Color Me Gone

Because I failed to organize the annual Mudville Fourth of July BBQ, I will instead be filling out an application for this promising fellowship. I will be focusing on my favorite aspect of grilling: the making of the sauce. I was going to put in a picture here of The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers, but upon closer internet inspection decided that would be rather lewd. You will instead just have to imagine it, as I am sure, many of you can.

The Weber Outdoor Cooking Fellowship for Culinary Writing (Outdoor Cooking)

The Prize:

A one-month, all-expense paid fellowship at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow, Eureka Springs, Arkansas, is awarded annually to a culinary writer of demonstrated ability whose work pertains to the history and practice of outdoor cooking, including grilling and barbecue. Cookbooks, scholarly or historical works, and culinary memoir are all eligible. The outdoor cooking investigated may be of any nationality, any course or courses in the meal, any method, and may date from any period in history. Writing which explores marinades, sauces, rubs, brines, and other pre- or post-outdoor grilling enhancements is also eligible.

the cubanito, emphasis on the ito

I am going to admit something here that may shock those of you who know me. I have seen Runaway Bride. Furthermore, there is a certain scene in the movie which I find myself revisiting at various points in my life. What I am speaking of, is the moment Maggie Carpenter (as played by Julia Roberts) sits down to a table of egg plates, each prepared in its own unique way, and attempts to figure out how best she actually prefers her eggs. Much like Maggie, I too, find myself not exactly knowing how I feel about certain situations and not exactly knowing what I would prefer.

Take the cubanito for example. To add to the recent acquisitions in the trying-on-new-things department, I went salsa dancing on Sunday. It is something I have done before, but not something I do regularly and for all the predictable reasons, like, there are only so many indignities I am prepared to suffer in one evening, and not only can I NOT salsa dance, but I really cannot salsa dance in HEELS.

But a bit of tequila and an encouraging friend and hell anything's possible. After a fair amount of time of being tossed around and thrust into the oncoming lanes of another couples' dance space, I decided to take a breather and, well, hide out for a half hour or two. It was precisely at this juncture, the cubanito introduced himself and impressed me greatly by simply not asking me to dance. I quickly assigned him the role of my hero for the evening.

Assuming he was gay and thus, not my type, I immediately complimented him on his wardrobe. He was dressed to the nines, as they say. He was also a talker, particularly--and no surprise here--when it came to fashion. Now, I am the opposite of the talker, more of an enabler actually: I am quite good at drawing people out and discovering all kinds of minutiae about them in a surprisingly short breadth of time. As my designated hero for the evening, he demanded my full attention, which meant bringing out the entire arsenal of questions.

There were some charming details. He had been in a breakdancing crew in the 80's which went by the sparkling name of The Midnight Dancers, precisely because they only challenged the other crews at midnight. (This, of course, greatly wowed the 12-yr old in me who watched Wild Style, oh, a few dozen times.) He believed a man should only wear a suit when going out on Saturdays (I can't imagine what a woman should have to wear). And he was a Wedding Planner who wanted kids and was the only child in a family of ten who did not, as of yet, have any--much to his father's chagrin. And oh yeah, he taught me more about salsa dancing in 5 minutes than 34 years of faking it and 3 extensive Latin American vacations. Why he was spending time with me in my sloppy t-shirt, jeans and sandals was anybody's guess. Moreover, he didn't seem to mind terribly that I had scuffed up his Champagne-colored loafers by repeatedly stomping on his feet. In fact, he laughed even harder.

When he made his intentions clear by certain cephalopod-like maneuverings, I remained open-minded. But did I like him? Honestly, I had no idea, and well, I had invested a certain amount of time in getting to know him. So I gave him my number, thinking perhaps a date would settle the matter. But when he called fifteen minutes after I had left the club and again early this morning, my once open heart began to shutter. Honestly, it's nice to be on the other side of this particular fence, but now I am faced with the onerous task of dumping someone with whom I have yet to even go on a date.

It's complicated folks. Nor do I feel I have the emotional energy to wage battle with such darning matters. Not with the new roommate--we are, afterall, in the honeymoon phase--the new yoga teacher--we are courting--and my new friend--we are undergoing a temporary separation so that she can travel to France with her family. Presently, I think I have enough relationships with which to contend.

And getting back to those eggs: poached please, with a warm, crusty baguette and a side of blackberry jam.

The haiku box

There is something to be said for having a boyfriend. It's quite nice to be brought coffee in bed on a regular basis, made perfectly my liking. It is equally pleasant to be told upon waking You look cute when you are so puffy. Artfully created presents given upon no occasion whatsoever? What's not to like there, right?

It's been some 4 months now that I have been single. One third of that time was spent as an emotional wreck, another third spent fluctuating between anxiety and numbness, and the last third, I s'pose, is what concerns us here.

Having once been charged as a serial monogamist, I have to say, it's not so bad being alone (or single as they who make the forms would have us call it). I am getting much more sleep. I don't have to continually explain myself (except to the cop who pulled me over that one time I swear I was driving without a seatbelt). Instead of one person fulfilling all my needs there are now many and they do a much better job of it: the Bachelorette, who simply put gets it and always has an equally humiliating experience to proffer. (Query: What the hell am I going to do when she goes to France next month?) There is the perfect roommate, who does the job by just being around in a soothing and quiet kind of way. And then there is, of course, my new yoga teacher, Katchie, who speaks to me (OK and everyone else in the class) in an authoritative German-Swiss accent, plays the Harmonium at the beginning and end of every class, and does a mean moola-bandha. What more really does a girl need?

The more, well, we are working on it. And when I say working on it, I mean, with a non-threatening, non-goal oriented approach. That is to say, we are swearing off of men entirely.

But we have all the best intentions of getting back to them at an (as yet undisclosed) date. Ahem, no pun intended.

the perfect roommate

The perfect roommate hails from the Midwest--Cedar Falls, to be precise. Being from the Midwest, he has impeccable manners and a mild yet friendly disposition. He is young, of the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed variety, but since a recent transplant, does not carry a lot of baggage with him. He does, however, bring a massage chair as he is certified and as his forbearers were certified before him. He loves to shop for groceries and doesn't mind sharing as he prefers to buy his muesli in bulk.

This morning the perfect roommate makes the perfect pancakes and offers them for sharing. This is a particularly sweet gesture as we had been kept awake all night by a karoake machine and some very difficult R & B songs that apparently needed to be mastered by dawn. The perfect roommate--on only his second night in the room--does not seem to mind and, in fact, claims he is a deep sleeper particularly after a glass of red wine.

The perfect roommate brings home perfect loaves of bread from the fancy deli in which he works. The perfect roommate does not seem to mind that I moved my entire office into the dining room or that I hold business-like meetings there. The perfect roommate does not watch TV, but is curious about my Cassavetes box set and is polishing off the DVDs in his room so as not to bother me.

The perfect roommate does not seem to mind hearing my litany of charges against his gender--to be specific, a certain ex, a certain bachelor, and a certain single daddy. He deftly fields my most earnest inquiries about his species, and although much younger than the men in question, finds a convincing way to put a positive spin on the calamitous events circumventing my life.

The perfect roommate invokes a certain mothering instinct in me, resulting in a gathering of bedding, towels, curtains, books, and furniture for his taking. The perfect roommate talks on the phone in his room, listens to music of which I approve, albeit quietly, and refuses the extra shelf in the medicine cabinet as unnecessary. The perfect roommate is all around the perfect person to come home to at the end of the day, exchange pleasantries with, and then part ways.

And the most perfect thing about the perfect roommate is that he is perfectly moved in.

the time of your life

_{the author's high school graduation at the Hollywood Bowl}

Today I experienced an 8th grade graduation. Or promotion ceremony as they now call it. I was a bit surprised at the lackluster response of the audience, but since we heard very little of what was coming off the PA system, it should have come as no surprise. And then again, it is taxing to listen to 362 names being called, waiting for that precise moment when you are supposed to demonstrate unbridled enthusiasm for the graduate. Coupled with the knowledge that failing to do so would ruin the rest of the graduate's life, the promotion ceremony becomes a pressured event on all sides.

A note about graduations. I find them incredibly sad. Both as a graduate (because it meant potentially never again seeing that person I was crushed out on for the last 4 years) and now as an adult (because I will never again be graduating from anything --unless from walker to wheelchair counts). There were, however, two notable moments at today's graduation. One was a spirited yet existential speech made by a young woman improbably dressed like Annie Hall, that went something like this: When I see birds, do they see me? I like to think so...When we leave Willard Middle School, will Willard remember us as we remember it? And if so what will be the taste in Willard's mouth?

The other moment, which brought me to my knees, was an all-girl rendition-- members outfitted in cap and gown--of Green Day's Good Riddance. Alright, now how many times has this song been played or sung at a graduation? Nevertheless, a girl sat at a piano, another stared down at her guitar, and two more sung at the podium with surprising restraint:

Another turning point
A fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist
Directs you where to go
So make the best of this test
And don't ask why
It's not a question
But a lesson learned in time
It's something unpredictable
But in the end is right
I hope you had the time of your life

It was a decidedly unpunk moment. And I lost it entirely.

I know, I know

I am sure you are all wondering where the hell have I been? The good news is that I am still here. Happily, working on a covert operation that will make one day result in making me feel like a better human being. That is the hope anyways. And no, it is not plastic surgery! I am sure that when I have to go back to work, I will once again be able to find the bottomless supply of time needed to post here and comment on all your very special blogs.

At the moment I can't say too much more. However, I would like to direct your attention to a wonderful site that gives me great joy just knowing of its existence. It reaffirms my faith in humanity that someone is doing such an admirable job of archiving our trash, chronicling it, and offering it back up to us as treasures: SWAPATORIUM. The photo posted here is culled from there.

middle school

Most of us don't remember it. We've blocked it out as an uncomfortable, awkward and bizarre time where nothing made much sense, the teachers were afraid of us, and even the sweetest softie was capable of the meanest taunts.

My friend Rosie is about to be leaving this all behind, and to be joining the rest of us: those that survived and those that will forget. When I was of the middle school years, the biggest moad (I inquired and that word is still in use although Rosie could not vouch for its coolness factor) was to not just flip someone the bird, but to touch the bird to another's teeth whenever the other's mouth was opened. In fact, just sticking fingers in any one's mouth after it was opened was a pretty good burn and enough to keep your trap closed around the wrong people. Coughing and sneezing while saying things like blow job and loser in the middle of a math lesson just never got boring.

The middle school years were the years I fluctuated between being good (i.e. preppy, sanrio, teddy bear stickers) and bad (stoner, pooka shells, surfer chic) which somehow landed me as a goth by the time I got to high school. Boys wore combs in their back pockets and girls stole them, then hoarded and fawned over them like the fetishes they were. Apparently, I was in love with a certain E.A. about whom I have absolutely no recollection now, but with whom the entire class wished me good luck in the yearbook.

In eighth grade I ran for president. It meant nominating myself, writing my name on the chalkboard and waiting for the a show of hands in support. There was no campaign per se, the nomination and the voting happened pretty much at the same time (it was a small Catholic school, ok!) and I quickly lost to Jeffrey Balesh by two votes, the class divided along gender lines. I did end up winning the uncoveted role of Class Secretary which was not a post in which I was particularly interested. I politely declined and thus ended my political career.

This Thursday I will be attending a middle school graduation and both Rosie and I can forget about it forever.

Have a nice summer & nice labor day
Stay cool
Yours for never

Casey

Things I Started But Never Finished

1976--The Rosary. Never finished because of loss of consciousness while in supine position.

1978--Holding my breath under water to beat The Guinness Book of World Records record of 13 minutes and 42.5 seconds.

1979--That bologna sandwich. Sister Mary Margaret wouldn't allow me to leave the classroom until I finished it and because I didn't finish it, I didn't get to out and play.

1982--Practicing the piano. Supposed to practice for 3 hours a day but fell short by 2 hours 40 minutes.

1984--My book report on Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome. Could not finish the book report because I did not finish the book.

1986--Cleaning my room. Attempt at cleaning lasts approximately 4 and a half hours.

1988--Smoking clove cigarette. Put half-smoked cigarette in pocket and completely forgot about it until two weeks later after I did the laundry.

1989--The Female Voice in Psychoanalysis and Cinema as taught by Kaja Silverman.

1992--2 week probationary period for telemarketing job. Inability to comply with team building exercises: Ants on A Log

1994--6 Graduate School applications.

1995--50 Feet of String, the movie.

1998--Singing Beat It at local karoake bar. Lost my place in the song and never fully recovered.

2001--Painting the kitchen cabinets. Top half painted, bottom half bare. Paint cans and paint brushes still in one corner of the kitchen.

2003--Collecting all my gray hairs in a box as a sculptural art piece. Couldn't remember in which box I was supposed to be storing them followed by general loss of interest in art piece.

2005--Yoga chant. Never finished because of loss of consciousness while in supine position.

yoga as experienced by the non-practitioner

Every couple of years or so, I let a friend drag me to yoga. Now, normally when there is a bandwagon, like oh say, blogging, knitting, or having kids, I take pride in not jumping aboard. That is to say, I am extremely cynical about such trends, and particularly so, when it involves the co-opting of a 5000 year-old cultural tradition for the benefit of a younger and more spiritually deficient one. Or particularly so, when it is something being sold to women as the key to unlocking all our anxieties, the salvation to a better physique, and the means to improving our generally cultureless lives. To quote Anthony Lane in his review of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, "Break me a fucking give."

But look at me now. Not only am I blogging, I am tiptoeing towards yoga.

So come this Sunday morning, I find myself up unusually early, heading to the yoga studio just like all the other Stepford wives--the same whom I previously had mocked--with my yoga matt in hand and the requisite gallon jug of water. Of course, when I show up at the appointed and ungoldly hour, my friend, the Bachelorette, is no where in sight. What she also failed to warn me is that the class would be packed and set at about 110 degrees. That it would be a two and a half hour class. And that it is an advanced level three hatha class, that chanting and meditation is involved, and that the yoga assistants would be coming around and touching people when they were covered in sweat and wearing very little. Immediately, I have what would be the first of many panic attacks.

Looking around frantically for a place in what appears to be a completely full room, I find a spot in the back and squeeze in, just centimeters from neighbor who wears what I will soon understand to be appropriate yoga attire. Perhaps a track suit was not the best choice. Still no sign of Bachelorette. I run to the bathroom where there is a long line and patiently wait my turn. As I exit, I realize the class has already started. I run back but fail to read the sign on the door politely requesting us to, "Please wait until prayer chanting is over if you are coming in late." Mistake number one. I open the door, claim my rightful place, and before the class even begins, receive my fair share of dirty looks. I have no idea what to expect from this level three, two and a half hour hatha class, but it is early Sunday morning and I am being asked to fold my hands together and pray. Not only that, but the words I am being asked to repeat are in another language. To wit, I have no idea what the hell I am saying. Panic attack number two: raised as a Catholic, the mere act of folding my hands together and repeating words I do not understand sends me into a cold sweat.

After chanting comes meditation and breathing, a time I spend checking out the other students and their appropriate attire. As the yoga instructor walks around the room, telling us to breathe in the love and compassion, our eyes lock and he smiles at me in a kindly, monk-ly way, but in a way that, nonetheless, makes me sheepishly shut my eyes and start breathing in the love and compassion.

Looking in my direction, the teacher once again repeats that this is an advanced class and asks if there is any one who has taken less than twenty classes. I sit on my hands. Then he asks if there is anyone who does not know- at which point he rattles off a series of words of which I only catch "dog" "cobra " and the daunting "warrior". That out of the way, I make myself as small as possible and opt for hiding behind the person in front of me. But it is darn hard to hide from one instructor and three assistants combing through the room like prospectors on the American River.

The stretching section is OK. That part I feel confident I can just fake by breathing in and out the love. But then they play that Beck song where he sings about Zankou chicken and I realize I am totally starving. At that point, I have no idea the class will be going on for another two hours. That a towel or three or four would have been handy. That by the end I will be completely drenched in sweat and slipping off my matt and crashing into my neighbor's downward dog.

Is it really necessary to go into the gory details here? I think you can imagine what happened when it actually came time to get up off the mat and move. Think of salmon swimming upstream only not quite as graceful. How about Red Skelton imitating bacon frying in a pan? Or maybe just that homeless guy on the corner stricken with Tourettes who insists on directing traffic during rush hour.

Heir to an address

It seems everyone has a blog. All my potential roomies have been careful to drop their blog addresses early on in our getting-to-know-you conversations. And, no doubt, you are already aware of the multitude of celebrity blogs out there. A day doesn't go by that one of my co-workers can't be heard around the water cooler anguishing about their plummeting hits. There are blogs about blogs. And now, the entire cast of my family has come aboard. In fact, we just signed up my nephew, although he is well under 1. We figure, better to settle on the domain name now, and let him grow into it, then loose the great opportunity blogger is providing us. Who knows when another Jacob Elias Weisz may come around and snatch up his rightful address?

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who keep asking, "What exactly is a blog?" and those who already have a couple or, at the bare minimum, can enthusiastically waste endless amounts of "work" hours scrolling through them. I am particularly pleased that my whole family has finally converted. I only ask that they leave multiple comments and link to me often. You know what they say, "the family that blogs together..." Google that and you get 677 hits. Now yagoohoogle it and you'll see what I'm talking about.

Obviously, I am preaching to the choir here. But really, I look forward to the increase in understanding (and misunderstanding) our cumulative blogs will afford us. Lord knows we've had trouble communicating in the past and I'm hoping to get to know each and everyone of them--including those twin second cousins in Milwaukee I've yet to meet--a little bit better.