When you forget to eat lunch

Stomach makes noises;
It even wakes up the cats.
Forgot lunch again.

Coffee, all I had
Not enough to fill me up.
Gimmee those chips now!

How did I become
very distracted today?
I forgot to eat.

The act of writing

I've been writing. Just not a lot here. I'm trying to get a project finished and I promised myself 50,000 words, but I'm only at 10,000. It's not as easy as one might think, forcing words out of one's head. Heck, it's damn near impossible here, and I'm usually fairly happy with 100 or 200 words here.

What am I thinking, taking on a project like that? It's self-imposed, which seems to make the task that much more daunting. Even worse is that I am hell-bent and determined to write when every instinct rebels at the very idea. I should be spending most of my spare, waking moments looking for work. Having a job will help me keep a roof over my head, which is more of a priority to me than most things at this moment.

If I'm not actually scanning the want-ads for viable work, at least I feel as if I'm somehow being more constructive if I write rather than watch television. I'll never make a living this way, but I do feel superior if I can say that I have done more in my day than simply trying to find something good on television.

So, what is this project, you might ask? Even though there are only one or two of you out there who may actually read this, I'm still not going to say. I don't know why I won't say. I guess it makes me feel vulnerable and selfish. How dare I think I can actually make something of myself by writing.

But if I can't get more than one person to read when I pass along my ramblings, I shouldn't worry about much. If I have fun and get something out of the action, then I suppose it's all good.

Being unemployed

Five months in and I'm still looking for work. Not that I'm surprised. There are people who have been doing this for years. It's becoming demoralizing, though, now that I've filled out at least several hundred applications and the two calls I've received have been less than inviting. They obviously haven't led to interviews or I would have been so dazzling as to be currently employed now.

I just found out that my comrades at Pearson have been hit by another series of cuts. The company has literally decided to decimate it's work force. That means world-wide they are eliminating every 10th employee. The Roman army would do that when soldiers committed certain infractions - they'd go through and kill every 10th soldier, whether he was guilty or not. Bad for the guys designated to be decimated, but what do you imagine that does for the people remaining? I know I felt relieved when I was left to carry on, but also very resentful.

So where does that leave me now? Resentful toward my former corporate masters, certainly; angry on behalf of my old comrades who have just recently found themselves adrift without a job and without a plan; happy for those friends who still have a work to go to every day, though I know they're walking around today looking like the piano missed dropping on their heads by mere inches.

It isn't all misery, though. I have to say that I have enjoyed my time off. I had a brief stint as a temp for another corporate giant. (Good people to work for, though customer service has got to be the single most thankless part of working for any corporation.) I sleep later than I should and I feel guilty when I don't spend as much time in front of the computer looking for work. One part of me thinks I'll miss something but the other part of me knows that the opportunities, such as they are, will still be there tomorrow.

I get to spend more time at the gym. I probably spend way more money than I should on Wawa coffee. I have all the time in the world to work on my hobbies and go to the library. If I was independently wealthy, I'd add a couple of vacations in there, too. But I'm not, so I have to settle for the rare day-trip into NYC to explore with friends who have never been or who haven't spent nearly as much time there as I have.

I spent too much time on social media and I have spent entirely too much time contemplating the pending Presidential election. I need to find a job and I'm even thinking that I don't care so much what that job is. I'm even to the point where I think someone out there somewhere might actually give a crap about what I write here.

The money worries are getting to me, but the boredom is going to kill me first. 

End of Summer Haikus

Hot and disgusting
Summer air; heavy, humid
Autumn please come soon

The bright sun beats down
Turning my skin to leather
Melanoma, ick!


Knit sweater weather,
Woolen,s and tights under skirts
A chill in the air


I want snow and cold
I want crunchy orange leaves
I want Halloween

What do I want to be when I grow up?

When I was little, I wanted to be a princess like Cinderella. She was my favorite. We weren't inundated with Disney princesses the way we are now. I believe Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty were it. We didn't yet have the mermaid or the thing with the genie, and there were definitely no talking snowmen.

It didn't take me long to understand that "princess" is not a viable job description, so I moved on to something more practical. I used to think I wanted to be a reporter, and I actually tried that. It was never really fun, but sometimes interesting work. At least I wrote on a regular basis, AND GOT PAID for the effort. But the money was shit, and so I moved on.

I've been a mall Easter Bunny. I've cleaned toilets in a public restroom. I've slung chicken for fast food. I've sold retail and I've gutted lobster in the basement kitchen of an expensive East Village restaurant. I still haven't been able to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I don't know what I can do for the long run that will pay me and not make me unhappy.

I think that actually being happy at a job is almost too much to ask for, let alone hope for. I think that right now I know exactly one person who loves what she does for a living. But she's still new at her job. Her feelings could change at any time.

I would absolutely love to work at a job that I don't hate. 

Too Much Spare Time

I am currently unemployed. The choice wasn't mine; my corporate masters decided for me. But it's OK. I hadn't actually taken a vacation of any note in more than two years. I was overdue for a break. And so far, I'm not unhappy. Of course I'm not being as productive as I would like to be, but to be honest, it's taken some time for me to get my head around this having nothing concrete to do everyday thing.

I imagine running a multi-national corporation isn't easy, and I know that my corporate masters had faced some pretty big hurdles. It really must be hard to maintain those multi-million dollar bonuses, and educational publishing in the U.S. has been slipping these past few years. Schools simply don't have the money to buy books. But let's face it. They never really have. How many of us had 20+ year-old books in school? So what if the Soviet Union and countries like Yugoslavia no longer exist? The books still give the proper shape of the European continent, right? Who cares where East Timor and South Sudan are anyway?

But to get back on track, I was laid off over the phone. This is proof about how morally bankrupt some people truly have become. I was called on my work-at-home day and told that after 16 years my services were no longer needed. Of course they wanted me to come in to finish up any outstanding tasks, to clean off my desk, and to turn in my laptop (I will miss my Mac Book). And though my last day on the books was a month away, I was at least given the flexibility to decide when I would be finished, done, and outta there. My treatment was decidedly more generous than other people received that same day.

I'm not actually complaining, even though it may sound like it. I had begun a job search on my own because it had become apparent to me that my corporate masters and I had different ideas about how editing and writing should be done. I personally favor a hands-on approach, whereas my former masters prefer to outsource the work. Administration and paper-pushing is not what I signed up for, hence my discontent.

So, here I am, cut adrift as it were. I am lucky enough to have a severance package that will keep me out of the unemployment office for a few months. I have spent a couple of days at the beach. I have gone camping. I have mostly spent my time decompressing. But I still wake up every morning by 6. I have yet to decide if that's good or bad. 

My Mighty and Faithful Steed!

It was four months ago today that I lost my conveyance. 

To my 2003 Buick Regal, you were a mighty and faithful steed. On the day I picked you up from the dealer I swore that I would never trade you in and that I would drive you until your gaskets leaked and I couldn't squeeze another mile out of you. You had well over 250,000 miles and I expected you to go at least another 100,000 more because GM instilled in you that kind of can-do spirit. 

But you sacrificed yourself so that I might live, and for that I will always be grateful.

No heartbreak for you!

I recently heard from two friends that they've decided that love and heart ache are not for them.


What does this mean, exactly? I'm not sure.

One is a youngish male from the UK. The other is a female from Texas, around about the same age as me. And no, I'm not giving my age.

It's none of my business why they both decided on their particular life courses. I didn't ask and they didn't actually offer. They both made their declarations not to fall in love and because I respect people's choices, I let it be. Still, I've been thinking about why someone, anyone, would decide to forgo romantic love.

They both have families who love them. And as just about everyone outside of the Huxtable family knows, there is even a certain amount of exposure and vulnerability to heartache when we love our family. I suppose it's easier to love them because of the familial connection...or harder not to love them for the same.

Maybe life would be easier without romantic love. Perhaps I would be move level-headed and make better choices.

Though I doubt it.

For those of us who are led by our hearts, I'm not convinced we can turn it on and off. As much as I would prefer to be ruled by logic at times, I know what is impossible for me.

Job Satisfaction

I've been thinking lately that job satisfaction us something I rarely experience. Most days I'm happy to still have a job in this economy, but that's as far as that goes. But once in a while something happens that is almost as satisfying as watching the asshole who just passed you on the right get stopped and ticketed.

I'm told that I should be satisfied on a number of levels because at least I have a job. At least the checks they send me get cashed. And on those basic levels I am happy. I can pay my bills and order Chinese food once in a while. But when did it become OK to be simply "satisfied" with the jobs we hold. When did mediocre become acceptable?

I've been looking for another job for quite some time now because though I like the sort of work I do, I am increasingly unhappy with how I'm expected to do it. I see friends and long-time co-workers get laid off and those of us who remain are supposed to just happily pic kip the slack. We're expected to do more with less and in less time. So, really, our corporate masters are the ones who set the bar low for us. They expect mediocre work for mediocre pay.

But the problem with looking for a job right now is that there is such glut of out-of-work college grads. My experience and salary range have made me unhirable. These younglings are so starved for work that they'll take anything for almost any salary. Why hire me when someone can hire three 20-something's for the same amount of money?

As dissatisfied as I am, I know that I'm good at what I do. Dare I say that there are even days when I kick ass? I doubt I could ever teach anyone to edit effectively. I don't understand how I do what I do half the time, but I just know when something is right. And this past year I worked on a project in which I came, I saw, and I kicked ass. My accomplishments won't get me a promotion or a raise. They might not even mean anything when layoffs come around again. But I'm happy knowing I can do my job blindfolded and in half the time it takes most of my co-workers. 

AND I get to work home.

What My Evil Twin Was Thinking

It wasn't the hooker-tight skirt or the tube top, both three sizes too small for you that I noticed first. Nor was it the recent post-pregnancy belly that hung like a fifth appendage that neither article of clothing could hide. And it wasn't the ankle-high Uggs you were wearing on this 80+ degree, humid day.

Nope, the first thing I noticed about your classy self as you were standing at the bus stop was the big wad of chew you spit into the street as I drove by.

Trash isn't limited to trailer parks in rural areas. We have them right here, too, in the over-populated Northeast. You find them everywhere, but you see them mostly in Wal*Mart and local convenience stores.

I wonder what you thought as you dressed yourself this morning. I bet you thought you looked good. Do you have anyone to tell you otherwise? What were you up to? Where were you going as you waited for the bus? You know what? I really don't care.  You simply offered me comic relief as I drove to my destination, with you mismatched ensemble clearly designed to titillate and draw attention.

You gave my mean, little mind something to distract me from the constant barrage of crap I have to deal with on a daily basis.

Parsnip Pancakes

While I would rather have my fingernails ripped out, one by one, than become vegan, I do appreciate the cuisine when it's done well and the dedication that vegans have to their chosen lifestyle. And these days I find myself looking more toward vegan and vegetarian recipes to add a larger variety of vegetables and healthy protein substitutes to my continually evolving diet.

Vegan with a Vengeance by Isa Chandra Moskowitz is on the top of my go-to list of cookbooks, especially when it comes to desserts that don't include dairy or eggs. But last night I wasn't looking for sweets. I wanted something crunchy and bad. What I really wanted was something that had been battered and deep-fried to within an inch of its life...but I settled instead on the Parsnip-Scallion Pancakes in Moskowitz's book. If you know how to fry something properly, and then drain it adequately, there is no need to feel dieter's guilt about eating it.

I don't believe these pancakes would work well if baked.

Moskowitz calls for 4 cups of shredded parsnips to be mixed with 1 cup of scallions, flour, canola oil, salt, pepper, and water. I cut out the oil, since I was going to be frying the pancakes. I just didn't want the extra oil in the batter. In this case, both the oil and water were there to act as a binding agent in place of eggs...and since I enjoy eating animal products, I had no problem substituting a couple of eggs. I could easily have added milk. And to my mixture, I added a couple of minced garlic cloves...because most things are better with garlic. It's a simple fact.

Shredding the parsnip was the biggest problem I faced. I bought a big one and my hand-held grater wasn't strong enough to handle it, which to me is more dense than a carrot. I had to bring out my stainless mandoline and hand guard or my fingers would have been shredded faster than the parsnip.

I also didn't make nice, neat little balls, as the recipe instructs you to do. I dropped the spiny looking mixture by the heaping tablespoon into the heated oil and I watched them bubble and fry until golden.

I served two pancakes up with a scoop of chicken salad I made out of a leftover roast from the day before. I mixed diced chicken with apples, celery, onion, curry powder, prepared mustard, and a dollop of mayo. I had a leafy, green salad on the side.

The sweet parsnip and the mild onion flavor of the scallions worked surprisingly well together.

Gym Drama

So, getting older means that things don't work as well as they once did. Anything I do to myself now will determine what, if anything, my doctor has to do to me in future decades. Goody for me.

I see my friends, co-workers, and acquaintances adopt new, different, and sometimes crazy habits in order to cheat time, age, gravity, whatever. (Vegan? Are you kidding me? I give you a month without bacon before you crack.) Some of these people are successful, and some just go to such extremes that all I can do is bite my tongue and wish them well on their journey, even if I believe that journey is doomed to failure. But hey, who am I to judge?

I just want to be healthy so that over the remaining four or five decades that I have left I stay as active as possible and my doctor has to do as few invasive and painful procedures as possible.

To this end, I have resolved to make it to the gym every single day and to avoid eating all things that a toddler would eat and enjoy. I can't remember the last time I tasted a slice of pizza. *sigh*

Have I been successful? Not completely, but you have to keep trying, right? Am I demoralized by my failures? Not at all. If I resolved to make it to the gym for a minimum of one hour per day, seven days per week and I only make it three or four days, I'm still doing better than I was a year ago when I was paying for the gym membership but not using it at all. I feel like less of a sucker when I get there...and once I'm there, I might as well stay an hour or longer.

I make a game of doing cardio, which is thankless, boring, and has seemingly little immediate reward. I know that it will save me when the zombie apocalypse comes, but being able to listen to loud, obnoxious music while watching the gym drama unfold in front of me is the best I can hope for at the moment.

I watch the muscle heads grunt, sweat, and worship themselves in the mirrors. I see the gym vixens who wear their underwear on the outside and I amuse myself by speculating whether their sports bras were more expensive than their matching sneakers. It's also a lot of fun to see them preen with the hope of catching a muscle head's attention, particularly when I already know the muscle head who's been targeted is more interested in his reps and audible grunting than in anyone else.

I like being the fly on the wall. I can assume that these two people are more interested in being admired for their respective physiques than in being able to engage in adult conversation. But I could be wrong. Perhaps they're both highly educated, as well as beautiful, and I'm just too old and bitter to accept that they have it all. Well, clearly not all, else they wouldn't be working out in a cut-rate gym in the middle of Bluecollarville, Bergen County, New Jersey.

But these are the thoughts that keep me amused while I spend 45 minutes on the stationary bike or the treadmill. If I wanted to watch television, I'd have stayed home on my couch. If I have to go to the gym (and, according to my doctor, I really have to), then I would much rather watch the human drama unfold in front of me with a soundtrack of old-school punk cranked up to 11 in my ears.

Thanks, Chef

Thanks, Anthony Bourdain. You wrote the tale of the kitchen outlaw. You and that accursed channel made people believe that there is a certain romance associated with working in most kitchens. You did for professional cooking what Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power did for the historic pirate - you made it seem cool to cook. The good guy always wins in the end and Olivia de Havilland is always there, just off camera, ready to throw herself into the arms of the conquering hero.

Sure, as an after thought you remembered to mention the long hours, shit pay, asshole owners, lack of health insurance. But by then it was too late because you had already sucked Joe Public into the poetry of your 17-year-old idea of that Cape Cod kitchen.

Bastard.

I went to culinary school, but not because of you. I didn't even open your book until I had graduated. By then I had started to understand what it was I was paying a lot of money to get myself into. I read your book anyway. And I enjoyed it. I met the people all over NYC who mimic your characters and co-workers. I liked them, and I loved the work.

I chopped onions for what seemed like days at a time, but it was really only 12 hours. I stood at those very cramped tables in basement kitchens, stuffing fish with lemongrass while the people around me did obscene things with octopus tentacles. I didn't feel I had worked a full day unless I left the dark basement, covered in green lobster slime. I will never lose the memory of everyone in the prep kitchen, from the porter to the dishwasher, to the 300-pound ex-con grill guy, breaking out into a heartfelt chorus of Build Me Up Buttercup for no other reason than it's just a great song.

Good food, the kind that you remember the taste of three days or three years later, is made with a little piece of the cook's soul and a whole lot of his or her love. I believe that it is possible to be as intimate through food preparation as any adult act, so long as your whole heart is in it.

I have done my part, showing my love, working the line in a 65-seat house that could serve upwards of 500 covers for Sunday brunch. But what you have never said, chef, and I have never seen through the polished lens of that accursed channel, is what happens when the love dies, making you feel like a cheap, pre-Disneyfied Times Square hooker. For me, it sent me running for cover, back to my moderately well-paid corporate job with full health benefits.

Earlier today someone interrupted a conversation I was having with Joe The Grill Guy in my office's cafeteria and said how much fun it would be to work in a kitchen. Joe and I stopped mid-sentence and just stared at this poor woman. She obviously loves her food porn and fell into the kitchen-as-romantic-pirate-ship trap. She doesn't understand that behind the smiling faces on those shows (you know those shows - don't deny it) are feet so swollen and painful you can barely walk. There are second- and third-degree burns. There are scars from too many slips of the knife. There is that bad back that never quite seems to get better. There are 16-hour days and weeks without a single day off. There are customers who wouldn't know a medium-rare steak if it walked up behind them and stole their wallet. This reminded me of the time when a particularly evil woman told me how romantic it must be to work in publishing, simply because Jackie Kennedy had done it.

Oh, the misinformation!

So, again I thank you, Chef, for perpetuating the myth. While it tickles me to think that someone out there might view me as a romantic character, I don't feel particularly full of swash or buckle when, for no good reason, my feet ache.

My kitchen crime scene

I like red things. I dye my hair, I wear red nail polish, I like red lipstick. And I love beet juice.

I don't like cooked beets. I like the raw, unadulterated stuff sliced, mashed, and squeezed until there is nothing left but the juice pouring out of the spout with the sawdust-like pulp coming out the other end of my juicer. It's even better when mixed with carrot juice and a tiny bit of squeezed lime, though the orange and green does dilute the beautiful red.

No matter what I do and how hard I try, the juice splatters everywhere. It looks like a crime scene - much worse than when I dye my hair. I should take comparison photos.

The white countertops and cutting boards I have don't help, of course.

I'm not complaining, though. I think part of the appeal is that beets leave a bloody mess. Is that morbid? Gross? I could try to buy golden beets, but that might ruin my fun. If I'm going to be healthy (or at least try to be), I see no reason why I shouldn't be a tiny bit juvenile.

I prefer my pistachios to be red, too.

Mosquitos and iced coffee

Somewhere between wicked thunderstorms and 90-degree temperatures, we managed to have a tiny slice of decent weather, so I decided to go for a short stroll. 


There is a small, municipal park near me. It's not the best-kept park on the planet, but it's good enough for some of us locals. And everything in life is better with a decent sound track, so I strapped on my old, trusty third generation iPod Shuffle, and off I went. 


I walked around the 1/4-mile track a few times, and decided to hit the shade for a bit before heading home. I found a relatively clean bench, sat down, and took out my Kindle. I'm about three-quarters of the way through The Hangman's Daughter by Oliver Pötzsch and I thought I might be able to knock the rest of it out before heading home. 


The park mosquitos had other plans for me. 


After about 15 minutes I was bitten up and itchy to the point of pain. Here I am an hour later and I just want to slice the skin off my calves just to make the itching stop. I won't do anything drastic, of course. 


So, while I sit here and ponder the destruction of all blood sucking creatures and the end to my personal, physical agony, I thought I nice, cold glass of iced coffee would make me feel a tiny bit better, at least for a little while. 


There was still roughly 12 ounces of coffee left in my French press from breakfast. I threw the whole carafe in the 'fridge before leaving the house before, so the now extremely strong coffee was also very cold. To a tall, iced tea glass I added enough ice to fill it halfway, a single packet of Truvia sweetener, coffee, and skim milk to make the whole thing nice and pale. One stir, and it was ready to drink. 


Now I want more.

Brioche and the advantages of working home

One of the advantages of working home is that I can get a lot of stuff done around the apartment while I work. I have fewer distractions here than I do in the office, so the time I spend throwing a load of laundry in to wash is still considerably less than the time I spend in the office fielding phone calls or attending meetings.

Today I decided to take advantage of my home work time to make some bread, something I haven't done in a number of months. The weather outside is gorgeous, so turning on the oven wasn't an offensive act today. Since it's just me and I am making a concerted effort to cut out "bad" carbs, a two-pound loaf of anything is just useless. If I make it, I will eat it, and how much bread can one person eat?

Ah, let me rephrase that: How much bread should one person eat?

That being said, quality is more important to me than quantity anyway. So the challenge was to figure out what would satisfy my taste for spongy goodness. What recipe can I easily cut down and what do ingredients do I actually have on hand to make?

Small Brioche Loaf (or enough for four, good size rolls)
2 large egg yolks plus enough lukewarm water to equal 2/3 cup
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 and 1/4 cups unbleached bread flour
2 teaspoons gluten
1 teaspoon salt
1 and 1/2 teaspoons dry yeast

Bring yolks to room temperature. Add lukewarm water to the yolks. Any hotter and the yolks will scramble and your yeast will die. Add the yeast and let sit for a few minutes.

Mix all other ingredients, including the butter. I did this by hand, but you can use a pastry blender or a hand mixer on low. The aim is to incorporate the butter, so it's really up to you. Then add the yolk/water/yeast mixture. Mix until blended and then begin to knead.

You may have to add some flour as you go. The dough starts out very moist and sticky, but after kneading it will become smooth and drier. If you need to add flour, add no more than a tablespoon at a time. I am also not going to give a time limit on kneading. It depends on you, the day of the week, the moisture in the air, which way the wind is blowing. All I can say, realizing how unhelpful it is, is that you'll know the dough is done.

I cut the dough into four, equal pieces because I decided I wanted rolls. I'm making my version of ICE's chicken burgers later, and found that brioche rolls really work with those burgers.

I rolled the rolled the dough into 8-inch long strips and just knotted them. I brushed them with an egg wash (a teaspoon or two of water beat with one egg), and baked them at 350F for approximately 15 to 20 minutes.

The smell is still lingering right now as the rolls continue to cool. Can't wait to try one later. I am looking forward to the eggy, buttery goodness.

Office Food Haikus

Yellow and so sweet

Banana with brown splotches

I should have brought two

Oh, wasabi peas!

Why do you make my tongue burn

And make my nose run?

Coffee with white cream

You smell like heaven to me

I must limit you

Leftover matzohs

Someone’s Passover discards

Still crunchy, not stale

 

Whenever I try to avoid Times Square...

We started out with the intention of visiting the USS Intrepid on Saturday, but we never made it.

Mr. G. has never been there. Every time we have a spare few hours, we rack our brains for something interesting to do, come up with something half-assed, and then say that we should probably have just gone to the Intrepid. I nipped this one from the get-go and just said straight out that's what we needed to do, not taking into account the time of day (2 p.m.). By the time we were moving and ready to hit the city, we'd have maybe three hours at the museum. Ample time, as far as I'm concerned, but probably not enough time for a gadget guy like Mr. G.

We had to make a quick stop in Tribeca first, eating further into our time. We grabbed the 1 train uptown to 42nd Street, and then had to find an ATM - but not just any ATM. Nope. It had to be Citibank so Mr. G. wouldn't get clipped with a $3+ service charge. It was 3:30 by this time, and I didn't think the walk, wait on line, the $23 entrance fee, and closing time of 6 p.m. was worth the trek.

We were well into Times Square at this point. I hate Times Square with the heat of 1,000 suns. It's too full of people who don't know where they're going or what they're doing. It compounds my dislike of tourists. It's the reason why I never drive anywhere in the city between 33rd and 70th streets.

From across the sea of moving bodies at 44th and Broadway, I spotted the Times Square information kiosk, the perfect place to find out where the nearest Citibank was. We crossed in front of George M. Cohan and made a beeline for the information booth, which turned out to be a cavernous passageway that wove past public restrooms, through a souvenir stand, to a bored-looking guy who knew where absolutely everything was in the Times Square area. He told us where the nearest Citibank was (44nd and 6th) and where to find Pop Tarts World (42nd and 6th).

Once Mr. G. acquired some cash, we decided to check out Pop Tarts World. It was a complete waste of our time. Nothing more than a store front over-filled with odious tourists, it was just a giant, poorly executed attempt at marketing. The T-shirts and other logo-swathed goods were unimaginative and the only way to actually buy Pop Tarts was through a giant vending machine that would mix-and-match flavors or at the snack bar at the back of the store...for a whopping $12.

Nothing on the menu sounded good - everything looked overly sugared and artificially flavored (though it's not like I expected anything else). There was no clear place to sit and people were bumping in to each other and tripping over themselves to catch the attention of the overworked clerks behind the counter.

Don't get me wrong. I love Pop Tarts. I just think this attempt to compete with M&Ms or Hershey wasn't very well thought out.

BUT all was not lost. We were hungry and thirsty at this point and we strolled past 43rd Street, home of the Heartland Brewery, which is soooo much better than the other commercial offerings in that part of town (I refuse to enter most of the Times Square eateries unless it's on someone else's dime). Half a block down from The Town Hall, the Heartland Brewery Chop House offers a typical steakhouse menu, but is very reasonably priced by Manhattan standards, and the food is just plain good. Then there are the beers. The Smiling Pumpkin Ale has just been added back to the menu, and that made me very happy to see.

However, we didn't go there. We went HB Burger next door, the Heartland's burger joint, open a little over a year. I ordered my Smiling Pumpkin Ale, along with the a la carte Bison Burger and a side of Tater Tots. Mr. G. had the Filet Mignon Sandwich, also with a pumpkin ale, and a strawberry shake.

There was no wait, but the foot traffic from Times Square and 6th Avenue was steady. Our waitress was friendly, knowledgeable, and just very sweet. One of the things that HB is known for are its homemade sodas. She was kind enough to bring us samples of the orange cream and the root beer, though in the end I settled for the black cherry float with vanilla ice cream for dessert.

I'm glad we didn't make it to the Intrepid. It was a gorgeous day to just walk around, even if we were in Times Square.

Writing because I can

The approach of autumn usually makes me happy. The fact that we have a tropical storm warning over our heads would usually just make me smile more. Not happening right now, though. Type O Negative's Green Man off October Rust is playing, and I think it's only contributing to my foul mood.

I finished the scarf I wrote about in Ribbon! and I'm on to the second skein that I bought on that trip. Same pattern, as you can see here.

What is not clear are the colors - dark blue with a dark, almost olive green almost climbing diagonally up the fabric.

This scarf will be mine, unless someone near and dear to me can make a strong enough case for me to hand it over. That's very unlikely to happen, though. I love these colors entirely too much to give this up.

Now iTunes has progressed to No Home Without Its Sire off Peter Murphy's Dust. That would be "its," minus the apostrophe.

I have been unpacking, again. The construction I've had to deal with is over and done. It feels as if I just moved in, again, though. I'm hoping to make good use of the three-day weekend to knock out most of what's left and perhaps I can even begin hanging pictures. What a difference that will make on my blank walls.

Karmic debt

I moved in May. For some reason, the Universe won't allow me to settle in one place for very long.

Just when I finished unpacking and was looking to find homes for the last of my "stuff," some guy two floors up from me hires a guy who thinks he knows a little something-something about plumbing. But he didn't really. He broke a pipe that managed to flood out four apartments, up to two floors down. This included mine. *le sigh*

I woke up on the morning of July 4th and staggered into my kitchen intent on making a strong pot of coffee. It took me a good 30 seconds to assess that the puddle I was standing in should not actually be there, gathered on my kitchen floor.

Fast forward a month and a half, I'm out of my apartment for the next week, feeling very much like a refugee might...except that I have considerably more bagged stashed in the trunk of my car. And the cats are at the sitter, as traumatized as I am.

It's not like I don't have a place to stay. The point is, it's not my place.

Who can I blame? Who's fault is it? Who's the rat bastard who's inconvenienced me yet again? What did I do that I have this weird karmic debt of never being able to settle in to one place?

I'll feel better if I know that my creatures haven't been so traumatized from being at the sitter that they've gone into cardiac arrest. It would help if the one little guy didn't always run, hide, and play possum.