today felt like a Monday

Truly it did. And that’s not the way I wish to start the week.

We had a super busy three-day weekend, the kind that results in a discombobulating feeling rather than one of restoration or rejuvenation. One of the highlights of the long weekend was seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. It's rare that we see a movie on opening day.

John and I took Winston to the movie on Friday night at the Grandview Theater, while Simon played at a friend’s house. We couldn’t convince—or bribe—Simon to come with us on a family outing. He’d rather see the movie in the comfort of our home, so he can put a blanket over his head or run out of the room when confronted with his fears: “dusty.” This would be the armies of skeletons and miles of spider webs emblematic of any Indiana Jones movie.

John, Win, and I loved the movie, which had ample action and a perfect evil enemy in the KGB (it’s all Cold War, baby). There were double crosses. Harrison Ford has aged gracefully and does not disappoint. I also appreciated the return of Karen Allen, as well as newcomer Shia LaBoeuf. Cate Blanchett was fine, no complaints. John Hurt played a colleague gone missing and messed up to great affect. Along the way, there were many subtle and delightful pay-offs for those who have stuck with the franchise. If Simon should change his mind, I’ll see the movie again in the theater. At full price.



Another weekend highlight was driving to Taylors Falls, where we took a three-mile hike, with a few other families, in Interstate State Park. Here’s a word about Interstate from the Minnesota DNR website:

About 1.1 billion years ago, earthquakes erupted from Taylors Falls to Lake Superior. At least 10 different lava flows were the result. The hardened basalt rock from these lava flows was partly responsible for the formation of the Dalles of the St. Croix and the bottom of the river. From 530 million years ago up until 70 million years ago, the state was washed by advancing and retreating seas. Evidence of these ancient seas is revealed in the sedimentary rocks and formations found in the park. These rocks contain fossil remains of ancient animals, evidence of various creatures, and ripple marks left in stone by the now vanished seas. Actually, there have been many different St. Croix Valleys down through the ages. The original one was formed about 70 million years ago. The last one, which exists today, was formed about 10,000 years ago. This last glacier formed both Glacial Lake Duluth, now Lake Superior, and Glacial Lake Grantsburg, now extinct. Glacial Lake Duluth was much larger than Lake Superior is now. As this giant body of ice thawed, its meltwaters roared south to carve out the broad valley of the St. Croix. Only very resistant basalts were able to partially withstand the torrent, resulted in the dalles, potholes, and cliffs.

The potholes are very cool—perfectly smooth and deep holes bored in the basalt.



While the hike is not necessarily strenuous, it does have a few challenges, especially when you’re wrangling kids. On the outbound segment, I had the lead and struggled to stay ahead of two very energetic little girls, who skipped and hopped along in their water shoes (egads!) and regaled me with stories of My Pretty Pony and Barbie. For the last half mile, I straggled at the tail end with Winston, who was tired and having a hard time staying motivated to finish. But we met everyone at the end of the trail and rewarded ourselves with ice-cream cones before our long drive back to the Twin Cities. In holiday traffic.

Viva Las Vegas: Part Two

Here is the last word on Vegas. I didn’t love it so much. It’s built on artifice, and I’ve never found artifice to be very appealing, especially when my vacation time is limited and valuable. Whenever a traveling companion said, “Isn’t the Venetian so cool? Look at the gondolas on the canal—it’s just like you’re really in Venice.” I refrained from vocalizing, but inside I was screaming—IT’S NOTHING LIKE VENICE. Neither does New York, New York, with its faux Statue of Liberty and miniature skyline, make me feel like I’m in New York City. Nor does the mini Eiffel Tower of Paris Las Vegas, make me feel like I’m in Paris, France. The smells and sounds and grime of centuries are missing from these hotels. Inauthentic is the only word that comes to mind. Pictured below, the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace, which is, I'll admit, the nicest mall I've ever seen. I love the curved escalator.



Now, the kitsch factor of the Rat Pack’s Las Vegas—you know, the neon-lit Vegas that was obliterated in favor of the newer, sanitized, family-friendly, Disneyesque Las Vegas—that’s authentic.

cheap vacation
For so long, I had heard that it was a cheap (as in inexpensive) vacation, which may have been true at one time. At a time when gas prices are at record highs and climbing, the only “cheap” vacation is the one you take in your backyard. Unless I was willing to start my trip by departing MSP at 6 a.m. and end my trip by returning from LV at midnight, I was unable to find a flight under $600. Two years ago, I flew to Paris and paid only slightly more than $600—in August.

hotel
We stayed on The Strip at The Mirage, self described as such:

The Mirage is in the heart of Las Vegas and is a palace of delights, where South Seas vibe meets Strip excitement. Where soft, sunlit days give way to torrid nights. Where you are invited to experience The Mirage - REMIXED.

What terrible marketing. There's no South Seas vibe. The hotel is conveniently located on The Strip and is within walking distance of much, which is a plus. Torrid nights? Well, maybe not for me (I left hubby at home), but I know that some young singles, who were taking laps around the casino at 2 a.m., were going to get lucky. REMIXED? Not sure at all what this means.

The room I stayed in was clean, comfortable, and large, which was necessary since I was sharing it with a friend. Our hotel room was not expensive (approx. $135 on the weeknights and $175 on each weekend night), but it was also not cheap (which, in my experience, is under $100). I'd stay here again, but I also crave a little more luxury, especially if I'm in the position for a "torrid" night.

food
Generally speaking, food is plentiful in Las Vegas. Any food craving can be satisfied at any time of day—or so it seems. Vegas has often been described to me as a foodie town. The restaurant scene on The Strip seems to consist of the outposts of celebrity chefs’ NYC, LA, or Chicago flagship restaurants, so if you’ve ever wanted to eat at a Wolfgang Puck restaurant, you’re in luck because there are many to choose from.



Food was not inexpensive. I concede that restaurants will deliver a plate loaded with massive amounts of food. For example, the sandwiches at the Carnegie Deli (one of many restaurants in The Mirage) must have contained a ten-inch stack of deli meats. Of course, you can participate in a quintessential Vegas experience: the buffet. The buffet at Cravings, the Mirage’s all-you-can-eat extravaganza, costs $35, which included beverages (e.g., coffee, juice, mimosas, and bloody Marys). Aren't there supposed to be $6.99 buffets in Vegas? I think it probably goes without saying that the quality, and often the safety, of the food on a buffet is questionable. I steered clear of the sushi, even though it was on ice. Also, the eggs Benedict with hollandaise sitting under heat lamps made my skin crawl. Pictured above: a fuzzy sampling of the Craving's Asian section.

On our final night, we had dinner in an upscale restaurant (FIX at The Bellagio) with a celebrity chef (Todd English). The lighting was dim and the ambiance was not dissimilar from a mall restaurant, but the biggest outrage was starters/small plates that were, on average, $20. Entrees were $40 on average. I have really high expectations when entrees are $40, and FIX didn’t even come close.

drinks
In bars and restaurants, cocktails cost about the same price as in MSP—$9-10 for a drink consisting of a shot of something and a mixer, such as a gin and tonic. A large pina colada or margarita from the poolside Dolphin Bar will set you back $18. No lie, $18. The drink is massive, at least 40 oz., and it really is what you want poolside because, even though you can’t see it, Las Vegas is in the desert. Yes, you get free drinks in casinos, if you’re gambling. As you can well imagine, the drinks are super-watered down. Best practice: order your scotch or bourbon up.

casino/gambling
Disclaimer: I only saw the casinos at The Mirage and the Bellagio, but I’m going to assume they’re representative so I can make sweeping generalizations. For my money, all casinos look alike. At least, they all seem to have the same video slots and poker machines. The Mirage was dark and smoky (pictured at beginning of entry) and had l-o-w ceilings. The Bellagio was bright, with enough fluorescent lighting to power a small town, and smoky. The smoke made me very nauseous, which must be karmic retribution of some sort, I'm sure. Both casinos were plunked down right in the middle of each hotel—you had to walk through the casinos to get your destination. I know hotels are intentional in their layout—a point not lost on me. Hotels/casinos don’t want you to miss any opportunity to put your money in a machine. My issue is that there’s no exclusivity to the casinos. Okay, I know we’re not in Monte Carlo, but sheesh, the casinos were no different to me than the casino holiday party my former company hosted last year in our office. The off-track betting rooms were another story. They typically have three walls, one of which is loaded, floor to ceiling, with huge screens showing horse races. Awesome.

It almost sounds puritanical to say I don't gamble. So be it. I wasn't willing to put down the stakes necessary to play Blackjack at a table ($5 is typically the minimum bet). So I tried my hand at video Blackjack, and I'm stunned that people would go all the way to Las Vegas to play a video game. Did you know that the slot machines are all computerized? The levers are merely decorative.

shows
Shows are another key element in the Vegas experience. The possibilities for entertainment are vast. Cirque du Soleil has established its headquarters here, offering five different shows (O, Zumanity, Ka, Mystere, and Love, an homage to The Beatles). You can catch a music concert—Elton John, Cher, and Rush were all in making appearances on the weekend I was visiting. Magicians (e.g., Penn and Teller), stand-up comedy, and burlesque (e.g., Thunder Down Under, Chippendales, Playboy) have a rich tradition among the pantheon of shows. You can also see sporting events (boxing) or watch poker competitions.

Since I would rather slit my wrists than pay to see Elton John or Cher perform, or, quite frankly, to have a strange man rub his crotch in my face, I voted for comedy. Brad Garrett (of Everybody Loves Raymond fame) was performing at The Mirage, so catching his show seemed a natural. His humor was foul, attacking fat people, women, sexual preferences, anyone who isn’t a flag-waving patriot, fat people, and Arabs alike (and I know I’m leaving many groups out, sorry, did I mention fat people?). Lewis Black and Dennis Miller and Denis Leary are each so freaking funny I nearly pee myself laughing. None of them resort to picking on marginalized people. I hate myself for laughing at Brad Garrett, well, except for when he made fun of himself and his small dick.

favorite parts of Vegas
I was mesmerized by the sound of all the machines in the casino. Not the dinging and pinging sounds that indicated a win or a loss, but the indescribable hum of all the machines, plugged in and emitting this otherworldly noise. Sort of like a harmonic convergence. I liked that noise.

I really liked lying on a lounge chair by the pool. To me, lying in the sun is about the most decadent thing you can do. Once a decade, I’m willing to risk skin cancer by basting myself in suntan oil (i.e, not sunblock, SPF 25 and up), flipping on occasion to even things out. The pool at The Mirage put me in mind of an adult spring break, with the tunes blaring on loud speakers, the parade of swimsuit-clad hotties (male and female), the alcoholic beverages, the parade of swimsuit-clad hotties leaning drunkenly on a friend, and so on. I didn't love that aspect—the obvious effects of massive alcohol consumption, in the sun—so much, but the pool also boasts a fair representation of humanity: the fat and the svelte, the young and the old, the beautiful and the ugly—all are there, basking in the sun and cooling off in the water. Best practice: Spend more time poolside than you think you could possibly stand.

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

I got a cool pop culture/music entry today—a song by The Doors.

Cars Hiss by My Window is a song by American rock band The Doors, from the album L.A. Woman. The song is a standard blues style song and it features guitarist Robby Krieger's bluesy guitar. It depicts a melancholy feel and singer Jim Morrison shows his feelings of life passing him by. The end of the song features what many think is a harmonica solo, when it is in fact Jim Morrison doing his best to mimic the sound of one.

On the 2007 re-issue of the L.A. Woman album, a previously unheard verse was added (or rather, not edited out), making the song almost 5 minutes in length. The Doors used edits extensively on their albums; evident on the Absolutely Live album, the American Prayer album, the Light My Fire single and the two different versions of Who Scared You?, and with the re-issued version, this was the first time fans were able to hear the unedited track in toto.

playlist for a bike ride

As I take my near-daily "training" rides, I've been working my way through all the music loaded on my iPod, A-Z. The right music can get me up a hill.

This was yesterday's playlist:

~ Goin' out West (Tom Waits)
~ Good Times, Bad Times (Led Zeppelin)
~ Head Over Heels (The Go-Gos)
~ Heartbreaker (LZ)
~ Heavenly Action (Erasure)
~ Hole in My Life [Live] (The Police)
~ Houses of the Holy (LZ)
~ Hyena (REM)
~ I Believe (REM)
~ I Can't Stand Myself (James Brown)
~ I Don't Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing (James Brown)
~ I Got the Feelin' (James Brown)
~ If I Ruled the World (James Brown)
~ Immigrant Song (LZ)
~ In the Evening (LZ)

A little Zeppelin heavy, but this is what happens when you put greatest hits double albums on your mp3 player. If not Zeppelin, then The Police, REM, Erasure, or James Brown are in heavy rotation. I am in serious need of new tunes.

What music motivates you when you're on a fitness machine—or taking a walk or jog?

dedicated

I've just cooled down from an eightten-mile bike ride, which I took in crappy weather. It's not exactly raining here, but it's also not exactly not raining. In other words, the perfect weather for making excuses. John reminded me that I could ride the spinning bike, while watching Food Network (Everyday Italian is my guilty pleasure). But the den is even darker and more dreary than the great outdoors is, at the moment. So I threw a long-sleeved tee under my cycling jersey, and rode did a five-mile seated climb from River Road, up Summit, to the Cathedral. Then, I flew home—half of which is downhill.

Exhausting. And exhilarating!

Last week I got in four rides, mostly loops of River Road, from Stonebridge to the Ford Parkway bridge, cross the mighty Mississippi to West River Road to Lake Street, cross the river again and begin the climb home. This takes about thirty to forty minutes, depending on how motivated I feel.

I plan to keep riding to the Cathedral and back this week, monitoring my time. Next week, I'll add a little more distance, as well as some kid weight when John and I hook up the tagalongs and take a family ride.

viva las vegas: part one

Although I got back from Sin City late Sunday night, it's only within the past twenty-four hours that I've felt human. On Monday and Tuesday, I felt like horseshit so much so that I think I might have been jetlagged. Don't laugh or snort—it's not outside the realm of possibility. Besides, I have no other answers for the fatigue, sore throat, and general discombobulation.

But, today I have a new lease on life.

Before I left town, I vowed that I would jump-start my job search THE MINUTE I returned from vacation. I should be writing a cover letter right now, but I all I want to do is blog.

Let's start with the Vegas report. While I have plenty receipts and a few photos, this is my only written record of my journey. As a result, the account is a little detail-obssessive. Here is the first installment.

Flight
I flew out of MSP on Friday (5/9) at 9:30 a.m. Every aspect of my flight—check in, security, take off, time in air, landing—went without a hitch or delay, which is always better than one can expect. Something was missing, however. The flight, in general, was remarkably quiet. It took awhile for the reason to register—there were no children on this flight. None. Not even teenagers. Which was weird considering that sometime late in the last millenium, Las Vegas, best known for gambling and prostitution, started marketing itself as a family-friendly destination, with amusement parks, Planet Hollywood and similar restaurants with uncomplicated menus, resorts with water parks and animal exhibits, to name a few features. No. Kids. No. Lie.

Since I was traveling alone, I was able to read for the entire flight, and almost managed to finish Donna Leon's Death in a Strange Country (my favorite of the series, so far). Of course I packed a pile of books, completely deluded that I would finish at least one. The passengers on this flight weren't the most literate I've encountered (that would be Newark, NJ, to San Jose, Costa Rica, April 2006). Many folks had their laptops out; a fair number were doing sudoku puzzles. I spied the following books: Dead Father's Club (Matt Haig), How to Make Love Like a Porn Star (Jenna Jameson), a Sidney Sheldon "romance", a J.D.. Robb mystery, a Ruth Rendell mystery, and something by Oliver Sacks.

The baggage carousel area at McCarran was a zoo. I have been in many airports, in the U.S. and abroad, which I mention only to qualify my astonishment at the enormous crowd of people milling around a single carousel, waiting for their luggage. Soon, I learned that the crowd represented three flights. All the luggage was coming into one carousel—at the same time! Luggage was piled so high that passengers were digging frantically to get at the handle of their suitcase, rather than letting it make another circuit. People, maybe it will be easier to grab your suitcase on the next pass, after the top layer of suitcases has been moved. Sheesh. The number of similarly sized black suitcases was overwhelming. Remind me to carry-on next time.

Vegas, first impressions
Whenever I picture Las Vegas in my little mind's eye, I imagine bright lights and neon announcing hotels and casinos. And, at night, you'll see that view of Vegas. Arriving in broad daylight, however, the natural light is overwhelming. No leafy green trees or grass to absorb or diffuse the brightness. A string of malls and car dealers lines the drive from the airport to The Strip. Then, there's The Strip, enormous high-rise hotels with thousands of rooms. Residential areas and UNLV lie somewhere beyond The Strip, but I didn't see either. Ringing it all—mountains, the sight of which is refreshing, yet completely incongruous with the artifice of Vegas.

Edited to add: the photo shows a view from my fourth-floor room at The Mirage, but this is how Vegas appears from every angle. If I were to have turned 90 degrees and taken a photo—had there been a window on that wall of my room—the names on the hotel/casinos would have changed but the image would have looked the same.

back monday

I’m off to Vegas for the weekend to help a girlfriend celebrate a milestone birthday. It’s my first visit, and aside from neon and casinos, I don’t really know what to expect. I’m not a gambler but I am a keen observer. My flight lands at McCarran at 10:30 a.m., which gives me just enough time to get to the hotel and be poolside with a cocktail and a book by noon.

Alls I want is some sunshine, some rest and relaxation. Get in a little spa time. Take some self-guided walking tours to experience the grotesqueness of The Strip. Channel the spirit of the Rat Pack and the gang from the Ocean’s Eleven remake. Sight an Elvis or two—or two hundred. Eat a few good meals.

Perhaps I should pack…

SPOILER ALERT: I'm in a mood

Just warning you, before you read any further, I’m feeling feisty. Even though this is my “therapy” blog, I rarely get on a soapbox, and, well, dammit, I think it’s time I used this here blog as a journal rather than merely a chronicle. Here’s your last chance to turn around so as to avoid a HEAVY DOSE OF RAW NEGATIVITY.

It’s 10 a.m. and I’m sitting at The Bean Factory. I’ve been here for about an hour and a half, and except for the twenty minutes during which I checked my e-mail, I’m merely killing time until I have lunch with John. The regulars are driving me mad. They do truly behave as if the coffehouse is their office or, better, their clubhouse. Today it’s three guys, late forties, and they’re loud. Oh, they’re working, but it’s the occasional outburst that gets under my skin like chiggers. Mind you I’ve never had chiggers, but I’ve read plenty of vivid descriptions that made me itch along with the sufferer. Okay, I know the coffeehouse isn’t study hall, but people, nobody gives a damn about your nonsequiturs. Also, there’s the jamoch who took a newspaper into the bathroom for twenty minutes.

Soccer stuff
I spent almost the entire day yesterday running around doing soccer stuff. I know I should be glad that, since I'm not strapped to an office 9-5, I have plenty of time to devote to my team manager responsibilities. But, I'm so pissed at the disorganized club and the dipshits that run it. I have completely run out of patience. The club has built a fantastic program that recruits and gives financial assistance to immigrant players. However, the program's success has overrun the club's ability to handle all the kids who want to play. Plus, there are the inevitable challenges with language and cultural.

Don't get me started on this. I'm attempting to be charitable but my support staff has dropped the ball. We had a late addition to our team and I'm scrambling, through language and cultural challenges and administrative snafus, to get him a uniform and a player pass so he can play on our team, even though he's not on our roster.

Job search
The underlying cause of my malcontent.

Yesterday I had a phone interview for an editor’s position that looked great on paper. I expected this screening to be a little more along these lines: tell me about yourself, why are you interested in our company, and so on. Instead, the interviewer jumped right to the second date kind of questions—how do you go about planning your editorial schedule? What kind of writing style do you have?

These questions seem standard and non-threatening as I type them now. I can answer them, but I was caught off-guard by the timing. They’re questions I thought I’d answer in a face-to-face interview. Also, the questions were super broad, and in retrospect, I should have asked the interviewer to focus them somehow. Even after I carefully crafted an answer, the interviewer never asked a follow-up question.

All of this was telling. The interviewer was the managing editor to whom I’d be reporting, and she spoke fast, rushing to get through the few questions she had for me before “opening it up” to any questions I might have. Granted she came late to the meeting, but clearly didn’t take a minute to collect her thoughts or her breath. She was young, a tad scattered but attempting to sound professional and organized.

Then, the warning bells started screaming in my head. The ME reeked so much of AV: just enough experience and polish to be catapulted into a position beyond her confidence level. Yes, I know it would be wrong to go down this road again for a cool job. If I’ve learned nothing else in life, I have learned that taking a job for which you are overqualified is stoopid. Boredom and resentment set in very quickly.

This was the deal-sealer, though. When she said, and I quote, “Maybe you sent an e-mail and I didn’t get it, but before we go any further, what are your salary requirements?” First I have to say that I did respond to the e-mail, and when I hadn’t heard back from her, I assumed I was within the range. So I restated my terms, confidently. I’m glad we were on the phone so the ME couldn’t see my crestfallen look when she said, “That’s what I thought, with your experience, but we’re capping at [an undisclosed amount significantly under my asking price].” With that, the conversation was over. The ME saw no need to consider me further.

So the interview sucked, and I’m not quite to an “oh, well” stage. I’ve been obsessed with it, replaying the tapes, since then. I know I ought to move on, but there are clearly some larger issues at play.

Stay tuned—existential posts in the works.

meet miz mooz

Over the weekend I did some shopping. As a rule, I try to avoid shopping. I hate spending money, yet the moment I slap down the plastic, it becomes altogether too easy to do it again and again. I found the professional clothes I need for interviewing—and more.

The highlight of my shopping expedition was meeting Miz Mooz. I met her in the shoe department at Nordstrom’s, and it was love at first sight. Adorable, quirky, and fun, these shoes beckoned from their display. I tried on a pair of pumps, then a pair of slingbacks. Each pair felt like butter, which is the worst thing that can happen when you’re trying to avoid buying shoes. I tried to resist, but shoe lust won out.

Miz Mooz shoes remind me of my favorite Fluevogs but are less exaggerated and less expensive and still funky. And those factors were very, very appealing to me.



I bought two pairs. Passed on the metallic wedge sandals, which took me right back to 1984. It's hardly fair for me to mention them, especially since I can't provide a link to view them online. Divine. Don't really fit my current wardrobe. Here's what I picked up: The black wedges (Teddy) with delicious tan piping that gives them a nice retro feel and the slingbacks (Joey) in mustard (not pictured), an updated neutral color that beats tan/taupe/beige any day.

There's a cute back story about Miz Mooz, but it's in flash so I couldn't copy it from their website. So visit Miz Mooz online and click on the about us button.

happy may day!

There is nothing like the first day of a new month. It's a good time for fresh starts, for clearing the decks of mental clutter, for re-committing to resolutions and to-dos.

Yesterday marked two weeks since the new regime at Homeplans let me go. Initially my time felt so luxurious, almost as if I was on vacation. I allowed myself to linger over long, leisurely cups of morning coffee while surfing the internets, alternately looking for jobs and catching up on blog reading. Really, I could do this all day (but, switching to decaf or an Izze at some point, of course)—and some days I do.
Lest I get too sedentary, however, I have also worked exercise into my busy days. Because, remember, when I was working 8:30-5:30, I never had time or energy to exercise. Without an excuse, I'm taking bike rides (River Road loops on my Eros), spinning in the den while watching daytime TV (mostly Food Network), and practicing yoga (studio hopping with Helena). I've even done some bike commuting, and rode my Milano to school on the day I read to Winston's class.
A handful of friends who have flexible daytime hours have been kind enough to share lunch and conversation, staving off talking to the toaster for yet another day. I've eaten Indian buffet (Jen and Ann), sushi (Helena on jury duty), Thai and The Strip Club for brunschweiger (John), and Vietnamese (Lisa). More dates on the horizon as I make my rounds.

Running errands in the middle of the day, when the only shoppers at the grocery store or Target appear to be young moms or the aged, is a delight. The level of franticity is lower. Weekend shoppers rarely seem to be enjoying themselves. Reeking stress from every pore, they tend to make a Saturday Target run that much more hideous. And, folks, I'm one of them (typically). My shopping bliss, currently, is running high.

Even so, a strong malcontentedness lurks. Sitting down to read a book has been very difficult. It seems so decadent to be reading, if I should, instead, be working on my resume or searching for job openings or networking. Ack! I have this nagging feeling that I should be doing something else.

So screw it! New month, new beginnings. I'm going to watch Tyler Florence cook chicken cacciatore, then take a nap. After my rest, I'm going to mix myself a negroni and, while I have my feet up on the coffee table, I'm going to read a book and revel in my quiet time before the boys get home. MmmmmHmmmm. Happy May!

weekend report: april 26-27

As John and I collapsed in a heap on the sofa last night, we looked at each other and said simultaneously, “What a good weekend.” Jinx. While it was a somewhat typical weekend for us—see friends, eat good food, do kid stuff, exercise, get the house in order for the next week—all was done in such a fashion that we weren’t worn out.

Saturday—I spent the day getting ready for dinner guests. The house had been cleaned earlier in the week so it was in unusually good shape. I ran errands on Grand Avenue with the boys—Creative Kidstuff for a birthday gift, Wuollets for dessert (brownies for the adults, cupcakes for the kidlets), Kowalski’s for groceries, and Whole Foods for the grocery items we couldn’t find a Kowalski’s (typical). Dinner was really nice. Our guests brought amazing bottles of wine (chateauneuf du papes and cotes du rhones) and happy demeanors. For pre-dinner nibbles, I served a nice spread of domestic raw cow’s milk cheese, including the Thomasville (GA) Tomme that is so amazing.

Typically when I have a dinner party, I try to keep the menu pretty low-key by preparing a one-pot meal—a fish stew, paella, or coq au vin—and a green salad tossed with goodies, such as cheese, nuts, and dried or fresh fruit. Or we grill. Simple but delicious meals, though, truth be told, it's quite a bit of work to make dinner look like it wasn't any work at all. Also, we always feed the kids first so they stay out of the adults’ hair while we’re talking about them over our meal (these week, those of us who aren’t already at Capitol Hill received our acceptance letters for the next school year)*.

I tried something different for this dinner party and served a first course and a main course. To start, we had white anchovies and avocado on crostini with basil oil, which is one of our favorite small plates at 112 Eatery. As a main, I broiled arctic char, then placed the filets on a bed of Israeli couscous and dressed them with an orange-pistachio vinaigrette. We also had a bit of Swiss chard, sautéed in olive oil with garlic, on the side. We drank a 2006 Sharecropper’s pinot noir from Oregon, which was fitting since the fish was from the Oregon coast. I know we should be eating locally, but we’re between seasons. Dessert was local, though: warm brownies from Wuollet’s, garnished with Izzy’s Hot Brown Sugar ice cream.

Sunday—I had a very good yoga session at Colin and Helena’s. I think my flexibility is improving, and I'm definitely not as creaky and sore at the end of a practice. Though, practice is the key word. I need to develop a practice beyond once every other Sunday. The rest of the day was mellow. John took the boys and a friend out to run around so I did the errands and picked up the house in peace. Made the year’s best batch of guacamole. Heck, this is just a warm-up for the season. I have come to the conclusion that guac is not about the lime or garlic, and it’s certainly not about the quality of the avocados. The key is chiles, which are oh so important for zip and a fresh, green-tasting balance to the raw garlic and citrus. I even had a chance to read—Miss Pettigrew.

*Our acceptance letter was the good news/bad news of the week. Good news: Winston got into Capitol Hill, ISD 625's gifted/talented school, for first grade. Bad news: Simon did not get in. Placement of qualified learners (minimum score on a standardized test) is done by lottery so it was just dumb luck that he didn't get accepted. We really like where we are now, so I would have few reservations about staying, but since other friends have been accepted, Simon's feeling left out. I have already mailed in Winston's acceptance, securing a space, and will call the placement office weekly until Simon gets bumped up the waiting list.

weekend report: April 18-20

Friday—Spent the morning web surfing and catching up on e-mail, then spent the afternoon shopping. First stop: 50th and France, ostensibly to pay a long-overdue visit to the Premier Cheese Market. I have to admit that the shop is a bit of a disappointment. The shop lacks character. The cheese selection is standard fare. Still, while I can find most of these cheeses at the Lund's or Kowalski's, unlike the grocery stores, Premier Cheese Market doesn't over-refrigerate their cheese, displaying cheeses in a case, cutting pieces to order, wrapping them properly for you to take away. I found the raclette cheese for dinner (the raclette grill and a typical array of veggies on which to pour the melted cheese), as well as some cured meats (the Spanish cured pork loin, lomo, and salchichon, a chorizo from the famed pata negra, flavored with black pepper rather than smokey paprika). Then I drove up to France 44 wine shop (at 44th and France) and splurged on a few bottles of wine that we probably should cellar but will drink immediately because I’m silly that way. The best part was finding a kindred spirit at France 44's cheese counter, as well as an unbelievable small selection of cheese. I came home with three very promising domestic, raw milk's cheeses that I plan to serve next weekend. I so can't afford to be unemployed.




Saturday—Setting the alarm clock on Saturday mornings is just plain wrong. We had a soccer meeting at 8 a.m., followed by practice in the fairly miserable cold, but we met the coaches, and as we suspected, the attorney is an ass. That’s all I can say. Simon and I ran errands in the afternoon, including a stop a Izzy's (hot brown sugar, unadulterated by an izzy). That evening, friends Colin and Helena hosted a dinner party to celebrate the birthdays of friends Sarah and Dave. We had a marvelous time, drinking far too much red wine and Knob Creek. The food, as always, was sensational—a grilled flank steak marinaded in a thick chimichurri with spring onions and cherry tomatoes, gratineed potatoes, and a green salad (arugula, blue cheese, pine nuts, sun-dried tomatoes tossed with a unabashed balsamic vinaigrette).

Sunday—Six months after turning 40, I finally accept my limitations when it comes to carousing. We didn't get home until midnight. Morning came painfully, mostly because the boys woke up at the crack of dawn. I don't know how they function. Winston (muffins) and Simon (scrambled eggs) helped me make breakfast, but mostly chased each other around the house with Winston's new video camera. Winston tried filming his butt, because he's six. When pressed for details, he was very embarrassed, admitting that he'd tried to film his butt but it was too difficult. Sigh. The high point of the day was sneaking out for a movie with Caryl. We saw Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day at the Grandview. Based on a novel published in 1938, the story is a fairy tale set in London at the outbreak of WW2. I don't want to give away much, except to say that I really enjoyed it and would urge anyone who likes a romantic escape. Amy Adams was a delight, and Frances McDormand is, as always, solid. The styling was spot-on, with a luxurious Deco sensibilities. Since the Cities were in the throes of a geniunely lovely spring day, I sat outside and dipped into Miss Pettigrew, the novel. Delicious. John and I wrapped up the day by watching four—yes, four—episodes of Dexter, thus concluding the first season. What an intense series. Highly recommend it, especially if you like well-written police procedurals with a little quirk. Also a bit creepy. Months ago we cancelled our premium cable channels, but I'm seriously considering ordering Showtime for Dexter, Weeds, and more.

TGIF

This day is going entirely too fast. Funny how that happens when all the time in the day is yours to fill with things you enjoy doing.

Here I am, on the second day of the rest of my life, enjoying obscene amounts of coffee made from the most perfectly roasted beans, blogging and e-mailing and reading and working up the courage to now, finally, start my book group book (Joshua Ferris's Then We came to the End).

We have some fun weekend plans, including helping two friends—a married couple—celebrate their birthdays. Her birthday is April 18 (oh, today!). His birthday is April 20. They went to high school together in Wisconsin, but weren't high school sweethearts. I love the coincidence.

John and I have some responsibilites to Simon's soccer team that we need to fulfill over the weekend. We're the team managers and need to receive some training. We're also trying to track down the coaches so we might meet them and make a plan for the season. Stop me now—feeling a lot of agita over our The Organization That Shall Remain Nameless. Let's just say communication from the club SUCKS, and there's a serious time crunch to get a very long list of things done. Good thing I don't have a job getting in the way (heh heh).

I'm off to Minneapolis to make my premier visit to Premier Cheese. At Simon's request, we're pulling out the raclette grill tonight so I need to get some supplies, such as cured meat and the raclette cheese. It's a chilly, overcast day so this mostly winter meal won't seem out of place.

The Beastie Boys last album, The Mix-Up, has been in HEAVY rotation chez Shepard. Most of the videos I found online were filmed at concerts or festivals. While I enjoy listening to live renditions, I cannot abide by the bobbing bald pates that inevitably fill the screen of the "videographer's" camera phone. Instead, I'm leaving you today with some classic, mid-career Beasties. Natch, Simon and Winston LOVE this song.



As a bonus, I found the "Off the Grid" video. I love the sweet groove, the penetrating bass, the spacey keyboards. Perfect modern funk. Let me know what you think.

then we came to the end: a true story

For our next discussion, my book group is reading the critically acclaimed Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris—winner of a Hemingway/PEN Award and a National Book Award finalist. This is how the publisher (Little, Brown) pitches the book:

This wickedly funny, big-hearted novel about life in the office signals the arrival of a gloriously talented new writer.

The characters in Then We Came to the End cope with a business downturn in the time-honored way: through gossip, secret romance, elaborate pranks, and increasingly frequent coffee breaks. By day they compete for the best office furniture left behind and try to make sense of the mysterious pro-bono ad campaign that is their only remaining "work."

For reasons that will become obvious, I have been completely unable to crack the spine. Here is my true story:

Over the past six weeks, I have been toiling at work under the duress of uncertainty. If you've been following along, feel free to skip this excerpt from February 29:

Our parent company no longer wants us. They’ve never been able to make us fit in their mix, even though the synergy is obvious. Move's fault, not ours. Since before calendar year 2007 ended, the Home Office has planned to sell us. A deal was nearly completed, too, and was meant to have been announced at our company lunch. Done deal. Here's your new owner. Instead we have a long lead time in which to fret about who might buy us, will we all have jobs, what if no one wants to buy us, and so on. The Home Office's goal is to have us spun off by the end of second quarter, which is a little over three month from now.

A new owner could be good. We could have a budget for a new database as we move toward database publishing. We could have a budget for freelancers so I could assign someone else to write articles. We could fire unproductive employees (no names necessary).

Even before this announcement, I had decided to put myself back on the market. I’d like to be better compensated for my work and have a little more authority. It’s time. I’ll be exploring this move further here in weeks to come as I’m thinking it may finally be time to work in a different industry. Yes, publishing is and will always be my first love but I do have other interests.

For weeks, gossip consumed my coworkers' every working moment. One rumor had a group of designers vying for the deal; another rumor identified a former Homeplans' VP—backed by an investment group comprised of past owners and (possibly) a current employee—who wanted back into the business. We ran every possible scenario of how these deals could work out, and invariably they concluded in the same way: we each had a 50/50 chance of keeping our jobs.

As the weeks progressed, with nothing but conjecture to mislead us, it became increasingly more difficult to stay focused on work, the outcome of which may not even matter. New rumors that a deal was close started circulating last Friday. This past Monday we heard murmurs that an announcement would be made on Wednesday. On Tuesday I used my final sick day to get myself in a good place. I enjoyed an overpriced massage at Juut on Grand, after which I checked my work e-mail to find a flurry of coworkers exchanging personal e-mail addresses. With promises of staying in touch and getting together over the summer, it felt like the last day of high school.

On Wednesday—yesterday—the office was abuzz with word that there would be a meeting at 10 a.m. And by 10:45, The Skipper announced that the sale was complete. Hurrah! The new owners, in order to afford the acquisition, however, had to lay off pretty much everyone (eight lucky [?] employees are staying on to run an incredibly stripped-down company).

Yes, I joked about losing my job, but I really didn't expect it would happen. Of course, letting everyone go is the only scenario that could work. In addition to publishing shelter magazines, Homeplans sells blueprints to peeps who are building new homes. If you've read the news over the past two years, you know that housing starts (privately owned homes under construction) are dropping dramatically daily. It does follow, then, that Homeplans' business has dropped dramatically, too.

I don't know how the new owner—the former VP—plans to rebuild, let alone keep the company afloat in this economy. But more power to him, and them.

I loved my job as a magazine editor. While holed up in hotel rooms through the '90s on business trips, reading shelter magazines, like House Beautiful and Martha Stewart Living and Home and Garden, I dreamed about becoming a magazine editor. It was a pipe dream—I wasn't a writer, or so I thought. My journey to magazine editor was quite accidental, and I do realize my good fortune. I will be looking for another job as an editor, but will expand my search to book editing as well. I'm also going to explore one of my passions—food—by lining up some freelance food writing.

As I told Winston last night, as he gave me a hugely comforting hug and condolences, "onward and upward." Rather Mary Poppins-ish, I agree, but I'm a little overdue for a bigger and better job company. While I don't relish the job search—who does?—I am truly looking forward to a new work adventure.

In the meantime, while I'm enjoying my big fat severance (she says sarcastically) and the benefits of an unemployment check, I will be whipping our home into shape. I have robust plans to toss and organize the detritus of our busy lives.

This gift of time allows me to reconnect with friends, and I consider myself most lucky for that!

doing

reading
The View from the Seventh Layer, stories by Kevin Brockmeier, who is so fucking amazing. Last April, I devoured his novel, A Brief History of the Dead. His stories are even more powerful, and I’m inclined to say this may be his genre. I’ll write more on this later. Let’s just say I’m not plowing through the book. In the first 100 pages, each story has required a moment for rumination as a wave of WOW washes over me. His other backlist titles, Things That Fall from the Sky (stories) and The Truth about Celia (novel) are going on my TBR list. Right. This. Minute.

listening
The Beastie Boys did an instrumental album last year, called The Mix-Up, and I’m all over it for the funk. And, for Adam Yauch’s penetrating bass line. It seems like the right thing for them to do—explore musical styles, evolve. “Suco de Tangerina” is my favorite track, but a few minutes ago when I heard the first track, “B for My Name,” it made me happy.

avoiding
~ taxes
Our accountant doesn’t do much for us beyond asking if we donated any money or saved the receipts for our car tabs. Even I could have figured out those things. Still we end up paying stoopid amounts of money in taxes. This year, we vowed, we would hire a new tax preparer. By mid-March, without a prospect for a new accountant (inertia is to blame) and with encouragement from a few trustworthy folks who use TurboTax, we thought we’d do our own taxes this year. So yesterday, with less than a week before taxes are due, I mailed all our W-2s and 1099s to our usual, useless accountant.

Looking ahead to paying 2008 taxes, I’m getting a jump by asking Do you have a good accountant whose name you’d like to share with me?

~ a birthday party for Winston
Since Winston was spending his birthday away from home, for the third year in a row, we had a family celebration the weekend before the blessed date. Then, my mother threw him a party on his birthday. How much cake and how many presents does a six-year-old need? I don’t mind taking the boys to their friends' birthday parties, but I hate entertaining oodles of loud kids and making small talk with their parents. I know I have a bad attitude about this, but somewhere something went amok with kid parties, and now there’s no going back.

anticipating
Dinner at Meritage tonight with Tracy and the Jills. Mostly I’m looking forward to the big, fat cocktail I’m going to drink at the bar before my friends arrive. A little campari and sweet vermouth, with a splash of soda should revive me.

happy birthday cheeky monkey!

Belated wishes to my handsome husband, who celebrated another birthday yesterday.

I almost didn’t mention it here because John hates having a fuss made, though we did celebrate with a favorite meal (shepherd's pie) and chocolate cake. For many years he teased me about his age in relation age his father was he had his massive heart attack. For example, on John’s 37th birthday he said, “You know, I’m five years older than my father was when he had his dissecting aorta.” Would scare the shit out of me. Thankfully, John's father (70 y.o.) has long exceeded his life expectancy (36 y.o.)!

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how much I love my life with you, Cheeky Monkey. Many happy returns of the day!

xxoo, lt

weekend report: april 5-6

Friday—My weekend began Friday morning. The little boys are back from SD where they were visiting Grandpa and Grandma so I happily spent the day with them, undoing the damage, as they finished spring break. We had breakfast at the Grandview Grille because Mommy was in serious need of eggs with runny yolks and toasted English muffins (I know, neither healthy nor difficult to make at home). Mostly I wanted to get out of the house. A trip to Target yielded a spring wardrobe for each boy—short-sleeved shirts for the big one, who has outgrown every shirt he was able to wear last fall, and jeans for the little one, who has not grown much but has blown holes through the knees of almost every pair of his pants. Also, since Mommy is totally indulgent—and because I love them—the boys each picked out an Ironman action figure. They see Tony Stark, I see Robert Downey, Jr. and I love Robert Downey, Jr. Then a trip to the video store and to the grocery store for, among other things, popping corn so as to keep boys busy while Mommy surfed the web for the remainder of the afternoon. Kind of pathetic, I know, but the path of least resistance works best for me right now. John and I watched the season premier of Battlestar Galactica, which was the fastest hour of the entire week. I think it's criminal that this is the final season for some of the smartest, most exciting TV.

Saturday—We squandered the most gorgeous day of the year, so far, by running errands that keep us indoors. I hate when that happens. Friends Scott and Renee and their boys came to dinner. To celebrate the approach of spring-like weather, I made a clam roast with fennel, potatoes, kielbasa, and clams, which we served with a chilled, crisp rose—our first of the warmer-weather season. Because Scott and Renee are thoughtful guests, they arrived bearing Izzy’s ice cream—Norwegian Chai and yogurt. Not frozen yogurt. Yogurt ice cream, and it was very, very good. I think the sweet and tangy would play nice with booze-macerated fruit or with warm chocolate brownies. After we put the little boys to bed, John and I conked out watching an episode of Dexter, my new favorite show.

Sunday—John and I took the boys to Bruegger’s for bagels, then we schlepped to REI in Bloomington to look at gear and spend our dividend (rain jackets for the John and the boys). We’re so ready for hiking, rain or shine. It poured rain all day, so I spent the afternoon tinkering over dinner—osso bucco, which you can read about here. After we put the little boys to bed, John ran to Lund’s for chocolate because he loves me so much. Then we watched more Dexter. Isn’t TV on DVD the very best thing ever?

Happy Birthday Winston!

I cannot believe you are six years old today, my dear son. Where does the time go? See how much you’ve grown.

This past year has been such a huge one for you with many milestones, most of which were achieved because of your drive to outdo your older brother. For example, you decided that this would be the year you scaled the climbing wall at REI, and twice you came to within a toehold of reaching the bell on the nearly 55 ft. high wall. The first time you told us that, from where you were at the top, we appeared like ants on the ground. Funny that: you’re so little, that from where we stood on the ground, you looked like an ant to us, too.

You started kindergarten, at which you’re excelling. I’m so proud of the way you have learned how to navigate your environment, gaining more independence. You’ve made friends. You’re learning how to read and are mastering the lost art of shoe-tying. Soon, you won’t even need me.

Spending time in the kitchen with you has become more fun. You’re a great helper and have become quite accomplished at measuring and mixing. Even though you’d rather stay home in your jammies all day, I’m glad when you consent to keep me company running errands.

After all, you are adventurous, especially if food is involved. It was fun watching you eat salmon roe sushi, one fish egg at a time—“Dabby dots of jelly. Pretty on my plate and yummy in my belly.”

I’m pretty excited for all the things the next year will bring!

Happy Birthday, Winston. Six. Years. Old.

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

This week's random offering is short and sweet. I wanted to find a photo online, but found none of the village. Plenty of Calvados and Lower Normandy here. If you like Norman castles, the Bayeux tapestry, and dairy (especially cheese), these photos will make you want to travel.

Poussy-la-Campagne is a commune of the département of Calvados, in the Basse-Normandie région, in France. Its postal code is 14540. The INSEE code is 14517.

dinner at red stag

Top left: roasted bone marrow with garlic toast and sauteed mushrooms
Top right: "steak fries," these were creamy inside
Middle: empty bone
Bottom: elk stroganoff, with amazingly sweet toasted garlic