear a suit for a meeting in the city that he'd planned with a source from Chicago so he didn't want to be mismatched with me. Again, I felt something was up, but couldn't put my finger on it.
We had a couple of Guinnesses at McGee's and hailed a cab ... and Rich gave an address that definitely wasn't where Angelo and Maxie's was. I felt a mixture of excited panic and intense curiosity: Where in the world was he taking me?
We were quiet in the cab as we headed to 65th Street between Park and Madison. (Yeah, THAT kind of Manhattan neighborhood.) Poor Rich -- he kept telling the cabbie, "This is good," and he wasn't listening. Finally, Rich gets the cab to stop, and we're standing on the corner of Park and 65th. I have no idea what I'm looking for, and Rich was terrified I'd figured it out in the cab or seen it.
He playfully says, "Hmmm, if I were a restaurant, where would I be?" I'm looking at a beautiful building that clearly housed no restaurant I'd ever recognize, and I start to look around me.
My eyes fell on Daniel.
I simultaneously began jumping up and down (no small feat in stilettos) and crying. I looked at Rich, and I'm not even sure I can describe the look on his face. But he knew he'd done good.
You see, I've been dying to go to Daniel for a very, very long time. Even Frank Bruni can't say anything wrong about this place. It's restaurateur Daniel Boulud's flagship restaurant -- he has many around the world, including in Paris -- which is one of just five New York restaurants that currently hold a four-star rating from the New York Times. I'm pretty sure I broke out in hives.
We walk into the restaurant and into a different world. Not that Park Avenue is exactly the noisiest in Manhattan, but through the gold-and-glass revolving doors, and it's like walking into a sleek candlelit cotton ball. We walk down steps, past a sumptuous-looking bar and lounge, and the restaurant opens itself up with cream pillars, dark accents, mirrors, white tabletops, art on the walls and tropical flowers as a backdrop. (Oh, I was still crying as we reached the desk, and the girls good-naturedly laughed and waited patiently as I tried to gather myself.)
We're led to a table separated by cream leather walls with a view into the restaurant. Still crying, I sit as our maitre d' welcomed us warmly ... and brought me a foot-tall ottoman for my purse. "So you do not have to lean over for your bag should you need to," he says. And then he goes to a champagne bucket in the corner, from which he pulls out the 1989 Schramsberg blanc de noirs we've been saving for our second anniversary. Tears begin again, and Rich is just reveling in my excitement and overwhelmedness. It was just as good as we'd hoped.
About a minute later, I'm brought a second ottoman. And I knew -- he'd gone even further and bought me The Bag. They bring out a cream-colored bag (clearly the color of the night), and inside was the bag I've wanted for years. More tears, proclamations of love, etc.
So we finally take a look at the menu, and decide on the 15th-anniversary three-course menu Daniel has been serving in honor of their, well, 15th anniversary and recent renovation. We make our choices, and then a trio of beet amuse bouches arrives -- I was amazed, while Rich wasn't so much a fan, especially of the beet puree with a miniature breadstick. The salade, we both enjoyed, while the first had just a sliver of beet on a shrimp with a bit of herbs. The presentation was simply gorgeous: The three rested on a plank of dark wood in tiny white porcelain bowls, all on a beautiful charger decorated with Daniel's logo.
We decided to add an appetizer -- of course, lobster: a paprika-crusted Maine lobster tail with tempura broccolini, a pine nut gremolata and piquillo coulis. Gorgeous. The bread basket comes around, and though we're not usually big into the bread, we never turned her down when she came around; one of the rolls I chose was an olive and rosemary bite, and there was even soda bread for St. Patrick's Day. I could have had just butter for dinner and been satisfied.
For my next course, I chose the frog leg and watercress veloute with truffled mousseline, black garlic and chervil; Rich chose the Maine peekytoe crab with Fuji apple, celery creme fraiche and hearts of palm. Both, of course, were amazing, but we almost fought over my veloute. Wine pairing: a chardonnay from Au Bon Climat in Santa Barbara County, complete with Daniel's own label.
For my main course, I went with the spiced Elysian Fields farm lamb chop with ras el hanout, chickpea panisses, a "cannelloni" of lamb shoulder, bulgur and apricot. It could just be the best lamb I've ever had in my entire life: cooked to a perfect medium-rare, utterly delicious. Rich apparently liked his duo of dry-aged black Angus beef -- a red-wine-braised short rib with sunchokes and a seared ribeye with hazelnut-potato croquette -- that he didn't even share the mushrooms on the side of his plate. Wine pairing: a Graves Bordeaux, again with Daniel's own label.
One of our waiters comes over and says, "The chef is here tonight." My head, basically put on a swivel at that moment, spins as I try to find him. I figured he was at a table actually eating with friends, with rich regulars -- but no. He's in a chef's jacket, and he's been in the kitchen, and I was so stunned as the waiter gently pointed him out (I knew what he looked like but didn't actually think a guy this big in the food world would be cooking in his own restaurant). We're giddy.
We decide on post-dinner cheese -- and our dreams come rolling in on a perfectly appointed cheese cart. Two blues, a Comte, an ashy goat cheese, a French stinky cheese and a hard cheese I can't remember but adored, go figure -- the proper French coda. Rich indulged in a tawny port.
About 40 minutes after our Daniel sighting, a wall of servers that had smoothly placed itself in front of us parted, and Daniel Boulud himself came over to our table. He says hello and smiles, shaking our hands, welcomes us to his restaurant, congratulates us on our anniversary, and bows out gracefully. "I swear, I couldn't have planned that if I tried," Rich says, the two of us grinning, me still holding my hands over my mouth in disbelief.
Just after that, they bring out a stunning display of dessert plates on tiers, with a chocolate sculpture and flowers -- dammit, why did I not bring the camera! -- and we fight over the plates of chocolate pastries, mango confections and coffee-flavored ice creams, including a chocolate brownie with mascarpone with Ethiopian coffee ice cream, a hazelnut mousse with gianduja and caramel ice cream. It was all accompanied by a late-harvest white and a message in chocolate on a white plate: "Happy 2nd anniversary."
Then it was time for cappuccinos, lattes, petit fours and pastry bites that, to me, compete with French Laundry's sugar-dusted macadamia nuts for "Best Bite that Could Double as Cocaine, It's So Addictive." Our maitre d' comes by and says, "So, would you like a tour of the kitchen?" He might as well have asked us if we like food. We're whisked into the most beautiful, and impossibly clean, kitchen full of worker bees around an insane number of stations, with the chef's glass-walled office just above, overlooking shining green tile walls and a buzz of activity.
We were just knocked out by the staff -- perfectly attentive, attuned to our every need, and yet approachable and easy to talk to. (We found out our maitre d' lives in West New York and shops up in Edgewater.) Our every desire was taken care of in blissfully fast fashion, and while it was clear we aren't exactly the types who have the money to frequent a place like Daniel very often, we were treated like royalty.
Yet a third ottoman arrives, and the staff has brought us the night's menu in a folder, which we open to find a message from Daniel Boulud and his autograph. It should accompany our French Laundry framed menu quite well.
On my Facebook profile, I've jokingly said that one of my pursuits is "finding a restaurant that tops French Laundry." Last night, I did. Rich couldn't have given me a better anniversary and birthday present. It wasn't just a cake with icing -- last night was icing upon icing upon icing for a very rich and incredible cake.
At one point during the night, I found my way to the ladies' room; a woman with a beautiful scarf was at the sinks -- let's be honest, they were probably gold-plated marble bowls -- and I complimented her on it. She says, in a great Southern accent, "Why, thank you. You look lovely. Isn't this just the most wonderful restaurant we could be at tonight in all the world?"
I grinned. "It certainly is," I said.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Slainte
And they said they wouldn't last.Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. Even in our most heated moments, even we know that there is absolutely no one else on Earth who would be better for each us than, well, each other. It's not about finishing each other's sentences -- though we do that with alarming frequency -- or being on the same page all the time, which we're not.
We agreed, though, that what makes us perfect for each other -- I didn't say perfect, just perfect for each other -- is that we fill in the blanks, the empty spaces, for the other. Sometimes it chafes, sometimes it's beyond wonderful. But most of the time, it feels like no matter how much we change, how much we endure together, we'll still be together 50 years from now. And that feels pretty awesome.
Happy anniversary, Q.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Musings and updates
I'll leave the Napa wrapup to Rich this year, though I might post some photos for those of you who aren't on Facebook (though Facebook has made me considerably lazier when it comes to blogging).
Anyhoo, recent happenings/observances:
1. The Sears in Jersey City sucks. We went there to use a gift card on a can of paint for the kitchen -- just one wall, in case you're wondering how one gallon could cover our gigantic kitchen -- and it turns out their paint-mixing machine is down. Also, hordes of staff just standing around being unhelpful in a store that was mostly useless from wall to wall. Blech.
2. Of the dozen wine goblets we registered for and received, exactly half remain; the others have been broken at various points by me. It seems to be a habit, as I proved at Spring Mountain. It depresses me.
3a. Bessie went in today for a massive car repair. I want to be sick to my stomach, but when I think about the things I haven't paid for in the eight years I've had her, it's about time I complete the big-time maintenance list. She's still delightfully intact and fundamentally sound, and I really don't want a car payment and higher insurance right now. We'll bite the bullet and pay the rather large chunk of cash to get her on the road again.
3b. The catalyst for Bessie's repairs? A flat tire, which Rich impressively replaced with a dummy in the middle of Hoboken on Monday night. The kicker? The dummy was flat when we got in our cars to take her to the mechanic today, so I had to cash in a AAA Plus tow.
3c. This weekend, I will also once again become a legal New Jersey driver. About time I do it.
4. I'll mention Napa briefly: It was awesome. I also proved that I am still not a grownup, as evidenced by my shameful behavior on the last day. Sigh.
5. Next week marks two years of marriage for Bich. We'll celebrate with a 20-year-old bottle of champagne and some steak.
6. The day after that marks my third 29th birthday. Let that be the end of that discussion.
7. What do you think Sarah Palin is thinking about right now? How much do you want to bet that personal experience has changed her perspective a little?
8. Methinks Nadya Suleman did not have good timing in mind when she decided to have eight more children on the taxpayers' dime just before the economy crashed. She's been quoted as saying she expected, at one time, to get donations to help pay for her children's care but that she has not received any. I'm also thinking that there are a lot of families who planned very carefully for their two or three offspring and are now busy hanging onto jobs or looking for them in order to take care of their OWN children -- and don't give one iota of a damn for a woman who expected strangers to take care of her mommy issues.
9. In one of the stranger things that I'll ever admit, Woman's World has changed my life. Yes, I've taken one piece of advice from the magazine -- and it's worked. I'm a night person; the transition to a "normal" work schedule has been hard, as I'm biologically wired to stay up until at least 3 a.m. So I decided to try melatonin, the synthetic version of the hormone that signals the body that it's time to go to bed. After taking a dose in the evenings for about a week, I have been in bed before 11:30, if not before 11, and even 10:30 in one instance. To those who know me best: HOW WEIRD IS THAT?
Anyhoo, recent happenings/observances:
1. The Sears in Jersey City sucks. We went there to use a gift card on a can of paint for the kitchen -- just one wall, in case you're wondering how one gallon could cover our gigantic kitchen -- and it turns out their paint-mixing machine is down. Also, hordes of staff just standing around being unhelpful in a store that was mostly useless from wall to wall. Blech.
2. Of the dozen wine goblets we registered for and received, exactly half remain; the others have been broken at various points by me. It seems to be a habit, as I proved at Spring Mountain. It depresses me.
3a. Bessie went in today for a massive car repair. I want to be sick to my stomach, but when I think about the things I haven't paid for in the eight years I've had her, it's about time I complete the big-time maintenance list. She's still delightfully intact and fundamentally sound, and I really don't want a car payment and higher insurance right now. We'll bite the bullet and pay the rather large chunk of cash to get her on the road again.
3b. The catalyst for Bessie's repairs? A flat tire, which Rich impressively replaced with a dummy in the middle of Hoboken on Monday night. The kicker? The dummy was flat when we got in our cars to take her to the mechanic today, so I had to cash in a AAA Plus tow.
3c. This weekend, I will also once again become a legal New Jersey driver. About time I do it.
4. I'll mention Napa briefly: It was awesome. I also proved that I am still not a grownup, as evidenced by my shameful behavior on the last day. Sigh.
5. Next week marks two years of marriage for Bich. We'll celebrate with a 20-year-old bottle of champagne and some steak.
6. The day after that marks my third 29th birthday. Let that be the end of that discussion.
7. What do you think Sarah Palin is thinking about right now? How much do you want to bet that personal experience has changed her perspective a little?
8. Methinks Nadya Suleman did not have good timing in mind when she decided to have eight more children on the taxpayers' dime just before the economy crashed. She's been quoted as saying she expected, at one time, to get donations to help pay for her children's care but that she has not received any. I'm also thinking that there are a lot of families who planned very carefully for their two or three offspring and are now busy hanging onto jobs or looking for them in order to take care of their OWN children -- and don't give one iota of a damn for a woman who expected strangers to take care of her mommy issues.
9. In one of the stranger things that I'll ever admit, Woman's World has changed my life. Yes, I've taken one piece of advice from the magazine -- and it's worked. I'm a night person; the transition to a "normal" work schedule has been hard, as I'm biologically wired to stay up until at least 3 a.m. So I decided to try melatonin, the synthetic version of the hormone that signals the body that it's time to go to bed. After taking a dose in the evenings for about a week, I have been in bed before 11:30, if not before 11, and even 10:30 in one instance. To those who know me best: HOW WEIRD IS THAT?
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Love, and all that
In exactly one week, Bich, Duck and the McGriccas will be disembarking at San Francisco International and trekking up to the Napa Valley, America's true center of bacchanalia (Vegas be damned).
When we scheduled the trip, I had no idea it was over Valentine's Day -- at least three of us have Presidents Day off, and with Rich's awful vacation schedule, we wanted to take advantage of it for a long weekend sipping wine, nibbling cheese and generally getting fat.
Rich and I just don't celebrate Valentine's Day. I think he got me flowers the first year we were together, but that's been it.
I hate Valentine's Day. I used to dress in all black that day and send my friends bouquets of black balloons. I usually fought with my high-school boyfriend that day (too much love, I guess), and it left a sour taste. So I sort of pushed it out of my consciousness. And as long as we avoid restaurants and date-y places on Valentine's Day, it's not so hard to forget it exists.
As it turns out, my parents actually injected some true feeling into Valentine's Day -- by making it their anniversary 24 years ago in a little church ceremony witnessed by close family and their three kids, they turned a Hallmark holiday into something actually romantic.
An anniversary marks another year of togetherness, making it through 365 days without killing each other, helping each other through tough times, sharing joys. These days, all couples should be proud to have survived each other and the outside forces that sometimes work against a relationship. That is, for the couples who actually belong together.
I've been a hypocrite, it would seem. St. Patrick's Day isn't any more or less important than Valentine's Day; I simply prefer to celebrate days honoring saints with beer and surrounded by friends rather than with mushy sentiments of love (I'm kind of unemotional that way), especially when so many women work themselves into tizzies of expectation over Feb. 14 that a poor guy can't possibly satisfy her.
It's been said so many times that it's almost a cliché in its own right, but love should be celebrated always, in whatever way is important to you -- not in ways that a marketing-driven society tells you is acceptable. Don't pick one day to show up with half-dead flowers or a picked-over card for your loved one.
Pick St. Patrick's Day and join us at McSorley's instead!
When we scheduled the trip, I had no idea it was over Valentine's Day -- at least three of us have Presidents Day off, and with Rich's awful vacation schedule, we wanted to take advantage of it for a long weekend sipping wine, nibbling cheese and generally getting fat.
Rich and I just don't celebrate Valentine's Day. I think he got me flowers the first year we were together, but that's been it.
I hate Valentine's Day. I used to dress in all black that day and send my friends bouquets of black balloons. I usually fought with my high-school boyfriend that day (too much love, I guess), and it left a sour taste. So I sort of pushed it out of my consciousness. And as long as we avoid restaurants and date-y places on Valentine's Day, it's not so hard to forget it exists.
As it turns out, my parents actually injected some true feeling into Valentine's Day -- by making it their anniversary 24 years ago in a little church ceremony witnessed by close family and their three kids, they turned a Hallmark holiday into something actually romantic.
An anniversary marks another year of togetherness, making it through 365 days without killing each other, helping each other through tough times, sharing joys. These days, all couples should be proud to have survived each other and the outside forces that sometimes work against a relationship. That is, for the couples who actually belong together.
I've been a hypocrite, it would seem. St. Patrick's Day isn't any more or less important than Valentine's Day; I simply prefer to celebrate days honoring saints with beer and surrounded by friends rather than with mushy sentiments of love (I'm kind of unemotional that way), especially when so many women work themselves into tizzies of expectation over Feb. 14 that a poor guy can't possibly satisfy her.
It's been said so many times that it's almost a cliché in its own right, but love should be celebrated always, in whatever way is important to you -- not in ways that a marketing-driven society tells you is acceptable. Don't pick one day to show up with half-dead flowers or a picked-over card for your loved one.
Pick St. Patrick's Day and join us at McSorley's instead!
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