holiday fever

So now it seems, instead of experiencing cat syndrome, I have been infected with some ridiculous holiday pathology. A turkey race for the savage among us (this includes me), and tofurkey/tofucks? for those that can resist the "carn"-ival fest.

I've been going crazy in the last few days tyring to figure out just how exactly are you supposed to put a thing like that in the oven and have it come out beautiful. I called my dad's partner up today just to ask him such a question... "do I need a v-tray??? do I have to stick salt in it's butt-crack and sing it lullabies and bath-time songs while it's basting? Thermometer? String?"
It's like I was expecting a fucking baby! But how will I know I'm doing the right thing?

The whole turkey baster metaphor all makes sense to me now.

All Jack had to say in reply to this was:
Ohhhh nooo. You don't need all that. You just stick it in the oven!

Simply said. Well done. And coming from a cook extraordinaire, it gave me confidence in a slap-in-the-face, calm-down kind of way.
When I asked my mother, she had a more shocking answer than I expected. She told me if I buy a butterball (which I did NOT), that I could call the turkey hotline if I had any questions or freakouts. I found this piece of advice a bit jarring. A mother is not supposed to give you sound cooking advice about an age-old tradition by telling you to call the turkey hotline. She's supposed to tell you secrets and things her mother used to do. Though if I'm not mistaken, my grandmother probably would have called a turkey hotline in her day too.
I can just hear it in her cute little bronx accent:
Hellaow! Ehh, my butta bwall is acting up in the oven. I dunnow wheah the thermomata
dissappeeahd.

Okay, now I'm not paying the homage I should to my fore mothers. Of course they know how to cook certain things. But those things I guess have no roots in the turkey kingdom. They're most likely to fall under the brisket and latkes kingdom.

Cat Fever

I seem to have two days off this week, one of which is normal (I have wednesdays off), but today, I am not working due to my bosses new baby that was ever so recently brought into this world. A Georgia Rose. Aside from this little miracle, as they call it, I am left at home, still, with no paycheck, and too little tolerance for my roommate's cats.

After checking e-mail or visiting facebook at least 70 times throughout the day, and having cats clawing my belly with a meow that asks "can you please only love me and not do anything else right now?" in the tone of a 1 year old, I can only begin to suspect that I have developed, much like cabin fever, "cat" fever. And it's not that I hate the fluffballs, it's just that one minute they're so sweet and cute looking, but the next they're biting or clawing or sneaking into your room when they know they're not supposed. And then you have to chase them out by literally pretending like you're going to make an attack...and then you have have to feel guilty that if your roommate were to see you interact with her cats in such a manner, she might report you to the cat-abuse police.

Really, I think this is a sign that I should think twice about having children if that day comes. Because I'm pretty sure the rage and frustration coupled with the odd need to coddle is pretty similar to thousands of sentiments felt by mothers towards their behavior-challenged children.
I'm exaggerating a bit on the issue, but I think that when I'm in the house for so long with no human interaction, and only cats and facebook to talk to, I get a little loopy. I did manage to do my laundry and go to the gym today, but still, the fever set in. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's more adventurous turns...and hoping my check will arrive so I'll have more than a cheap pair of shoes' worth amount in my banking account.

On a brighter note, I've been practicing my choral music a lot. Oh how I wish I had a real piano to play, but I can't even imagine a piano fitting through our hallway. Next place I live in, no cats, unless chosen by me. Dog, yes. And piano in a room where no sounds will seep through the walls.
Ah, but these are dreams!

Break Dancing on Subway Cars

It's amazing to me how secluded people are on the subways. And I'm not leaving myself out of this equation completely. The other day, I was standing on a crowded 1 train, and a frail, tissue-paper skinned elderly woman was standing next to me. All the time, I kept thinking to myself how no one was offering her their seat. It's like people assume a layer of impenetrable hide that bars all sound, sight, or smell from entering. I understand that at certain times, the last thing we want is to be forced into a social setting where legs, arms, boot tips are constantly inter-tangled and mingling. In fact, sometimes, I wish I could have my own route to work in my own tube like transport, swiftly going to and from work, friends and purposeful outings, much like the Jetsons did in their sky highways. And this mentality is often present in my journeys across the island, as I may often curse a slow walker on the street or the person that leaks a little too much into MY subway seat indentation. There is always this assumption among New Yorkers, it seems, that despite how you really feel about the world, and your like or dislike towards others, there is an ever-present blockade between you and everyone else, and the breaking of that barrier could mean a disruption in your routine travel through time and space. It is an interference of one's "in-between" states, going to and from, not having a place of sanctity or grounding. When that sense of transitory gypsiness is broken, the public, anonymous sphere suddenly changes shape. You are suddenly a link in the puzzle and you realize that the nature of transit does not allow for solitary confinement of the mind or body. It is a vehicle for interconnectedness, whether that is the desired goal or not.
Today, I had a turn-around experience that merely took some simple convincing that this common grounding between subway riders is in fact a way for us to connect without even knowing each others' stories or beliefs. It was sparked by some young break-dance kids trying to salvage the last pennies and dimes often found in the bottom of one's purse or the lining of a coat pocket. At first, we (the audience/passengers) were reluctant to smile, or even notice the vibrant movement and music taking place directly in front of us. But once a common notion settled among us that these kids actually did bring joy to our day on each of our individual journeys, it was suddenly easy to be a part of this strange community of anonymous travelers. But if it weren't for these pushy street performing, boom-box lugging kids, I would have never realized the beauty of subway travel in that hour of transit. Isn't that the best kind of art in this world? That's how I see it at least. I like to think that the most beautiful things have elements of unfamiliarity. The kind that makes you stop, and reassess your knowledge of that thing in front of you. In the end, it's all continuous, all fluid, and never boring.

me in san francisco

My Second Cousin Ellen having some authentic bay area beer

This happens to be my dream dress. I might get married just as an excuse to wear it.

A little cafe near Francie's house

Left: me, Right: Francie
Guess where?

Monument to Jack.