no ordinary bulb

Monday morning, as I ate my cliff bar and trolled the interweb, the kitchen light (the only light on at the time) finally gave out. It's been getting weaker and weaker in the last couple of months, and in the wee hours of the morning it went kaput. Charrow managed to squeeze in a trip to the hardware store to get a replacement light (it's no ordinary bulb), but the kitchen remains dark. According to the Super, the problem isn't the bulb, it's the [insert very important word that he couldn't remember HERE]. We have to go buy said important piece and have him install it if we can't figure it out ourselves.

Last night, I cooked a dish of cumin black beans by the light of my camping headlamp (who needs candles when you've got pinpointed LED at your disposal?) The night before that, I made a stir fry with cilantro peanut sauce by headlamp. And in a few minutes, I will go wash the dishes, yes, by head lamp (running water under LED looks very futuristic/CGI-ish).

Whenever you lose a convenience that is so completely ingrained in your routine*, it takes awhile for the reflexes to stop firing. Several times now I've approached the dark kitchen and flicked the switch only to be mildly outraged at the stubborn darkness. But I'm getting the hang of it faster than I did when the radio in my car wouldn't work. For about 6 months, the radio in my Honda was hibernating (not dead, so much as just not on) because I couldn't find the security code** that would unlock the sleeping music box. Out of sheer laziness, I took to using my ipod while driving instead of going to the Honda dealer to get the code. The habit of turning on the radio was not an easy one to phase out of my physical lexicon. Even towards the end of my radio free period, whenever I found myself ipod-less and stuck in traffic, I would take a jab at the radio button to make the traffic go away. No dice.

Now I'm thinking, maybe this whole kitchen light thing isn't a problem. Maybe what we should do instead of fixing it, is order charrow a headlamp so that we can both function in our makeshift wilderness while we cook meals that will keep us in tupperware during this ridiculously busy time.

*this post was originally supposed to about the pitfalls of autopilot and how we should try to be more conscious of our actions, but I got sidetracked by the novelty of my headlamp.

** Honda's have a security feature that requires you to enter a code whenever the power source for the radio is turned off. This is supposed to make the radio inoperable in the event of theft. It also makes the radio inoperable in the event of routine maintenance work that requires disconnecting the battery.

it's a dog eat dog treat kind of world

The world has gone to the dogs. I'm not talking financial crisis or unemployment or telling bankers to avoid congregating in groups of more than 12 people. I'm talking four legged, butt licking, drool slinging, frisbee chasing canines. Two close friends have gotten a dog in the last month. There was a Sunday profile of an animal planet dog trainer in the NY times today. Charrow* and I swoon at the sight of a dog, even the drop-kick variety (a term Charrow has dubbed for what I refer to as ankle-biting yappy dogs).

And last, but not least, I have enrolled in dog training school. I could blame it for my blog inactivity, but we all know that I don't actually require a good reason to go into hiding from my own words. Tomorrow is the start of week 3 at Anthony Jerone's School of Dog Training, located very, very far away from my apartment. 2 trains, a bus, and a 7 minute walk. Only for dogs would I ever bother with a commute this long. In fact, I was thinking about it the other day, and there's absolutely no way that I would drive for an hour and 40 minutes, one way, for a regular job (the return trip is 15 minutes shorter thanks to the fast, but pricey express bus). But sitting on a train with the rest of the Monday through Friday world, I can read (assuming I can stay awake) or geek out to NPR podcasts, and the commute is over before I know it. Just think how many self-help books I can get through in 8 weeks! Kidding. Well, sort of.

The first day of my commute, I was standing on a crowded B train reading Pamela Slim's Escape From Cubicle Nation when I noticed the person sitting next me was reading a business book called "Leading Change." I'm not sure the juxtaposition could have been more poetic (and amusing) because Slim's book** is a down to earth exploration of entrepreneurship (try typing that 5 times fast) and from what I could tell, my fellow train rider's book was rooted in big business management and change implementation strategery. If that isn't clear enough for you, this should help: the subtitle for Slim's book is "From Corporate Prisoner to Thriving Entrepreneur."

Coma inducing logistics aside, I'm pretty excited about the training course. It's not the most engaging instructional style (think poorly produced videos from 1978-1989), but there is a ton of hands on work required for certification, and that is something you can't get from an online course, especially when you live in a co-op that doesn't allow dogs. I'll try not to regale you with too many dog stories, but I can't make any promises. I'm going to be operating on sluggish mode until this thing is over with so I may not have the faculty for much more than a rundown of how I taught a dog to heel after 27 tries.

*Blogger's spellcheck really doesn't like Charrow's name. The first suggestion for the correct word is chariot. Maybe I should start calling her that.

**Highly recommend to anyone, cubicle bound or fancy free.

*** Today's picture is of Dixie, the dog we used to walk in Atlanta. To see more of her cheekiness, visit her blog.

Poo on your christmas wreath

Today begins the great christmas migration. You know what I have to say about christmas? I say phooey. Bah humbug. Shark farts. Blerg. Pick your outburst. That's how I feel about christmas.

Now it's time to go run the last 9 errands I need to get done before we board the bus for the first leg of our centipedinal* trip.

*yes, I just made an adjective out of a disgusting many legged pest. google said it was okay.

Today's picture is of Beaky, the famous prospect park goose that is missing the top half of his beak. He was being fed by a friendly lady that comes to the park almost every day in the winter. When he ate, his tongue mushed around like a baby gumming a bagel. See a larger version here.

fumbling in the snow

Last night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep, all I could see was the mottled surface of snow. I spent a few hours walking through prospect park with my camera(s) yesterday morning, and it seemed like nearly every square inch of snow was disturbed by the feet of crying children and the parents trying to console them. It was almost comical how many kids were walking around bawling over how cold they were or whatever inane reason that shattered their world of the moment. I felt especially bad for one guy who had not one but three kids around the age of eight crying their eyes out as he ushered them to the grand army exit.

One of my favorite things about snow is the quietness of it. The other day someone told me that I fetishize austerity, which I of course denied, but the more I think about it, the more I agree. Less "morally strict" and more "markedly simple" (although if you ask charrow, I make everything a lot more complicated). Anyway, it's hard to find quiet in a city with about 35,000 people per square mile. But the sledders thinned out as I slogged my way further into the park, and I could finally hear the sound of my own footsteps. The only people willing to cut through the midsection of park were the cross country skiers, the occasional runner, and a friendly horseback rider. It was nice to feel like I was actually alone in the woods instead of like one more member of a congested snow globe.

Speaking of austerity, I brought 3 cameras to the park yesterday (there's a difference between fetish and execution): the holga, which I promptly dropped in the snow the moment I took it out of my bag, a canon F-1 SLR from the 70's and my regular digital SLR. I felt like a technowhore at one point because I had both SLRs slung over my shoulder for easy access. I haven't used a film camera since I was about 16, and it was a run of the mill automated squint and click camera. Using an SLR that required manual focusing and film advancing took some getting used to. Several times I had a shot lined up and pushed down on the shutter button only to find that I hadn't advanced the film since the last shot. It's kind of like driving a stick for the first time. You have about 5 different things to think about at any given moment and when you're first learning there's no fluidity to the process. Towards the end of my walk, I started to get the hang of it, but my digital reliance reared its head again when I tried to rewind the film. Having spent a good deal of time trying to figure out how to even open the film door (talk about IQ test flashbacks), I thought I knew how to rewind the film. But when I started cranking the rewind lever, I heard a few creaks and then the lever lost its tension, spinning around like a stripped screw.

In order to get the film out of the camera, I had to take it into the closet and figure out if it was jammed or if I could roll it up manually by turning the top of the film canister. As I fumbled around in the dark, I realized that the film had completely separated from the canister, so I had an empty canister on one side and a used roll of film on the other side. Not so useful. I called LTI, the photo lab I used to develop the Holga prints, and Justin walked me through the process of hand rolling the film so I could bring it in for development. This involved another trip to the closet and duct taping the cheap plastic film container because it wasn't the usual opaque version. Long story not so short, I am grateful that Justin was patient with my complete lack of knowledge once again, and hopefully my ridiculous efforts will be rewarded with a few decent photographs.

the minimalist grinch

It's so cold outside that I could barely smell the clump of pine trees sitting outside of the market on the way home from the Q train. Back when I used to carry a wallet, I would stick a piece of christmas tree in one of the credit card slots so I could hold on to that tangy clean smell into the month of January. It lasts longer than you would expect.

My holiday smashup interlude: Deck the halls with boughs of credit cards. Tis the season to be whiney. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a bumpy crowded bus. Hey!

I don't recommend reading The Road right before or after any major American holiday (especially 2 in a row that have morphed into times of rampant consumption/consumerism). It's strychnine for holiday cheer, not that I'm generally brimming with cheer this time of year. I finished The Road on a marathon bus ride home from Thanksgiving in MD. 4 hours turned into 6.5 thanks to a very clogged jersey turnpike. It was just long enough to make it through the book and then be thoroughly exhausted from the stress of worrying over the two main characters. Within the first 5 pages, I wanted to skip to the end just so I could have some peace of mind about where things were headed. I held off for maybe 30 more pages, but then I skimmed willy nilly at the beginning of each new situation because I just couldn't take the suspense (not that the knowledge made it any less stressful).

I'm not sure I should have read this book, given my tendency toward nihilism, but 2 people within 4 hours of each other basically threw it at me. I went to a friend's for dinner the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and she mentioned how great the book was. Then when charrow and I got back to her parents house, her sister told me (with no knowledge of the friend's recommendation) that she had just bought The Road at the airport because she needed something to read and I had to borrow it when she finished. Coincidence and masochism made it impossible to resist.

Among the many residual feelings I've had about the book is a hyperawareness of waste. Just last night, we made a squash vindaloo from a reliable cookbook that turned out to be almost inedible. The amount of clove the recipe called for was the culprit. There is absolutely no way to cover up too much clove. Blech. After eating our small portions (neither of us could force ourselves to eat very much of it), we decided, with much regret, that we would have to throw out the remainder of the disaster. Short of leaving it outside for a desperate passerby to take, there was nothing to be done. I guess we could have thrown out half of it and added more of the ingredients to even out the clove, but the nausea induced from eating it the first time made this a very unappealing option. We will not be cooking with clove for a very long time. Anyway, the point wasn't to berate clove, it was to say that throwing out perfectly good (but oh so bad) food was horrifying.

Do you know what else is horrifying? Christmas stores. The ones that only sell christmas decorations and wrapping paraphernalia. The frenzied consumerism of Christmas in general is pretty appalling. Now, I'm not saying that I'm immune to materialism. If you put a striped object of any kind in front of me, I would probably salivate and rip it from your hands. But this reflexive consumerism is definitely something I'd like to temper. Knowing that there are people out there that don't even consider the concept of moderation is seriously depressing. So many of us are governed by an overriding sense of entitlement coupled with a definition of success that hinges on the act of having. I can't handle an environment as stark (or as terrifying) as The Road, but I would definitely like to move in the direction of minimalism. I know there are a couple of you that just shook your heads in dismay. That's right, I said minimalism. How this can be accomplished living in a city as overwhelming as New York, I'm just not sure.

I'm also not sure where I'm going with this gripe session. I intended to write about The Road* and now I'm off in ascetic grinch land. This time of year always puts me in a wonky mood for so many more reasons than consumerism. Write this one off to an extremist frame of mind and an overwhelming sense of guilt after having tossed out enough food for 4 people.

*I know The Road has nothing to do with the minimalist lifestyle, but the whole time I was reading it, I couldn't stop thinking about the simplicity of having everything you own and need with you in a bag or a shopping cart.

back to pre-

I took a walk through prospect park with a friend yesterday, and as we dodged baby strollers and bewitching dogs, I gave her a brief update on my physical health. At least it was intended to be brief because talking about it usually upsets me to the point of tears, but the laundry list of things holding me back keeps getting longer. It feels childish to be so dramatic about it because I haven't been diagnosed with some dreadful disease or syndrome or life threatening -itis. I'm not losing my hair or being pumped with death stalling toxins. I don't need machines to take a breath. Things could be much, much worse.

But it's hard to care about worse, when I am constantly reminded of how much better it could be. Literally everywhere I go, I see someone jogging. Or cycling. Or walking home sweaty from whatever their choice form of torture was for the day. I just finished reading Born Round (highly recommend it), and exercise is mentioned ad nauseum. If you google depression and exercise, the majority of the hits will detail all the ways in which exercise can create a bridge to cross the moat out of your Dark place. Or it can contribute to better sleeping patterns, which in turn can allow you to juggle your misery with care. Or it helps with weight loss, which might be the tug on your self-esteem that has you out of sorts.

Where is the literature on how to escape the depression that ensues when you can't put on your running shoes for more than a 30 min walk? Where can I find an essay telling me I should be grateful for the fact that I can swim at the pool if I don't kick? Can someone tell me how to appreciate the incredible bike that's been sitting against the wall for over a year (minus a few trial runs just to see what would happen)?

Part of me has to wonder if it's all just a total mindfuck. Do I have some unconscious need to be thwarted every step of the way? Is that laundry list of aches and pains actually one item long (me)? I'm doing what I can to figure out if there's a legitimate physical cause for the escalating breakdown of this clunker I'm walking around in, but my patience is wearing pretty thin. I can barely make it through the park without wanting to trip every chirping runner I see.

So here's where we're going to get crafty. Today's picture is me, at age 2.75. Pre-injuries. Pre-emotional breakdowns. Pre-creating barriers at every turn. I'm going to play a little game with myself where I think about this picture (and a few others) whenever I start to get really negative. I'm going to relax*. And I'm going to breathe. Think what you will, but self-delusion works. At least that's what I'm going to tell myself.

*Take a second and notice if you're tensing something in your body. I find something virtually every time I do this. Hello, my name is Clenched, how are you?

three cheers for freud

So far, it hasn't been the best of weeks. After a particularly acerbic morning, I went to the food co-op to shop for marinara ingredients. My mom is coming to town tonight, and in preparation for dinner on Wednesday, I'm cooking the family tomato sauce recipe because "spaghetti with tomato sauce" is her all time favorite dish. The recipe is one that my parents perfected through years of eating spaghetti basically every Monday and Friday night. Monday nights, they ate sauce from a jar (it was also, without fail, my night to do the dishes). Friday nights, they went to the local greek italian restaurant in the strip mall across the street from my high school. Every week, the owner, "Papa George," greeted my parents with an exuberant hello and tilted his head back to peer at the whole family through his thick glasses. Eventually, my dad asked "Papa," as we called him at home, to divulge the secret to his tomato sauce. Papa was more than happy to go over the list ingredients, although I'm guessing he left out a thing here or there because it never quite tasted the same at home.

At any rate, I was standing in the co-op near the avocados, checking my list, when I heard a little boy say, "Mommy why are you so dramatic??"

His mom said, "Why am I so dramatic?" She paused. "Because grandma made me that way!"

It made me laugh out loud and was enough to carry me through the rest of my shop without getting sucked back into the mental bog that accompanied through the sliding glass doors.