smalltimore

So you thought, "UPS" is an accronym for "United Parcel Service"? Wrong. UPS = U Purchase Socks.

Yesterday when my UPS guy delivered yet another package for my neighbor who is addicted to online shopping, I noticed his socks. They were the trademark UPS brown, ankle height, with the little UPS logo on them. "Wow," I said, "You even have UPS socks?" And that's when the UPS guy let me in on a little-known fact. If the UPS guy wants to wear the UPS shorts, which the company issues to it's employees for free, the employee has to BUY the UPS socks! And they are like $25 for 6 pairs! What a racket.

Yesterday my friend Matthew called me from London. He checks in about once a week for trans-Atlantic gossip. Most often he has more to offer than I do, but I had a few tidbits for him this week. "I dropped Jonathan off at the airport last night," I told him. "He's gone." Jonathan now officially lives in Budapest, Hungary. How weird is that? Jonathan has met Matthew several times, both in Baltimore and in London when we have travelled together.

"Were you sad?" Matthew asked me. "I was sad," I said, "But not as sad as I thought I would be."

Goodbyes have never been my forte. Ever. When I was little, we lived near Pittsburgh, and my grandparents lived just outside of DC. We would visit them 2 or 3 times a year. While we were with them, no one was allowed to ask questions like, "When are you going back?" in front of me because there was potential for near-hysterics. I couldn't help it. I loved my Grandmother so much and we didn't get to see her very often. I always bawled my eyes out from her front porch at least until we hit Breezewood, PA. My mother still tells the story of one goodbye in particular. My Grandmother's best friend and next-door neighbor, Mrs. Quimby, came out in the yard to see us off. I cried and cried and cried so much that finally Mrs. Quimby threw her arms up in the air, wailed, "I can't stand it!", burst into tears herself and ran inside her house. Another time, when we were older, I was probably eleven and my brother was nine, he and I were sitting in the car while our parents loaded our suitcases in the trunk. I was staring out the window, trying very hard to be a big girl and not cry. My brother, who couldn't see my face, said to me, "Remember when we were littler and you would cry every time we left here --" and as I turned to face him I couldn't stop the big wet teardrops spilling out of my eyes and down my cheeks.

I was very surprised that I wasn't more sad as Jonathan left, actually. On the drive to the airport I told myself, save it for later, just have a nice goodbye. But though I got a little misty driving back into town by myself, the "later" never came.

I think I am just too excited for, and jealous of, Jonathan. If given the opportunity to work and live in Europe legally, though I know I would no doubt leap at the chance, that doesn't mean it wouldn't be scary. It takes tremendous courage to jump into the unknown, to leave your family, friends, your country. Not for the faint of heart. I'm really very proud of him, and I look forward to living vicariously through him. And of course, I look forward to having another free place to stay in Europe.

I think that as I have grown up, or at least as I have grown older, the world continually becomes smaller and smaller. At age 7 or 8, District Heights, Maryland, seemed the other side of the planet from Greensburg, Pennsyvania. But now, having had the experiences I already have had, my travels, my own family and friends continuing to spread further and further out, and learning the difference between permanent and temporary loss, I know that there is nowhere on the planet that is out of reach, and Jonathan making this leap of faith is only further proof of that. What I know now that I did not know decades ago, sitting in the backseat of that Volkswagon Bug with a teeny, tiny broken heart, is that relationships depend on love and communication, not geography, to thrive. I do look forward to seeing Jonathan again. But I equally look forward to talking to him about everything inbetween.

My current read is, "Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: the Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald." I am only about 40 pages into it (out of almost 400), and the beginning is almost exclusively letters from Zelda to Scott. While Scott saved every scrap Zelda ever sent him, many of Scott's earlier letters did not survive, though she would paste telegrams from him (usually announcing his visits) in her scrapbook. The first letter of this chronology dates to August 1918.

It is astounding to me to be reading these most intimate letters that were written almost a century ago. It makes me wonder where my own writings - blogs, emails, letters, and a locked suitcase full of almost 15 years (to date) of detailed journals - might some day end up. And if I would be happy about that.

So far, the bit that has made me laugh the most is when in a letter to Scott (while he was living in New York and she was still in Alabama, during their courtship), Zelda tries to assure Scott that though a million men have fallen in love with her, until he came along it was never a love for the right reasons:

"You are the only person on earth, Lover, who has ever known and loved all of me - Men love me cause I'm pretty - and they're always afraid of my mental wickedness - and men love me cause I'm clever, and they're always afraid of my prettiness - One or two have even loved my cause I'm lovable, and then, of course, I was acting."

I have almost always considered myself to be a realist rather than a romantic. It takes a lot to catch me off guard and melt my heart a little. And by a lot, I don't mean some grand, expensive gesture, and certainly nothing traditional. I mean something creative, thoughtful, unexpected, that shows that that person truly knows me and was thinking about me. It hasn't happened often, but I could tell you every detail of the times that it has.

One of the first happened when I was barely 20 years old. I was living on Murray Avenue in Pittsburgh, and waiting tables at the Eat 'n Park (24-hour family restaurant) just up the street. Though you couldn't pay me to be that naive again, it was probably the most carefree time in my entire life. No car, no classes, no debt. No responsibilities other than scraping together the rent and filling up the rest of the hours with having fun. I had just starting seeing one of the new busboys. As we were both low on the totem pole (some of the waitresses had been working there longer than I had been alive, no exagerration), we were often thrown together on the dreaded 7:00pm-4:00am shift. If he got off shift a little later than me, sometimes I would wait for him so that I wouldn't have to walk home alone in the pre-dawn hours (not that this ever bothered me before I met him). But one week our schedules were star-crossed, him on the overnight, me on the early morning, but four hours apart. 4:00-8:00am is not a very romantic time of the day, even at 20 years old, when you are just leaving a nine hour shift on your feet or preparing to start one, even though he had to walk right past my building to walk to his own.

My roommate, Lorraine, was waiting tables at another restaurant, and one of the mornings on this week, she was heading to work just as I was waking up and getting ready to jump in the shower. She hollered,"Bye!" to me as she ran out. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, bleary-eyed, gathering the energy to brush my teeth. "Jeanie!" she hollered from the front door, which was also the threshold of my bedroom door to the outside hall (the apartment was rather strangely set up, and it was most convenient to walk through my bedroom to go out the front door). I stepped into my room to see what was the matter. 'Rain was standing on the inside of the doorway to the front porch, door open, and staring at the threshold. My bed was inbetween us so I couldn't see what she was looking at. "I think these are for you," she said.

I stepped around the bed to see what she was talking about. The doorstep to my bedroom was covered with just the heads, no stems, of a variety of wildflowers, daisies, tiger lillies, Queen Anne's lace, that grew in a vacant lot around the corner from our apartment. In the dead of night and after a killer shift, this man had taken the time to pick flowers for me and literally arrange them carefully at my feet. Of course I fell in love with him.

Scott and Zelda were born, lived, and died as romantics. But perhaps the most romantic thing about them was how in synch they were. Zelda didn't love Scott because he presented himself on her front porch with a bouquet of flowers. She had scads of suitors doing that. No, Scott would send her a flamingo-colored ostrich-feather fan from New York, something as beautiful and frivilous as she was, a fan over which she no doubt batted her eyes at countless boys on her front porch swing in the sweltering summer in Montgomery, Alabama. But she couldn't do so without thinking of Scott. She loved him because he knew her soul.

For breakfast today I had:

1/2 cup of apple juice

1 banana

A big honkin' handful of spinach

1 cup of ice

All together. Pureed. In a blender.

Maybe I am way behind the times, or at least way behind the fitness & health learning curve, but I had never heard of such a thing, at least not from rational people whose advice I might consider taking. It just sounds kind of gross. But when out the other night for drinks with my Budapest-bound friend Jonathan and my Yoga instructor friend Christie (she's not MY yoga instuctor. I don't do yoga. But she is my friend) they were talking about it. Jonathan had tried it, and said that other than turning your blender drink green, it didn't really change the flavor.

So what the hell. I tried it. And he was right. It smelled just a shade grassy, but it didn't taste like I was drinking a salad or anything. And the green wasn't an unappetizing green. Though after a few minutes the banana bits start separating and rising so best to keep a spoon handy to stir it up. I'm trying it with blueberries tomorrow. Oh, and make sure to add some sweetener to it also. Screw the Grapenuts Challenge. Try the SPINACH Challenge. Just be sure to brush your teeth AFTER breakfast.

...emphasis on, "jerk",

Have you seen those commercials for Kleenex tissues where they put a sofa, armchair, and a coffee table with a box of tissues on it in the middle of a sidewalk or intersection and convince supposed passers-by to sit down and relate heartwarming tales that inspire both the interviewer and interviewee to reach for a tissue? Not a bad premise, kind of creative. I mean, it is KLEENEX. I can picture the marketing meeting and some cheesy ad exec encouraging everyone to, "think outside the box, hahaha!"

However, I do take offense to one that I saw last night. The interviewee is a woman talking about her wedding day. She is explaining that her hair and make-up artists did not let her see herself in the mirror until they were finished and just before she was to walk down the aisle. "I looked in the mirror and I was so....pretty!!!!" she wails, and reaches for a tissue. She goes on to say that her make-up artist was shouting at her, "Don't cry! Don't cry!" So, in order not to cry as she is walking down the aisle, she tries to think of something to distract herself from how heartbreakingly beautiful she is. "So I kept saying to myself as I am walking down the aisle, ' Dead puppies! Dead puppies!' " She practically bounces on the sofa, tissue in hand, repeating this mantra, "Dead puppies!"

Dead puppies, even imaginary ones, would have me crying well before the best hair day in history.  But maybe that is just me.

I swear I am not ignoring you. I've just been busy. Really! I am about ready to install a revolving door on this place. Since I returned from Europe, I have had an endless stream of company, the Brits, ze Germans, my mother and her dog (who are coming back again today), and several others, including the Wayward Boy in Residence. Not that I am complaining, it is good to see everyone, with the possible exception of my mother's dog. It just leaves little time for writing. But I am determined to come up with something for you, though I am a little brain-dead, so bear with me. I usually write when there is something on my mind, but after a late evening out with friends, I am a blank slate. So let's start off with something simple, a recipe for the Best Drink in the World, a little number I call:

 The Flying Pink Duchess

Over ice, fill a wine glass 3/4 full of pineapple-infused vodka. Add a splash of cranberry juice for color, top off with dry champagne. For best results, have this served to you by an attractive man in a tuxedo. For slightly less impact, substitute club soda in place of the champagne. This is the original Pink Duchess.

At dinner last night, I decided that my version of heaven would be almost exactly like having dinner at the Prime Rib -  hot men in tuxedoes fawning over me and serving me outrageous food and endless cocktails - except, of course, sex would have to figure into it somehow. 

So, sex and recipes...that always gets me thinking about blue cheese dip. And yes, I will tell you why. Patience...

Years ago, I had an on-again, off-again thing with a man I was madly in love with. Not a good recipe, that, "On-again/Off-again + Madly in Love". However, as I stomped out the ashes after our incendiary demise, I took stock, as I do, of the end results of the relationship to see what I had gained from having had it. There is always something to be gained, no matter how bad the relationship was, you just have to step back and see what you can dredge up. If you didn't learn anything at all, you've just wasted your time and theirs. Perhaps you learned how to change the oil in your car, or simply the fact that you occasionally NEED to change the oil in your car. Perhaps you learned that the opera isn't as awful as you thought it might be. Perhaps you learned that there are people in the world that will lie straight to your face and sleep with anyone who will hold still long enough. Sometimes it takes a little time and distance to get some perspective. In this particular case, I learned how to make a really good blue cheese dip from scratch, which I will now share with you:

Sexy Ex Blue Cheese Dip 

2 cups Hellman's mayonnaise

1 cup  sour cream

1/8 cup white vinegar

1 teaspoon (or so) minced garlic

1 tablespoon (or so) sugar

1 teaspoon (or so) salt

Black pepper to taste

2 blocks of Treasure Cove (or is it Treasure Cave? Or Treasure Chest? I always forget. It's the little blocks of blue cheese that are sealed in the orange wax. You know what I am talking about.)

Mix all of the ingredients together except the blue cheese. The black pepper helps you to figure out when it is evenly mixed. Taste the mixture to see if you need more salt or sugar. I can never remember exactly how much salt and sugar to add, and it has been too many years for me to look this guy up and ask him. The blue cheese is the only expensive part of the recipe, so you can start over if you need to. Do NOT use low-fat or lite mayo or sour cream. It tastes totally different, trust me on this.

When you have the mixture just right, crumble the blue cheese into it and mix it up. If you buy your blue cheese pre-crumbled, you are too lazy to live and do not deserve to have this recipe, so move on. FYI, this dip just keeps getting better with time, and this recipe makes enough to snack on all week. For full effect, make this dip at 3:00am-ish, standing naked in the kitchen with your partner, while you still have a good buzz. Feed each other the dip using baby carrots, Ritz crackers, or whatever comes to mind. Being naked at the time aids the creative process. Trust me on this. Do NOT double-dip, as the enzymes in your saliva will turn the dip into a runny soup by the next day. Take in the moment, as you will soon find out that this is one of those people who will lie straight to your face and sleep with anything that will hold still long enough.

Enjoy.

Did Ann Coulter forget to take her meds? Seriously.

Sometimes I get so frustrated. Isn't this 2007? What is wrong with people? I was out last night with a friend at a place where we know the bartender. He is one of those people that likes to say things for shock value, usually graphic descriptions of his last sexual conquest, or asking us if we found a pair of panties by the pool tables. Eww. So last night he is telling us how he did not tip the black waitress at Chuck E. Cheese the other night at his nephew's birthday party. I knew he was baiting us but I welcomed the opportunity to tell him what an idiot I think he is. So, I asked, "Why?" He said he does not tip black people, he refuses to do it, that he is, "not a racist," but that is his, "one thing."

WTF?

First of all, as soon as someone says anything like, "I'm not a racist, but..." or, "I don't mean to sound like a bitch, but..." or, "I have nothing against gay people, but...." he is, she is, they do.

Sooo, I asked why he doesn't tip black people. He said because he always gets stiffed by black people. A real chicken-or-the-egg predicament, truly. I said, "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard." I HATE when people say idiotic things like this, sweeping generalizations about a group of people when that person has most likely been treated far worse by people of their own race, gender, nationality or sexuality. I asked The Idiot, "But you've never been stiffed by a white person?" He said yes, but not as many times as he has been stiffed by black people. I said, "So if a black waiter or waitress gives you really good service, you stiff them?" He said no, but if a black person gives him bad service, he stiffs them altogether, whereas if a white person gives him bad service, he will leave a bad tip, but he leaves something.  I said, "So you DO tip black people. You just conceded your whole point." Then he tried to back-pedal and say no, he doesn't tip black people, that he doesn't want us to think he is a racist, that is just his One Thing.

I refer you to my earlier comment, "WTF?"

Too often I think when someone says something like this, the sane people in the room ignore it because it's not worth the effort. But please, the next time someone says something like this in front of you, there is no need to get angry about it, but don't let it pass. It is so easy to turn this sort of statement around on such an ignorant git, and if you can make them feel as stupid as they are, perhaps they will think twice before talking out of their ass.

Personally, I hope Ann Coulter attends and speaks at EVERY SINGLE REPUBLICAN FUNDRAISER. She is the Neil O'Donnell to the Democrats' Dallas Cowboys (reference to Superbowl XXX, where the Steelers' QB O'Donnell threw TWO interceptions to the Cowboys when there was not a black jersey in sight). Speaking of people I hate...I'm not saying I'd kill him if given the opportunity, but...