Peeling the Layers

Since I'm sorta new to the whole "cooking" game, I still find it interesting what I discover about myself and food. Through handling food and preparing it by my own hands, I am able to reveal facets about myself I never knew or thought were impossible. I like cheese- did you know that? Not all kinds yet, and I'm still texture-picky, but by making dishes I have found an unrealized love of cheese.

And I like onions. Onions, however, do not like me. Because every time I meet a fresh onion, I wind up looking like a character from a slasher-film in her final showdown scene- my eyes tearful and hand clutching a knife, trying to eliminate the enemy.

In other words, onions make me cry. Terribly. Painfully. I have realized from recipe to recipe that for some reason, my eyes are highly and helplessly susceptible to the burning sensation the smell of onions gives off.

I first thought it was a novelty. I had always heard that cutting up onions can make people cry, so it wasn't all that shocking when I started tearing up. What I had not factored in was WHY they made people cry.

It buuuurns, it BUUURNS. I remember the first time; proudly leaning over my new cutting board, nice new sharp knife in hand and trying to mimic the quick slicing I had always seen on Food Network, when the board became blurry. My nose began to run. And suddenly I began wincing.

It felt like I had just dumped a whole bottle of soap detergent directly into my eyes; the burning was incredible. I stepped away, trying to rub my face without letting my hands actually my skin. After several moments of blinking so much I looked like I had an odd tick, the burning subsided at last.

From then on, I knew the drill; the second that initial bite hit my eyes, I quickly moved over to the kitchen door and breathed in the fresh air. It worked sometimes- other times I was too focused and stayed in my place, and by the time I stepped away it was too late; my eyes burning so bad I couldn't tell which tears were from the onions or the pain.

So when the recipe for tonight called for chopped red onions, I was ready. As soon as I began peeling and slicing, the painful burn began to penetrate my eyes. In that second I walked away and breathed the fresh air. I had to repeat a few times just to get the onions ready, but it worked! I left them on the cutting board while I made the other parts of the dinner, tears still inside the ducts.

A short while later, I was sitting with Joe at our kitchen table discussing something, when my eyes began to itch. And then water. And then burn.

What the hell? I thought. I chopped those damn things over 10 minutes ago! As I tried to wipe away the tears that were now starting to stream, Joe asked if I was alright.

"Yes!" I said, "it's those damn onions! I haven't touched them in almost 20 minutes! How the hell could they burn my eyes now? And from here!?"

Finally, with a few swipes of my sleeves, the burn subsided. I guess those onions will find a way to get me one way or another. No sense crying about it....

Eye Contacts

Don't you hate it when someone is walking towards you and you don't know how long to hold the eye contact?

I was walking down the hallway at work today and was about to pass a coworker. I glanced up, and rather than doing my usual quiet "hello" and small nod, which I usually employ for people or coworkers I'm not too close with, something possessed me. He's a nice guy and we've hung out in a group for after-work happy hours, so I guess my mind was trying to process something a bit more congenial.

Meanwhile, my eyes were still locked with his. It wasn't until he finally broke in with a "Hey" that the spell was finally broken and I responded with a "hey", too. As we finally passed each other I began cursing myself, imagining what my coworker was thinking of my dumbstruck, open-mouth appearance, as if I was short a few chromosomes.

I do the same kind of eye-contact stand-off every day when I first come into work. I always pass the security desk on my way in, and normally the person behind it is too busy to notice my coming. However, there is a lady security guard who, when not on her phone, usually notices me. If I'm not paying real attention I might keep my head down, kinda diverting any eye contact at all.

But typically, I mindlessly look up and find myself in an another eye-lock. I wait, and wait, and the finally mutter out a "mornin'" when I can't stand the pressure anymore.

Maybe I should just start wearing blinders; anything it takes to escape the minute instances of social discomfort.

The Freedom Tale

I suck. I know. I have been neglecting this blog like the fruitcake at a dessert table.

But I have been waiting for something really good to write about, and thanks to Joe, I now do. And we are both still feeling it.

It all began last Thursday…

“So I’ve been thinking,” Joe said, collapsing next to me. I was relaxing and reading in bed, when he came in with a glint in his eye. I’ve been with him long enough to know that glint.

“How would you feel about going to Boston?”

Before I could register my feelings about what he meant by that he explained how he had been hearing more and more details about what was happening with the Occupy Wall Street protests, and in particular, that things were heating up in Boston.

“I just feel like I really have to be there. I really want to film it, I want to talk to people, and just really document what’s going on.”

He looked ecstatic. I was slightly skeptical. I kept asking questions, like, where we would stay, what would we do with the dog, can we afford it, etc. With every question he had a ready answer: we would find a place to sleep up there, we would take the dog with us, and that he would take care of everything.

I tried to be positive and hopeful, but my nagging pessimism kept at me. After some deliberation and compromise, I finally got on board.

We were to leave Saturday morning at *gulp* 3 a.m. yet I, still being on weekday-mode, found myself still vegging on the couch till around 11 p.m., leaving me only 4 hours of sleep.

I think I paid for that stupid mistake the whole weekend.

The alarm went off after what seemed like only 20 mins. and I stumbled helplessly to my feet like a newborn giraffe.

As we finished packing and at last got on the road, I suddenly got a flush of excitement. We would be witnesses to something so specific to our generation; something we might add to our list of experiences and tell grandkids about if it should ever make the history books.

Six seamless hours later we found ourselves in the financial district of Boston, and smack dab in the middle of a tent city that had been erected by the protesters.

We parked the car and made our way back to where the tents were. After discovering Joe was allowed to film we got to work talking to whoever would be willing to be on camera and had something to say (which was everyone). Joe interviewed all kinds of people- professionals and students, young and old, musicians and lawyers; yet their one unifying strand was that they were all disenfranchised and dissatisfied with the global governments and big businesses.

While Joe filmed, I looked around for some way to make myself useful. I noticed a guy walking around with a box of trash bags shouting for help with the garbage. Without really thinking I raised my hand and grabbed a bag, handing the dog leash off to Joe.

After some garbage picking I walked back to where Joe was, only to notice a crowd gathering. It appeared that a religious anti-homosexuality group had arrived with a bull horn, expounding hateful rhetoric. In response, several protesters began surrounding them and chanting things like “Hate is a Choice, Homosexuality is Not”, and drawing hearts with chalk all around them. I found myself chanting along with them and writing hearts as well.

I realized, standing there with garbage juice on my jeans and sweatshirt, chalk in my hand, and shouting alongside dozens of people, part of something. I wondered if this was what the people of the 60s felt when they were showing their support or discontent with something. It was very unifying, and unmistakingly American.

But, there was more America to experience- particularly the “Freedom Trail” which I pestered Joe about walking along since we were in Boston.

After we toured outside the old city and found the headstones of founding fathers John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Paul Revere, we started to make our way back to the car and were told we couldn’t go down a certain street.

“Sorry guys, this street’s closed off,” a man with a walkie talkie and ear-piece in his ear explained.

When we asked why he responded, “They’re filming a movie.” And I couldn’t help but ask, “Really? Who’s in it??”

“Ryan Reynolds and Jeff Bridges. But they aren’t on set right now.”

Damnit.

A fine American day spent exercising American rights and walking along early American history could only be topped by crossing paths with great American actors. But we got close enough.

At last we found our car and made it back on the road to find a hotel and then head over to New York. What happened next? Dogs, dilemmas and disappointments…

Dance Dance Evolution

Much apologies for my absence, but it was certainly for a good cause, so I hope you don’t mind.

I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.

Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!

Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.

What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.

Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!

The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.

Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.

Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.

I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.

Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.

Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.

Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.

Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.

And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.

Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.

Mother Hood and Her Merry Sisters

To put it simply, my mother and her sisters are Robin Hood and the merry (wo)men. Not totally in that "steal from the rich“, but more because they have ways of getting around obstacles set in place that are inherently unjust.

I had always noticed their capers- getting a refund on an expired receipt, or getting the discounted price on an item no longer on sale, etc.

But I have never been more amazed at their undermining than I was on a recent visit to the beach.

I should also mention that my mother and her sisters are glorified sun-goddesses and their temple is the beach. As long as I can remember, summer time excursions to the shore (which wasn’t really too much of an excursion since none of them live further than a few miles away from a coastline) were so commonplace we all practically lived on the beach. And being residents of these beach towns, my mother and aunts were able to enjoy these beaches with little frustration.

Until, that is, “King Join” (as in “join-our-membership-in-order-to-use-what-is-rightfully-yours’) came along.

More and more rules were established by local governments to restrict beach access, causing frustration from the tax-payers who resided there. My mother and her sisters were no exception. But rather than petition and plead to those who would not bother listening, Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters took action into their own hands. Their weapons? A loophole and a fishing pole.

They discovered that, by carrying a fishing pole with them when they went to the beach, they were allowed access free of charge. Somehow, somewhere, there was a loophole in the regulations that allowed free access to those who came to fish. And since no one bothered to ask why a group of middle-aged women wearing Ann Taylor sarongs were carrying designer beach bags and NOT tackle boxes instead, they were waved on and a new precedent was set.

From then on as word spread of this tactic, the townspeople, with fishing poles in hand, were once again able to reclaim what belonged to them, thanks to the Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters.

A/C Hater

There is a battle being waged, and I don't mean overseas. It is happening right in Towson, right on Willow Ave. The battle is between one Joseph Granato and one Kristen Bott. The reason? Air conditioning versus the electric fan.

My sleeping pattern is as follows- on my side, hand under one pillow with the other clutching another pillow. In the summer, I like to have just a portion of the comforter covering me. I love the gentle breeze of a summer night, but since the nights have been just as stagnantly hot as the days, those breezes have to come in the form of our electric fan placed in the window.

Joe, however, requires the constant blast of the A/C on him as well. And there in lies the source of our disagreement.

One of my truly amazing characteristics is my ability to be cold, even in the deathly hollows of summer. I really realized this a few weeks ago, when the war between A/C and fan began.

A few weeks ago while trying to go to sleep, I noticed I was unconsciously pulling the covers over my entire body. I realized I was actually getting chilly from the onslaught of A/C and fan. I mentioned it to Joe the next night.

"But how can you be cold? It's over 80 degrees!" he said, astonished.

"I know, but its just that the constant blast of cold air and the fan is too much. Why don't we just use one or the other?" I said.

He tried to explain that the air won't kick on unless the temp reaches a certain high, but I was still unconvinced. As a means to make a peace treaty, Joe turned off the A/C for the night.

He informed me the next morning how he had woken up several times in the middle of the night, unable to breathe and needing water. He told me this, because I had slept pretty much through the night. I did notice the heat more, and struggled a bit to get to sleep, but once I did I was out.

To be fair, we put the A/C back on the next night, swapping out the fan.

I have to admit that I did stay cooler, but the dry cold air did bother my nose and throat a bit.

So now we are back to trying sneaky tactics. I will often flip the A/C off for a while only to have Joe somehow flip it back on. It's like an I Love Lucy gag. Who will win the battle tonight? We'll have to see.

How I Know I'm Getting Old...

In no particular order- and the fact that I really can't remember if I already did something like this should be number 1 (and if you have some of your own, please do so share)....

1.) I carry tissues with me at all times- either stuffed in pockets or hidden in my purse.

2.) I now listen to more talk radio than I do music.

3.) I worry about things like my gallbladder and colon.

4.) I make the conscious decision to pee before I bother walking all the way downstairs so I don't have to come up again.

5.) I'm starting to hear the words "I don't give an 'f***'" come out of my mouth more than "I hope I don't..."

6.) I'm really starting to not give an 'F***'

7.) I'm starting to know more married people than single.

8.) My college friends are having kids.

9.) Many old friends moved away and I have to re-learn how to make new friends.

10.) I've begun denying any grey hairs on my head (which there are none, thank you)

11.) I refer to anyone a year younger than me or more as "children".

12.) I'm ok with the idea of marriage.

13.) I'm starting to get ok with the idea of kids. Starting to.

14.) I signed up for a 401k plan.

15.) I now understand the simple pleasure of giving and receiving greeting cards.

16.) Things are starting to creak and crack.

17.) All the "youthful" imagery shown on television and in movies are referencing 22 year olds and younger.

18.) 22 seems so young.

19.) My distaste in current music and movies has continuously grown considerably.

20.) The term "old school" for me refers to things from the mid 80s to early 90s.

21.) I can't remember the last time I rode a bike.

22.) I looked at a recent photo of me and realized that's what the "grown-up" me looks like.

23.) I've been able to drink legally longer than I used to sneak it.

24.) I can cook.

25.) I'd like to buy a house.

26.) I am starting to look at makeup that fights and conceals wrinkles.

and lastly...

27.) I make lists.

What makes me still feel young? Simple:

Joe, the music I love, the friends and family I cherish, the passions I keep, writing, and still being able to get drunk off 2 beers.

Merry Mechanics

My latest faux pas? Tempting a former alcoholic with beer. Yes, I gave away the ending already, but I have a feeling you might still read on.

I don't know if it's just me, but taking my car into a mechanic's is always a heart-pounding and anxiety-ridden event. My legs tingle, my feet twitch, my stomach feels upset...all because of one ostensibly routine chore.

I think it's because, like many of you I assume, I am a complete idiot when it comes to my car. I know how most of the features work (you know, all the key stuff like controlling the windows and sunroof. Other things, like how the 6-CD changer works is still a work in progress.) But when it comes to actual workings of my car, I'm pretty clueless, so if one of the mechanic's tells me my car is on the verge of total destruction because the F-top lubricator core injector thing-a-ma-bob is dented, I'm left standing there mouth agape and dumbly nodding.

But perhaps the even greater cause for my distress is the absolute mystery behind how much things cost to fix. I like to do research when I can about how much some things generally cost, like oil changes or tire rotations, but it always seems that by the time I am inside, the prices teeter-totter.

And being the cheap person I am, this is terrifying because you never REALLY know how much you are going to end up spending.

Fortunately, I have found a great reliable body shop who have always been so helpful and fair, offering me discounts whenever they could and don't make me feel like the "girls with their cars" stereotype. I usually have a conversation with whoever's working that day, and discovered on two accounts that this body shop sometimes accepts beer as a token of appreciation.

Well, I've always been appreciative but never had the beer on hand, so when I made my appointment for the next week to have my car's alignment checked out, I made a point to pick up a 12-pack.

On the day of, I kept going back and forth in my mind whether I ought to do the beer-thing. I had gotten the impression that that would really make their day, but still I worried that I might get in trouble for trying to serve alcohol to people on the job (is that even a law?) or be seen as trying to bribe them (which, in a way, I totally was- bribing them to take care of me and my car without hammering me with a massive bill).

I arrived and noticed the guy behind the counter was one I hadn't yet ever encountered. Plus there were other customers there. I decided to just leave the beer in my car and if I got a good vibe, tell him I'd be right back and present the liquid treasure.

I sat waiting and waiting, until finally they pulled my car inside and I was suddenly hit with anxiety and the onslaught of questions in my head- What if they find something reeeally wrong? What if it costs more than what I have? What if they need it for overnight? What if it's too expensive to fix...

I annoyed and freaked myself out so much that I practically jumped when he came back in.

"They redistributed your tire pressure. One was at only 13 lbs while another was on the brink of popping", he said. All in all, everything else looked good.

I was so relieved that I was going to walk out of there with less money spent than I feared and still getting something fixed that needed it.

I was so relieved in fact that I suddenly blurted out (in no graceful manner), "D'you accept alcoholic beverages as a 'thank you' by any chance?" I waited for a coy smile to appear but instead the man kept his eyes down and said, "As an alcoholic, no."

Crap me...

I apologized profusely but he smiled then and said, "Had you asked me 6 years ago, I would've said yes!"

Oh well, you can't win 'em all.

Over the Wal-mart and Through the Depot...

So Memorial Day has passed, and all in all, it was a good one. Joe and I had some people over for a BBQ and we christened our new fire pit. And it really wasn't even a ton of work to put together...once we had everything we needed.

There was one little detail we had forgotten until the very day of the party- firewood. In order to actually use the fire pit we needed firewood, and of course, the quest to purchase some was fraught with hassle.

As I was cleaning things up Joe went out to get his last few grocery items and the firewood. He is gone for a good while and then returns saying the Home Depot was out. We really needed it, since the fire pit was one of the featured events for our party, but since he looked tired and sweaty (and since I needed a few more things anyway) I offered to drive up to our big mega-Walmart that also has a big gardening section while he continued to get things set up.

I drove up and, not shockingly, noticed the parking lot (which usually extends practically into the next town) was packed pretty well. Figures. But I was armed with my list and a fair idea of where everything should be. No problem.

I tried to see if I could find firewood on my own, but to no avail. So, I try to ask a helpful Wal-mart employee.

Now, at this point, I must make a plea to all Wal-mart employees- I am sorry if you don't like your job. I'm sorry if you are hungover and don't feel like being there. But for the love of God and the sake of civility, can you NOT run away every time I (or really, any customer, b/c I noticed this was an issue for other people as well) just want to ask a brief question about where something is. The store is the freaking size of an air craft carrier, and I'm bumbling around just looking for some Off!.

Anyway, I finally snag some help from a willing employee who explains they simply don't have it.

I then rush out to the Home Depot down the street, hopeful that this location will have the firewood. I barely walk in the door when I see the store greeter and immediately ask about the firewood.

"You know, I'm not sure we do, but let's find out." So she walks me over and after asking some of her fellow Home Depotcrats they inform me that they are also out.

I am about to walk out the door when the woman who initally greeted me pulled me aside and explained how she would be able to hook me up.

"Just take some from my house," she said, in a hushed tone, like she was selling me contraband.

I was very tempted. It was free and I'd be able to get it right away. However, my hopes were dashed as she began explaining all the hoops I'd have to jump through to get it.

"Go to Thornton Ave, and look for the last house on the left. You'll see some construction going on. Go up to the house. My daughter should be there. Her name is Cassie. Explain who you are and tell her I sent you. My name is Linda. Then go around the corner through my neighbor's yard, over the valley, through the woods, answer the bridge master's 3 questions, slay the Hydra..."

I thanked her for her help, but in the end I simply went to Valley View Farms and found a few bundles and paid for them. It was kind of her to offer, but in this instance, my laziness outweighed my cheapness. Besides, if I'm going to venture into stranger's yards, I better be drunk first.

Jos of a Tank

I remember back when I was younger I was standing outside our area mall watching a new store being put in and trying like hell to decipher it's name.

Jo's Bank?

J. S a Bank?

I couldn't figure out what the symbols meant or how to pronounce them, until one day later on and I heard the radio promos for the store and put two and two together.

I really should have no cause to have anything to say about this store; it being a men's clothing store and all. But since I've been without television (countdown's almost up!) I've had my ears glued to the radio, catching things I'd normally never notice.

Is it just me or does anyone else wonder how the hell this store stays in business? Every single promo ad I hear for them on the radio features that small mid-level voice guy exteeending eeeeveery siingle syllable while explaining that if you buy a tie you get a 5 whole suits "aaaabsolUtely FREE!"

I jest, but I'm not too far from the truth.

The other day, I swear, their latest sale was about how you buy a blazer and you get two suits "aaabsoLUTEly free!" Now I've never bought/owned a suit, but I have to imagine they are pretty expensive. So how the hell do they justify selling a blazer or sweater or whatever and give away two full suits for nothing?

Has anyone been in this store to attest to the quality? Or does anyone have any insight as to why they even bother to say they "sell" thing when it sounds constantly like a buy a pair of socks, get 20 free minutes to grab everything you want for free-sale?

And yes, I have wasted actual valuable and functioning brain cells to think about things like this. It scares me, too.

Pizza, Pizza

I hate to be a snob or ridiculous, but really, the pizza here in Baltimore is a crying shame.

I know that New York gets all the credit for having awesome pizza, but New Jersey is right there too (both literally and standard-wise). The sauce is always sweet and savory, the cheese is gooey, and the crust is perfectly chewy AND crispy. I took the fact that we had more great pizzerias than bad for granted, until I moved here.

I recall so distinctly sitting around in my college dorm or around a common area, and someone mentioning a craving for pizza.

"Hey, I know! How about Papa John's?" What? A chain?!! Blasphemy!

I was perplexed since really, my family and I never ordered from a pizza chain. You always order your pizza from a place with a stereotypical Italian name, like Michael Angelo's or Little Luigi's.

I tried to be open minded and not a pain, so I'd go along with the group- and was horribly disappointed; thick plastic-y cheese smothered over salty sauce on top of flavorless cardboard. I hoped that my new found friends were merely going along with what was easily available. Yet sure enough, another week or so would pass and suddenly I'd see someone pull out that damn Papa John's menu.

Yet, Baltimore is something of a known city, with plenty of great meals available. I was determined to find my home pizza away from home pizza. And happily, I have. In no particular order, I give you my Pizza Picks for the Towson/Baltimore area.

1.) Pasta Mista's Margarita Thin Crust- Perhaps it is because they place really fresh Roma tomatoes on top. Perhaps it is because it tastes amazing even at below room temperature. And perhaps it is because I had it just last night. But Pasta Mista's pizzas are fantastic. I've tried a few of their different slices, but my go-to favorite is the Margarita thin crust. You never actually feel like you are eating something "bad" for you, because the ingredients appear so simple and fresh- great crust, a savory sauce, fresh sliced sweet tomatoes, tangy basil, and sumptuous fresh mozzarella slices.

2.) Maria's- Joe and I discovered this gem over a year ago, primarily because of the price. On Sunday and Monday their large and X-large pizzas are half-off (making an end of weekend/weekday meal not only a treat but extremely affordably). They are a tad greasier than I'd like, but the flavor is still one of the best I've had. The sauce is pretty killer and the crust has a great balance of chew and crunch.

3.) Strappazza- Fairly certain they are a chain, which does detract some level of appreciation, but they do have fantastic pizza. In fact, it's one of the closest New Jersey-style pizza experiences I've had outside of the Garden State. The cheese and sauce appear well combined, rather than one sitting on top of the other.

Have your say: Out of towners- let's hear where you get your pizza from or in fact any food you miss from your hometown. Local to Baltimore? Let me know if you agree/disagree or have any suggestions as to where I can go to get my pizza fix.

Hearts on Fire?- Part2: The Smooth Operator

I hightailed it to the nearest walk-in clinic, holding my hand to my chest and full freaked out. I wondered if half the reason I was feeling nauseous and light-headed was because I was giving myself a panic-attack.

I walked in and explained what I was experiencing. The receptionist took my information and after what felt like an eternity a nurse finally came out to check my blood pressure. Then she led me into the examination room to use an EKG machine on me. She kept reassuring me that this is just standard procedure when experiencing any kind of chest pain, just to make sure one's heart isn't in any kind of distress.

After that she left and the doctor came in to ask me some questions and assess my symtpoms. He listened to my heart and said he thought he detected a slight murmur. Also he took everything else into consideration and finally offered his diagnosis- Mitrovalve prolapse (or something like that).

He explained that it is a very common condition, especially in women, and other than the odd feeling and the need to just be aware of it, my lifestyle wouldn't change. He then asked if I had an appointment with a primary care doctor yet, and when I said I did, he seemed relieved.

"You'll take this EKG result with you to show your doctor and tell them what I think it is. They'll probably want you to do another one and maybe see a cardiologist, but you'll have to see when you get there."

For the most part, I left relieved on both fronts- I wasn't crazy in thinking something weird might be going on AND it didn't sound very serious.

After a week of waiting my doctor's appointment rolled around- as in today. Of course, it wouldn't be a "me" story if it didn't involve me running late. Although I thought I was good (only like 6 minutes) I was reminded by the doctor that I was informed to be there 15 minutes BEFORE my appointment. She seemed a little perturbed by it, but I tried to apologize profusely.

With that out of the way, she got to examining me. She had me do another EKG and asked a bunch of questions I wasn't sure about like family history and describing the pain.

Incidentally, why is it that when you are out with your friends in a casual setting and they ask you about something minute you can remember the slightest details, yet when put on the spot and the topic is important you feel completely useless and brain dead?

Anyway, without giving me a definite answer as to what I have she did ask me about odd things that could be triggering it-

"Are you a coffee drinker?"

"Yes, but I just started."

"When?"

"Maybe a year."

"How many cups?"

"One a day"

"....Starbucks?"

I was taken aback by that question but she explained that Starbucks has actually the highest levels of caffeine.

When she was finished with tossing out scenarios and possible triggers she made up a game plan for me to follow- I would get some blood work done, an echo cardiogram, and a halter (a heart monitor).

I thanked her for her help and went out to make my appointments with the receptionist.

I have to admit that I was still a bit overwhelmed and nervous as I stood at the receptionist window. However that feeling was gone the second she tried to redial my insurance company and placed them on speakerphone...only to have the recording of a sassy male gay sex phone operator come blaring out and filling the room. Her eyes got as wide as saucers and we both bowled over as she scrambled to hang up the line.

It was then I had a nice little "Jerry Springer- Final Thoughts" moment- life can suck and be super scary. So much so that it's sometimes a drag. But once in a while, God, Fate or whoever, likes to drop something in front of you to remind you what's so great about life and why you want to stick around...you never know what gems you will find. Even if that something is seeing a motherly-type woman accidentaly dial a gay male sex-phone line while on speakerphone.

Office Donuts

Yeah I know I slacked. This time the reason is health-related; as in, I'm not feeling in the best of it. I don't know where it came from but ever since Sunday I have been feeling a bit off and then yesterday it really hit my throat. Now my throat is just dry and scratchy while my head feels likes it's locked in a vise. So for my benefit (and yours) I'll keep this brief.

I haven't been working at an office for a very long time, but I have been working at one long enough to begin to notice odd office behaviors, rituals, and fears. It's kind of like being back in high school where you feel eyes upon you, judging you, until you find a clique or social order that makes you feel comfortable for turning your back on those who are of a different (or higher) social order.

Take the break room, or even just food for that matter. I choose to go onto the kitchen/break room like a mouse- quietly and discreetly, when no one else is there, getting what I want and then hightailing it back out before anyone even realized I was there. And as I'm pretty sure I mentioned before I usually don't go in there except for my cup of coffee and the occasional refill of my water bottle- unless snacks are concerned...

Once in a while someone in the office will bring in donuts or bagels. This time it was donuts. I checked my email and there was a message that had been sent throughout the office notifying all that there were donuts in the break room. Oooh. I had a chocolate craving anyway, so this was perfect. Still, I didn't want to rush in and rush out, especially if people were in there, so I let fate be my donut-decider. I waited until it was my usual coffee break and if it so happened there was a chocolate-esque donut left, I would claim it.

I walked in and saw...two halves. Each a different flavor, they had been sliced by a knife, presumably by the one left inside the box as if to reassure anyone that someone hadn't just taken a bite and left it there. The bigger half was also the more chocolatey one, but I was still a bit hesitant. What if someone WAS coming back for that other half, or worse, someone had taken a bite. I'd look like the office weirdo who takes other people's donuts and doesn't mind eating something someone else took a bite of.

In the end I quieted my neurotic brain by grabbing the rich donut-half and walking back to my desk. I still made sure to eat every crumb...just in case of incriminating evidence.

Service with an Evil Smile

Yes, let me address my own discontent with this frigid weather we are having. It sucks, and it sucks even more because we were taunted with the delightful mild temperatures not but 7 days ago, and now they are calling for snow.

I am quite perturbed at this prospect except for one reason: the possibility of getting out of playing football on Sunday. True by the end (and after my glorious catch) I was having fun. But the idea of playing again...in the cold...and without my fellow female friend/player has me wishing the snow on. I apologize to those willing the opposite to occur.

So I have been absent here because I was catching up on a few tasks I had been putting off (or plain old forgot about). And the theme behind tonight's post is- people who are kind but suck at the same time. You'll get it as you read along...

I was getting something out of the fridge the other day and happened to look up, noticing my appointment card for my dentist. I couldn't believe it had been 6 months already.

It was a blessing and a curse; a blessing because maybe I could set up an appointment to get my tooth sensitivity taken care of once and for all, and a curse because I feared the physical and financial pain to do so.

I went in and was immediately greeted by the receptionist. I then waited a few moments before being called back into the dentist's chair. The hygenist was extremely nice and when she asked if I had had any problems I immediately explained my sensitivity. She said after she was finished with my cleaning she would call the dentist in and see what she could do.

After she was finished my dentist came in I again I launched into a plea about how nothing had been helping and I was really looking for something to permanently help. She offered the idea of getting my teeth bonded, and when she realized she could do it right then, I was whisked away into another room.

Now let me explain, going back to the theme of this post, that everyone in that office is extremely and thoroughly nice and personable. They are great. Which makes it really hard to hate them when it feels like they are employing ancient techniques of dental torture.

The process basically consisted of taking every single painful instance I got from eating something too hot or cold and concentrating it into 4 or 5 minutes of horrifying excruciation. In order to put the material on my teeth she needed to clean and dry the surface. How, you make ask? By blowing chilly air and water directly on my exposed nerve.

I almost wanted to vomit a bit, but the dentist and her assistant were so sweet and kind I didn't want to come off as a bad patient. So I lay there, helpless, and with my mouth agape, praying for the end to come.

Happily it did end rather briefly, but the jury is still out on the sensitivity.

Then later I (thought) I had an appointment to get my oil changed. I had set-up an appointment online and even received confirmation through my email. So I was quite surprised when I had hauled ass to make my appointment only to find out that they had no record of it.

"Um, no, don't see you listed here," the mechanic explained, a wonderfully kind man.

"I don't suppose you'd be able to fit me in anyway?" I asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately I can't," he said smiling. I was disappointed but I couldn't feel that bad when he was making me smile and being so understanding.

So what have we learned? Nice guys finish last. Or they screw you over. But at least they make you smile while doing so.

Cat-Dog

Ok, this may be a stretch of me simply scraping the bottom of the Ideas barrel, but here we go...

Reasons my Dog is like a Cat.

(these are connections I have made based on my own pre-conceived notions about cats and do not necessarily reflect the ACTUAL behaviors of cats, since I don't own any, so cat-people: be fair)

1.) Sun-hunting- To be immediately followed by sun-lounging. Many a time I have entered a room or come home and spotted Georgia carefully placed with some part of her body touching a sunbeam. I have then left said room or have gotten distracted but when I'd come back I'd noticed she has shifted her body, continuously following the progress of the sun by wiggling her body to be constantly bathed in the warm sunlight.

2.) Batting, pawing or swiping- It could have something to do with whatever Frankenstein-ian mystery breeds she has in her, or perhaps it is simply behavior by physical design, but she is a dog that seems very comfortable using her front paws as hands. For a while now we have noticed that she will scrape her nails against our hands to get us to pet her. She will play by hopping on her back legs and springing forward, her arms (because thats what they look like) outstretched as if doing a "SOO big!"

3.) Picky eating- Granted I'm sure there are millions of dogs that have this problem, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say there exists a stereotype that some cats are particular about their food- and in that case, Georgia is similar. Lately we've been buying this food for her that has small chunks of chicken in it. She will very happily pick out the chicken and leave the rest (the healthy component, I'm sure) for much much MUCH later. She also will turn her snout up to her food if it is not gingerly doused in warm tap water. Yes, we are indulging her pickiness and yes, I am the one turning on the faucet.

4.) Climbing- On EVERYTHING. It has almost become a common thing; seeing the telltale paw prints on tables, chairs, beds, etc. Even when I'm usually writing and Georgia decides to stay up with me, if she wants attention she has no problem walking right on my laptop. Other times when Joe or I am stretched out on the couch, she has no qualms about running in from outside and walking right on top of us, as if we are in HER way. Unlike a cat, however, she is starting to feel less like a delicate puppy and more like a rambunctious dog.

Yeah, I may have punted this one tonight, but I'll do something a bit more thought-out tomorrow- my reviews on two restaurants I visited for Baltimore Restaurant week.

Tune in tomorrow.

The Shocker

You ever shock yourself? No, I don't mean by qualifying for both the Olympics AND Mensa at the same time...and not the little b.s. static electricity kind. I mean the coursing-through-your-veins-like-Frankenstein's-monster kind of shock.

Ok, it wasn't all that severe, but it was definitely a stronger sensation than touching my computer after walking on carpet.

I was recovering from my weekend festivities last last Sunday by just taking it easy and doing some household chores. But because I'm an addict to entertainment (not just television, I've found out) I need to have something playing, be it radio or Internet. And it is because of this that I love this little laptop of mine...well, most of the time.

It's so small it's really a great travelling computer. However, the only thing that sucks is that the cable to the battery outlet has gotten loose over time. It's now super-sensitive, and if the cable is even REMOTELY unplugged, I start to rely on the battery for power, even when the whole thing is PLUGGED into the outlet.

And as easy as the cord to the battery slips out, the more difficult the cord to the outlet is to unplug. I was shifting my actions from the living room to the kitchen, and so I went to unplug the cord into the power strip outlet. I tried at first to simply grip the plastic part of the cord, but when that proved difficult I used my finger to push it out the rest of the way...

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I felt a strong charge zip right through my thumb and forefinger so quickly I took me a few seconds to actually shout the word, "Ow!" It literally felt like my hand had been shaken ferociously for a good few seconds and as I looked down my two fingers were red, but that was all the evidence I saw.

I must admit I was quite shy about touching that cord again...at least for a few minutes. But I'm not a totally dumb lab rat. The next time I will remember to use my hand as just an extractor...not a freaking conductor.

Brief Moments

You have to think that there is someone out there, be it God or Fate or whatever, that enjoys your moments of stupidity, right? I mean those moments when you really have to look around and make sure there is no one there- you have to think SOMEONE is laughing at your expense.

Take the other day...

Georgia the Dog is many things. And one of those things, is gassy. I have been around dogs for the better part of my youth, and yet I have NEVER come across a dog as flatulent as this one. And they aren't the cute little pipsqueak farts, they are the rank old sour Puppy Chow kind that infect the air so that you are left gasping on the floor (sorry, didn't warn you if you were eating).

So I was just getting up from the couch when I leaned right into a fresh air-bomb that left me gagging. I reached for the ever-ready air freshener (and when you need an air freshener like an asthma inhaler, I think you know you have a problem) and sprayed it all around me. Only problem was I sprayed just as the heater kicked on so the fresh mountain scent was blown directly back into my face. I swung my arms like an orangutan trying to keep both the chemicals and toxic gas from choking the life outta me, and I had to wonder....someone must be enjoying moments like this, right?

Of course, in those instances you can at least take in the comfort that no REAL person is witnessing your worst moments. The same can not be said when you are out in public and Embarrassment singles you out.

Tonight my friend Ash invited me to accompany her to her gym. We spent a few minutes on the treadmills but then decided to give the ellipticals a go. I was a tad unsure as we noticed the only available machines with two next to each other were right in the front row, with at least 3 or 4 rows behind us. Still, we each took one and after she was finished with her workout I still had a few minutes left on mine. She mentioned she was going to work on her arms and left while I was huffing and puffing, trying not to pass out.

As I was trying to bang out the last few minutes I kept getting the feeling my pants were creeping down. They are not especially low exercise pants, but where the seam was kept making me think my pants were falling and exposing my underwear. So much so in fact that I casually tried to pull them up, just to make sure. Then in the distance I swear I heard a tittering of laughter. Now if you are at all like me, when you hear laughter in the background, no matter where you are, you automatically think it's at you. The feeling and fear of exposure returned so often that I started to not even fake it, and just kept yanking my not-even-falling-down pants up, till I probably looked like It's Pat on an elliptical.

As my workout concluded and I gave one final tug at the waistband, I began to think that maybe there is a force out there that gets some enjoyment out of seeing us in brief moments of embarrassment. And maybe the reason these moments are deployed around each other is to make sure none of us ever takes ourselves too seriously. Just make sure your pants stay up.

Fateful Food

Holy hell, is anyone else freaking out that it's almost Thanksgiving? I feel like I was JUST looking at my calendar and thinking, "Oh, we still have a few weeks till Halloween". But it never fails...this time of year is truly a roller coaster. You feel the click, click, click as you roll up towards Columbus Day, pass that and before you know it you feel the first drop of Halloween. From there the twists and turns come faster and faster- Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day...whew, it hurts my head and wallet when I think about it.

Still, I manage to have spare a weekend here and there, especially when it comes to friends visiting. Thanks again to Ken and Jay for spending the weekend, it was such a blast. And speaking of which...

You know how I say that it seems that fate likes to keep me from being on time? I think, in addition to that, fate likes to mess with my eating. No matter how much I try to be "lady-like" when I'm eating, I always get screwed. Example...

My friends and I were walking around Federal Hill when one brought our attention to a "cupcakery" shoppe as we walked by. Jay asked if we wanted to go in, and we decided to check it out. It was a tiny little place with delicate and enticing cupcakes, however they were shown individually in a small case each, like little frosted gems. I spied some chocolate confection and Jay purchased it for me. As we were walking I tried my damnedest to not make a mess: I carefully mouthed small bites, licking a little bit of frosting with each bite. However, as is the innate engineering problem with cupcakes, I found myself running out of cake and facing a small tower of frosting. I first encountered the faulty physics of cupcakes back in elementary school. There is no easy or clean way to eat a cupcake with your hands, unless u have an exceptionally big mouth. Finally I just had to go for it and smush the rest in my mouth, and hope for the best. There was, of course, collateral damage, and for the rest of the day was constantly wiping my mouth for any phantom chocolate.

But it doesn't stop with cupcakes. My fellow fremps and I decided to grab lunch out once and we opted for Chipotle. I ordered my usual, two soft and one hard tacos, and immediately realized I was putting myself in the middle of a messy meal minefield. It's one thing to be in the privacy of my own home, shoving a taco in my face, picking up whatever scraps have fallen out and dropping them back in my mouth. It's a bit different in public, and especially around work colleagues.

I ran over to grab a plastic knife and fork and tried to elegantly slice my taco with it. Now, I don't know what that thick slab of plastic is meant to cut but it did squat. I barely managed to cut through anything and the fork must've been coated in Pam, cuz every bite slid back in my red basket. Finally, I figured I could either starve or just pick it up and eat carefully-which is what I did. What I hadn't counted on was that my first bite was going to be smack-dab in the middle of the biggest chunk of beef. The rest of the taco fell out as I tried to quickly shovel the big piece of flesh and everything along with it in my mouth, so as to hasten any gross scene I was causing. Unfortunately it was also still hot, so it was scalding my mouth so bad my mouth fell open more. I finally swallowed what I could and quickly hid my mouth behind a napkin.

See? I try to be careful. I try to take my time and eat small bites. Somewhere out there is getting a good laugh at my eating expense. Hopefully you will join in with them. Anyway, thought this topic was especially fitting given the upcoming holiday. Tomorrow's a travel day for me, so if I don't get the chance, Happy Thanksgiving kids!

Serious Tissues

If you've ever wondered what that bulge in my front pockets were, I can tell you, it's not because I'm happy to see you. Well, maybe I am, it depends on who you are. They're actually something much more special. Much more precious. Much more...two-plyed.

Yes, dear friends, if my love of Glenn Miller, "I Love Lucy" and "Golden Girls" re-runs, and my driving ability weren't enough, the fact that I feel absolutely helpless without a tissue would solidify the theory that I AM, in fact, an old lady.

I don't really know when this became such an obsession. I guess because too often I can recall situations where I was suddenly struck with a runny nose and had no way to help it. I can clearly remember one incidence in middle school in which our class was in the middle of some big test; the kind they didn't even allow you to get up from your seat once it began. I was fine up until I was about halfway through. My nose felt cold and suddenly I realized my nose was runny (you ever get those kinds of runny noses? Where the mucus is body-temperature so you don't realize till you feel it get cold on the outside of your lip? Sorry, too gross?) I tried to carefully reach into my desk or pockets for a tissue without drawing attention from my teacher. As my nose continued to run, I became more panicked, suddenly hoping to find something, ANYTHING that might help me not look like "that kid": the kid in your class that looks disheveled and messy, and might even have a certain odor. I was petrified of being labeled "that kid." When I had searched every pocket and every crevice in my backpack, now not even caring if the teacher thought I was cheating or not, I was forced to use my hand by pretending my nose was just itchy. That, of course, made it worse. By the time the test was over, I had become more concerned over my nose than my score, and had lost pretty much all concentration. I tell you, I might've been in Harvard had I just 1 damn tissue with me all those years.

It still took me a few years to finally choose need over style, and so I'd simply stuff each pocket with a fresh tissue. Anytime I spotted one of those cardboard cubes anywhere I'd take a tissue, whether I really needed it or not. Of course, at times I would still be caught unawares, and would therefore have to rely on desperate measures. Here's my quick run-down of tissue-like back-ups...

1.) Toilet paper- Probably the most obvious second-choice paper product. Easily accessible, usually still soft on the nose, and flushable. However, unless it's a good quality brand you are likely to end up blowing your nose on your hand, anyway.

2.) Napkins- Again, depending on the brand, could be soft and sturdy enough. However, usually not-so kind to the nose and because they are usually thicker it's difficult to stuff one in your pocket.

3.) Paper towels- Not kind to the nose at all. Not flushable and not pocketable. But will get the job done.

4.) Sheet paper- Yes, I do mean an actual piece of notebook lined paper. And yes, at one particularly desperate point in my life I have used this. Aside from the obvious negatives...like it can cut your nostril and oh yeah...its GROSS...there is a way to use a piece of paper to wipe your nose. You just have to know the method to my madness (and this was actually taught to me by someone. I forget who, but if you're out there and by some miracle actually reading this, God Bless You). Take the single sheet and crumple it up into as tight a ball as you can. Unravel it and repeat. You basically continue these same steps at least 6 or 7 times, and believe it or not, the paper begins to take on a cloth-like feel. I was quite amazed at the transformation. By crumpling it up over and over it begins to breakdown. If you have the time (or interest) I highly suggest trying out this little science experiment.

Anyway, sorry if this was a gross one, but I think you got the idea. So the next time I am around you and I sneeze, instead of saying 'Bless You', try saying "Tissue?" My jean pockets, my purse, my laundry dryer, and I will all thank you.

Corned Beef n' Why

I don't know why but lately whenever I've been on Facebook, I've been getting depressed and angry. I used to purposely avoid it just so the status updates would pile up and I could read a whole bunch at a time. Now when I do that and I scan over everyone's latest pictures, upcoming events, or simple actions, I get filled with a sense of jealousy. Everyone seems to be doing something so special or important, all the time, every day. Taking care of sick family members, cooking some extraordinary dish, going off on extreme adventures. It makes me feel outside of everything, even more than usual.

Aren't there any people out there doing the truly mundane? Surely there are people standing in their kitchen barefoot and wearing their old yellow shorts scrubbing the dishes that have been sitting in their sink for a few days...aren't there? I only ever updated my status if something particularly funny or interesting happened or popped in my brain (and didn't merit writing here). And honestly, that only happened rarely. How is it possible that some people have something special they are doing EVERY DAY. I guess that's what this blog is all about...glorifying the mundane because that's all I ever seem to really notice, rather than the super special. Anyway, speaking of mundane, how about I tell you about my battle at lunch today?

Recently at my job a small little coffee-shop kiosk opened in the lobby. At first I thought they only sold the typical coffee beverages and some pastries, but I noticed a menu of theirs that had been placed in the common area and saw they sold a nice little variety of food items. So today I thought I'd give one of them a try for lunch.

I walked down to the lobby and began looking at the menu again. Hmmm, I thought...not alot of hot options on the menu. But what did I really expect, for them to have a plugged-in microwave or toaster oven set up next to the mail bin and security desk? I was the only customer there so the girl who worked there asked me what I was interested in.

"Um, I'm not totally sure. Something that could be easily warmed-up," I said.

"You should try the corned beef on rye. It tastes really good heated up," she said, barely looking up from her phone.

I had tried corned beef only twice. Once was in a delicatessen with my high school boyfriend and his father and then another time was with that same family but during St. Patrick's Day. I remember thinking it was ok, but I figured my palate had matured a little bit and maybe I'd like it more now, as an adult. Besides, it was the only thing on the menu that would've been good heated up and I was pretty hungry. I paid for my huge sandwich and walked back up stairs to my office.

I examined the wrapping because something caught my eye...under ingredients was the word "mustard". Christ, I thought. Not only am I tempting fate by getting a cold-cut sandwich but it HAD to have mustard on it. I turned it over in my hand, searching for the traces of mustard through the clear cellophane, trying to determine how much of a project this sandwich was going to be to make it edible. Much to my relief I didn't spot any, so now the only effort I would have would be in getting the damn thing open.

I struggled for a good 10 mins just trying to break through the cellophane, and I realized it wasn't just the trouble I minded, it was the fact that I was trying to get the thing on a plate, heated up, and eaten before I realized what I was doing. Kinda like jumping in a pool you know is cold but you just want to get it over with. At last, after taking a knife to it, I finally was able to pull it out. I looked it over a little more carefully, and when I was satisfied there was no hazardous mustard I put it in the microwave and pressed START.

Now the thing about being obsessed with temperature is that you aren't simply satisfied to have things lukewarm. I take care of any risk of cold food by putting the microwave on extra long to blast through every single morsel of food. Of course the problem then is that it's often too hot to eat anyway, so you end up waiting even longer. After the thing had been in for over a minute I pulled it out and took it to my desk. I could barely lay a finger on it without it scalding me. Then I tried to just get a fork, which I ended up accidentally flinging on the floor. I know there is really no merit to the whole "five second rule" thing, but I was hungry and figured a little office dirt wouldn't do that much harm. Finally, I tasted it. And it was....ok. I didn't understand how so many people absolutely go nuts for corned beef. Maybe it's because they don't blast it with artificial heat, or buy one from a coffee shop in the first place. Ah well, New York, you can keep it.

Huh, another long entry, and I really didn't even have a lot to say today. Oh, but I did get hit in the head by a tree today. Stupid acorns are thick. Maybe that would make a good status update...