Dream Jobs

It doesn’t matter how happy - or complacent - you are in your current job, because everyone dreams about some other job they could have. Maybe it’s the plight of being a New Yorker, where there’s always a better-looking person you could be dating, a better glass of wine you could have ordered, and some more exciting way to celebrate New Year’s Eve (which bites you in the ass when you wait for that better offer that never comes).

I watch a lot of TV at night before going to bed, and inevitably I happen across "The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch," starring the ad agency mogul and a lineup of inventors, celebrities, and entrepreneurs that have made millions by following their dreams (including, in fact, the heads of my company). But the problem everybody has is figuring out what they really want to do.

For me personally, I don’t think any of my dream jobs would make me a millionaire. Working at a record label, at one point, was my dream job - and the music industry is notoriously low-paying (except, clearly, for the heads of my company). And now as I fantasize about what else there is out there for me to do, I have the sinking feeling it’s going to be a long time before I can afford to buy an apartment.

My dream jobs, in no particular order:

• soap opera star
  
• sitcom actor
  
• flavor innovator (there’s a lot more they could be doing with peanut butter)
  
• subway ad scraper
  
• newspaper/magazine columnist
  
• entertainment reporter
  
• VJ (except they don’t really exist anymore)
  
• intrepid travel diarist
  
• bar owner
  
• trial attorney

I’ve actually always kind of hoped that I would have several careers throughout my life, remembering a conductor who died when I worked at Atlantic who, in addition to his classical career, was also an attorney and a medical doctor. I figure I can become a novelist or something when I’m old and ugly, and only a thumbnail headshot of me is required for the back cover.

But in the meantime while I’m young and still relatively attractive, what’s next for me?

I look forward to finding out.

Everyone Was Looking at My Legs

I had to go out tonight. Everyone had been looking at my legs today.

I’d decided to wear the red-and-black fishnets, the ones from this picture which had gotten so much attention already. Walking down the street, I had women and men stop me to tell me how great my hosiery was, and even more that just stared.

I’d had my heart set on seeing Dark Fair at the Swiss Institute so I waited in line for a while outside, slowly realizing I was dressed too nicelycompared to all the hipster folk I was surrounded by. When I finally got in, after at least a half hour wait outside, I immediately played pinball and wondered why I was there. There didn’t seem to be anytihng else to do.

After I left, after a bit of SoHo walking about which resulted in nothing, I went to Mercat so  I could just sit and drink. Fortuitously, a party rejected their shrimp order, so I got to eat their head-on prawns in olive oil and peanuts. After that, my appetite was whet enough to order the sauteed brussel sprouts with chestnuts and serrano, while a free order of pea shoots with pine nuts and golden raisins appeared from a waiter who felt sorry for me being alone.

After also getting a free bite of the duck with the roasted pear with cinnamon and chocolate, I was really starting to think it was MY NIGHT. When I got the bill, I was only charged for 1 wine out of three.Still, I kind of felt like I was cheating on Bar Jamon. I ordered Mercat’s version of pan con tomate and kind of liked it better. And I liked the txakoli better than the albarino.But the guys there weren’t as cute.

I did meet two other patrons and followed them next door for another drink, but the one I didn’t want wanted me, and the one I did want wanted someone else. Such is life. Typical of the way things always used to go, and the way I once refused to go again in the future.

So I thought I might try to withdraw from Bar Jamon this weekend, but now I feel even more strongly about going...

Earlier in the evening, while strutting my stockinged legs and sore heeled feet through the cobblestone streets of SoHo, a guy stopped to ask me if I’d been stood up. His accent threw me off and I thought he was asking if I was trying to stand out.

I suppose I was.

Brain Waves

Tonight I attended one of the BrainWave festival events at the CUNY Graduate Center. We got to watch musicians’ brain waves measured via EEG while they were playing music, pretending to play music, and thinking about playing music.

I found that the musicians were somewhat distracted by their own brains, and kept turning around to monitor their brain wave progress on the big screen behind them.

I think we’re all sort of intrigued with the way our inner workings...well...work. People to go therapy, psychics, naturopathic doctors and acupuncturists just to hear about themselves - the good, the bad, the diseased, the dysfunctional. Even worse, people go on dates just to talk about what the other person thinks of them.

If given the chance, people will buy wall art of their own DNA or thumbprint. And they’ll look at their reflection wherever they can find one: in a store window, a mirror, even a spoon.

I’ve actually had two EEGs in my life, so I know something about how my brain is firing. As a young kid, I suddenly began to have what appeared to be seizures, but it was more just passing out and then having convulsions. Of course my parents panicked that I was epileptic, though thankfully not having soiled myself.

After seeing Dr. Marasigan, a neurologist whose instructions to touch my nose I couldn’t understand through his thick accent, I went into the hospital twice and had electrodes glued to my scalp through my hair. I lied down on some gurney while they tried to instigate some brain reaction by flashing lights through my closed eyes.

Turns out I wasn’t epileptic, but after passing out in my living room, in the bathroom, and in church and having an out-of-body experience each time, I thought I was either dying or really in touch with the spirit world. Instead, they said I was only vasovagal, typically hyperventilating and passing out in response to stressful circumstances. Considering my childhood, I’m surprised I ever stayed awake.

I think the last time I passed out was in the chair at the oral surgeon’s office before getting my wisdom tooth pulled a few years ago here in NYC. I think that means my life is less stressful. I guess that’s a good thing.

Still, I kept wanting to volunteer myself as an EEG subject tonight. I’m curious what my brain has to tell me nowadays.

Like a Cat...

I don’t get to express my drama geek side very often anymore. Even going to Naked Angels’ Tuesdays @ 9 doesn’t feel very theatery (except for the typical and predictable overacting that occurs there). But I was raised on Thornton Wilder and Edward Albee and, of course, Tennessee Williams.

I’d performed in scenes from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in high school (as Maggie The Cat, of course, since I have a certain Liz Taylor quality about me) but I’d never seen a production of it, only having watched bits of the movie. So when I had the chance to see the groundbreaking new cast on Broadway starring Terrence Howard and James Earl Jones, I dug deep and paid my $100 for a ticket in the sixth row.

It felt like an event. The excitement in the air was palpable. It was Easter Sunday, and everyone was dressed in their Sunday Best. Finally, once again attending theater in New York City was a special occasion.

Maybe it’s because it was an audience that hasn’t had their minds fried by Clay Aiken in Spamalot or any number of cheesy C-list celebrities in Chicago. Instead of Marilu Henner (who I really have seen in Chicago), we got to see Oscar nominees and Tony winners in a play that uses real words like "mendacity" and "avarice" alongside "fuck" and "crap"! Sure, you have to suspend your disbelief pretty hard to enter a world where a black family runs a plantation in the south in the 1950s with black servants. But somehow, it works. Sometimes all it takes is good acting.

So what’s next for me? Maybe I’ll skip Young Frankenstein and see Albee direct Albee at the Cherry Lane Theatre.

Further reading:
A Black ’Cat,’ Catching An Elusive Audience - The New York Times

Operation Exploration

[Ed: Some edits made 9/15/16 for clarity and quality]

Somehow being out in the West made me feel like an explorer—like I wanted to blaze new trails of my own.

Standing on the beach behind the Hotel Del Coronado, being blinded by the gold flecks in the sand even through my sunglasses, I started dreaming of the Gold Rush and cowboys and every type of rancho I could think of.

During our San Diego trip, we used our downtown hotel, The Sofia, as a base camp for our many adventures - and not just the 59-Mile Scenic Drive that took us through La Jolla, Mission Beach and Pacific Beach.

Formerly owned by a groundbreaking stagecoach company, and currently located in the same building as Greyhound, it seemed appropriate as a launching point for our many travels (despite its very weird position near the County Court buildings, the law library, and several bail bond providers).

On Friday we drove about an hour north to Temecula, Southern California's wine country situated between San Diego and Los Angeles, serving both communities with lush rolling hills, strawberry patches, and, of course, vineyards.

Trying to curb our intoxication so we could actually drive home, we visited four wineries:

• the Hart family-run winery
• Callaway, the area's first winery
• La Cereza, where we found a great bottle of "Girlfriends," a Gewurtztraminer blend, to ship home
• Falker, where we found a great bottle of Riesling to bring back to the hotel with us, and spotted a bunny rabbit hopping across their outdoor tasting area

Filled up on wine, we decided to leave the rest of the wineries for another day and head into Old Town Temecula, where we happened upon the annual Rod Run which took over the streets with tricked-out lowriders and convertibles with their shiny inner workings hanging out for all the world to see.



Amidst the revving engines and hooting and hollering, we stopped into the Temecula Olive Oil Company for one more tasting, where they gave us shot glasses of olive varietals, sometimes with balsamic chasers and mixers.



The next day, we took the harrowing route 94 south, taking winding roads through mountains and canyons and big boulder rocks to Campo, CA, where we met up with the Pacific Southwest Railway Museum for their "Ticket to Tecate" historic train ride to Mexico.

I'd really wanted to go to Mexico but had no interest in tourist trap Tijuana nor in driving there, fully aware of police corruption, so this group excursion was perfect. The volunteer conductors and trainmen were personable and informative, and although Edith and I felt very young amongst our mostly-retired fellow travellers, we loved every minute of it. No matter how weird it was.


The old San Diego Arizona Railway was renowned at its launch and even featured in a bunch of silent movies, but it was a horrible failure and victim to natural disasters and sabotage. We rode one of the later San Diego & Arizona diesel locomotives through the border into Mexico, past factories and innumerable shacks from which kids ran out to wave at the passing train, right into Tecate, namesake for the popular Mexican beer. With just about three hours to waste in Tecate, we grabbed margaritas and lunch (and an extended serenade of "Imagine" by a busker) at Lolo's near the plaza, took the Tecate brewery tour clad in hard hats and safety goggles (free 16 oz tallboy can included), and stopped at the town's only bakery for some delicious pastries and dulce.

On our way out of Tecate I noticed the Mexican kids waving again, but on this side of the train they ran right up to it, arms outstretched, and the Americans in the back of the train threw change out to them (the American dollar is accepted in Tecate in addition to pesos). Edith and I remarked about it and the couple across from us no sooner confirmed what was happening than actually took out a dollar bill, shouted out, "Hey, amigo!" and then chucked it out the window to a little boy, which was met with squeals and screams. These are kids that are being brought up in houses made of cinder blocks and tarps with advertisements printed on them, so they could surely use the money, but the whole thing felt like a petting zoo to me, treating those poor kids like animals.

When we got back to Campo, we decided we wanted to extend our Mexican experience so after rinsing off at the hotel, we took the Trolley to the flipside experience, San Diego's Old Town. A big tourist destination because of the strip of Mexican joints and all the Mexican-themed souvenir shops (which look nothing like Mexico), Old Town is considered the "birthplace" of California, the site of the first Spanish settlement.

We visited at night, so we missed all the historical elements and instead went off the beaten path to eat at El Agave, a Mexican restaurant with a bit more haute cuisine and over a thousand tequilas.

Balancing out eating/drinking with adventure, I think I could have spent at least one more day on this trip, and I can definitely foresee another trip in the future. There's still whale-watching, paragliding, hot air ballooning, hiking, and all sorts of other activities to be done. And maybe even the chance to poke my head into the BBQ restaurant that Top Gun made famous.

But I'm glad to be back in NYC. Ask me today, and I'll say that life is good.

California Girl

I've never thought of myself much as a California Girl, but that's mostly from my trips to LA where I feel completely out of place. When I visited San Francisco in November '06, I actually thought I could live there - the first city I've ever considered an alternative to New York. But despite my East Coast upbringing and uptight nature, something keeps drawing me back to California.

I had a free flight to redeem on JetBlue (thanks to all that business travelling), so I decided to go somewhere far, where I'd never been. San Diego seemed as good as anyplace so I booked my trip for early March, when I'd surely be sick of NYC winter weather and I'd be longing for a trip (especially since I was skipping WMC this year).

In the process of evaluating a particular vacation destination, I always ask myself, "What's there?" In the case of San Diego, the answer was: wine country, mountains, lighthouses, beaches, and Mexico. That sounded like enough for a trip. Turns out it was actually too much for one trip, because I could have used at least one more day to drive on historic Highway 101, to explore the lighthouses of Point Loma, and to live the life of a local in San Diego.

Upon arrival on Wednesday, with Edith in tow, I drove to Coronado to see the historic Hotel Del Coronado, best-known for key scenes from Some Like It Hot and as the place where L. Frank Baum wrote The Wizard of Oz (the hotel's architecture itself perhaps inspiring Emerald City). We had a great late lunch there, joined by dozens of loud chirping birds with French fries in their beaks, and then walked along the beach, digging our toes into the empty mussell shells and getting gold rush glitter all over the tops of our feet. The sand there is firm and cold, textured and striated, sparkling in the sundown sun. And the water was freezing yet refreshing.

Our first night in the city, we did a bit of exploring through the historic Gaslamp District which might as well be Bleecker Street. We felt like we belonged a bit more at Quarter Kitchen in the Ivy Hotel, where we sipped a delightful Gruner Veltliner and sat at the bar of the open kitchen watching the chefs work their magic on food that smelled better than anything we'd experienced in recent NYC history. The Raw and the Cooked artichoke salad and lobster risotto were satisfying, but I still had the idea of going back and trying everything else on the menu in the back of my mind during the rest of our trip. And hoping to catch scraps from the kitchen in my mouth like a dog sitting on a kitchen threshold on Thanksgiving Day.

I tried not to make our entire trip about eating and drinking, but San Diego is known for its food and wine, so we definitely tried to take advantage. We had breakfast at Cafe 222 twice, eating both cornbread and pumpkin waffles and various egg dishes and good coffee with great service and a funky atmosphere that included chandeliers made of teacups and spoons. We also had dinner at The Guild, the restaurant outpost of a metal and design shop factory that's actually attached to (and visible from) the back, in a factory-dominated neighborhood that looks like it's bound for a NYC-style hipster takeover.

Our last morning before leaving, we brunched at Cafe Chloe, an elegant Parisian bistro east of downtown with delicious homemade croissants, a huge bowl of Mexican hot chocolate, and a clientele distinctly comprised of locals instead of Gaslamp-frequenting tourists.

The drinks in San Diego met every high expectation, from Porfidio tequila at the Grant Grill in the U.S. Grant hotel to the Karl Strauss locally-brewed beer at their downtown restaurant to the hundreds of beers on tap at the Yard House(including the Coronado Mermaid Red Ale), the only bar we could stand in downtown San Diego.

But as I said, we focused more on excursions outside the city. On Thursday we drove north to La Jolla where we braved kayaking for the first time in freezing cold water and burning hot sun. Overcoming my fears, we paddled out into the ocean by the La Jolla caves (which we weren't allowed to go into) and La Jolla Cove, where some really intense swimmers crossed our path. Mostly we were overwhelmed by the sound of the beached sea lions, barking out into the late morning, growls echoing off the rocks, making them sound like the smoky monster in LOST.

It was actually great to get some exercise while on vacation, but I was pretty intimidated by the idea of being out in the middle of the ocean by ourselves in a two-seater, especially when the ocean swelled and tipped our boat a bit. Thank God Edith has had some experience on the water, because I made her take charge (a nice switcheroo from me driving the rental car pretty much everywhere).

When we made it back to shore safely, a fully-dressed guy in jeans said to us, "Aren't you girls cold?" When we said we actually felt pretty good, he said, "You must be northerners then!" and we chuckled and kind of nodded, proud of where we're from and what we'd done.

A little self-reward came in the form of fish tacos at George's with a great ocean view and a bottle of Cucapa Osbscura cerveza, and a cute waiter to serve it to us.

Unfortunately, later in the evening, a horrendous sunburn emerged on the tops of my feet, shins, and arms that prevented me from sleeping properly and throbbing so badly that the look on my face sent Edith to the pharmacy for some Lanacane and Advil.

More adventures to be told later...

Getting It Out of My System

After 12 hours of abusing myself yesterday, I decided it was time to take care of myself today.

Even though I hate to wake up to the alarm, I set it for 11:30 this morning so I could make it to the restorative yoga class on 56th St. I didn't even really eat breakfast (or, er, shower) because I was so looking forward to lying on the floor in the dark, but when I got there, I realized I was in for something very different. My teacher, first off, was about 75 years old. Her teaching style was reminiscent of teaching circus performers how to execute gymnastic tricks, encouraging us to flail our arms wildly and flop our heads around - totally antithetical to what's supposed to happen in a yoga or pilates class. Clearly not restorative but not really of any other yoga practice either, it was like taking a sitcom version of yoga, watching her vocalize weird sounds and twist her body unrhythmically.

I decided to go with it instead of walking out (like I normally would) since I know enough about yoga to adjust her instructions and actually execute some proper poses like tree and warrior 1. But overall the class was distracting and not restorative at all, especially when the elderly teacher's joints kept cracking like bubble wrap every time she demonstrated a move.

Still, I felt like I accomplished something, and I got all limbered up for the lymphatic drainage massage I'd scheduled for later in the afternoon. I'd been wanting to drain my lymph system ever since my massage in Minneapolis in October pinpointed pain behind my knees, so when I read about it in this week's Time Out, I was excited to try it. I went to the Dorit Baxter spa on 57th St, which I expected to be a lush Midtown hideaway but instead was kind of ghetto and stressful. When I actually got into the massage room, though, I was immediately relaxed, and excited for the light touch that LDM is known for (which often frustrates people who like a deep tissue attack when they get massaged). I kept expecting to have an emergency-level urge to pee like the article said, but instead my stomach kept gurgling to an embarrassing extent. And a couple moves made me a little lightheaded. I guess I'm just not used to having my armpits massaged.

Overall it felt good and my sneakers felt a little looser afterwards, but my bloat is so severe that I think it's going to take more than one massage to fix it. My ring won't fit at all today. And my legs don't feel like my own. I'm supposed to drink a lot of water and elevate my feet today, which I should probably do everyday, so that might help.

I'm pretty adventurous when it comes to this stuff and, as Edith says, I'm the kind of person who takes action when I want to do something. So expect more dispatches from the world of holistic practices, homeopathic remedies, and naturopathic medicine. And weird infomercial products.

Or maybe I'll just take an epsom salt bath tonight.

Day of Rest

Normally I shut down on Sundays. I get really stressed about going back to work on Monday, and I've never been able to shake my Catholic upbringing that trained me to tense up on Sunday. But when Sunday falls before a Monday off...well, that's another story.

I took a little extra time off this weekend so I really wanted to feel like I was on vacation, and make it count. I suggested we meet up in Brooklyn this Sunday afternoon, something I would normally be too tired or too stressed to do, but today was more than happy to hop on the G train to Greenpoint Ave. and check out some of the new establishments that have popped up near my first apartment in NYC circa 1997.

We settled on Black Rabbit to start, a beautifully-restored bar across from the live poultry slaughterhouse that serves a great selection of beer and some German- and English-friendly nibbles like Welsh rarebit fondue. Boy do I wish something like that existed when I lived on the block.

We then moved over to the Radegast Hall, the elusive Williamsburg-based beer garden that took forever to open but certainly delivers. Between the full kitchen and the quick-serve grill, the place emanates a delicious smell and has pretty reasonably-priced (and authentically-curated) German and Belgian beers. We marvelled at the size of the place and the Hungarian-borne appliances. I'm afraid to tell you how good the kielbasa was, especially washed down with some Spaten Oktoberfest and Hofbrauhaus Dunkel.

Across the street we stopped into The Levee where we binged on cheese balls and a beer/tequila combo called The Texas Two-Step which involved a bottle of Lone Star and a shot. But we were really only avoiding the inevitable: our maiden voyage to the Zombie Hut, a mere car service ride away in Carroll Gardens, ish.

We managed to drink a frozen zombie cocktail in a big bowl built for four AND order a round of Tiki Torch shots (which involve setting the bar on fire and roasting marshmallows) before going across the street to the Cubana Cafe for dinner and then going BACK to the Zombie Hut for more. As far as tiki bars go, this one is pretty good, but I have to say I was most entertained by winning several games of Connect Four, something not Polynesian but intoxicating nevertheless.

After twelve hours of drinking in Brooklyn I was lucky enough to catch a cab home to Manhattan for only $20, with an intense feeling of satisfaction for the day I've had. Good friends, lots of laughs, delicious food, and an excursion that really felt like an event. I love long weekends!

Will I Be My Valentine?

All narcissism aside, I am the best date I've ever had. I always take myself out to a place I want to go, I always pay for me, and I always get lucky at the end of the night. What could be better?

After my recent brief dating debacle, I was actually really glad to be alone on Valentine's Day this year. Other years have sucked, particularly last year, when right about now I was just getting out of work. But this year I took off early, having lunch with Edith at Uno's and then getting my hair did at Wonderland - which, combined with my recent grooming, pedicure and teeth whitening, made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. I then took my bad self out for drinks and dinner to Gramery Tavern, a Danny Meyer dream for someone like me who's already obsessed with Blue Smoke and Shake Shack.

After an orgasmic stuffed meatball and bacon-chocolate tart, I met up with Michelle for cocktails at Flatiron Lounge, a place where I would not find cute boys but which always feels like a special occasion.

I tried to go to George's bar for some mayhem, but without George there, it just didn't seem worth it. And after considering a late-night stop at Rodeo Bar, I just decided to go home, satisfied with myself and in not finding Prince Charming tonight. I've never found him any other Valentine's Day, might as well go home and watch LOST instead.

I did get one flower today, a rose from our mailroom assistant who distributed them to every female in our office. It didn't make me feel special, but it did give me a bit of a tingle I wouldn't have otherwise had.

Happy Valentine's Day indeed. In a terrifying turn of events, I'm content being alone.

Adventure At Full Throttle

The smell of gasoline is still in my nose. Or maybe it's the pile of petrol-stink clothes on my floor.

But I'm OK extending the experience of my day, a great day of snowmobiling in the Poconos.

I've been on the Adventure Society mailing list for a while now, but their only event I've actually attended so far has been their very strange holiday party. By the looks of their newsletter, they have great excursions that tap into the thrill-seeking side of adults with enough disposable income to feed it. Hangliding, skydiving, horseback riding, sensual massage...whatever tickles your...fancy.

Today's snowmobiling trip was paired with a brewery visit which just sounded like heaven, but for a while it looked like it wasn't going to happen. It hasn't been the snowiest winter - thanks to global warming - and they warned us that there wouldn't be enough snow and we'd probably have to do ATVing instead. But on the drive across 80W into Pennsylvania, I kept pointing out all the mounds of snow in driveways and fields and on lakes, wondering why they just couldn't import some in.

When we finally got to Long Pond Rentals after a two-hour drive, we were greeted by...snowmobiles! And just enough of a white dusting.

Much like skydiving, they don't really tell you anything before you get on. And lucky for me, I had one of the old rickety snowmobiles that doesn't go in reverse and really stinks the air and my hair up with the smell of gasoline. On top of that, my snowmobile had a really hard time steering left, something I discovered conveniently right before I crashed into what turned out to be a small creek covered in snow. I had to hitch a ride back to the office and get two burly guys to lift it out for me. That was within the first five minutes. At least I didn't wrap it around a tree. (Don't worry, Edith is fine. Pictures forthcoming.)

I had a really good time though it was totally a foreign experience. I haven't ridden a bicycle even in probably fifteen years. And I've only ridden the back of a motorcycle once. Never jet-skied. And with little instruction, they allowed me all by myself on that thing.

At first I explored the wooded trails a bit, very leisurely while I got a handle on the operation of the machinery, but once I crashed and started to avoid the really narrow passageways, I decided to go out the wide open and break in the virgin snow in the middle of a big field. A combination of driving around in big circles and doing a bit of off-roading on some bouncy territory with gas fumes pumping into my lungs made me a little nauseous, especially when I kept squeezing the throttle over every big bump. I think I only used the brake once. And that wasn't even when I crashed.

You're not doing much, but the adrenaline rush and the tense navigation is tiring, so we had a full day out of an hour and a half of snowmobiling. Then our trip leader drove the van back into New Jersey for a late lunch at Long Valley Pub and Brewery, where of course I had to order the seven-beer sampler paddle. The Long Valley's Best Bitter was great, as was the seasonal pale ale and the food too. We heard they have a big Oktoberfest celebration so I suspect we might find our way back there at some point.

There are a million reasons to go back to the Poconos, and not just the proximity to so many Arby's, Friendy's, Perkins and Cracker Barrel. There's the Caesar's with the champagne glass hot tubs, the Great Wolf Lodge, the Stock Car Racing Experience and so many historic brown signs!

I'm really glad my takeaways of the day were a wet butt, some gassy clothes and a full belly rather than the mudbath I would have gotten four-wheeling. But now that I think of it, I kind of want to do that now too.