a to do list for this blog

You know, I just can’t seem to get things done in a timely fashion.  Just to kick my bum into gear, I am going to write up the things that I have been knocking off of my 101 list, starting with these things:

• Learn to tango.
• Learn to make excellent risotto.
• Find a hat that looks good on me.
• Visit a friend who is far away.
• Eat a mangosteen.
• Grant a wish.
• Write my Senator.
• Write my Congressman.
• Find a rockin’ pair of glasses.
• Go a week without wearing make-up.
• Storm out of a room, dramatically.
• Get to 400 blog entries.
• Learn the Presidents, Vice Presidents, and a few bizarre facts about each.
• Have a conversation with a stranger.
• Spend an entire day in my pajamas.
• Read 5 books that I own, but haven’t read.
• Finish 5 books that I have started.
• Watch five movies that I pretend I’ve already seen.

While some aren’t, most of them are completed.  And bitches, I’ve got the photographic evidence to prove it!  That is, on some of them.  So by the end of next week, I will have completed my list of things on another list that I am to document.

Yeesh.

I never said I was smart…

I was in class this evening and decided that I would take notes with my beautiful green pen. During our break, I went grab a couple of handouts from the teacher’s desk. When I returned, my pen was gone. I looked everywhere. My bags (three), my notebooks (two) my pockets (eight, it was an overall day), all turned up sans green pen. Needless to say, I was devastated.

Fast forward to now. I was getting ready for bed when I discovered my pen safely nestled in my ponytail. I’m a genius. A genius with a green pen.

good grief…

Okay.  It’s been far too long since I have been updating this thing.  And why is that?  Probably the same reason why nobody else seems to be rocking their blogs.  

Real life.

Well that, and I have been seduced by the facebook.  Maybe it’s the combination of speed, feedback, and instasnark that has me so beguiled.  Why spend an entire afternoon spell-checking something that may or may not be read by anyone when I can throw out one or two smart ass comments every hour or so?  

On the downside, I think that my writing skills have atrophied beyond redemption.  So October ninth resolution, get back to it.  

Egad, this is like taking antibiotics.

free and clear… almost.

During the holiday season, traditions abound. Families will gather by the hearth. Some eat a big goose. Others indulge in an appetite inducing tramp through a nearby wooded area. More than a few will hoof it to the local mall to return those gifts that missed the mark. Recently, I heard of one that requires the involvement of a ceramic dolphin. As for my family, we are devoid of the routines that mar the yuletide, and happily so.

mega millions math

From the roof deck bar atop the Hotel Gansevoort Tuesday past, the Imperialist, his cronies and I entered into a pact. It was similar to that which took place across the country – we would share the Mega Millions jackpot. Mind you, when we entered into the pact, the drawing had already taken place. You see, I bought $10 worth of tickets. Since we were all unaware of the results, they took the opportunity to buy into the potentially valuable tickets. Kind of like taping the game. Until the outcome enter your reality, anything is still possible.Everyone chipped in $2.50, and we were all proud shareholders in a fortune.

We won! Well, okay. The payout was only $3. Okay, according to NY State law, 2 out of the 3 Brits were ineligible to play. That’s neither here nor there.

Here is the ha ha. An interesting thing happens when smart people gamble. They tend to toss logic off the roof deck. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe the cock and bull math swirling about. Odds of winning were halved when doing this, or quartered when doing that. Now I don’t claim to know a ding dong thing about math, but I am pretty sure that in this case, my fu is good.

Here’s what we do know:

When buying a ticket for the Mega Millions, you will pick 5 numbers from 1 through 56. Next, you will select one number from 1 through 46. At the time of the drawing, if your 5 numbers match the numbers on the white pingpongs, and your solo number matches the drawn super duper deluxe gold mega ball, you are the mega winner. Doing a little mega math, we find that the odds of winning the mega prize are 1 in 175,711,536.

Combinatorics, baby!

So what happens when you buy 2 tickets? According to some of our lotto-drunk cohorts, the odds are cut to 1 in around 88 million. By that math, you are either cutting your odds in half with each ticket you buy, meaning you only need about 28 tickets to hit the big one, or you might as well stop after 100 tickets, as the rate of improvement with each dollar you spend will be a fraction of a percent.

Frankly, I don’t buy into any of this cockamamie hocus pocus. That is because for all of those numbers, there are 175,711,536 possible combinations. The winning outcome represents 0.000000569114597006311% of the total, a mere drop in the pool of combinations. If this was math class, we would round to zero. If you buy 2 tickets, you are selecting 2 possible combinations out of 175,711,636, or 0.00000113822919401262% of the total. Again, we would usually round to zero. And 20 tickets? Your chance of hitting the jackpot is a just over a hundred-thousandth of a percent. Say it with me, round to zero.

With all that, I say happily that girlfriend will keep buying those $1 day dreams, even though the math might say that there is zero chance of winning.

So there.

a moment to lose my cool…

Those who know and love me have good reason to worry. Girlfriend’s sanity is hanging by a piece of dental floss. At some point, my world view shifted in a way I can’t appreciate. I now have zero tolerance for those who are not entirely self sufficient. I have little to no patience for the judgmental people in my sphere. I am floored when I am required to repeat myself. Honestly, I am starting to believe the world to be populated by complete morons.

Idiots.

All of them.

This is not a good way for me to be. This isn’t me. Sigh. What happened to the sweet, fun-loving, party girl? Maybe I miss Chicago. It is odd to think, as I know and love so many people here. I grew up here. I was raised here. It’s familiar. It’s home. But frankly, this isn’t the same place it was when, you know, crack was king.

Maybe I was too young to notice, but since when did everyone in this city become so !@#$ competitive? It’s about who is working late every night. It’s about how much someone makes. It’s about who has the better apartment, who is wearing what dress, who ate at which restaurant, who is seen with what person, who is going to the better parties, who had the best weekend, blah, blah, blah.

Seriously. Give it a rest. For a girl who has spent a lifetime not giving a crap about the superficial, I can’t seem to escape it. If I want to spend the weekend in my jammies watching TV, eff you for judging me. If I want to see Transformers instead of Mon Meilleur Ami, get over it. If I want to order in from the cheap diner around the corner instead of hitting the new Sino-French fusion place, eat it.

Like I said. Girlfriend is so very close to losing it.

mr. math can’t catch – part 3

[Continued from part 1]

[Continued from part 2]

Part three is a doozy of a long post, but it’s the last one. That, and I couldn’t find a good place to edit the sucker.

mr. math can’t catch – part 2

[continued from part 1]

Pitchers and catchers report.

These words mark the first day of spring. They define the day when my boys of summer will converge in some sunny clime. They will work off the winter pudge, work the cold out of their elbows and knees, and get in shape for the long season ahead. Slowly, the rest of the line-up will join the early birds. Most everyone is healthy, vital, and excited to be back to baseball.

Within the evaporating miasma of winter, we will catch a first glimpse of new teammates and old friends, refreshing hope like the green buds of the first spring crocus. I will join the legions of fans that wish nothing but success for this team, pledging my support and allegiance, with hopes that they will bring joy to my city. I will be happy once more, though I know that my manic euphoria is fleeting.

Anything can happen in the long month to follow. Meaningless games might demonstrate potential weaknesses in the line-up. Egos will emerge, injuries occur, and reminders of the disappointments from the past September begin to creep forward. March is the month of worry and doubt. Then, in a flash, April arrives. It is Opening Day.

The poetry that is baseball fills the speakers of my car stereo once more, as John Rooney calls the play-by-play:

One out.

A line drive to right

6-4-3.

Double-play, leaving one stranded.

The Sox are up.

It’s the bottom of the ninth.

They are the classic words to a classic play. The game unfolds in my mind as I circle the block once more so as not to miss the end of the game. The home team wins, and hopes for a pennant bubble up once more. Though this bi-polar ride of emotions will continue for the rest of the season, I could not be more thrilled.

Baseball season casts a bright light on the most mundane work days. The furtive peek at the previous night’s box scores, the lunchtime recap of game highlights, and raucous discussions between amateur general managers makes every miserable day almost pleasant. A night game transforms an otherwise dismal commute into my favorite part of the day. On those evenings, I tailor my work days to end just before the first pitch. A few of my more clever coworkers understand my outwardly disordered schedule, while others might chalk it up as another perquisite of a consultant. It is of no matter. I exit the building, open the car door, climb into the driver’s seat, hit the 3-button on my car stereo, and begin my escape to baseball.

There are days where my escape can only be described as complete. These are the days when I wear my team jersey, tucked away under a sensible pants suit. My jeans are squeezed into the briefcase, shoved between my laptop and a third draft of an RFP. On those days, I work at a breakneck pace, delegate a bit of responsibility to a few of the more competent worker bees, and blast away from the hive. Leaving early, I join the traffic caused by other slackers with the same agenda. But truly, traffic is of little concern. Happily, I listen to the most banal of pre-game programming. In truth, it is a guilty pleasure when knowing it is the precursor to a trip to the park itself. The park: a place where one experiences the camaraderie, heartbreak, and ecstasy that is baseball. Even as a backdrop for crushing pain on an overcast Friday, the park is sacred.

[Continued in Part 3]

mr. math can’t catch – part 1

In lieu of doing any actual writing, I am going to enjoy the balmy summer weather. To keep you entertained, I leave for you a little piece that I quite enjoy. For those like AKA Stephanie, who only read this before bedtime (so she promises), I am breaking it down in easily digestible chunklets.

Those who know and love me have heard this story many times over. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, I promise that it gets funnier…

busting chops for fun and profit…

I love my friends.

I do. Really.
I think they are great.

Yup. Great.

Okay, so sometimes my friends are a-holes. That doesn’t mean I don’t love them. It means that every now and again, I get the urge to club them over the head, fur trapper style. Or maybe throw some oranges in a pillow case and go to town.

when not to send in the British…

Last Wednesday, I asked the relatively new imperialist, aka Steve History, what he would be doing over the weekend. He answered that he would be going to the track.

Wait a second. “The race on Saturday?” I asked. His response: “I have no idea. It might be.” For those who are countrymen of the relatively new imperialist or have been living under a rock, Mr. History was to see the Belmont Stakes, the third in the Triple Crown, the “run for the carnations.”

Me being me, I asked Mr. History to put down a few bets. He kindly agreed. To make life easier for the lad, I sent him an email:

Hey Mr. History,

Can you place a few bets for me? They are contingent on these post positions being final:

1 Imawildandcrazyguy
2 Tiago
3 Curlin
4 C P West
5 Slew’s Tizzy
6 Hard Spun
7 Rags to Riches

If the post positions don’t change, you can just show this to the guy at the betting window:

Race 11: Belmont Stakes

$5 exacta box 7, 2, 3
$5 exacta key 2, with 3, 7
$5 Superfecta 7, 3, 2, 6

HORSES!

Simple enough. I figured that Rags to Riches would win, but there would be an outside chance that Tiago would rock it. Hedge the bets, right?

The race results: 7, 3, 2, 6.

Okay, not that the outcome was a huge surprise, and it wasn’t like there was a huge field, and it wasn’t like I know too much about the horses. Turns out, I know enough to hit the superfecta. In this particular race, it wasn’t brain surgery, but it still felt nice!

At least it did for a little while. Dreams of new 500 thread count sheets evaporated like the steam off a pile of horse manure. It seems that Mr. History didn’t go to the track that afternoon, but attended a barbecue instead.

June 10th resolution: Never send in the British when cash is on the line.

tales from the dark city…

[EDIT: When I wrote this, I was imagining Humphrey Bogart ala Maltese Falcon. Maybe it got lost in the translation...]

Details in the story may be smaller then they appear. Please use caution.

too many holes in my cone of silence…

In this wonderful technological age, I am confronted with too many options for communications, each one easier than the next. We can find anyone in a heartbeat. Oceans become mere puddles. The only time the world feels big is on an airplane. It isn’t like the days of yore. If I wanted, I can stay in touch with all my friends until my dying day. It is so easy. Therein lies the problem.

Easy.

Overnight, easy disappeared.

Last night, I said goodbye to a friend. Not just a fare thee well. See you later. Hasta la pasta. It was an institute the cone of silence, end it now for our own good, the misery is temporary goodbye. It was one of those we will never be able to explain this to anyone and get away with it so sayonara forever kind of things.

Horribly enough, this is the easy option.

So I beg of you my dear friends. How do you make someone disappear? Do you delete him from your phone? Block him from chats? Frontal lobotomy?

I’m not all Genghis Got Her Groove Back. That’s not what this is about. The difficulty of this easy relation is that somewhere along the way, the friend part became a little too… I have no idea.

I am not sure, but I think that my heart is a little broken.

the Subway Series series: Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistencies of pocket pals

Part 1 – The Rant ::::: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

[EDIT: Fixed the footnotes. Sorry about that! st.oki]

After a short morning in the Jerse pretending to help my Righteous Ms. Al get ready for the move to Bonus Eye Rays, we rushed to get me back to the city. You see, my dear friends. Girlfriend had another game to attend. The “Second Chance” offered by the Mets site was definitely kind to your girl. I was able to pick up four tickets to the Saturday game, and was over the moon excited.

When purchasing the tickets, the plan was to bring Mr. Math, Miss Boom Boom, and her roommate, Ms. Same Name As My Sister (aka MS. NAMS). It was my feeble attempt at a thank you so much for letting me invade your futon while I get my crap together. Unfortunately, MS. NAMS makes doing nice things very difficult. Though she would have loved, loved, LOVED the tickets, she and boy were hightailing it to Boston for the weekend. [1] Probably for the best, as she is a Yankees fan.

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Mr. Math was heading up to Boston as well. Could it be that Mr. Math would leave me without my baseball bookend?! Well dang. He sure did. It seems that I was running low on people who might truly appreciate the fun of this game.

I turned to Miss Boom Boom and asked her if there was anyone she wanted to invite. This question was a no brainer. She was going to invite my little Pocket Pal, Flaky. Needless to say, I was super excited. My pocket has long been lacking a cute little something, and Flaky always fits the bill.

Using my revisionist powers, guest number three was the phenomenal Ms. Dig that Crazy J. When approached with the notion of going to the game, her response: “Where should me and my giant foam finger meet you?!” Seriously, could you ask for a better plus one? You could try, but you would probably fail. Where was I? Ah, yes. Game time. I returned to Astoria for a quick freshen, and sanity check. The troops have been assigned, I’m in my home team black, and I have but one question. WHO’S READY TO ROCK?!?!

Apparently, just me.

You see, Miss Boom Boom was coming off of a boon of business travel, and just about ran herself into the ground. By game time, she was down for the count. My poor dear was exhausted, curled up in the fetal position, and groaning up a storm. As much as I wanted to pull out my powers of guilty persuasion, I just couldn’t. Seeing Miss Boom Boom in all of her pathetic glory was reason enough to leave my superpower in check.

Well, all is not lost. I had been texting Flaky the Pocket Pal for most of the afternoon. I would just have him bring another adorable Pocket Pal, and we would be right as rain. Simple. Or umm… maybe not.

You see my dears; the name Flaky is more than apropos. Apparently, my sweet little thing decided that he was far too hung over for a journey out to Shea. It was nice for him to give me a little warning though. And by little, I mean fifteen minutes before we were to leave for Flushing. And by warning, I mean texting Miss Boom Boom a wishy-washy excuse and hiding from my calls. [2]

Okay. Now I have two tickets that might go unused to the Subway Series.THE G-D SUBWAY SERIES! What does a girl do? Well, she texts her entire tri-state contingency and said that the tickets are up for grabs to anyone who can get to Flushing. By the way, did I mention that the first pitch was in a mere 35 minutes? For cryin’ out loud! I have two tickets to a game that a majority of the baseball fans within a 100 mile radius were pining for, and I can’t give them away. Or so I would like to believe.

Miss Boom Boom kindly informed me that I might be able to sell them, either at Shea, or on the 7 train on the way to the game. “But isn’t that illegal?” Famous last words. I love her, but her notion was dubious at best. Not only was the weather overcast, bordering on rain, but the game is in frickin’ Flushing. Why would anyone head out there if they didn’t already have a ticket, now 20 minutes before the first pitch? Your guess is as good as mine. So there I am, wandering up and down the train, trying to sell these tickets. People are looking at me like I am the scourge of the earth. By the time I reach Shea, I am disheartened.

At this point, I am already late, and I am late meeting up with Ms. Dig that Crazy J. What to do, what to do? Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. These two cuties walk up to me. I swear, one of them looked like the Commish, except tall. The asked “Are you selling any?” I said, “Yeah. I have two.” Then they said, “How much?” I said, “the game already started. I will give you two for one.”

In a moment that I can only call part eighty-five in my comedy of errors, the cute, non-Commish boy frowns, shakes his head, and said, “Damn. You are such a sweet girl. I hate to do this, but I am going to have to give you a ticket.” I said, “I don’t want any tickets. I am just trying to get rid of mine.” He said, “No. I am going to have to WRITE you a ticket. Reselling tickets is a crime.”

Um… But I am from Chicago?

Try as I might, the boys in not-so-Blue wouldn’t budge. I tried cute, charming, proletarian, watering the eyes, anything. “Come on! This is a victimless crime if ever there was one,” I plead. Nothing. Then, I took a long hard look. They were wearing Yankee jerseys. Ugh. I should have known. In a strange turn of events, they said, “we are supposed to confiscate these, but just take them.”

Huh?

In moment eighty-six, a frat-boy from Cleveland came up to me and asked if I was selling. Where were you ten minutes ago?! I gave the dude the tickets, no strings, and wished him well. The cop said, direct quote, “This is a very sweet girl. She is doing a very nice thing. You better buy her drinks and dogs for the rest of the game. I know where you are sitting.” Love the commish, even if the bastage did give me 5 demerits!

Saying farewell to the hall monitors, I raced around Shea to see Ms. Dig that Crazy J standing there panicked, foam finger and all. We finally went in, saw a great game, and watched all of the people with the expensive seats get rained on, while we working class had it made in the shade.

THE END

[1] There is sweet, and then there is insulin coma inducing sweet. MS. NAMS is just about the most accommodating person I have known. She barely knows me, and on Miss Boom Boom’s recommendation, she has allowed me to invade hearth and home. I have been trying to find the right gift, but she neither wants nor needs anything. ARGH! I am having kittens trying to find a way to thank her properly. Perhaps it is my need to convey my appreciation. Perhaps I’m trying to compensate for my intrusion into her world. Perhaps it’s that I don’t want this wedding day favor hanging over my head. In any case, I am obsessed with finding a way to buy her off. It’s not like she’s going to leave a banjo head on my pillow if I don’t comply. I am just saying.

[2] To all of my loved ones who approach potential disappointment infliction by hiding, please cease and desist. It is annoying and really frustrating. It drives everyone crazy, and makes us not want to include you in plans. Then, you wonder why you weren’t invited.

so very far behind…

Yep. I have been very far behind on the updating tip. To that, I offer my humblest apologies. Excuses abound, and I will share them all!

First, I am too busy!

Second, I am too tired!

Third, there is too much!

Fourth, I would rather talk on the phone and tell you all individually how much I miss you rather than do it on an impersonal blog posting!

Fifth…

fifth…

sigh.

I am out of excuses now. I will be better about it. To entice you, tonight, I will explain away the weekend that I like to call “The Mets, the NYPD, and why you should never count on your pocket pals.”

baci!

arsy-versy, or my life as a lottery ticket…

Those who love me will know what a strange few weeks it has been. In the immortal words of TMBG, “Everything right is wrong again.” Not bad, just a bit disconcerting.

April was a doozy of a month. Thank goodness it’s over, as there is only so much my little heart can bear. Highs, lows, excitement, boredom, and weekends filled with moments of “?!” With all that is said and done, I can begin with May and think, huh. Second verse, same as the first. I begin this month in the same place as the last. Except not.

You see, April was my life as a lottery ticket. It goes something like this. When I buy a lottery ticket, I go through the process of choosing numbers. Maybe I will pick the numbers with some semblance of meaning. Maybe I will leave it up to chance. Dollar and a dream.

I buy the ticket, and think about what I would do if I won. Maybe I can get that apartment in Paris, or open a recording studio, or buy a house for the Changs. You see, I don’t kid myself. I don’t really expect to win the booku bucks, but it is my moment to imagine. Flights of fancy and all that. Easy and fun. Something kind of nice.

A few days might pass, and I wonder when the numbers will be drawn. Maybe I will stay up and see what will happen. The first number will fall, and I think, well, that seems kind of lucky? The second number will fall, and I think, yea me! But alas, the third ball falls, and the wings begin to melt. Then the fourth, and the fifth. Sigh. Fancy spills everywhere.

But then again, there is always ball number six, the Powerball. That one that says, “Hey, you may not be the big winner, but you are still a winner to me.” The small payoff, with a chance of a mere one in seven hundred and forty-five point forty-five (check the math Mr. Math).

That, my friends, is what brings me to May.

360 degrees, imaginary weekend style

My life in turn around might have turned all the way around and come back to where it started. I received a bit of news today that put a crimp in my six month plan. A plan that didn’t exist before Saturday. With everything that still might happen, I can’t help but feel that I imagined everything. All I am saying is that I probably should have left the SI Cover off of my blog.

Still cryptic? As always. Suffice it to say, I am not too concerned.

It is a world of extremes, I guess. Either I am too careful, in a “Watch out! You’ll break it!” kind of way, or living at the polar opposite, overly enthusiastic “I am the coolest human alive, so stuff that!” manner. Kind of a strange way to live, but it works for me. Sort of.

The first leaves me in the protective, cotton wool of honest pessimism. Don’t put yourself out there, you might get hurt. Don’t tell that person something, you might be wrong. Don’t want that, you will just be disappointed. Don’t open that door, there might be a boogie man on the other side. Not the best attitude I will admit, but it has kept me alive. Alive, and very, very bored.

It wasn’t always like this. My duvet of safety is a product of my ridiculously enthusiastic brain. As a rule, enthusiasm is a dangerous toy. Things have a tendency to lean towards ruin when propped up with too much joy. They become pipe dreams of a tier one school. They become a job that, as of now, is going through serious materialization problems. They are cute boys with histories longer than the Napoleonic Wars. Maybe that last one isn’t so bad.

ARGH! April 25th resolution: to heck with it. Don’t worry so much. Be excited. Disappointments are temporary, but time bored is gone forever. I guess that whatever happens, happens. If I am staying in Chicago, it is hardly what I can call a bad thing. After all, barbecues!

I am off to paint some faces!

my life in turn around…

This has been a pretty bizarre week. Bizarre good.

It seems that after you throw the lemonade into the face of life, it just might give you the oranges you wanted in the first place.

So that is where I am.

Good things, maybe great things are happening. Dear loved ones. Before you join in a hallelujah, no. It has nothing to do with school. Fear not, my eyes are still on the prize.

I am going to have to remain cryptic for now, jinxes and all.

foiled by smatt read

For the most part, the Sunday puzzle is a fun challenge. While I usually solve it before Thursday, it is definitely down to the wire on some [1]. This week?

Totally grasping at straws.

For some reason, the only answer I could think of was “jade plant.” Plant, as in Robert Plant, and Jade, as in Ms. Jade of Beat Club Records.

Like I said, a stretch. I am sure that when I hear the correct answer, I will feel suitably mortified. In any case, if anyone’s figured it out, please correct me. I am festering in my wrongitude.

In the meantime, I’ll just be over here shaking an angry fist at Will Shortz. At least, that is, until I get my lapel pin. Sigh.

EDIT:  ARGH!  Who feels dumb now?!  Not only was I not even close, but the answer was so obvious!  PETTY CASH!  argh.

_____________________________________________________
[1] For some reason, most of the people selected to play the Sunday Puzzle with Will and Leanne will say something like “Oh, I got the answer to the puzzle right away. I solved it on the way home from brunch.” Almost every dang one of them. Just once, I would love to hear, “You know, I did a Google search, and read every single entry on Greek gods in Wikipedia, until I realized that the answer was a Roman god. By that point, I was just using my mad search engine skills until the answer jumped out at me. Even then, I wasn’t too sure, but I figured, hey you wouldn’t pick me unless I was right. So here I am. Oh crap, you’re going to make me do anagrams?!” A girl can dream.

rudeness, customer style…

Working at the coffee house has been a delicious caffeinated treat. For the most part, the neighbors have been friendly, welcoming, and really supportive of a coffee that isn’t served by a multi-national corporation. But then, what would a day be without the presence of the least part?

On my first day, a fellow barista served up a double espresso. It seems that a woman ordered this beverage to-go for her husband. He was waiting outside. She received her drinks, paid with a credit card, and took off. A few minutes later, she returned.

She came up to me and sotto voce said, “This espresso is cold.” I asked if she wanted a new one, and she said, “No. That’s alright. My husband is a chef. He wanted me to tell you that it was cold.” Um. Okee doke. How about a refund? Then she repeated, “He just thought you guys should know.” What I think she was gently trying to say was “Mr. Chef said that you gave him a cold espresso.” Either that, or “Mr. Chef thinks you have discovered a great method for cold extraction and we should go into business together!”

After Mrs. Chef left again, I began my investigation. That’s right. I stuck my finger in the drink. Yes, I licked it. I am not ashamed, scientific method and all. I’d do it again. Visually, the crema was beautiful and plentiful, and the coffee seemed the perfect color and texture. On the down side, the thermometer read 57°F and any aromatics were gone, gone, gone. I went to the machine and pulled a test espresso. 23 second pull, serving temperature a piping 155°F. So much for cold extraction. Well then, why would Mr. Chef think we would serve cold coffee?

Mr. Chef doesn’t understand thermodynamics.

Quick math problem: if you put 3 fl. ozs. of 155°F espresso into a paper cup, wait 30 seconds for a credit card to clear, give it a 16 second jostle while trying to rebalance three beverages and a purse, and then take a 40 second walk across the street to deliver said beverage to Mr. Chef, who has been waiting outside on a 38° F afternoon, what will the temperature of the espresso be? If you said frickin’ cold, give yourself a gold star. Mr. Chef should know better. Props to Mrs. Chef for rolling her eyes when delivering the message.

plans gone awry…

I’d like to think that I have a positive outlook on my world. Life and lemonade and all. Though, every once in a while, this funny thing we call reality takes my lemonade and throws it in my face. It’s all pinchbeck from here on out, or at least for the rest of the week.

Forget the brave face, and stiff upper lip. Bump that. I am having a very bad week. There are certain disappointments in life, be it in myself, loved ones, strangers, or situations, that are completely overwhelming. To complicate matters, it can be any combination of the four. I think it works out to 15 possibilities. Any way you add it up, I am left seriously bummed.

Caffeine isn’t the self-med it used to be. I need a solid escape hatch. Alcohol is messy, shopping comes with a self-destruct button, and it’s never fun to gamble alone. I would run away from home, but my place is too messy for that. I’ve been trying to find ways to cheer myself up, but am failing miserably. Sigh.

If you need me, I’ll be on the corner of disappointments 8 and 13.

the password is SPATCHCOCK

During a late dinner at the Golden Apple, I learned a new word, “spatchcock.” Like most of us, I was appalled that this word would be used to describe a method of food preparation, let alone the preparation of my Greek Chicken dinner. After much snickering and questioning, Nora surmised that perhaps the meaning is derived from the act of flattening a chicken with a spatula. Good guess, sort of:

(n) 1. a fowl that has been dressed and split open for grilling.(v) (used with object) 2. to prepare and roast (a fowl) in this manner. 3. to insert or interpolate, esp. in a forced or incongruous manner: “Additional information has been spatchcocked into the occasional random footnote.” [Origin: 1775–85; appar. alter. of spitchcock; popular interpretation as shortening of dispatch cock is prob. specious] [1]

n. A fowl split open and grilled after being killed, plucked, and dressed in a summary fashion. Originated in Irish use, later chiefly Anglo-Indian. [2]

The word might be over 200 years old, and it still sounds ridiculous. Nora and I have decided to co-opt this word and use it as it should be: (n)1. idiot (v)2. acting in the manner of a spatchcock. For example:

Bryan Sanchez is a spatchcock.

When introducing my best friend to my boyfriend, I spatchcocked and forgot her name.

Much better, wouldn’t you say?

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[1] “spatchcock.” Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.0.1). Random House, Inc. 17 Dec. 2006.
[2] “spatchcock.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2nd edition 1989