... stays together.
Overheard in the family minivan yesterday:
ME: How much longer until we reach the restaurant?
BIG BROTHER: At least 30 minutes. We need to go to Costco first and get gas.
ME: THIRTY MINUTES? I'll die first. What am I going to do for the thirty minutes?
LITTLE BROTHER: Maybe we should get a Costco hot dog.
BIG BROTHER: I was going to get a Diet Coke anyway because I'm thirsty. We can get the hot dog and soda deal for $1.50.
MOM: But there are five of us. Should we get more?
ME: No, it will spoil our dinner. We just need something to get through. Let's just get the one hot dog and everybody can get one bite.
BIG BROTHER: Little Brother, you get the hot dog when I'm getting the gas.
LITTLE BROTHER: What does everybody want on the hot dog.
BIG BROTHER: Mustard - make sure you get DELI mustard- and sauerkraut. You have to ask for the sauerkraut separately.
LITTLE BROTHER: Mustard? I don't like mustard. And I don't like sauerkraut either. I like onions.
BIG BROTHER: I don't want onions. Deli mustard and sauerkraut.
ME: Just figure out what everybody wants and start from one end and build up the condiments.
LITTLE BROTHER: What does everybody else want? Dad, what do you want?
DAD: You know me, it doesn't matter.
ME: Yeah, Dad will eat anything. Just figure out what Mom wants too. I want ketchup and sauerkraut.
LITTLE BROTHER: Mom, what do you want?
MOM: The little green things.
LITTLE BROTHER: Do you mean sauerkraut?
ME: I think she means relish.
MOM: It's kind of sweet and sour. The little green things.
LITTLE BROTHER: How about sauerkraut?
MOM: What is sauerkraut?
ME: It's like relish.
MOM: Mustard too. I like mustard.
BIG BROTHER: Make sure you get DELI mustard.
LITTLE BROTHER: How am I going to do this?
ME: Just start from one end and get deli mustard and sauerkraut. And then add relish. I don't want any relish. Can I just have ketchup and sauerkraut?
MOM: I don't like the little white strips. What are those? And I don't like onions.
ME: She doesn't want sauerkraut.
LITTLE BROTHER: Dad, what do you want?
DAD: Anything.
ME: I told you! Dad doesn't care. He'll eat whatever is on it.
MOM: I don't like the onions. I like the little green things.
LITTLE BROTHER: I can't fit this all on one hot dog! Dad, what do you want?
DAD: I'm easy. I don't care.
MOM: One hot dog for five people - too hard. We should get at least two.
ME: I don't want a lot of hot dog. I just need something to hold me over until dinner.
LITTLE BROTHER: Two hot dogs would be hard to split five ways.
ME: What are you talking about - just split one of them three ways and the other in half. Don't try to split them evenly!
LITTLE BROTHER: I guess I can do that.
ME: I'll volunteer for one of the thirds.
MOM: Me too. But I don't like the little thin white strips.
ME: Don't give her sauerkraut. She doesn't want the sauerkraut.
LITTLE BROTHER: OK, what is it that everybody wants on the hot dog again?
ME: This is TOO COMPLICATED! Never mind. I'll just skip the hot dog.
MOM: I will skip too. The ladies in the car will skip hot dog. You three eat it.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
nuevo huevo ranchero
It was around 3pm, the afternoon after a Family Breakfast of breakfast burritos. Leftovers included a small amount of peppers and onions, pico de gallo, and a bit of grated cheddar. I wasn't exactly in the mood for a repeat of breakfast, so I sauteed the pico de gallo, re-chopped the sauteed peppers and onions, fried some scallions, and added shredded potatoes. After allowing the potatoes to crisp, I threw in a tortilla to warm up. Also cleared a spot in the potatoes to crack in my last emergency egg. Realizing that all of the ingredients would not fit in a burrito and not in a taco (which was the technique I had to use this morning), I decided to pile it all on the tortilla as a carrier, allowed the cheddar to melt slightly and topped it all off with the fried egg, a few squirts of ketchup. Salsa at this point would be too complicated.
No corona in sight, so I cracked open a Mike's hard lemonade. A glass of water might not be able to handle this Sunday supper.
No corona in sight, so I cracked open a Mike's hard lemonade. A glass of water might not be able to handle this Sunday supper.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
See me
I am going to have to interrupt the much neglected Chronicle of the Ever-Expanding Purple Easter Bunny to send a note to my 11th grade English teacher - a note I should have sent a long time ago.
Dear Coach Kelly,
It might surprise you that I live in Alaska now. Of late, our claim to fame has been giving this nation a very questionable VP candidate. I figured that once you learned I live in the Last Frontier, you'd ask me all kinds of questions, like what I really think of our lipsticked pitbull and how many hours of darkness we get in the winter.
But I find out today that you won't be asking me any of those questions. A quick Google search finds you in memoriam. I know I've gotten old in the last fifteen years, but has that much time passed? You were just about the fittest high school teacher I knew. I assumed that leading packs of cross-country teenage runners would lead to some kind of Fountain of Youth and eternal life. But it looks like I am a bit late in sending this letter.
I remember the very first paper I wrote in your class, I got a C+. It was an essay about Herman Melville's "Billy Budd," and as a fifteen year old overachiever who flinched at A minuses, I can tell you that receiving this grade was nothing short of an earth-splitting catastrophe. I am certain I wanted to drop out of school at that very moment and wondered how I was ever let into honors English in the first place. You also had this curious habit of scribbling, "see me," in your dreaded red ink, when your criticism could not be comprehensively communicated in words scribbled in the margin. I had one such "see me" in that Billy Budd paper. So I went and saw you.
I can't remember exactly how you explained why I got a C+ on my paper, but the gist of it was that I didn't seem to have found my own "voice." Many of us in your class had been schooled by the maniacal 10th grade English teacher who spent most of his days yelling poetry at us and telling us kayaking stories. During those yelling sessions, he pounded into us tenets of writing which now seem rather boilerplate. We grew used to what he wanted to hear, and likely, I was trying to mimic that style when I handed in that Billy Budd paper.
Your comment (and that C+) have stayed with me all those years. It was a turning point in my writing efforts. I know that both of us felt great satisfaction when weeks later I turned in my Arthur Dimmesdale - Two Sides of Sin paper. The Beginning of a Voice. And it was that voice that catulpulted me into writing an essay about idealism, one that took me to Japan, which was about as thrilling as a fifteen year old life gets.
And it is that voice that I still use today. My voice, the one you helped me find. Today in my professional capacity, I use this voice to help win cases, to persuade and achieve outcomes. Personally, I use this voice to rant, to experience vegetarianism, and to chronicle Easter Bunnies. At times, this voice has made people laugh, cry, and connect.
So I thank you for that C+. And I wish you could "see me" now.
Sincerely yours,
MOA
Dear Coach Kelly,
It might surprise you that I live in Alaska now. Of late, our claim to fame has been giving this nation a very questionable VP candidate. I figured that once you learned I live in the Last Frontier, you'd ask me all kinds of questions, like what I really think of our lipsticked pitbull and how many hours of darkness we get in the winter.
But I find out today that you won't be asking me any of those questions. A quick Google search finds you in memoriam. I know I've gotten old in the last fifteen years, but has that much time passed? You were just about the fittest high school teacher I knew. I assumed that leading packs of cross-country teenage runners would lead to some kind of Fountain of Youth and eternal life. But it looks like I am a bit late in sending this letter.
I remember the very first paper I wrote in your class, I got a C+. It was an essay about Herman Melville's "Billy Budd," and as a fifteen year old overachiever who flinched at A minuses, I can tell you that receiving this grade was nothing short of an earth-splitting catastrophe. I am certain I wanted to drop out of school at that very moment and wondered how I was ever let into honors English in the first place. You also had this curious habit of scribbling, "see me," in your dreaded red ink, when your criticism could not be comprehensively communicated in words scribbled in the margin. I had one such "see me" in that Billy Budd paper. So I went and saw you.
I can't remember exactly how you explained why I got a C+ on my paper, but the gist of it was that I didn't seem to have found my own "voice." Many of us in your class had been schooled by the maniacal 10th grade English teacher who spent most of his days yelling poetry at us and telling us kayaking stories. During those yelling sessions, he pounded into us tenets of writing which now seem rather boilerplate. We grew used to what he wanted to hear, and likely, I was trying to mimic that style when I handed in that Billy Budd paper.
Your comment (and that C+) have stayed with me all those years. It was a turning point in my writing efforts. I know that both of us felt great satisfaction when weeks later I turned in my Arthur Dimmesdale - Two Sides of Sin paper. The Beginning of a Voice. And it was that voice that catulpulted me into writing an essay about idealism, one that took me to Japan, which was about as thrilling as a fifteen year old life gets.
And it is that voice that I still use today. My voice, the one you helped me find. Today in my professional capacity, I use this voice to help win cases, to persuade and achieve outcomes. Personally, I use this voice to rant, to experience vegetarianism, and to chronicle Easter Bunnies. At times, this voice has made people laugh, cry, and connect.
So I thank you for that C+. And I wish you could "see me" now.
Sincerely yours,
MOA
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Day 3: Irregularities Apparent
It appears that our Purple Easter Bunny will have special needs. He has finally started to make progress in his growth, but it seems that growth in his left paw is stunted. Although I forgot to put a quarter next to him for comparison, it is clear that everything except for his left paw has puffed out. I do not know how he will reach SIX HUNDRED PERCENT in the promised ten days, but when he does, his small left paw will be more freakish than ever. Stay tuned. Same Bunny Time, Same Bunny Channel.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Much Ado About Nothing - Day 2 of the Bunny Chronicles
He hasn't grown at all! I am so bummed that I can even bring myself to take a picture of his sorry purple self. Hopefully tomorrow will bring better news.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Bunny Chronicles
Good friend BB recently had a birthday, and for reasons clear to him, I gifted him an Easter Bunny grow toy. One of the motivating factors in the purchase was that the bunny is supposed to grow a whoppin' SIX HUNDRED PERCENT just by adding water.
SIX HUNDRED PERCENT!
The Purple Easter Bunny was ceremoniously placed in a wastebasket of water and in ten days, I imagine he will have outgrown it. Stay tuned.
SIX HUNDRED PERCENT!
The Purple Easter Bunny was ceremoniously placed in a wastebasket of water and in ten days, I imagine he will have outgrown it. Stay tuned.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Joy
Sometimes a newly trained employee at McDonald's is your worst enemy. But sometimes, she is your best friend. Today I waited a long time for my soft serve cone.
It turns out some things are worth waiting for.
This is probably the largest soft serve I have ever had. (The quarter is there for comparison.) It cost $1.30 which I consider a bargain given the size. I sat down to eat this monster, and after ten minutes of licking, had whittled it down to the size of a normal soft serve cone. At first, I assumed I wouldn't be able to finish it, but somewhere in the middle of those swirls, I found joy, simple pure joy. But like any joy, it was fleeting - and soon replaced with a brain freeze and dehydration. But I still have the picture - and the memories.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Living the Dream
My last blog entry was dated in March of this year, when winter in Anchorage was still in full swing. All of the sudden, we're past Solstice. How did this happen? Is it possible that the most noteworthy thing that has happened to me in the last few months is that I broke my OXO garlic press with my own brute strength?
A while back, I read this disturbing little piece about Julia Roberts in the paper:
Useless needlework, neurotic composting... all par for the course. Not that I am trying to brag, but today I literally brought greens from my yard into work (Chinese cabbage, bok choy, and Japanese mizuna to be precise) which I then steamed in a tupperware full of seafood soup made by... who else but yours truly!
As much as I'd like to credit myself with living the Oscar-winning actress' dream, the more likely story is that I am not living her dream life, but rather, in fact, Julia Roberts is crazy. Joy and fulfillment, like many things, are relative I suppose. Not that I want to be Julia Roberts (perhaps the poor thing has trouble finding jeans that fit her long legs, for example), but I can't say that Ms. Roberts' Circle of Life has left me feeling Ultimate Satisfaction or her "Highest High." I am not so fulfilled that I am ready to meet my maker, for instance. And does Ms. Roberts really think she can find nirvana knee-deep in dandelions? A dreamy ideal of compost is all fine and good in the abstract, but what happens when your carbon-to-nitrogen ratio is off and your pile stops doing its thing??
We're taught to have dreams and to pursue them, but what happens if you actually achieve them and live their reality? In some ways, the rapturous drive toward a dream is more compelling than any experience, especially since Reality has a tendency to disappoint. How many of us have idealized that member of the opposite sex, convinced him to date us, and then been sorely disappointed by how loudly he snores? Julia strives for needlework and composting because (for some ridiculous reason) she is unable to achieve these objectives in her life. Having won the Academy award, she naturally has to set her sights elsewhere among the dirt and pastimes of Victorian ladies.
It's an old but true cliche that we all want what we can't have. And yes, Ms. Roberts, you most certainly cannot have my embroidery and composting worms. I, too, am certainly guilty of occasionally wanting what I can't have, but having not yet achieved international stardom, I fortunately must set my sights on more traditional targets.
Regardless, there is something beautiful in having your dreams but not quite achieving them. Langston Hughes had this to say about a dream deferred:
To the Explosion, then, and the wild ride to it.
Q: So what have you been doing all this time?
A: I've been living fucking Julia Roberts' dream.
Q: Come again?
A: That's right. I've been living her fucking dream.
A while back, I read this disturbing little piece about Julia Roberts in the paper:
Anyone examining the activities of my life this past year would have to put his magnifying glass down and exclaim, "By golly! She has been living Julia Roberts' Circle of Life!" (Minus the children, of course.)"My dream is to be a highly fulfilled and productive stay-at-home mom and wife," the Oscar-winning actress tells Vanity Fair magazine. "The highest high would be growing our food that I then make, and then composting and growing more -- that kind of circle." Roberts, 40, says that life would involve having "my own creative outlet, even if it's silly needlework and stuff like that."
Useless needlework, neurotic composting... all par for the course. Not that I am trying to brag, but today I literally brought greens from my yard into work (Chinese cabbage, bok choy, and Japanese mizuna to be precise) which I then steamed in a tupperware full of seafood soup made by... who else but yours truly!
As much as I'd like to credit myself with living the Oscar-winning actress' dream, the more likely story is that I am not living her dream life, but rather, in fact, Julia Roberts is crazy. Joy and fulfillment, like many things, are relative I suppose. Not that I want to be Julia Roberts (perhaps the poor thing has trouble finding jeans that fit her long legs, for example), but I can't say that Ms. Roberts' Circle of Life has left me feeling Ultimate Satisfaction or her "Highest High." I am not so fulfilled that I am ready to meet my maker, for instance. And does Ms. Roberts really think she can find nirvana knee-deep in dandelions? A dreamy ideal of compost is all fine and good in the abstract, but what happens when your carbon-to-nitrogen ratio is off and your pile stops doing its thing??
We're taught to have dreams and to pursue them, but what happens if you actually achieve them and live their reality? In some ways, the rapturous drive toward a dream is more compelling than any experience, especially since Reality has a tendency to disappoint. How many of us have idealized that member of the opposite sex, convinced him to date us, and then been sorely disappointed by how loudly he snores? Julia strives for needlework and composting because (for some ridiculous reason) she is unable to achieve these objectives in her life. Having won the Academy award, she naturally has to set her sights elsewhere among the dirt and pastimes of Victorian ladies.
It's an old but true cliche that we all want what we can't have. And yes, Ms. Roberts, you most certainly cannot have my embroidery and composting worms. I, too, am certainly guilty of occasionally wanting what I can't have, but having not yet achieved international stardom, I fortunately must set my sights on more traditional targets.
Regardless, there is something beautiful in having your dreams but not quite achieving them. Langston Hughes had this to say about a dream deferred:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
To the Explosion, then, and the wild ride to it.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Bionic Madwoman Destroys Garlic Press
Well, after years of diligent service, my OXO garlic press (which I would have probably characterized as a Life-Changing Device) recently died in my hands.
Or more precisely, died by my own hands.
Apparently I have acquired the ability to rip metal apart.
I had feared that becoming a bionic madwoman would have unfortunate consequences, and it appears that the garlic press has become the first fatality. On the up side, its destruction provided me with the rare opportunity to acquire another piece of kitchen gadgetry (since I am already glutted with cooking tools), and so stay tuned for reviews of Zyliss garlic press. (Do this Swiss really know what they're doing?)
Or more precisely, died by my own hands.
Apparently I have acquired the ability to rip metal apart.
I had feared that becoming a bionic madwoman would have unfortunate consequences, and it appears that the garlic press has become the first fatality. On the up side, its destruction provided me with the rare opportunity to acquire another piece of kitchen gadgetry (since I am already glutted with cooking tools), and so stay tuned for reviews of Zyliss garlic press. (Do this Swiss really know what they're doing?)
Friday, March 28, 2008
He's Back!
He's back! At a mere twenty-five cents more!
Jaja emailed me earlier this week to say she spotted an ad on a city bus for MA's return this spring - Friday, March 28, 2008 (today). In the past, MA has reappeared on the streets of downtown Anchorage around April, but like the rest of us, apparently he's already itching for summer.
Notice the smoky edges. That's from the smoke of at least eleven of my reindeer dogs sizzling on MA's grill.
Jaja emailed me earlier this week to say she spotted an ad on a city bus for MA's return this spring - Friday, March 28, 2008 (today). In the past, MA has reappeared on the streets of downtown Anchorage around April, but like the rest of us, apparently he's already itching for summer.
(First of all, I have to say you've got to wonder about a hot dog cart proprietor who can afford an ad on the side of an ENTIRE BUS. No doubt the extra quarter increase on every dog is going to help plaster the likes of MA all over town.)
But onto the real business: in last season's cliffhanger, I was on the brink of my free wiener dog. That's right, by being a diligent, Frequent Wiener last summer and by painstakingly consuming approximately eleven dogs (with the help of friends), I was able to earn one entire free dog! I was quite jittery today since I knew the moment had come to claim my prize. As I rifled through MA's rolodex only to find that it was populated with only brand new cards, for a second, I panicked.
But then MA told me to look behind the cooler and that's when I pulled this out:
Notice the smoky edges. That's from the smoke of at least eleven of my reindeer dogs sizzling on MA's grill.Understandably, I had to make an exception for the occasion. The reindeer dog arguably fits under my "small bits" exception, but as many have pointed out, carried to the extreme, any processed meat would be a "small bit." Luckily for me, I found safe harbor in a more respectable exception -- the "wild game" loophole. (The attorney in me wondered if commercially processed reindeer should really be classified as "wild game," but the hunger in me quickly ended that legal debate.)
So here it is: The Twelfth Wiener, in all its glory:
Thank goodness summer is on its way. Bring on the dogs!
Holy Ham!
It had been five weeks of Arbitrary Vegetarianism, many days full of challenges and introspection. In these last five weeks, I've looked Salami, and Brats, Lamb Chops in right in the eye and managed to stand firm.
So what happened on Sunday?
Although I knew that there would be ham at Easter, my consumption was not premediated. I was helping Jaja out in the kitchen and was tasked with dealing with the glaze. I dutifully juiced some lemon and orange into a bowl of marmalade and then proceeded to heat the mixture until it was nice and thick. Then I went over the ham and drizzled the hot luscious glaze all over that big hunk of wonderful meat.
You can see where this story is going.
After all, am I not human? After getting that close and personal with an Easter Ham, is it reasonable or even possibly fathomable that I would not partake in the proper celebration of the Lord's resurrection? My mind started racing as I tried to squeeze this large hunk of ham into one of my exceptions. Definitely not a broth/juice. Definitely not wild game. Definitely not a Small Bit (my favorite exception)... unless you're an ogre. Unless you're an ogre!
Doesn't quite look like spiritual emptiness, does it?
So back to Easter. What better way to fill an empty aching soul than with a huge hunk of ham?
Suffice it to say, my soul was very very full this Easter, so full that I wish I had been wearing elastic pants. But then again, what's a religious holiday without a little commemorative sin?
So what happened on Sunday?
On Sunday, the Lord was resurrected.
And maybe I ate a whole lot of Ham.
Although I knew that there would be ham at Easter, my consumption was not premediated. I was helping Jaja out in the kitchen and was tasked with dealing with the glaze. I dutifully juiced some lemon and orange into a bowl of marmalade and then proceeded to heat the mixture until it was nice and thick. Then I went over the ham and drizzled the hot luscious glaze all over that big hunk of wonderful meat.
You can see where this story is going.
After all, am I not human? After getting that close and personal with an Easter Ham, is it reasonable or even possibly fathomable that I would not partake in the proper celebration of the Lord's resurrection? My mind started racing as I tried to squeeze this large hunk of ham into one of my exceptions. Definitely not a broth/juice. Definitely not wild game. Definitely not a Small Bit (my favorite exception)... unless you're an ogre. Unless you're an ogre!
Oh wait, I'm not really an ogre.
As I ran these scenarios in my mind, I wondered why I didn't see it fit to have a religious exception. I mean, Religious Exceptions are some of the most established and widely accepted exceptions out there.
Oh right, I'm not really religious.
Years ago, while hiking to a church at the top of Marseilles, I had an epiphany that the physical hunger of my bottomless tummy was actually symptomatic of a deeper hunger - a sad spiritual emptiness. Suddenly it became all too clear to me that it was my a-religiosity that compelled me to try and fill myself with worldly goods, and yet, I knew that fulfillment could never be truly had this way. At least this was my explanation for why my a-religious self was weeping during church services conducted in a language I couldn't even understand.
This revelation was all fine and good until I left the church and then immediately started wondering what was for lunch. Mu and I ended up eating a large platterful of raw seafood:
This revelation was all fine and good until I left the church and then immediately started wondering what was for lunch. Mu and I ended up eating a large platterful of raw seafood:
Doesn't quite look like spiritual emptiness, does it?
So back to Easter. What better way to fill an empty aching soul than with a huge hunk of ham?
Suffice it to say, my soul was very very full this Easter, so full that I wish I had been wearing elastic pants. But then again, what's a religious holiday without a little commemorative sin?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Same Time, Next Year
Once a year, I do the tango.
And this year, I chose last Wednesday for the occasion. On most Wednesdays, I spend my evenings at the Sand Lake Elementary School learning how to play taiko drums with middle-aged ladies. But last week was Spring Break for the school district... and thus, also spring break for this drummer. So I took advantage of a rarely open Wednesday to drop in on the local Argentine Tango class at Club Soraya.
I first caught a bit of the Argentine bug many years ago in a dance class in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. My teacher was Pampa, a South-American grandfatherly-looking sort who danced as well as his pot belly was round. He also had the kind of name that one always wanted to exclaim with clasped hands - Pampa!
Pampa does not live in Anchorage, but this city surprisingly does have a thriving Argentine Tango community. Really, it's more a local group of addicts. In my experience, there are two responses to Argentine Tango: (1) you find it perplexing, mysterious, too difficult/frustrating or (2) you become a hard-core addict, want to live/breathe/eat tango, and fly to Buenos Aires to dance until dawn.
Very few fall into (3). That's me - a dabbler. I am actually a former (2), but somewhere along the way, I never made it to Buenos Aires, and I couldn't make enough room in my life to live/breathe/eat tango. So now I just kind of pretend to do it, once a year. More specifically, for the past four years, I've shown up to take one tango class a year and to join the practica afterwards.
It's strange that there is a store of memory that can be built up with only one yearly dance. Many of the faces I saw on Wednesday night looked familiar - but in a very vague way, like someone I've seen once in a dream or people I might have known in a past life or something. Some looked like former newcomers, who had now lapped me in their tango devotion. The 82-year-old man who danced me like an old Buick years ago was also there - still alive! Probably now 86? The redheaded teacher was the same, although I must be getting mellow with age because after four years of resenting the fact that he was not Pampa, I've started noticing that our Anchorage teacher has his own qualities, too.
In addition to people memory, there is also dance memory. My handful of tango classes in San Francisco was hardly enough to build a very proper foundation. But in this one instance, it is fortunate that I am a woman. That is, all I really need to do an enjoyable Argentine tango is to glom onto an unsuspecting but decent lead. In his arms, I can have the dance of my life.
Perhaps more so than other partner dances, the Argentine Tango is highly dependent on the direction provided by the lead. The follower, typically female, spends the entire night walking backwards, not exactly a shining moment for women's lib. And yet, the communication between the leader and follower must also be subtle. Unlike salsa, where there is a lot of active hands-on manipulation of the follower, the finesse of Argentine Tango is spoken through very slight movements. A nudge. A slow soft push. A turn of the shoulders. A change in weight. A little extra pressure in the chest region.
That's right - a little extra pressure in the chest region. For all its subtlety, tango is also quite bold. A dance with a stranger is usually an encounter more intimate than most first dates. The "tango embrace," as it's called, goes way beyond mere hand-holding. Ideally, the chest regions of both dancers touch, leaning slight upon each other, creating a pressure point on which to pivot the entire dance.
This is how the dancers stand across from each other. The teacher often tells us to lean in and then add the arms. This way of holding is aptly named as the "embrace" as it is so much more than just a "position." It is typical to see dancers who do not know each other dance cheek-to-cheek. There's no better way to know what you're partner wants you to do than to be all up in each other's business.
And all up each other's business you definitely are. In addition to the fused chest region, one partner's legs must step in between the other's. In fact, the lead gets the female follower to move simply by walking straight into her body. She has no choice but to move backward. Notes from my 2004 tango read, "take steps measured by the size ofyour partner, no smaller or bigger than where he is."
As much as I love dancing the tango, I sure would be hard pressed to live my life that way.
And perhaps that is why I only do the tango once a year. I like making these "cameo" appearances, incognito, dipping my toe in the brook as it bubbles past me. Others in the class look at me and return that same gaze of vague recognition. Many don't know exactly who I am but end up recognizing me after we've danced. It is that kind of dance memory that is the strongest.
Take Norm, for example. Other than the teacher, I only remembered his name. Why? Norm is the smoothest operator in the Anchorage tango scene. He appears to be a quiet man, somewhat heavy-set, and definitely has a Pampa-like pot-belly. But he dances like velvet, I kid you not. In fact, I should add Norm to the List:
I would have preferred having my identity be marked otherwise, but it was nice that both Norm and I remembered dancing with each other. In Argentine Tango, it is customary to dance an entire "set" with a particular partner. A "set" is usually comprised of three or four songs. So after Norm and I danced once, we also dance three more lovely times.
The down side of this custom, which I always forget, is that if some man with two left feet asks you to dance, you end up dancing with his two left feet four times. That's EIGHT LEFT FEET!
That's also another reason why I only go to tango once a year.
Between Norm and our redheaded tango teacher, however, I managed to capture a few moments worth the annual class. So thanks for my 2008 tango fix.
Here's to 2009....
And this year, I chose last Wednesday for the occasion. On most Wednesdays, I spend my evenings at the Sand Lake Elementary School learning how to play taiko drums with middle-aged ladies. But last week was Spring Break for the school district... and thus, also spring break for this drummer. So I took advantage of a rarely open Wednesday to drop in on the local Argentine Tango class at Club Soraya.
I first caught a bit of the Argentine bug many years ago in a dance class in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. My teacher was Pampa, a South-American grandfatherly-looking sort who danced as well as his pot belly was round. He also had the kind of name that one always wanted to exclaim with clasped hands - Pampa!
Pampa does not live in Anchorage, but this city surprisingly does have a thriving Argentine Tango community. Really, it's more a local group of addicts. In my experience, there are two responses to Argentine Tango: (1) you find it perplexing, mysterious, too difficult/frustrating or (2) you become a hard-core addict, want to live/breathe/eat tango, and fly to Buenos Aires to dance until dawn.
Very few fall into (3). That's me - a dabbler. I am actually a former (2), but somewhere along the way, I never made it to Buenos Aires, and I couldn't make enough room in my life to live/breathe/eat tango. So now I just kind of pretend to do it, once a year. More specifically, for the past four years, I've shown up to take one tango class a year and to join the practica afterwards.
It's strange that there is a store of memory that can be built up with only one yearly dance. Many of the faces I saw on Wednesday night looked familiar - but in a very vague way, like someone I've seen once in a dream or people I might have known in a past life or something. Some looked like former newcomers, who had now lapped me in their tango devotion. The 82-year-old man who danced me like an old Buick years ago was also there - still alive! Probably now 86? The redheaded teacher was the same, although I must be getting mellow with age because after four years of resenting the fact that he was not Pampa, I've started noticing that our Anchorage teacher has his own qualities, too.
In addition to people memory, there is also dance memory. My handful of tango classes in San Francisco was hardly enough to build a very proper foundation. But in this one instance, it is fortunate that I am a woman. That is, all I really need to do an enjoyable Argentine tango is to glom onto an unsuspecting but decent lead. In his arms, I can have the dance of my life.
Perhaps more so than other partner dances, the Argentine Tango is highly dependent on the direction provided by the lead. The follower, typically female, spends the entire night walking backwards, not exactly a shining moment for women's lib. And yet, the communication between the leader and follower must also be subtle. Unlike salsa, where there is a lot of active hands-on manipulation of the follower, the finesse of Argentine Tango is spoken through very slight movements. A nudge. A slow soft push. A turn of the shoulders. A change in weight. A little extra pressure in the chest region.
That's right - a little extra pressure in the chest region. For all its subtlety, tango is also quite bold. A dance with a stranger is usually an encounter more intimate than most first dates. The "tango embrace," as it's called, goes way beyond mere hand-holding. Ideally, the chest regions of both dancers touch, leaning slight upon each other, creating a pressure point on which to pivot the entire dance.
/\
This is how the dancers stand across from each other. The teacher often tells us to lean in and then add the arms. This way of holding is aptly named as the "embrace" as it is so much more than just a "position." It is typical to see dancers who do not know each other dance cheek-to-cheek. There's no better way to know what you're partner wants you to do than to be all up in each other's business.
And all up each other's business you definitely are. In addition to the fused chest region, one partner's legs must step in between the other's. In fact, the lead gets the female follower to move simply by walking straight into her body. She has no choice but to move backward. Notes from my 2004 tango read, "take steps measured by the size ofyour partner, no smaller or bigger than where he is."
As much as I love dancing the tango, I sure would be hard pressed to live my life that way.
And perhaps that is why I only do the tango once a year. I like making these "cameo" appearances, incognito, dipping my toe in the brook as it bubbles past me. Others in the class look at me and return that same gaze of vague recognition. Many don't know exactly who I am but end up recognizing me after we've danced. It is that kind of dance memory that is the strongest.
Take Norm, for example. Other than the teacher, I only remembered his name. Why? Norm is the smoothest operator in the Anchorage tango scene. He appears to be a quiet man, somewhat heavy-set, and definitely has a Pampa-like pot-belly. But he dances like velvet, I kid you not. In fact, I should add Norm to the List:
- To Norm, for Most Velvety Argentine Tango (Club Soraya, Anchorage 2008).
I would have preferred having my identity be marked otherwise, but it was nice that both Norm and I remembered dancing with each other. In Argentine Tango, it is customary to dance an entire "set" with a particular partner. A "set" is usually comprised of three or four songs. So after Norm and I danced once, we also dance three more lovely times.
The down side of this custom, which I always forget, is that if some man with two left feet asks you to dance, you end up dancing with his two left feet four times. That's EIGHT LEFT FEET!
That's also another reason why I only go to tango once a year.
Between Norm and our redheaded tango teacher, however, I managed to capture a few moments worth the annual class. So thanks for my 2008 tango fix.
Here's to 2009....
Thursday, March 13, 2008
To All The Men With Whom I've Danced Before....
After writing my last entry, I realized that as bloggers do, I probably was too extreme in some of my comments, too harsh regarding the quality of "real" men in my dancing past.
Not all have been duds. (Just 98% of All of You.)
So here's a tribute to Some of the Men With Whom I've Danced Before....
Not all have been duds. (Just 98% of All of You.)
So here's a tribute to Some of the Men With Whom I've Danced Before....
- to Snoop Dog's Little Brother, for Best Dance-Off Ever With Complete Stranger (Gaslight Lounge, Anchorage 2004);
- to Rocket, for Most Charged Dance Between a Man and a Woman (Gaslight Lounge, Anchorage, 2005);
- to MR, for Most Fun Dancing Contemporaneous With Dating (Club Soraya, Anchorage 2007);
- to BB, for Best Consecutive Four Hours of Dancing at Corporate Event (Company Holiday Party, Seattle, WA 2007);
- to Ryan? (what was your name?) for Saying Yes When A Complete Stranger Asked You To Dance (Captain Cook Hotel, Anchorage, AK 2008)
- to NYC Photographer, for Best Merengue Ever (LYH Basement, Anchorage, 2008);
- to Minty Monty, for Best Dance Costume (LYH Basement, Anchorage, 2008);
- to BB, for Best Personal Jam To Selected Song (LYH Basement, Anchorage, 2008).
I can't say every category was highly competitive (or even had data points more than one), but these "bests" are not exaggerations. And yes, it has been a busy start of the year in the LYH basement. Here's to the rest of the year!
Meet My New Dance Partner.
Well, it has happened. After months of dancing alone in my basement, I have finally secured a dance partner for morning practice.
Over the years, close friends have often heard me utter this Madwoman Adage: "It is easier to find a good husband than a good dance partner." I actually think the former is rather difficult and the latter, nearly impossible. And so I make do by showing up to classes alone, by preferring dance styles that permit me to dance by myself, and by getting creative.
By "getting creative," I mean that a dance partner is really just a counterpoint, and sometimes substitutions are possible. For example, I've done the Argentine Tango with invisible dance partners, practiced spins with the load-bearing support pole in the basement, and on occasion, relied on a broom here or there for balance.
That's right; sometimes I prefer the company of Thin Air, Cold Metal, and Cleaning Supplies to the company of "real" men. Of the "real" men with whom I've had the "pleasure" of dancing, they really run the gamut:
My most recent dance partner came to me when I was at my parents' home watching infommercials on cable TV. Not having cable myself, I was amazed at the extraordinary proliferation of fat-reducing devices being offered through the television. In my hay day, I would have considered myself somewhat of an expert on current hot products as my family is partial to infommercial products, the area of exercise equipment being no exception. My big brother has owned such contraptions as the Gravity Edge and Chuck Norris' famous Total Gym. Here is where I must sheepishly admit that I myself have personally owned the Jackie Chan Cable Flex System and Cheryl Ladd's Body Slide. Of DVDs, I have done Tae Bo with Billy Blanks and marveled at what Pilates has done for Daisy Fuentes.
Suffice it to say, if you look at my family, we're not exactly a group of rock-hard bodies. If there's any living proof that products from TV don't make you lose weight or look better, it would be us. (We do, however, now possess numerous interesting fixtures on which to hang clothes.)
Of the new infommercials I saw during my last visit to the Mothership, the one that I still remember was the Gravity Ball, endorsed by a gymnast Mitch Something. The Gravity Ball looks an awful lot like a medicine ball with the only difference being that it weighs only two pounds. The point is that exercise with this fake wussy medicine ball is supposed to make use of your "core" (a very hot buzz word in fitness) which in turn is supposed to fire up your metabolism. I can't remember the TV promise - something absurd like Three Pounds, Three Inches, In Three Days! As a teenager, I may have fallen for this three-minute BS and its Something-Ninety-Five price tag, but I'm 32 now and wiser (at least in this respect).
It also struck me as fairly idiotic that I would need to buy a special ball to make two pounds. All around the house are things that weigh about two pounds. I pulled a giant tupperware of chicken soup out of the Mothership refrigerator and swung it around in a 360-degree circle to prove this point to my little brother. He agreed.
This morning, I found something in the basement that also fit the bill - a Costco-sized bottle of Liquid Plumber Gel. Not exactly nice and round, but it does have an easy-to-grip handle. So here he is, my new dance partner, who probably falls soundly in the category of Cleaning Supplies (if you look closely at this photo, you can also see the bottom of my other erstwhile dance partner, Cold Metal):
No, he's not much to look at, but the same goes for several of the "real" men with whom I've danced. At least he's going to fire up my "core" and throw my metabolism into light speed! For free! Did I also mention that he "DESTROYS THE CLOG?"
Not that we are on a first-name basis, but if the bottle of Liquid Plumber did have a name, I imagine it would be Bubba.
Bubba, welcome to the Basement.
Over the years, close friends have often heard me utter this Madwoman Adage: "It is easier to find a good husband than a good dance partner." I actually think the former is rather difficult and the latter, nearly impossible. And so I make do by showing up to classes alone, by preferring dance styles that permit me to dance by myself, and by getting creative.
By "getting creative," I mean that a dance partner is really just a counterpoint, and sometimes substitutions are possible. For example, I've done the Argentine Tango with invisible dance partners, practiced spins with the load-bearing support pole in the basement, and on occasion, relied on a broom here or there for balance.
That's right; sometimes I prefer the company of Thin Air, Cold Metal, and Cleaning Supplies to the company of "real" men. Of the "real" men with whom I've had the "pleasure" of dancing, they really run the gamut:
- I once tangoed with an 82-year-old man (I remember this clearly because at the time, when I told him I was 28, he remarked that we were the same age, just backwards!) who navigated me across the room like he was driving an old Buick down a dirt road.
- I have salsed with Y chromosomes so drenched in cologne that I always had to shower immediately afterwards to rid myself of the "Scent of Man."
- Sometimes my dance partners have hailed from foreign countries with clearly different concepts of personal hygiene and B.O.
My most recent dance partner came to me when I was at my parents' home watching infommercials on cable TV. Not having cable myself, I was amazed at the extraordinary proliferation of fat-reducing devices being offered through the television. In my hay day, I would have considered myself somewhat of an expert on current hot products as my family is partial to infommercial products, the area of exercise equipment being no exception. My big brother has owned such contraptions as the Gravity Edge and Chuck Norris' famous Total Gym. Here is where I must sheepishly admit that I myself have personally owned the Jackie Chan Cable Flex System and Cheryl Ladd's Body Slide. Of DVDs, I have done Tae Bo with Billy Blanks and marveled at what Pilates has done for Daisy Fuentes.
Suffice it to say, if you look at my family, we're not exactly a group of rock-hard bodies. If there's any living proof that products from TV don't make you lose weight or look better, it would be us. (We do, however, now possess numerous interesting fixtures on which to hang clothes.)
Of the new infommercials I saw during my last visit to the Mothership, the one that I still remember was the Gravity Ball, endorsed by a gymnast Mitch Something. The Gravity Ball looks an awful lot like a medicine ball with the only difference being that it weighs only two pounds. The point is that exercise with this fake wussy medicine ball is supposed to make use of your "core" (a very hot buzz word in fitness) which in turn is supposed to fire up your metabolism. I can't remember the TV promise - something absurd like Three Pounds, Three Inches, In Three Days! As a teenager, I may have fallen for this three-minute BS and its Something-Ninety-Five price tag, but I'm 32 now and wiser (at least in this respect).
It also struck me as fairly idiotic that I would need to buy a special ball to make two pounds. All around the house are things that weigh about two pounds. I pulled a giant tupperware of chicken soup out of the Mothership refrigerator and swung it around in a 360-degree circle to prove this point to my little brother. He agreed.
This morning, I found something in the basement that also fit the bill - a Costco-sized bottle of Liquid Plumber Gel. Not exactly nice and round, but it does have an easy-to-grip handle. So here he is, my new dance partner, who probably falls soundly in the category of Cleaning Supplies (if you look closely at this photo, you can also see the bottom of my other erstwhile dance partner, Cold Metal):
No, he's not much to look at, but the same goes for several of the "real" men with whom I've danced. At least he's going to fire up my "core" and throw my metabolism into light speed! For free! Did I also mention that he "DESTROYS THE CLOG?"
Not that we are on a first-name basis, but if the bottle of Liquid Plumber did have a name, I imagine it would be Bubba.
Bubba, welcome to the Basement.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
The Madness Begins
Yesterday while I was driving home from work, something weird happened. Weird white stuff was dropping from the sky, and I heard myself say out loud (really loudly, for some reason) to an otherwise empty car, "Oh it's snowing."
That's right; after an unseasonably warm spell of false break-up that pretty much vaporized the snow in Anchorage's downtown streets, Mother Nature is now tapping us gently on the shoulder to remind us, um, in case you were getting carried away, Winter is still here. Never mind that for two days, it was so unbelievably warm that I had to suspend wearing my down parka (which I affectionately refer to as my "bear" coat") even though it has been my three-year custom to start wearing it in October and not take it off until May.
So today we are back in the 20s, still very temperate by Anchorage standards. Of all days, today I chose to be the Harbinger of Spring by wearing a decidedly Easter color that has been just hanging out in the back of my closet - a gentle pastel turquoise (think Martha Stewart's robin egg blue). But my spring color is not very noticeable under my black bear coat.
Another sign of confused cues taken from Mother Nature is the proliferation of gardening supplies at local grocery store. This weekend, I bought about ten packets of seeds and eight seedlings growing from bulbs - variegated hostas and bleeding hearts. The seedlings were on sale but suspiciously marked "AS IS." But I can't resist a good bargain (or at least a price that looks like one). After languishing in plastic bags for two days, the seedlings finally got a proper home in the form of a giant planter sitting next to the kitchen's back door, as if the seedlings are waiting for Spring to just open the door and let them play outside. I looked out the back door window this morning at the wintry white and felt a little foolish. The first signs of Spring Madness.
Much of the year in Anchorage is spent looking forward to summer. Much of the year in Anchorage is Winter. So we spend a great deal of time in winter looking forward to summer. Sure, there's a lot of skiing and ice skating to be had and other winter-related activities, but the mind inevitably drifts to thoughts of growing one's own veggies or hauling in one's fish, especially during a month too warm for our usual wintry distractions. At this time of the year, there is a great urge to hold down the fast-forward button and just get to summer already. In our heads, we're already catching so many fish that our vocabulary is starting to include such summer words as "giant smoker," "vacuum-sealing," and my personal favorite, "new chest freezer."
Suffice it to say, the salmon won't even know what hit them.
But until we meet at the river, fortitudine vincimus - I foresee at least eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds until Spring....
That's right; after an unseasonably warm spell of false break-up that pretty much vaporized the snow in Anchorage's downtown streets, Mother Nature is now tapping us gently on the shoulder to remind us, um, in case you were getting carried away, Winter is still here. Never mind that for two days, it was so unbelievably warm that I had to suspend wearing my down parka (which I affectionately refer to as my "bear" coat") even though it has been my three-year custom to start wearing it in October and not take it off until May.
So today we are back in the 20s, still very temperate by Anchorage standards. Of all days, today I chose to be the Harbinger of Spring by wearing a decidedly Easter color that has been just hanging out in the back of my closet - a gentle pastel turquoise (think Martha Stewart's robin egg blue). But my spring color is not very noticeable under my black bear coat.
Another sign of confused cues taken from Mother Nature is the proliferation of gardening supplies at local grocery store. This weekend, I bought about ten packets of seeds and eight seedlings growing from bulbs - variegated hostas and bleeding hearts. The seedlings were on sale but suspiciously marked "AS IS." But I can't resist a good bargain (or at least a price that looks like one). After languishing in plastic bags for two days, the seedlings finally got a proper home in the form of a giant planter sitting next to the kitchen's back door, as if the seedlings are waiting for Spring to just open the door and let them play outside. I looked out the back door window this morning at the wintry white and felt a little foolish. The first signs of Spring Madness.
Much of the year in Anchorage is spent looking forward to summer. Much of the year in Anchorage is Winter. So we spend a great deal of time in winter looking forward to summer. Sure, there's a lot of skiing and ice skating to be had and other winter-related activities, but the mind inevitably drifts to thoughts of growing one's own veggies or hauling in one's fish, especially during a month too warm for our usual wintry distractions. At this time of the year, there is a great urge to hold down the fast-forward button and just get to summer already. In our heads, we're already catching so many fish that our vocabulary is starting to include such summer words as "giant smoker," "vacuum-sealing," and my personal favorite, "new chest freezer."
Suffice it to say, the salmon won't even know what hit them.
But until we meet at the river, fortitudine vincimus - I foresee at least eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds until Spring....
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Eleven Minutes and Thirty-Two Seconds Per Diem
Sometime in the late 80s, Robin Williams made a little piece of Latin very famous:
It's hard to ignore that hairy hyperactive man (I mean he used to be Mork!), especially when he's standing on a desk, trying to inspire a room full of preppy teenagers. And why wouldn't one seize the day -- just grab it by the nuts, so to speak?
(I'm a little less eloquent than Mr. Williams.)
The dilemma is that the phrase is most often used as a hackneyed justification -- a sheepish, self-assured shrug-off of the world's responsibilities. Many view the phrase as a carte blanche to say, I don't have time for this, I am busy seizing the day by the nuts, and this way of living is really deep because it goes way back to the time of the Romans, so leave me alone. In this era of immediate gratification, there's nothing like having a little bit of Latin to back-up one's behavior. I mean, what lends better credence than the ancient language of scholars?
A closer look at the phrase (and by that I mean looking it up on Wikipedia) reveals the following:
I can point to one such carper, for example - the moose in my backyard, not exactly creatures enlightened with Roman insight. But they do carp my apples every year just as the fruit gets big enough to be worth looking at -- they take them away, just like that annoying little Billy from first grade.
Thieves, I call them.
To them, and to those other amateur carpers out there, I say, MOVE AWAY AND PUT THOSE APPLES DOWN, BILLY! If you want to harvest the day, you're going to have to grow it first.
It's not that I don't believe in living in the moment. There is something absolutely exquisite about holding each moment up to the light to see its glittering, unique opportunity and to step right into it. But our days are also made up of moments, and our months made up of days. And so on. And sometimes, I even get excited about the moments of the next day. That's right; I live under a foolish supposition that I just might live to see tomorrow and harvest its fruitful offerings.
For one thing, how can I measure the moment or the day if I do not understand how it fits into eternity?
And let's be honest: most of us do live under The Foolish Supposition, even the so-called "free spirit" Billies so fond of the phrase, carpe diem, man. For the most part, we hold down jobs, we pay taxes, we make plans to have dinner later in the week, or get our hair cut at the end of the month. We do this in the face of Adversity, Tragedy, and Death not because we are boring people or take things for granted, but perhaps because we have enough stubborn faith to look forward to tomorrow and don't want to take tomorrow for granted.
Otherwise, we'd all be sky-diving, scaling cliffs, eating beyond our heart's content and drinking ourselves to Oblivion.
... or splattered, obese, and pretty drunk off our asses. ALL THE TIME.
It's not quite Latin, but in the words of Mickey Mantle, famous Drinker-To-Oblivion who assumed that genetics and fate was going to limit him to only a short flash-in-the-pan life, "If I'd known I was gonna live this long, I'd have taken a lot better care of myself."
Mantle had requested that his friend and country singer Roy Clark sing his favorite song "Yesterday, When I Was Young" at Mantle's funeral:
In the end, our Present is full of opportunity costs, Roads Not Taken. But opportunity costs are not just confined to the day. There are long-term opportunity costs, too, as chances to grow a lifetime can be missed if one is too busy thieving in the moments.
To illustrate, today I descended into my basement, as the Madwoman tries to do every morning, to get my daily fix of dancing. I have been doing this off and on since last July, and nowadays, to squeeze it in before work, I can only manage about twenty or so minutes. Typically, I gravitate to my favorite dance songs - a little MJ, a little Madonna, and I'm embarrassed to say, a little Britney. (Have you tried dancing to Me Against the Music?) The songs I use produce immediate response as I have little time to warm up and think about what I'm doing. So I regularly dial right past any song in my extended iPod playlist that is more than the typical four minutes. On most days, the Opportunity Cost of Fourteen Minutes seems too great.
And that's why, for months, I've been scrolling past Guajira Clasica from the mambo CD, "Ahora-Si."
Well, apparently I have truly been missing out. The song is a lengthy fourteen minutes long, and in the past, I never had the time (or more truthfully, the patience) to wade through any of it. For one thing, the intro is misleadingly slow. But after two minutes, the unmistakeable Latin rhythm enters (and by that I do not mean Horace's Latin) setting the listener on a path to an uncertain destination. Because it was by complete chance that I decided to give this track a chance today, the returns were fantastically unexpected.
And then It Happened. At Eleven Minutes And Thirty-Two Seconds into the song, The Groove Set Me Free. Tucked in the last third of the song was Rapture, pure rapture in the form of wailing trumpets calling out in a way that demands an answer. It's the kind of melody that if played in a jungle, I daresay all kinds of interesting creatures would emerge in response. I had to go beyond the Moment to find it, but if I must borrow another hackneyed phrase, it was well worth the wait.
And there are lots of other examples of why it's worth taking that leap of faith to make time:
Oh boy, rocks are alive!
It made me wonder if I slowed down enough, what else I might see brimming with life.
So to all those Billies out there, carpe diem, but please save eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds for me.
carpe diem.
It's hard to ignore that hairy hyperactive man (I mean he used to be Mork!), especially when he's standing on a desk, trying to inspire a room full of preppy teenagers. And why wouldn't one seize the day -- just grab it by the nuts, so to speak?
(I'm a little less eloquent than Mr. Williams.)
The dilemma is that the phrase is most often used as a hackneyed justification -- a sheepish, self-assured shrug-off of the world's responsibilities. Many view the phrase as a carte blanche to say, I don't have time for this, I am busy seizing the day by the nuts, and this way of living is really deep because it goes way back to the time of the Romans, so leave me alone. In this era of immediate gratification, there's nothing like having a little bit of Latin to back-up one's behavior. I mean, what lends better credence than the ancient language of scholars?
A closer look at the phrase (and by that I mean looking it up on Wikipedia) reveals the following:
Carpe Diem is a phrase from a Latin poem by Horace. It isAy, there's the rub! To harvest, according to the laws of nature as I understand it, one would have to do more than simply seize the day. Fruit to be harvested, after all, does not happen overnight. Somehow, a seed was planted, and a tree matured, and in the modern world, probably there was also a whole lot of fertilizing and pruning before anyone got to see that pretty fruit. For those carpers of the diem out there ready to seize my apples, I am reminded of first grade math problems describing a certain Billy taking away four of Susie's apples, and let it be known, as a gardener and grower of the day, the Madwoman takes great offense.
popularly translated as "seize the day", although a more literal translation of carpe would be "harvest" ("harvest the day"), as in the harvesting of fruit.
I can point to one such carper, for example - the moose in my backyard, not exactly creatures enlightened with Roman insight. But they do carp my apples every year just as the fruit gets big enough to be worth looking at -- they take them away, just like that annoying little Billy from first grade.
Thieves, I call them.
To them, and to those other amateur carpers out there, I say, MOVE AWAY AND PUT THOSE APPLES DOWN, BILLY! If you want to harvest the day, you're going to have to grow it first.
It's not that I don't believe in living in the moment. There is something absolutely exquisite about holding each moment up to the light to see its glittering, unique opportunity and to step right into it. But our days are also made up of moments, and our months made up of days. And so on. And sometimes, I even get excited about the moments of the next day. That's right; I live under a foolish supposition that I just might live to see tomorrow and harvest its fruitful offerings.
For one thing, how can I measure the moment or the day if I do not understand how it fits into eternity?
And let's be honest: most of us do live under The Foolish Supposition, even the so-called "free spirit" Billies so fond of the phrase, carpe diem, man. For the most part, we hold down jobs, we pay taxes, we make plans to have dinner later in the week, or get our hair cut at the end of the month. We do this in the face of Adversity, Tragedy, and Death not because we are boring people or take things for granted, but perhaps because we have enough stubborn faith to look forward to tomorrow and don't want to take tomorrow for granted.
Otherwise, we'd all be sky-diving, scaling cliffs, eating beyond our heart's content and drinking ourselves to Oblivion.
... or splattered, obese, and pretty drunk off our asses. ALL THE TIME.
It's not quite Latin, but in the words of Mickey Mantle, famous Drinker-To-Oblivion who assumed that genetics and fate was going to limit him to only a short flash-in-the-pan life, "If I'd known I was gonna live this long, I'd have taken a lot better care of myself."
Mantle had requested that his friend and country singer Roy Clark sing his favorite song "Yesterday, When I Was Young" at Mantle's funeral:
I lived by nightSuffice it to say, this is not the joyful noise of an ebullient skydiver. I doubt that Mantle thought by living like a flash with caution thrown to the wind, he would eventually die with such regrets.
I shunned the light of day
And only now I see how
the years slipped away
I ran so fast time and youth ran out
So many
songs in me won't be sung
I now must pay for yesterday when I was young.
In the end, our Present is full of opportunity costs, Roads Not Taken. But opportunity costs are not just confined to the day. There are long-term opportunity costs, too, as chances to grow a lifetime can be missed if one is too busy thieving in the moments.
To illustrate, today I descended into my basement, as the Madwoman tries to do every morning, to get my daily fix of dancing. I have been doing this off and on since last July, and nowadays, to squeeze it in before work, I can only manage about twenty or so minutes. Typically, I gravitate to my favorite dance songs - a little MJ, a little Madonna, and I'm embarrassed to say, a little Britney. (Have you tried dancing to Me Against the Music?) The songs I use produce immediate response as I have little time to warm up and think about what I'm doing. So I regularly dial right past any song in my extended iPod playlist that is more than the typical four minutes. On most days, the Opportunity Cost of Fourteen Minutes seems too great.
And that's why, for months, I've been scrolling past Guajira Clasica from the mambo CD, "Ahora-Si."
Well, apparently I have truly been missing out. The song is a lengthy fourteen minutes long, and in the past, I never had the time (or more truthfully, the patience) to wade through any of it. For one thing, the intro is misleadingly slow. But after two minutes, the unmistakeable Latin rhythm enters (and by that I do not mean Horace's Latin) setting the listener on a path to an uncertain destination. Because it was by complete chance that I decided to give this track a chance today, the returns were fantastically unexpected.
And then It Happened. At Eleven Minutes And Thirty-Two Seconds into the song, The Groove Set Me Free. Tucked in the last third of the song was Rapture, pure rapture in the form of wailing trumpets calling out in a way that demands an answer. It's the kind of melody that if played in a jungle, I daresay all kinds of interesting creatures would emerge in response. I had to go beyond the Moment to find it, but if I must borrow another hackneyed phrase, it was well worth the wait.
And there are lots of other examples of why it's worth taking that leap of faith to make time:
- slow braising meatAt any given moment, we are living in concentric circles of time. The second is part of a minute, part of an hour, part of a day, part of a year... part of a lifetime. All that we see in nature that is fleeting and ephemeral is apparent to us by the contrast of what remains. Last month, I was in a bar talking to a photographer from NYC (an Anchorage-rite now living in the Big Apple), and he was explaining to me that the lifetime of a rock - from creation to dust - is so long that we humans simply cannot perceive it. It is only by our short-sightedness that we fail to notice that rocks are alive.
- practicing piano for years
- watching perennials spring back to life in the garden
- making your own mole sauce
- tending to a bonsai tree
- dancing in the basement
- aging a bottle of wine
- taking care of a friendship.
Oh boy, rocks are alive!
It made me wonder if I slowed down enough, what else I might see brimming with life.
So to all those Billies out there, carpe diem, but please save eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds for me.
Monday, March 10, 2008
God I Love The Public Library!
SABS (not to be confused with SADS) is in full force. The light situation is far improved over our January days, but this is the time of year when I start getting a bit restless that winter is still here in Anchorage (obviously). In sharp contrast, the rest of the country is just starting to warm up. Just take a look at the Lowes and Home Depot weekly circulars, and you'll note these franchises are clearly geared toward the pulse of the lower 48.
I mean, what would I do with a lawnmower in March?
To make matters worse, we're experiencing an early and false break-up. "Break-up" is what we residents refer to as the stop-and-go thawing process that occurs before Spring can finally stay. This week has seen temperatures in the high 30s and low 40s, sweltering by Anchorage wintry standards. The erratically warm weather has compromised many of our go-to pastimes for dealing with winter - skiing, ice skating, etc. I've sought out exercise and solace in the dark corners of my basement. (Yes, I'm still cutting up the concrete floor.) But earlier this week I had a dream that I was mowing my green and prolific lawn.
Clearly, I'm starting to lose it.
Yesterday I decided I was overdue for a trip to the public library. If slushy and icy conditions are keeping me from being a winter extrovert, then so be it, I will be a winter introvert and just bookworm my way to Spring! Armed with this goal, I spent almost two glorious hours at the library perusing through its wares.
My take-away included:
- 4 DVDs of diverse genres,
- 2 Brazilian music CDs,
- 1 soundtrack to American in Paris,
- 4 French cookbooks,
- 3 Japanese cookbooks,
- 1 collection of short stories, (Knifethrower) by Steven Millhauser
- 1 piece of non-fiction (American Shaolin: Flying Kicks, Buddhist Monks, and the Legend of Iron Crotch: An Odyssey in the New China).
(As for the last title), who could resist?
It is always interesting to me that my take-away from a library visit is usually a pretty decent barometer of who I am at that moment. The DVDs and short stories suggest that I am restless and craving outside imaginative stimuli. The music shows that I am always on the prowl for new "sounds." The cookbooks betray the fact that I am probably hungry since I am now deep into week three of Almost-Vegetarian-Diet-of-Mostly-Only-Brown-Pellets. The French cookbooks are based in the work of Julia Child and Jacques Pepin - my constants in this everchanging world - and make for pleasant research even though given my present diet, I will not be cooking much of it. The Japanese cookbooks are my attempt to craft a palatable way of living while essentially cutting out meat.
Did I mention that I'm probably somewhat hungry?
And the titles, Knifethrower and American Shaolin? Apparently, I feel like kicking some ass! (... with deadly precision I might add).
And so I am thankful to the public library for making this all possible. Every time I go, I seem to forget just how much I absolutely love the public library. Library visits are an old habit of mine - I love to gather more media than I could possibly digest and pay lots and lots of fines in late fees. But I do it all happily. There's nothing more extraordinary and overwhelming than the vast repository of knowledge housed within the walls of a library. I suppose my efforts to absorb information from my library finds is really some kind of effort to Fatten My Knowledge and to Become Library.
So go forth and Fatten Your Knowledge and Become Library! For anyone looking for something to fill up the winter nights, I highly recommend a visit. The parking lot is a little slushy, but the goods inside can't be beat.
I mean, what would I do with a lawnmower in March?
To make matters worse, we're experiencing an early and false break-up. "Break-up" is what we residents refer to as the stop-and-go thawing process that occurs before Spring can finally stay. This week has seen temperatures in the high 30s and low 40s, sweltering by Anchorage wintry standards. The erratically warm weather has compromised many of our go-to pastimes for dealing with winter - skiing, ice skating, etc. I've sought out exercise and solace in the dark corners of my basement. (Yes, I'm still cutting up the concrete floor.) But earlier this week I had a dream that I was mowing my green and prolific lawn.
Clearly, I'm starting to lose it.
Yesterday I decided I was overdue for a trip to the public library. If slushy and icy conditions are keeping me from being a winter extrovert, then so be it, I will be a winter introvert and just bookworm my way to Spring! Armed with this goal, I spent almost two glorious hours at the library perusing through its wares.
My take-away included:
- 4 DVDs of diverse genres,
- 2 Brazilian music CDs,
- 1 soundtrack to American in Paris,
- 4 French cookbooks,
- 3 Japanese cookbooks,
- 1 collection of short stories, (Knifethrower) by Steven Millhauser
- 1 piece of non-fiction (American Shaolin: Flying Kicks, Buddhist Monks, and the Legend of Iron Crotch: An Odyssey in the New China).
(As for the last title), who could resist?
It is always interesting to me that my take-away from a library visit is usually a pretty decent barometer of who I am at that moment. The DVDs and short stories suggest that I am restless and craving outside imaginative stimuli. The music shows that I am always on the prowl for new "sounds." The cookbooks betray the fact that I am probably hungry since I am now deep into week three of Almost-Vegetarian-Diet-of-Mostly-Only-Brown-Pellets. The French cookbooks are based in the work of Julia Child and Jacques Pepin - my constants in this everchanging world - and make for pleasant research even though given my present diet, I will not be cooking much of it. The Japanese cookbooks are my attempt to craft a palatable way of living while essentially cutting out meat.
Did I mention that I'm probably somewhat hungry?
And the titles, Knifethrower and American Shaolin? Apparently, I feel like kicking some ass! (... with deadly precision I might add).
And so I am thankful to the public library for making this all possible. Every time I go, I seem to forget just how much I absolutely love the public library. Library visits are an old habit of mine - I love to gather more media than I could possibly digest and pay lots and lots of fines in late fees. But I do it all happily. There's nothing more extraordinary and overwhelming than the vast repository of knowledge housed within the walls of a library. I suppose my efforts to absorb information from my library finds is really some kind of effort to Fatten My Knowledge and to Become Library.
So go forth and Fatten Your Knowledge and Become Library! For anyone looking for something to fill up the winter nights, I highly recommend a visit. The parking lot is a little slushy, but the goods inside can't be beat.
Friday, March 7, 2008
And Thar She Crumbles....
If you put crumbled bacon on my plate, am I not human?
Many have questioned the thinking behind my vegetarian "exceptions" which include juices, broths, small bits, seafood, and wild game. Obviously my recent efforts are not about saving animals or making a public policy statement. Rather, I am trying to reorder the chaos inherent in a previously wildly omnivorous lifestyle by simplifying my consumption. The Exceptions, hence, are necessary so that I am not a Complete Pain In The Ass to myself or to you - meaning, all of you in the world.
That is, you will not have to invite me over to your house and fret about what to feed me. I will either eat around what I can or bring my own food. You will not have to refrain from using flavorful ingredients just because I'm there because it's probably in the form of broth or small bits. You will not have to see me turn my nose up at the wild game you've slaughtered and offered. I will eat it, out of respect. You will not have to observe me withering away due to malnutrition because I can always resort to seafood protein.
You see, I aim to please. I am a very cooperative "vegetarian."
For the most part, I have been very religious about not exploiting my exceptions. They aren't about trying to sneak a little meat in; after all, this restricted diet is entirely self-imposed, of indefinite duration, and absolutely arbitrary (as all of my friends like to remind me). Today, however, presented a difficult challenge because I intend to go swimming later this evening.
Swimming, for those who do not know me well, is my absolute nemesis. It falls in a category of very eclectic activities which I refer to as Areas In Which I Am Wholly Incompetent. Swimming might even be at the top of the list. I will save the origin of my incompetence for another day, another blog entry, but for now, suffice it to say, I will desperately need my strength to survive tonight's swim. (During my last lap swim, I attracted the attention of a handsome lifeguard and NOT because of a sexy swimsuit.)
Fueled now primarily by Brown Pellets, my energy this week has been flailing. I don't want to provide the daily paper with what would be an unfortunate headline - "Local Attorney Drowns In High School Swimming Pool, Stomach Full Of Mysterious Brown Pellets." I decided I probably needed some kind of real meal today to charge my reserves. A lunch with a friend at Snow City (Cafe) seemed to be the perfect solution. But what to order?
I finally settled on the "Heart Attack On A Plate," described as follows on their online menu:
Heart Attack on a Plate/ or Veggie Bypass
Hash browns, bacon crumbles, onions, mushrooms, Roma tomatoes, cheddar cheese, sour cream (Veggie Bypass has no bacon) Half order 5.95 Full Order 8.50
With two eggs, add 2.00
In the past, the Heart Attack has been my go-to entree, simple, hard to mess up, and filling. Now ordering the "Veggie Bypass" would perhaps have been an option, but I must insist it was not that prominently displayed in the hardcopy menu.
But I have to admit that I saw it. The stupid Veggie Bypass. But I wanted a Heart Attack, not a Bypass! Apples and oranges. Or rather, Bacon or no Bacon.
The saving grace here was the phrase, "bacon crumbles," or more specifically, crumbles. If there is anything that screams SMALL BIT, it is a crumble of bacon.
So I am coming clean, confessing openly to the farthest reaches of the Internet:
I ate some small bits of bacon.
In my defense, I thought that my Heart Attack could retain the bacon flavor without forcing consumption of the bacon itself. After all, I had already so carefully avoided chunks of sausage in a recent breakfast of Biscuits and Gravy by navigating around the Small But Significant Bits. I felt confident I could do so again, but for one unexpected reality:
The bacon bits were stuck in my Heart Attack.
That's right, the bacon crumbles were secured to the dish by a layer of gooey, melted cheese, absolutely inextricable. There was nothing I could do. I could not have plucked those bacony small bits free any more than I could have saved all those woolly mammoths who got stuck in the La Brea Tar Pits thousands of years ago.
It was as it was meant to be. As Fate intended.
So I ate some bacon crumbles. I'm not proud of it, but I've made my peace. Someone else might decide to throw in the towel now, but I am going to persevere. (For one thing, I still have lots of Costco Brown Pellets left in my freezer.) In my further defense, I did order only a half order of the Heart Attack with eggs over easy. As the waiter repeated back to me:
"Half a Heart Attack Over Easy."
Now you tell me that doesn't sound perfectly harmless?
Many have questioned the thinking behind my vegetarian "exceptions" which include juices, broths, small bits, seafood, and wild game. Obviously my recent efforts are not about saving animals or making a public policy statement. Rather, I am trying to reorder the chaos inherent in a previously wildly omnivorous lifestyle by simplifying my consumption. The Exceptions, hence, are necessary so that I am not a Complete Pain In The Ass to myself or to you - meaning, all of you in the world.
That is, you will not have to invite me over to your house and fret about what to feed me. I will either eat around what I can or bring my own food. You will not have to refrain from using flavorful ingredients just because I'm there because it's probably in the form of broth or small bits. You will not have to see me turn my nose up at the wild game you've slaughtered and offered. I will eat it, out of respect. You will not have to observe me withering away due to malnutrition because I can always resort to seafood protein.
You see, I aim to please. I am a very cooperative "vegetarian."
For the most part, I have been very religious about not exploiting my exceptions. They aren't about trying to sneak a little meat in; after all, this restricted diet is entirely self-imposed, of indefinite duration, and absolutely arbitrary (as all of my friends like to remind me). Today, however, presented a difficult challenge because I intend to go swimming later this evening.
Swimming, for those who do not know me well, is my absolute nemesis. It falls in a category of very eclectic activities which I refer to as Areas In Which I Am Wholly Incompetent. Swimming might even be at the top of the list. I will save the origin of my incompetence for another day, another blog entry, but for now, suffice it to say, I will desperately need my strength to survive tonight's swim. (During my last lap swim, I attracted the attention of a handsome lifeguard and NOT because of a sexy swimsuit.)
Fueled now primarily by Brown Pellets, my energy this week has been flailing. I don't want to provide the daily paper with what would be an unfortunate headline - "Local Attorney Drowns In High School Swimming Pool, Stomach Full Of Mysterious Brown Pellets." I decided I probably needed some kind of real meal today to charge my reserves. A lunch with a friend at Snow City (Cafe) seemed to be the perfect solution. But what to order?
I finally settled on the "Heart Attack On A Plate," described as follows on their online menu:
Heart Attack on a Plate/ or Veggie Bypass
Hash browns, bacon crumbles, onions, mushrooms, Roma tomatoes, cheddar cheese, sour cream (Veggie Bypass has no bacon) Half order 5.95 Full Order 8.50
With two eggs, add 2.00
In the past, the Heart Attack has been my go-to entree, simple, hard to mess up, and filling. Now ordering the "Veggie Bypass" would perhaps have been an option, but I must insist it was not that prominently displayed in the hardcopy menu.
But I have to admit that I saw it. The stupid Veggie Bypass. But I wanted a Heart Attack, not a Bypass! Apples and oranges. Or rather, Bacon or no Bacon.
The saving grace here was the phrase, "bacon crumbles," or more specifically, crumbles. If there is anything that screams SMALL BIT, it is a crumble of bacon.
So I am coming clean, confessing openly to the farthest reaches of the Internet:
I ate some small bits of bacon.
In my defense, I thought that my Heart Attack could retain the bacon flavor without forcing consumption of the bacon itself. After all, I had already so carefully avoided chunks of sausage in a recent breakfast of Biscuits and Gravy by navigating around the Small But Significant Bits. I felt confident I could do so again, but for one unexpected reality:
The bacon bits were stuck in my Heart Attack.
That's right, the bacon crumbles were secured to the dish by a layer of gooey, melted cheese, absolutely inextricable. There was nothing I could do. I could not have plucked those bacony small bits free any more than I could have saved all those woolly mammoths who got stuck in the La Brea Tar Pits thousands of years ago.
It was as it was meant to be. As Fate intended.
So I ate some bacon crumbles. I'm not proud of it, but I've made my peace. Someone else might decide to throw in the towel now, but I am going to persevere. (For one thing, I still have lots of Costco Brown Pellets left in my freezer.) In my further defense, I did order only a half order of the Heart Attack with eggs over easy. As the waiter repeated back to me:
"Half a Heart Attack Over Easy."
Now you tell me that doesn't sound perfectly harmless?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Report From the Mothership
I spent my fourth year anniversary of living in this sometimes-god-forsaken state by getting onto a plane to LA. It is an inadvertent coincidence that almost precisely four years after I arrived in Anchorage on a midnight flight, I was embarking on yet another midnight flight going in the opposite direction to the lower 48. The plan was not to make an ironic comment upon my residency here; rather, it was time to see the people from which my life sprung forth - my family.
There was a bit of controversy last time when I referred to my stomping grounds as an "insane asylum," so I am hoping that my mother (who is turning out to be a dedicated blog reader) doesn't take offense that this report comes from none other than the Mothership.
Highlights included:
Another highlight was finding lupine in the backyard... lupine in February! The purple flowers made me all the more anxious for spring to arrive in Anchorage. Despite recent warm temperatures, we've still got another two months.
Fortitudine Vincimus! We must hold on strong until Mother Nature sees it fit to share with us her purple perennials.
There was a bit of controversy last time when I referred to my stomping grounds as an "insane asylum," so I am hoping that my mother (who is turning out to be a dedicated blog reader) doesn't take offense that this report comes from none other than the Mothership.
Highlights included:
- attending a line-dancing class for senior citizens with my mom. (I almost joined in, but before I knew it, the fast-moving latin line-dancing to Ricky Martin was already over.)
- pitting fish sandwich against fish sandwich. (Apparently many of the franchises are trying to get a proverbial piece of the Filet-O-Fish by offering new fish-related sandwiches. Although I abstained, Little Bro reported that the McD's Filet-O-Fish had a "sweetness" not found in its competitors. I would also note it remains the only fish sandwich to think itself proper to be paired with cheese.)
- eating pie every single day. (This was thanks to the Marie Callendar pie sale - one freshly made pie for $5.99. On mistaken belief that the sale was going to be over "any day now," my mother purchased eight pies in the span of two days. When I questioned why my mom bought a chocolate cream pie since she doesn't even like chocolate desserts, Little Bro speculated, "I think she just panicked.")
- coming out of the closet (as a vegetarian). (My father's disapproving response was, "All I've ever wanted is just for you to be normal." Consensus among the family was that this was yet another Stupid Thing I Do, but when it became apparent that my meat reduction met surplus for them, the drama of this dispute thankfully dissipated.)
Another highlight was finding lupine in the backyard... lupine in February! The purple flowers made me all the more anxious for spring to arrive in Anchorage. Despite recent warm temperatures, we've still got another two months.
Fortitudine Vincimus! We must hold on strong until Mother Nature sees it fit to share with us her purple perennials.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Four More Years
Today marks four years in Alaska.
I can't honestly say that I don't know where the four years have gone. Much has happened.
For example, this time has included a long list of firsts:
- camping (yes, I'd never ever been camping even once!)
- getting nearly run over by a train (nearly tragic)
- ice climbing
- kayaking
- fishing
- gutting and cleaning 70 fish in 3 hours (first and hopefully, last time)
- nearly drowning in a river (these things happen when one goes fishing)
- operating a lawnmower
- clamming
- driving my own car (long story)
- owning my own house
- owning and operating my own powerdrill
- having moose in my yard
- picking wild berries
- picking wild mushrooms
- surviving eating said wild berries and mushrooms
- biking 20 miles
- flying in a float plane
- seeing beluga whales
- eating and cooking wild alaskan salmon
- eating elk
- eating and cooking moose
- eating musk ox
- eating and cooking rabbit
- making bread from an Alaskan sourdough starter
- firing a shotgun (first and hopefully last)
- taiko drumming
- playing the banjo
- teaching cooking classes
- barbecuing on my own
- puffing cigars
- drinking whiskey
Like a long Oscar speech, this list can't possibly include everything because I don't remember everything. It's a hefty set of experiences, for which I am entirely grateful (with the exception of near-death experiences, although those were definitely moments for pause, too). But I am going to be honest.
Sometimes this state kicks my ass. For this reason, I've recently started referring to my favorite place as "this-sometimes-god-forsaken-state."
Well, it's true.
Life here is unparalleled, for better or for worse. The mountains in Alaska make me think I had never seen mountains before moving here. Every day, I stare out into the [currently] icy blue Cook Inlet, and it looks like the edge of both nowhere and forever, all at once. On clear days, I can see McKinley from my office. I have eaten the world's finest salmon and stood in awe in some of the most amazing national parks this country has to offer. I live in what I sometimes think is God's Best-Kept-Secret.
In short, this place has given me multiple Once-In-A-Lifetime-Experiences, one after the other.
At the same time, I am mindful of what I've lost - essentially a past life fostered in the lower 48. Childhood, college, law school - friends from yesteryear whose weddings have become too far to attend. Career choices. And family - the only daughter of a traditional Chinese family, the one who should still be living under her parents' roof, somehow found her way to the farthest reaches of the North - to the Last Frontier.
It is in this manner than sometimes Alaska kicks my ass. Nature here is as severe as it is breathtaking. I haven't, of course, even mentioned the long dark days of winter, the multiple-month stretch that is winter, or the nose-hair-freezing cold temperatures. The emotional cost is something deeper that strikes more at one's fundamental core. I suppose this depth also measures its worth.
For whatever reason, I have been unable to leave this place. I renew my residency like many people here - year by year, seeing how things go. Through these little increments, I've seen others build a lifetime, an eternity.
Perhaps another four more years will tell me if I will join them in eternity.
I can't honestly say that I don't know where the four years have gone. Much has happened.
For example, this time has included a long list of firsts:
- camping (yes, I'd never ever been camping even once!)
- getting nearly run over by a train (nearly tragic)
- ice climbing
- kayaking
- fishing
- gutting and cleaning 70 fish in 3 hours (first and hopefully, last time)
- nearly drowning in a river (these things happen when one goes fishing)
- operating a lawnmower
- clamming
- driving my own car (long story)
- owning my own house
- owning and operating my own powerdrill
- having moose in my yard
- picking wild berries
- picking wild mushrooms
- surviving eating said wild berries and mushrooms
- biking 20 miles
- flying in a float plane
- seeing beluga whales
- eating and cooking wild alaskan salmon
- eating elk
- eating and cooking moose
- eating musk ox
- eating and cooking rabbit
- making bread from an Alaskan sourdough starter
- firing a shotgun (first and hopefully last)
- taiko drumming
- playing the banjo
- teaching cooking classes
- barbecuing on my own
- puffing cigars
- drinking whiskey
Like a long Oscar speech, this list can't possibly include everything because I don't remember everything. It's a hefty set of experiences, for which I am entirely grateful (with the exception of near-death experiences, although those were definitely moments for pause, too). But I am going to be honest.
Sometimes this state kicks my ass. For this reason, I've recently started referring to my favorite place as "this-sometimes-god-forsaken-state."
Well, it's true.
Life here is unparalleled, for better or for worse. The mountains in Alaska make me think I had never seen mountains before moving here. Every day, I stare out into the [currently] icy blue Cook Inlet, and it looks like the edge of both nowhere and forever, all at once. On clear days, I can see McKinley from my office. I have eaten the world's finest salmon and stood in awe in some of the most amazing national parks this country has to offer. I live in what I sometimes think is God's Best-Kept-Secret.
In short, this place has given me multiple Once-In-A-Lifetime-Experiences, one after the other.
At the same time, I am mindful of what I've lost - essentially a past life fostered in the lower 48. Childhood, college, law school - friends from yesteryear whose weddings have become too far to attend. Career choices. And family - the only daughter of a traditional Chinese family, the one who should still be living under her parents' roof, somehow found her way to the farthest reaches of the North - to the Last Frontier.
It is in this manner than sometimes Alaska kicks my ass. Nature here is as severe as it is breathtaking. I haven't, of course, even mentioned the long dark days of winter, the multiple-month stretch that is winter, or the nose-hair-freezing cold temperatures. The emotional cost is something deeper that strikes more at one's fundamental core. I suppose this depth also measures its worth.
For whatever reason, I have been unable to leave this place. I renew my residency like many people here - year by year, seeing how things go. Through these little increments, I've seen others build a lifetime, an eternity.
Perhaps another four more years will tell me if I will join them in eternity.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Through the Eyes of Love
Doesn't everybody want a come-hither head shot of a favorite canine?
Canine Portraiture by the Madwoman! Again, email me for a quote.
But seriously, this month's portrait is of Loki, my secretary's beloved Samoyed who recently went blind in both eyes. The furry buddy is adjusting, as is his family. I am reminded of the lesson of the movie Ice Castles: love doesn't need sight, just a pair of figure skates. At the risk of severe cheese and copyright infringement:
Please don't let this feeling end
It's ev'rything I am
Ev'rything I want to be
I can see what's mine now
Finding out what's true
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
And now I can take the time
I can see my life
As it comes up shining now
Reaching out to touch you
I can feel so much
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
And now I do believe
That even in the storm we'll find some light
Knowing you're beside me I'm allright
Please don't let this feeling end
It might not come again
And I want to remember
How it feels to know you
How I feel so much
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
Please don't let this feelings end
It's ev'rything I am
Ev'rything I want to be
I can see what's mine now
Finding out what's true
Since I found you
Looking through the eyes of love
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Mrs. Chao Captured!
Well, at least for the moment. Just before the holidays, I was at the local hockey rink bar engaged in a conversation when it was revealed that my Beloved Silver Meat Platter had been hanging out with one of the guys after we used it as a base for his birthday pirate cake. Of course, the pirate cake.
Mrs. Chao, however, was gracious enough to pose for the camera.
And yes, she is a little shy.
Mrs. Chao, however, was gracious enough to pose for the camera.
And yes, she is a little shy.
Song of the Madwoman
"I.C. Lee. Madwoman. A woman barely alive."
"Gentlemen, we can rebuild her. We have that technology. We have the capability to make the world's first bionic Madwoman. I.C. Lee will be that Madwoman. Better than she was before. Better... stronger.. faster... MADDER."
Civilians, Perpetuators of Evil, Excessively Tall Bullies, beware....
"Gentlemen, we can rebuild her. We have that technology. We have the capability to make the world's first bionic Madwoman. I.C. Lee will be that Madwoman. Better than she was before. Better... stronger.. faster... MADDER."
Civilians, Perpetuators of Evil, Excessively Tall Bullies, beware....
Monday, February 25, 2008
Still Life In Brown Pellets
Two months and not a peep from the blog. The holidays are a chaotic time and challenging is the push to get through SABS (Silent Angry Bear Syndrome) brought on by long stretches of darkness and nose-hair-freezing temps in Alaska. But it's now February, safely on the Other Side of Winter Solstice -- that time of the year when I will insist, with finger wagging in the air,
Summer is right around the corner!
It's not altogether untrue. A recent spell of warming temperatures has brought on a frustrating period of false break-up, but with these warm sunny days, it is hard not to think of spring, the Harbinger of Summer.
The most recent personal development amidst all of this chaos is that it has happened again.
I've found myself in yet another bout of Vegetarianism.
The old rules apply (seafood ok, broth and juices ok, little bits ok, wild game ok), and although others might insist that this is Unprincipled Vegetarianism, frankly, it feels principled this time around. The news of my renewed vegetarianism struck fear in the eyes of friends who stood by me the first time and watch me mutate rather quickly into a cranky, raving mad bitch.
I'm pleased to report that it is an easier go this time. I suppose practice makes perfect.
The realization that I was going vegetarian again came unexpectedly and hence, I was forced to halt a lot of meat-related projects midstream. One was the excavation of my meat-filled freezer which now remains just as meat-filled as it was a week ago. I had also purchased a Costco rotisserie chicken just days before vegetarianism began. Fortunately, I was able to enlist the services of BB, who doubles as our house's 72-Hour-Eater. (I know of no one who would have responded to my email regarding partially eaten chicken with more zeal and excitement. Thank you, BB.)
So if I haven't been eating 72-hour chicken, you might ask, just what have I been eating?
Fake veggie sausage patties from Costco.
It all happened harmlessly enough. I was taking a weekend stroll through Costco, sampling a veggie sausage patty, and the next thing I know, I have become addicted to these little brown discs made of only-God-knows-what. In consuming these discs, I also made another unexpected discovery - a sure-fire diet plan.
In my 32 years, I've tried various dieting ideas. One was the Every-Other-Day Diet during which I dieted every other day. It never really yielded any results. Another was the Poor Law Student Diet during which I decided I simply couldn't afford that much food on my hourly wages as a summer research assistant. (This is the summer I lost my ability to digest lactose because milk was too expensive.) I've also always wanted to try the Eat-Your-Favorite-Food-Until-Oblivion Diet. My theory is that if you just let go and eat to your heart's desire, your heart will be sated (really disgusted) thereafter. For example, in the last three years, I've seen a drop-off in my own Doritos consumption that I think stems from previous over-consumption. My suspicion is that this would work well for donuts, too.
But the most recent dieting lesson has been in the form of undesirable food. Here's a quick way to eat less: Make Your Food Taste Bad. You can start by buying a fake sausage patty, bound to be limited in pleasure anyway. Then you can give it the least generous kind of cooking treatment by nuking the patty. Go one step further by over-nuking it. What you are left with is a space-age rubbery disc that will take you at least 20 minutes to consume.
As I chewed thoughtfully on my new toy, I wondered if this was why dogs enjoy rawhide and pig ears.
My motivation in becoming a vegetarian again was not to understand the world of dog food, however. It was to reorder my universe - apply a series of finely tuned but seemingly arbitrary rules to entropy so as to make some sense of it. Unlike my most recent attempts at vegetarianism, which brought anger and resentment but no bodhisattva-like insights, I can tell already this round is going to be different.
It is interesting exercise to effectively eliminate desire in one's life, to snip it out of the daily experience like a coupon in the Sunday paper. I see evidence of past obsessions in my refrigerator, and it seems like an eternity ago. I mean, the other day I wasn't even able to finish a whole slice of Kraft cheese.
Could this be nirvana?
Unlikely, but nevertheless, it is a new experience for me to leave a slice of cheese on the counter uneaten. The other day, I had biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and dutifully left the "bigger than permissible small bits" of sausage on my plate. I really had no desire to cheat, to sweep in the larger, prohibited chunks onto my fork.
In each of my recent confrontations with meat, as I watched BB devour my partially eaten Costco chicken, or as I quietly slurped wontonless wonton soup while Jaja ate her normal version, I felt something. It was not hunger, pang, or envy.
It was peace.
Somehow, in my plan to be vegetarian for two weeks, I've discovered a still life in brown pellets. My life now moves in controlled moments - punctuated by the ritual of eating one brown pellet. Nothing is free and chaotic. It's like I'm eating space food, carefully rationed out for my orbit around Earth. One pellet per meal.
I am becoming a rabbit. Almost like a bodhisattva.
Summer is right around the corner!
It's not altogether untrue. A recent spell of warming temperatures has brought on a frustrating period of false break-up, but with these warm sunny days, it is hard not to think of spring, the Harbinger of Summer.
The most recent personal development amidst all of this chaos is that it has happened again.
I've found myself in yet another bout of Vegetarianism.
The old rules apply (seafood ok, broth and juices ok, little bits ok, wild game ok), and although others might insist that this is Unprincipled Vegetarianism, frankly, it feels principled this time around. The news of my renewed vegetarianism struck fear in the eyes of friends who stood by me the first time and watch me mutate rather quickly into a cranky, raving mad bitch.
I'm pleased to report that it is an easier go this time. I suppose practice makes perfect.
The realization that I was going vegetarian again came unexpectedly and hence, I was forced to halt a lot of meat-related projects midstream. One was the excavation of my meat-filled freezer which now remains just as meat-filled as it was a week ago. I had also purchased a Costco rotisserie chicken just days before vegetarianism began. Fortunately, I was able to enlist the services of BB, who doubles as our house's 72-Hour-Eater. (I know of no one who would have responded to my email regarding partially eaten chicken with more zeal and excitement. Thank you, BB.)
So if I haven't been eating 72-hour chicken, you might ask, just what have I been eating?
Fake veggie sausage patties from Costco.
It all happened harmlessly enough. I was taking a weekend stroll through Costco, sampling a veggie sausage patty, and the next thing I know, I have become addicted to these little brown discs made of only-God-knows-what. In consuming these discs, I also made another unexpected discovery - a sure-fire diet plan.
In my 32 years, I've tried various dieting ideas. One was the Every-Other-Day Diet during which I dieted every other day. It never really yielded any results. Another was the Poor Law Student Diet during which I decided I simply couldn't afford that much food on my hourly wages as a summer research assistant. (This is the summer I lost my ability to digest lactose because milk was too expensive.) I've also always wanted to try the Eat-Your-Favorite-Food-Until-Oblivion Diet. My theory is that if you just let go and eat to your heart's desire, your heart will be sated (really disgusted) thereafter. For example, in the last three years, I've seen a drop-off in my own Doritos consumption that I think stems from previous over-consumption. My suspicion is that this would work well for donuts, too.
But the most recent dieting lesson has been in the form of undesirable food. Here's a quick way to eat less: Make Your Food Taste Bad. You can start by buying a fake sausage patty, bound to be limited in pleasure anyway. Then you can give it the least generous kind of cooking treatment by nuking the patty. Go one step further by over-nuking it. What you are left with is a space-age rubbery disc that will take you at least 20 minutes to consume.
As I chewed thoughtfully on my new toy, I wondered if this was why dogs enjoy rawhide and pig ears.
My motivation in becoming a vegetarian again was not to understand the world of dog food, however. It was to reorder my universe - apply a series of finely tuned but seemingly arbitrary rules to entropy so as to make some sense of it. Unlike my most recent attempts at vegetarianism, which brought anger and resentment but no bodhisattva-like insights, I can tell already this round is going to be different.
It is interesting exercise to effectively eliminate desire in one's life, to snip it out of the daily experience like a coupon in the Sunday paper. I see evidence of past obsessions in my refrigerator, and it seems like an eternity ago. I mean, the other day I wasn't even able to finish a whole slice of Kraft cheese.
Could this be nirvana?
Unlikely, but nevertheless, it is a new experience for me to leave a slice of cheese on the counter uneaten. The other day, I had biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and dutifully left the "bigger than permissible small bits" of sausage on my plate. I really had no desire to cheat, to sweep in the larger, prohibited chunks onto my fork.
In each of my recent confrontations with meat, as I watched BB devour my partially eaten Costco chicken, or as I quietly slurped wontonless wonton soup while Jaja ate her normal version, I felt something. It was not hunger, pang, or envy.
It was peace.
Somehow, in my plan to be vegetarian for two weeks, I've discovered a still life in brown pellets. My life now moves in controlled moments - punctuated by the ritual of eating one brown pellet. Nothing is free and chaotic. It's like I'm eating space food, carefully rationed out for my orbit around Earth. One pellet per meal.
I am becoming a rabbit. Almost like a bodhisattva.
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