August 2006 Archives

Of course the night J and I headed to Tulsa was the night Chicago (our layover city) was battling a slew of storms. We left work quite early to be at the airport the recommended hour and a half before departure, which then amounted to us wasting a lot of time at the airport. I hate checking bags, and it makes it worse when the only reason you're checking a bag is because of some face soap and lotion. By the time we boarded the plane, everyone was anxious to go. The pilot congratulated us on a timely boarding, then announced that weather in Chicago was going to leave us stranded on the runway for two hours. Two. Hours. Which was actually two and a half hours. No water, no snacks, just stuffy nasty plane on runway for a very long time. By the time we were up in the air, we were sure we weren't going to make our connecting flight to Tulsa, but some miracle was working on our side because when we landed our flight was one of three that had been delayed and was still at the airport. After a series of sprints to make that plane, we were finally, officially, on our way.

Tulsa is a humid place. You would think that after battling New York humidity, I would be prepared for Tulsa humidity, but it was like J said, that every place has a unique type of hot. Specifically, this one was like standing in at the end of a giant hair drier in a damp bathroom. I was also having a hard time knowing I was in Tulsa and also knowing my grandma wasn't there anymore. The city is chock full of my relatives, but everyone congregates around Grandma's house. That's always the first place we go, she's almost always the first relative I see. My cousin and brother picked us up from the airport and we drove to the house, where my parents were staying.

To really understand how much the house really IS my grandma, you have to know that she has been a bed lounger for as long as I can remember. She liked to have the television on, usually to some E! Entertainment celebrity show, and she'd be propped up in bed reading book after book (interspersed with trashy celeb mags). We would always come into her room and lay on the bed to greet her and hang out. She could also be found in the kitchen where she'd be making four desserts at once or a pot of chicken noodle soup. She never learned to drive, and seemed very content to be at her home, receiving guest after guest, feeding everyone and exchanging gossip.

So when we first walked into the house, the scent of it was overpowering. Each house and person has an exact scent that is uniquely their own, and Grandma's house was no different. Only, of course, this would probably be the last time I would smell it. And then there were my parents, and seeing their sadness echoed my own and back and forth, until we were all teary eyed. That first night I couldn't go back to see her bedroom because I was able to hold up some false idea that she was back there and everything was okay. I mean, I knew she wasn't really, but my mind let me play with this trick so that I could deal with things in stages. My parents were working on the program for the memorial service and one of my young cousins had picked out a poem to read. It's a little sentimental for me, and it's not something I would have picked out, but then I was asked to help my cousin read the poem I couldn't say anything except for yes.

I'm sort of a private person with sadness. I've never been one of those big weepers who collapses into others' arms. Feeling sad makes me feel very vulnerable and I get tense and self-conscious about displaying emotion, so reading in front of a big crowd in a heightened state of grief made me feel even more nervous. I decided not to think about it.

The night was good for sharing stories, and we were supposed to send in some memories of Grandma to the minister to read during the service. I was having trouble thinking of a good one, but woke up the next morning with it clear in my head. When I was little, my grandma lived in a house with a room that had a mirrored wall. She took me in there once and had set up another long mirror perpendicular to the big one and instructed me to stand next to it. I closed my eyes, as I was told, and when I opened them, she was standing behind me. She told me to look straight ahead and that she was going to fly. Which she did, rising right off the ground. I was young enough to be dumbstruck, not understanding the trick with the mirrors. She loved it.

Arriving at the funeral home, we all had another wave of sadness hit us, because there was her picture and the flowers and we were definitely definitely at a funeral home and she was gone. The family all gathered in the back and were lead to the front seats together. The first few minutes were the hardest because everyone was still getting used to being there and really dealing with this. And there were some things read and sad music was played. Halfway through the sad music, my young cousin's mother slid over and told me that I'd have to read the poem alone because my cousin couldn't. I looked back and she was collapsed in tears on my uncle's lap and I had to say okay again.

Luckily, I was at least able to preface my reading by noting that it was going to be ironic. And then my uncle was able to come up and tell some very funny stories, that lightened the mood considerably and I think everyone relaxed a little then. The minister read some of the memories, but his printer had gone out on him, so a lot of them were a bit muddled. Like, he read mine, but somehow replaced the word "mirror" with "wall," so my quirky story came out just...really weird and nonsensical, and J and I had to stifle giggles.

Afterwards we did was we do best, and gathered for lots of food. We would continue to do this throughout the weekend, offering each other solace in good food and exchanged stories. We picked out mementos, though I'm not sure we had all resolved that we would never be in the house again in the same way. The objects that reminded us most of Grandma, the gold chain cigarette case or the vanity mirror, were things we couldn't take, and the rest just seemed extra.

J and I flew back yesterday afternoon from Tulsa, stopping--for some ill-planned reason--in Denver before going back to New York. And there, in one afternoon, I hit all the places that meant home to me. Altered homes, but family nonetheless.

Thanks for all your kind words and thoughts; they've meant a lot to me.

We got the news last night that my grandma died. It makes me so sad to type those words. She was one of those people who never wanted you to think she was sick or feeling awful; she hated if people thought of her as old. But she'd been in and out of the hospital lately, discharged only a couple days ago with 15 different medications to take. I talked to her on her birthday, less than a week ago when she was in the hospital surrounded by cakes people brought, and she sounded cheerful if a bit overwhelmed by the attention. I'm glad she didn't linger, as I'm sure she would have wanted to be remembered as just that: cheerful and happy to be with all the family. But, still.

I was in the middle of preparing eggs to be devilled when my mom called last night. I'd just cut the first egg in half, and the two yellow yolks had to sit there open, staring at the ceiling. We'll be taking a trip to Tulsa in the next few days and I'm sure it will hit me with full force when we're there with all the family, all seven of her kids with their kids (and their kids) and no one will be able to turn away from the sheer amount of family she brought into existence.

Bah. I don't know if anything turns your mind to mush and your fingers to rubber faster than grief.

What? You want to read all about the pizza competition in Greenbelt? Okay! I have to put a link to these posts on my blog or J forgets to ever read them, and it's important that he know what I'm talking about when I reference the eater quote about "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure." We are trying to figure out if we can make it down south for some Krystal competitions in October, but we're not sure it will work out. In any case, I may have convinced Sally to help out. That's what happens if I start feeling comfortable around you: I'll make you cover regional eating competitions.

I went to Zoe's last night and we had a mini-So You Think You Can Dance finale party. This mostly involved us drinking wine, eating delicious key lime pie, and trying to decide when Cat Deeley was going to meet up with Josie and the other Pussycats. We were also having trouble wrapping our head around this messy blond hair hanging in her face with an inch of black roots down the center of her head. Is...this a look that's okay for hosting a finale? You'd think they'd be all, "Oh, Cat Deeley, here is some touch up color for when you're on that nationally televised show that's a finale and everyone will be watching." But then again, no one said, "That's a weird velvet dress that makes shadows on your stomach and breasts and is totally unflattering and maybe you should wear something cuter for the big finale you're to host on the giant television show," so I guess we can't hold out much hope for what people are supposed to be telling other people.

Then, because we had only watched two straight hours of reality television, and our eyes hadn't fallen completely out of our heads yet, we watched Project Runway. This may be the first time I ever watched un-DVR-ed Project Runway! I feel so with it. I guess I would be a hypocrite if I went and discussed the results, but can I just say that maybe Zoe told me something that may be a spoiler regarding who makes it to the final three? And this knowledge made the elimination last night that much harder to watch, and I was pretty angry at the end that clearly they're keeping contestants for drama and not potential skills. What? Reality shows FIXED a little? I know, it's hard to recover from that one.

Anyway, here's why I love Zoe's apartment:

Her kitchen may be small, but Buffy comes over and makes stake and eggs, so it's cool.

This is my week of vacation! I don't really have so much planned, but the main focus of the time off was the actual time off. I haven't decided if this will translate into more blog time or less, so we'll just have to see. This weekend was a pizza competition in Greenbelt, Maryland and some lounging by the pool in DC. I can't believe it's the middle of August and this is the first time I've gone swimming all summer. That's a sad sad fact. But the winner of the pizza competition, Pat Bertoletti, ate 19 slices in 10 minutes and that's a happy fact. He won a giant check and we got to walk around with him for a while while he toted that and a giant trophy. If you ever need a really fun prop to walk around with, y'know, in general, a giant check should do the trick.

We stayed at a Hilton, which was pretty cheap because it was in Greenbelt, Maryland and because we were splitting the bill four ways. In the nightstand drawer, next to the bible, was this little treasure:

This is hands down the most poorly written "celebrity" book I've ever had the pleasure of glancing briefly at (and I'm including Confessions of an Heiress in there; I guess finding good ghost writers isn't in the family genes). The book was originally published in 1957, so there may not have been a ghost writer here, which means that I should give Conrad Hilton some credit for at least really writing this. I wish now I'd taken the title's suggestion and just taken the book with me, because then I could more accurately give you details from the inside, but basically it goes something like: "And then the investor said, 'Well I don't know.' And boy did that scare me. This was a big investor. He had lots of investments! I knew then I had to do some hard work." You'd think the editor could at least have suggested some compound sentences or something.

Kelly's and my old roommate from senior year of college came to visit New York over the weekend. I don't keep in touch with many people from college, so he filled us in on some good gossip. Like, oh I don't know, that one of our other female roommates is now a MAN. Named Tristan. I mean can gossip get any better than that? Answer: no. It is the perfect tidbit to carry around because it is shocking and funny, but ultimately a positive thing in Ta-er-Tristan's life. So you don't even feel bad about gossiping!

Here is a picture of us from over the weekend:

I wish I had a picture of the three of us at college, because then I could illustrate my point that we all look exactly the same. Except Kelly, who is the queen of changing and adapting and looking hot with eye makeup. So me and Jason look the same. Something about me remains pretty much the same no matter how much I grow and mature and change my hair. Ha ha, that was a joke because I haven't changed my hair since getting rid of the bangs and perm from 7th grade. Well, once I had sorta short hair, but Willow was the only one who liked that. But anyway, it was a relief for me to see Jason had also not changed. He looked great! He was even wearing a shirt he owned in college. Ah. See, this is one way to not age.

Jason also scored major points when he mentioned he was staying at the Hudson and had run into Malan from Project Runway. Oh man! I thought it wasn't going to get better than a gender change, but NO, Jason had to pull out the My-Hotel-Is-Staffed-By-Odd-Reality-Television-Stars card. My excitement level for something like this would usually be around a 10, but toss in a half bottle of wine and my head just exploded. I laid out many detailed plans about how he was to approach Malan and what he was to say and how many photos he was to take and where to send these photos (to me). I haven't heard back on Malan Watch, so I'm guessing it seemed like less of a good idea to attack the poor Malan-Breton-From-Taiwan when he got back to the hotel and was no longer held hostage my my wine-induced fervor. His loss. I mean, OUR loss, but I really think it would have made his NY experience authentic if he'd indulged in a little inappropriate stalking.

We are most certainly missing something by being vegetarian and living in Sunset Park. The restaurants and eateries that make up the bulk of our neighborhood are generally considered off-limits to us for two reasons: 1) we don't speak Spanish very well, and 2) we don't eat meat. So even if these very authentic places offered up some delicious vegetarian chili rellenos or something, I wouldn't trust myself to figure that out given my limited Spanish skills. Also, as a rule of thumb, "authentic Mexican/Peruvian/Ecuadorian" cuisine isn't by rule veg-friendly. So, what I imagine is that we are really adrift in a sea of delicious things that we can't eat. I had this notion of getting my friend Tom (who speaks Spanish) and maybe Jennie (enjoys adventurous food) to go on a tour of my neighborhood with me, tasting all the tacos and empanadas and tamales and telling me about them. But I totally got lazy. Perhaps I can still do this, but in the meantime I thought I'd show you two of my favorite places to pass.

First off, El Tesoro Ecuatoriano. The reason we like this place is fairly straightforward:

Giant shark!

Every time we pass it, this conversation happens:

J: I would like to own that shark.
Liz: What would you do with a giant shark?
J: What wouldn't I do with it!
Liz: No, really.
J: I'd put it in the basement.
Liz: Our "theoretical" basement? What would it do there?
J: Be cool. It's a giant fiberglass shark!

and so on. But my all-time favorite place, makes the grade because of its name. I really couldn't possibly think of a longer or more awkward--and yet surprisingly clear--name for a restaurant, but here it is:

Yes, that's right: Tacos 2004 Viva Mexico Inc. Restaurant.

Someday, I will make one of my friends eat there so I can get the full experience and find out if the 2004 tacos live up to their name.

Recently, a friend of mine reached his 5 year anniversary at his job. Because I haven't worked in a large corporate environment in several years, I'm completely ignorant when it comes to the inner-workings of these places, the little quirks that make them special. For instance, I know from talking to my friends in finance that when they reach big milestones at work, they receive things like $30,000 bonuses, and often those "milestones" include "starting work" or even just "December." Hahaha. I laugh to hide the pain.

Anyway this friend of mine does not happen to work in finance, but rather the glorious field of publishing. And while publishing can offer someone things like pride for bringing literature to the world, or an inner glow of knowing insider gossip about bigwigs' drinking binges, it's also tinged with the fact that you are bringing the public books on how to pet your cat and that no one outside publishing knows who the bigwigs are or cares about their car-theft days. Publishing also doesn't "pay so much" and, especially at the beginning, "bonus" can be a relative term.

So when his 5 year anniversary approached, he was given some choices. From a catalogue. I would now like to take you through a tour of what you too could have, if you worked for 5 years at this company. It helps to think of the experience as though you sold the most candy bars out of anyone in the 5th grade and you can now pick your prize. Or maybe you were on a plane and there was some in-flight minor disaster and to keep everyone in the cabin happy, you each get to choose something right out of SkyMall for your very own.

My friend didn't look too hard at this first page, because it is obviously For the Ladies. The 65-year-old ladies who have worked there 5 years.

Moving on, you can also cash in your skee-ball tickets for these lovely wallets, or some crystal to give away as a wedding gift. I kinda like the demitasse set. I have no idea what a demitasse set is for, but maybe coffee? Yes, google has confirmed. Five years apparently buys you some culture, too. Maybe I should stick around. Please note the candlesticks do not include the candles.

Of course, maybe culture's not really your thing anyway. Maybe you're more of a "let's go to Coney Island and sit on the beach with a coolerful of beers" type. But maybe you don't know if you're that type because you don't even have a cooler! Well, no one's going to work in publishing for five years and not have a cooler to drink beers out of at Coney Island. Maybe I spoke too soon and with too rigid a definition about "culture." There's also a clock radio here. In case you...don't have one. From the drug store. For $5.00.

The fishing rod's kinda nice, though, and hey, no one has a bad word to say about binoculars. They're just the kind of things that you either: a) use regularly and thus already own nice versions of, or b) don't really need.

What's most fun about this catalogue is it's complete lack of judgement about how old you might be or of what gender. Even if you are a time traveler from the year 1982 and you have some how fucked up your time machine so bad that you ended up at the tail end of a five year stint at at a publishing house, there are bonuses that will wow even you. A quaint 35mm camera (that uses film!), a genuine cd player for the cds, OR a boombox for if you still only have U2 on cassette tapes. And of course a digital personal organizer. I'm guessing...calculator feature!

They saved the best for last. Upon hearing there was a waffle maker I told my friend that that was definitely what he should get so that "every time you make waffles you can think, ahhh five years of my life well spent." But in the end, he went for the electric screwdriver.

Did you pick out your bonus?

Because even if they are cute they are not especially exciting to look at for one million years on a blog. In fact, I think I can get kicked of the Internet for pulling shit like that. So, ha! I'm putting up this total fake-out post instead.

But if you want to get prepped for what is promising to be a very awesome post up tomorrow(ish), why don't you think about all the things you would consider appropriate gifts for having been employed somewhere for five years.

Here's Max taking a nap on our bed in the hot hot heat. In case you can see all the gross fur he left behind, please rest assured we changed the sheets.