Dream Home

Yes, I do dearly love my Peter Pan cocoon loft bed treehouse fortress, but I'll use it as scrap wood for a raft to float out to this little roost. Then I'll reeeally be living like one of the Boys.

[sigh] a gal can only dream...

Dinner?

My days off are usually pretty mundane; hardly ever filled with more than a trip to the cafe to "work" on shtuff, cat naps, visiting The Strand, catch up on my No Res, or talking to my baby sister about her scrap booking hobby.
This particular Monday was pretty full with job searches, work for Sicily, nearly three months worth of laundry, and the best two and a half hours ever - spent with Capital Fellow chatting in a Southern accent (it all started with this). 
[bats ahye layeshes fruhm beehahnd laysee fayen]
Oh. Question from the back? How does one avoid laundry for three glorious months, you ask? Simple! American Apparel and Victoria's Secret 4 for $20 deals. 
[ZZZZING] WINNERRRR!!!


By the time I look up again, it's nearly midnight. Simply no time for grocery shopping (maybe in the morrow), I tried to throw something edible together in a ravenous fury.
Dececco Kamut linguini, herbed butter and some extra virgin olive oil, verdent orbs o' happiness (peas) and corn (frozen), a bit o' organic chicken bouillon and some of the pasta water to make something close to a sauce.
Mmm, desperation.

Dear (W)TF...

I work in the midst of a clusterfuck.

Sorry, no other word for it.

A Rolls Royce with no hubcaps.

It has become habit for this place to operate entirely devoid of management. And now today, no security guards - you know, for pizazz.

So yesterday, sure - go to the doctor's...in Westchester. In the middle of the day.

Earlier in the week too; just uh...wanna mini vacay? Hm? No problem. You're the boss, can't say no. Just...I dunno, bring me back some chocolate. 

Suuure is becoming the norm 'round these pristine parts - dozens of millions of dollars surrounding me; I literally sit on top of about 80G's, yo.

And during a busy day on TOP of an employee sale, with these little weasels sniffing around, taking and reselling what they can, not to mention plenty of unwatched tourists. 

Yea, alright, I  "won't let the place burn down" while you're gone. This big grey El Dorado will just look like a freshly pilfered Who house on Christmas morning, Grinches of all walks clutching huge rhino-hued suede sacks, laughing maniacally in their dank caves.


And the stealidge is really only one thing. Naps? Yes. Scatter like roaches if the front door even hints at opening? Always. Justifying those 3 dress shirts hidden in the luggage piece you're buying at 90% off because of your pay cut? Whiny spoiled brat. Leaving early? I figured at least that.

If someone could get me a large popcorn and a soda, that'd be grreeeat. [sips from coffee mug]

On Lying in Bed

It's a holiday today (Happy MLK Jr. Day!); however, if I did not already possess my (mostly) fixed schedule of a Sunday/ Monday "weekend", I would be at the dreaded desk n' chair:

(really, TF. There is no way you put any consideration into the function or comfort when choosing your concierge's desk hmm?...) 

Most people today will take the liberty of sleeping in, just as I did. In lying here, I reflect on an essay of G.K. Chesterton's. Pay no real mind to highlighted bits; they're only my favorite parts. Enjoy it as much I do, or Dieu tu blesse.


On Lying in Bed

Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a coloured pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling. This, however, is not generally a part of the domestic apparatus on the premises. I think myself that the thing might be managed with several pails of Aspinall and a broom. Only if one worked in a really sweeping and masterly way, and laid on the colour in great washes, it might drip down again on one’s face in floods of rich and mingled colour like some strange fairy rain; and that would have its disadvantages. I am afraid it would be necessary to stick to black and white in this form of artistic composition. To that purpose, indeed, the white ceiling would be of the greatest possible use; in fact, it is the only use I think of a white ceiling being put to.

But for the beautiful experiment of lying in bed I might never have discovered it. For years I have been looking for some blank spaces in a modern house to draw on. Paper is much too small for any really allegorical design; as Cyrano de Bergerac says, “Il me faut des géants” [“I need giants”]. But when I tried to find these fine clear spaces in the modern rooms such as we all live in I was continually disappointed. I found an endless pattern and complication of small objects hung like a curtain of fine links between me and my desire. I examined the walls; I found them to my surprise to be already covered with wallpaper, and I found the wallpaper to be already covered with uninteresting images, all bearing a ridiculous resemblance to each other. I could not understand why one arbitrary symbol (a symbol apparently entirely devoid of any religious or philosophical significance) should thus be sprinkled all over my nice walls like a sort of small-pox. The Bible must be referring to wallpapers, I think, when it says, “Use not vain repetitions, as the Gentiles do.” I found the Turkey carpet a mass of unmeaning colours, rather like the Turkish Empire, or like the sweetmeat called Turkish Delight. I do not exactly know what Turkish Delight really is; but I suppose it is Macedonian Massacres. Everywhere that I went forlornly, with my pencil or my paint brush, I found that others had unaccountably been before me, spoiling the walls, the curtains, and the furniture with their childish and barbaric designs.

. . . . .

Nowhere did I find a really clear space for sketching until this occasion when I prolonged beyond the proper limit the process of lying on my back in bed. Then the light of that white heaven broke upon my vision, that breadth of mere white which is indeed almost the definition of Paradise, since it means purity and also means freedom. But alas! like all heavens, now that it is seen it is found to be unattainable; it looks more austere and more distant than the blue sky outside the window. For my proposal to paint on it with the bristly end of a broom has been discouraged—never mind by whom; by a person debarred from all political rights—and even my minor proposal to put the other end of the broom into the kitchen fire and turn it to charcoal has not been conceded. Yet I am certain that it was from persons in my position that all the original inspiration came for covering the ceilings of palaces and cathedrals with a riot of fallen angels or victorious gods. I am sure that it was only because Michael Angelo was engaged in the ancient and honourable occupation of lying in bed that he ever realized how the roof of the Sistine Chapel might be made into an awful imitation of a divine drama that could only be acted in the heavens.

The tone now commonly taken toward the practice of lying in bed is hypocritical and unhealthy. Of all the marks of modernity that seem to mean a kind of decadence, there is none more menacing and dangerous than the exultation of very small and secondary matters of conduct at the expense of very great and primary ones, at the expense of eternal ties and tragic human morality. If there is one thing worse than the modern weakening of major morals, it is the modern strengthening of minor morals. Thus it is considered more withering to accuse a man of bad taste than of bad ethics. Cleanliness is not next to godliness nowadays, for cleanliness is made essential and godliness is regarded as an offence. A playwright can attack the institution of marriage so long as he does not misrepresent the manners of society, and I have met Ibsenite pessimists who thought it wrong to take beer but right to take prussic acid. Especially this is so in matters of hygiene; notably such matters as lying in bed. Instead of being regarded, as it ought to be, as a matter of personal convenience and adjustment, it has come to be regarded by many as if it were a part of essential morals to get up early in the morning. It is upon the whole part of practical wisdom; but there is nothing good about it or bad about its opposite.

. . . . .

Misers get up early in the morning; and burglars, I am informed, get up the night before. It is the great peril of our society that all its mechanisms may grow more fixed while its spirit grows more fickle. A man’s minor actions and arrangements ought to be free, flexible, creative; the things that should be unchangeable are his principles, his ideals. But with us the reverse is true; our views change constantly; but our lunch does not change. Now, I should like men to have strong and rooted conceptions, but as for their lunch, let them have it sometimes in the garden, sometimes in bed, sometimes on the roof, sometimes in the top of a tree. Let them argue from the same first principles, but let them do it in a bed, or a boat, or a balloon. This alarming growth of good habits really means a too great emphasis on those virtues which mere custom can ensure, it means too little emphasis on those virtues which custom can never quite ensure, sudden and splendid virtues of inspired pity or of inspired candour. If ever that abrupt appeal is made to us we may fail. A man can get used to getting up at five o’clock in the morning. A man cannot very well get used to being burnt for his opinions; the first experiment is commonly fatal. Let us pay a little more attention to these possibilities of the heroic and unexpected. I dare say that when I get out of this bed I shall do some deed of an almost terrible virtue.

For those who study the great art of lying in bed there is one emphatic caution to be added. Even for those who can do their work in bed (like journalists), still more for those whose work cannot be done in bed (as, for example, the professional harpooners of whales), it is obvious that the indulgence must be very occasional. But that is not the caution I mean. The caution is this: if you do lie in bed, be sure you do it without any reason or justification at all. I do not speak, of course, of the seriously sick. But if a healthy man lies in bed, let him do it without a rag of excuse; then he will get up a healthy man. If he does it for some secondary hygienic reason, if he has some scientific explanation, he may get up a hypochondriac.

(1909)

Progress Report

So my day of quoting Ace Ventura coasted by swimmingly. After the usual 4PM blowup of clients and phones, sadly, I was unable to keep my previous momentum and was then restricted to civilized UES speak. 
Somuchfun.


I am an enthused advocate of keeping the day interesting, however finite the diversion, just to keep those creative juices a-flowin'. Whether it be blogging, working on my other work, thinking of all the ways to utilize the 1/2LB bag of bay leaves in my fridge, or an attempt at a day without talking to myself out loud (much). 


Recently, I was wrestling hard with the resentful feelings towards my job. But, you know, I cannot blame anyone but myself for wasting so much time not working towards what I truly wanted; every night swallowed up on the phone like an idiot for nearly six months. Since November though, I've been letting go of things, one by one and getting back into the things I love. 
A friend showed me this article, which helped nudge me a bit more too.


And then this song was a bit of an anthem between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but now, I am feeling like myself again and genuinely happier than I've been in a while.


So. More ridiculous projects and recipes containing bay leaves?
Yes.

"Bumblebee Tuna"

As I have stated in my last post, I committed to a day of answering questions with quotes by Ace Ventura. It's rather easy, given you don't let those raised eyebrows and WTF comments deter your mission.
The guidelines I set for myself were generous. The answer does not necessarily have to be true, it just has to fit...vaguely. 
For instance, when asked what I'm eating for lunch, it's an easy answer of "Bumblebee tuna." Am I really eating Bumblebee tuna for lunch? No...my lunch all to often consists of something much more chocolately. 
Since Tuesday was a day of playing catch-up, I frankly...well...forgot. Yesterday, I was working from home, so it wouldn't have been much fun; just me talking outloud, succumbed to quoting the movie to an empty room (does the scuttling mouse in my wall count?) and cracking myself up...which, now that I think of it, sounds like an amusing day.


Today is the day and so far, so good; it eases the choking mundaneness of this January day inching by at its glacial pace.
I'll just have to make sure I don't get too carried away, to not follow up lending my phone charger to a client with "Take THAT, you winged spawn of saTAN!!" or not bid everyone leaving with a warm "take care now, bye bye then" or accept every given task with an "Aaaalrighty then."
When being handed a pen after searching for mine (taken, yet again, by creatures of the night), a simple "Spank you Helpy Helperton" worked just fine and didn't issue too much of an awkward look.


Today is shockingly toasty inside my putty grey environment, so I thought a comment on the climate shift befitting. 
"Kinda hot in these rhinos..." - I thought it worked pretty well; it covered both bases of temperature and the color of our interior (being putty/rhino grey)...no?...yea, it flew like a lead balloon. But that's OK. I knew it worked.
When graced with a generous compliment from my manager this morning of "...you do a fantastic job and are extremely talented...", my reply of "but I have yet to attain omnipresent supergalactic oneness!" only produced a skittish laugh and darting eyes from the bestower.


A colleague was trying to think of the perfect Valentine's Day present to top off the romantic weekend he was planning. Easy! 
"Guano bowls! Collect the whole set."

I'm running low here and it's already nearly 3:00. I am, however, presently surprised no one has caught on just yet to what it is I'm doing. They know I'm odd anyway, so I guess it isn't too far from the norm. 


Progress report later.

A Good Day

This post is inspired by a splendid conversation I recently had with a capital fellow. 
Sick and drifting from couch to bed, bed to couch, consuming exclusively a diet of tea, truffles and the occasional Airborn tablet, I didn't have the energy to do much more than nap and watch movies for hours on end.
Meh, and so it was, my plans for the day.
From Ace Ventura to Liar Liar to Hook and finally to Apocalypse Now - I agreed with this CF of a dude in not being able to compile a more brilliant lineup. 
It was noted how Marlon Brando, as a bald Kurtz, reminds me in a way of my dad.
I was the receiver of a sassy friend and the introducer of a genius new album collection.


During this marvelous exchange, I was obliged to endure my "percussionist" lower neighbor's little drum sesh, complete with cow bell. I don't know...maybe, I'm just not hearing what he's hearing, because from the third floor, it is truly deplorable; a smattering of cow bell between these long off-rhythm solos from which only the top floor is safe. I'm a little jealous. 
Good thing Drummer Boy is a good guy - he usually is gracious enough to end the lesson(?) before midnight. Otherwise, I'd be forced to debate on either agreeing to the suggestion of dropping cinder blocks at random, or perhaps rearranging  my living room that instant.


Anyway, tomorrow I have decided for every inquiry I receive, I shall reply exclusively with lines from Ace Ventura. This will be quite the challenge since answering phones is a major part of my day.
BUT, I've already set my mind to it. 
What's the worst that could happen?


I'm in the mood for scallops.

Another Year Down...

This year crashed to its end after being dragged through house parties, up and down Brooklyn's streets, in and out of Bellhouses.
I rung in the year, not so proudly (nor fully conscious), in a daze and doubled over a bathroom tub; resulting in an angel dressing me in jammies over my cocktail attire, and guiding me as I staggered like a half-blind, hiccuping newborn fawn up to my Peter Pan bed with a bucket.
Thank you, Kraken (black spiced) and Thank God for angels!!
The day following, I arose surprisingly sans headache - so I catapulted out of my cocoon on stilts and schlepped to watch the polar bears plunge into Coney Island beach.
No, not "rahr rahr!" - more like...like...this.
The gathering started hours before the actual plunge; at every turn, flabby septuagenarians or massive amounts of doughy cellulite-laden thighs, speedos worn by those with NO business in doing so, no view was safe. Lime green mankinis. [dry heave]


So we headed to watch The Plunge from the rocks.

This is concrete evidence at my apparently arrant absence of any center-of-gravity ability at all.
Yes, cowardly crawling across wave-beaten and barnacle bedazzled stone - all for the best view, which was pretty spectac...

FRIGID waters to say the least...absolutely, ludicrously, harrowing temps, that wet stuff thar...yip [haaaulk spitooey] won't be me in them wint'ry waters any tahm soon, nope. No sir-y BOB.

The best part of the whole plunge was this painfully cute golden retriever galloping and frolicking amongst all the white and wan wind-chapped specimens like it was nothing. Just trotting about proudly (chest out) catching sticks, tennis balls, and racing humans - oblivious to his hell-bent mission to rub their nose in his victory.

You can spot him just left and center in the pic above.

Here's a better shot of him - far left. Daaaaawww, so cute, gggaaaawww. Uh gulluh gulluh gulluh, uh who's dah keeewty! Yea you! Uh yes YOU are! Yes, YOU are! Uh good - UH good - UH good puh-wuh-wuh-wuppy!


[shakes out of stooper]


I break for dogs.


HIGHLIGHT: running into Paul Giammati!!!!! Awesome. Already, my year has been made.
Lady in the Water was a splendid film. I don't care what they say.


And to cap off the day: we all rolled into a friend's house for brunch...although it soon coasted into brinner. 
Couldn't think of a greater way to start this year. Rabbit sausage, bagels, mimosas.