Blasé to the end

I had a moment while grocery shopping this morning that has haunted me the entire day. Searching for hummus, I happed upon the seafood section instead and was suddenly eye to eye with a lobster on death row. A mere few feet away sat gelatinous slabs of fish flesh, quivering underneath the air conditioner. My lobster pal appeared to be eyeing the fish as well. After briefly entertaining a plan for his escape route, I started wondering if he knew his fate would be similar, that the water that surrounding him would be the last? (last non-boiling water, that is.)

How is it that we're constantly surrounded by death, packaged nicely in delis or prepared "artfully" in restaurants, yet we can't come to grips with our own mortality and constantly make light of death?

It seems that New Yorkers are more acclimated with the concept of a sudden death. Since there are so many people per capita, you're bound to hear about local deaths more often, or even glimpse it. But acclimatation breeds apathy. I've heard many people complain about train delays due to "assholes" who jumped in. Of course, no one likes waiting, and it's true that people make idiotic decisions, but I find this troubling. The attitude "how does it affect me?" that we're all guilty of seems to permeate from every city block, but it's precisely the opposite. "How can I affect it?" It being whatever it is that was wrong in the first place, if we ever want to see true change.

Even today, upon hearing of Amy Winehouse's death, most reactions were of the "told you so" realm - "bitch should've gone to Rehab!" Beyond that being a terrible (and terribly easy) joke to make, it shows a lack of caring for the most powerful thing in the world: life. Not to mention a loss of beauty and a troubled, old soul, but that's beyond the point.

I remember when I was a child, and saw someone get hurt. My initial reaction was laughter because I didn't know what else to do. Do we ever really learn? Is this attitude just an adult version of this same uncomfortable feeling? A way of covering up (almost) everyone's fear of death, and more importantly, fear of the unknown? (even the people of Bon Temps seem to respect the dead better than we do). Are we so mortified by our own mortality that we adopt attitudes of nonchalance, unless faced with a death of someone close? There are more questions regarding death than can ever be answered, but to me it's clear the answer is not indifference.

Lesson #43: don't allow the city, or anyone/place, to strip you of your compassion. There's a lot of bad shit in the world, but infinitely more good.

The Search for the Perfect Cone

On this very American holiday weekend, I'd like to discuss something close to my heart: frozen desserts. I recently searched for the perfect ice cream cone and my quest had a misstep that was so amateur, I'm almost embarrassed. But in the spirit of openness and freedom, here's my simple tip.

There variety of reasons people follow certain dietary guidelines. It's easy to assume when others take the same actions as you (as in, not eating animals or their parts), they're following the same set of beliefs. Not a good assumption.

However, the beautiful thing about it is that it allows you to explore other viewpoints that happen to converge nicely with yours. Specifically in New York, while searching for vegan ice cream, you can get a taste of:

Israel (kashrut)

Jamaica (ital movement)

Americana (too many movements to name)

They're all just a bus or subway trip away. Just don't get your hopes up until you....

Lesson #42: CALL AHEAD before making a trek to the outer boroughs! And if you're smart, don't assume what you find on the web to be true. I hope to one day live in a land where sites are updated and truthful, even interactive, but until then, pick up your phone and call.

In all, I think it took about 2 hours of traveling and re-routing the course simply because I didn't call ahead. I ended up with delicious Kosher non dairy ice cream and was surrounded by lovely Hasidic children eating their cones as well. It was a great experience, but after venturing far and wide to other (closed) spots, I felt vindicated but mostly pleasantly full.

Though I must say: Lula's Apothecary is a sweet, yet sinister mistress that I feel absolutely compelled to mention in a post about ice cream. This is the only place worth not calling ahead - the mere chance they're open is enough for me.

I didn't choose to be an American...but I did choose to be a New Yorker

"I'm so glad I live in New York City and not in the United States." - tweet from R.L. Stine, 11/2/2010

When not scaring the heeby-jeebies out of schoolchildren, RL Stine has some surprisingly eloquent insights. I couldn't have said it better than he did, which is why I'm dedicating an entry to it. It perfectly captures my sentiment as of late, especially since the last election cycle when I've thanked my lucky stars to live in a place that is essentially an island unto itself.

Lesson #41 is this: In the same way that "friends are the family you choose,' it's okay and good to gravitate towards living in a place where you feel you belong at that time in your life. I will always be a Michigander and awkward Mid-Westerner at heart. I appreciate and admire the Great Lake state and have almost entirely positive things to say and find myself OD'ing on Michigan pride (ahem, Eminem Chrysler commercial from a few months back). I miss Vernors and Oberon daily. I think about Lake Michigan often and pine for the sandy, clean beaches full of sandy blond, clean kids, especially when I'm avoiding glass while at the crowded but great Coney Island. I could go on and on, and perhaps will in another post.

I have times where I feel guilty for leaving my home state when times are perhaps the toughest they've ever been. Much in the same way teens need to get the hell out of their parents house and go to college at 18, I had the same pang to move on - for the time being at least.

But I am nevertheless thrilled to be exactly where I am right now. Living in a new place allows one to be an ambassador of your origin, but of course allows you to experience much more that you can eventually share, regardless of where you're off to next.

This Op-Ed, from the New York Times, of course, does a succinct job of explaining my sentiment over the past months, and includes the following brilliant line:

"Chance made me an American, but I chose to be a New Yorker. I probably always was." - Tony Judt

No matter how much I love and miss Vernor's, though, I can't bring myself to call it 'pop' again, against the behest of the entire Midwest. Sorry, friends/family/upbringing: soda just sounds better.

One Man's Trash is Another's Treasure

My lesson today is so incredibly simple, so dreaded, but so damn effective at keeping bugs/critters at bay.

Lesson #40: Take out the trash more than you think is necessary; make it a daily, even twice a day habit as you see fit. When you leave your apartment. Before you go to sleep. Half way through your shower, should you remember (sometimes I get carried away).

I know, it's no fun (even 50 Cent hates doing it), but I'm not exaggerating when I say that taking out the trash consistently, even obsessively, has saved me stress. It's also encouraged me to take note of my consumption and also improved my fairly pristine recycling habit, since I'm more conscious of what I'm tossing.

When I was newer to my apartment, there were days I waited or forgot to take it out for a couple days, maybe because I thought I had more important things to do than avoid getting bugs. Those were also the days that I've seen roaches and ants. Not a happy coincidence, but I was happy that the main cause was so utterly simple.

This hyper-cleanliness has ebbed in and out over the months, but the true treasure is that I find myself resting easier with the faint smell of bleach softly, delicately burning my nostrils.

After all, New York is already populated enough with inconsiderate vermin, and then there are the insects.

First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

While boarding a flight and preparing for takeoff, I tend to immediately close myself off to surroundings. Headphones on, sleeping mask ready, and cash in hand for exorbitantly priced plane wine to lull myself to sleep - this trio works like a charm.

But while I purposely drown out the in-flight crash landing instructions, I recently realized that there's an important message to be found in these directions: in the event of an emergency, help yourself before attempting anything else (I'd say anyone, but I think that's territory for parents only. Write about what you know, right?).

The emergency that allowed me to come to the conclusion was a raging hangover, the variety that only strikes but a few times per year. I've cut back on the number of times I stay out drinking in this city, but when I do, watch out - a hurricane is brewing. The city becomes a giant enabler - God bless any former addicts or alcoholics trying to live here, because it can feel like substances are pushed at every corner. My feeble attempts to get to the gym, eat a healthy meal, or simply go to bed at a decent hour are scoffed at by the NYC Fun Police.

As with most lessons, this one is simple but can be used with varying levels of complexity.

Lesson #39 in moving to a big city: Help yourself before you think about doing anything else; there's always a lot to do, but you're going to do a much better job if you get a handle on your own life. I'm using the simplest example I know: being incredibly hung over and looking around my messy apartment, my growing to-do list, and the nagging voice in my head telling me to "better myself," which isn't enjoyable when paired with sudden, burning flashes of how many drinks I've had the night before. So this past weekend, I did things differently.

Instead of half-assing my day, running errands in a hazy state, scrounging around for bits of sanity in my mind, I allowed myself a luxurious hang-over. I basically stopped reminding myself of how I could've stopped drinking earlier, drank more water, or sweated a little less on the dance floor; I embraced the leftover party raging through my system. Then I took a shower to cleanse the Ke$ha-esque glitter I'd accumulated through the night and washed that hangover right outta my hair.

Until early evening, I didn't feel totally like myself for 2 reasons: 1. I was hungover and hazy, but more importantly, 2. I wasn't upset with myself for it. If anything, I looked at my actions as a mother might view her 2 year old: reprehensible, but oddly adorable and endearing. And at the end of the day, I had a new zest for life that only can come after hitting rock bottom.

I also realized that it feels good to have a day without expectations of oneself and just dedicated to whatever whim comes my way. And it would feel good to have such a day when not mercilessly hungover.

So did I energize my community, strengthen my friendships, and clean my small but nicely situated apartment that evening? No. None of the above. But a little self love went a long way that day, and I am a happier person for it. As always, cheers to days like these and to not figuring out everything at once.

Aix Rated

I'm experiencing insomnia while pondering my imminent return to the city that never sleeps. Instead of tossing and turning, I'm transcribing notes I took from the train ride to Paris to quell my racing mind and impart a little French wisdom before I forget any of it.

There's something about the watching the French countryside pass in subtle waves of green that forces one to be contemplative. After spending the last days with a best pal in Aix en Provence, and a true immersion in French living, I find myself already reminiscing about lazy dinners consisting of bread and wine (ahh the joys of vegan living in France), sunny picnics, and spending cherished time with mon ami, Meggie.

After days of resisting French cheese and cake, I've endulged in Aix-related (but most definitely not X rated) isms, as they're even harder to resist, so forgive me if a few make their way into this blog. Here are a few notable moments from the past week:

1. Upon asking for the check, post 3 hour dinner, our waiter simply hands the group the wine menu and requests that we "order another bottle instead!" Aixasperating, but endearing.

2. Everyday is perfect for a picnic - in Aix, at least. We spent two afternoons sun-bathing, a nearly cloudless sky above and our market bounties below. Also: is there a bad time for a bottle of French wine?

3. Wandering the city streets, running on espresso and wine, makes getting lost easy, and getting lost in your own thoughts easier. But waiting until a best friend finishes class, to enjoy more espresso/wine with, can make the quietest cobblestone street echo with anticipation.

4. While I couldn't participate in the cake eating, where a toy is hidden into a baked cake, and the person that finds in his cake is "King/Queen for the day," I was treated instead to an impromptu clarinet solo by our host; his joie de vivre was contagious.

I've come to realize that la pura vida exists anywhere you're willing to look, even waiting in the gritty sidewalk cracks of any city, as long as you're open to appreciation of the moment. I will say, without a doubt, the sidewalk cracks in NYC are vastly superior to those in France - I have a new appreciation for Americans cleaning up after their dogs (a sub lesson to below: take more care to watch where you're walking.)

Lesson #38: Recognize the need to get out, break free of your surroundings, and choose a place that's as opposite to your life as possible. If you can, go somewhere international if you'd like your flight to remain in the "On Time" category (at least my picture here captures this sentiment as of late). Lastly, this may not always be possible, but my advice would be to immerse yourself in another culture and way of living - the time away will feel longer, but more importantly, you may even momentarily forget where you're from, where you're going, and relish that only this exact moment matters. And maybe you'll even miss that great big bear of a city after all - but mostly, you'll appreciate how easy it is to come and go.

Proverbial Lemonade Stand

My old apartment in the West Village had a lot of issues. When the heat was working, I wore three layers of clothing. I found a few mice. There were late night weekday poker matches with thick smoke and thicker accents. But I realized I needed to move when we didn't have hot water for days, then it was suddenly shut off - we were alerted by the posting of this makeshift "sign" out of cardboard and writing with the dirt from under fingernails.

I was raging, needless to say, upon reading this. I couldn't believe they treated us so poorly, and just fumed for probably a day. So pissed I took the above photo. I wanted to show everyone that cared about me, so they could see just how rough I had it (poor, poor me.)

However, when I got home from work, I was greeted with a slightly tweaked sign:


At first I scoffed at this new sign and became enraged simply by seeing the color red. But then, I quickly realized two things: 1. Being pissed off wasn't going to do a thing in this scenario, and more importantly 2. It was actually kinda funny that I was so pissed off, and everyone around me was dealing with the situation too. At that moment I decided to get off my high, pissy horse, realize it could be worse, and started relishing the fact that I had an excuse not to shower.

Lesson #37 in moving to a big city: This is as cliche as they come, but life is so much easier and more pleasurable if you manage to find the funny, ironic, silly parts to a situation and choose to laugh at it instead of curse it. I had a lot more trouble being able to do this when I first moved, since there's just so much stress that it's hard to let go of it. But as much as you can, find what brings you joy and remember that being happy is a choice. (Also, in cases like the above living situation, another lesson is to move.)

Hell, I curse and I feel the force of anger threatening to impale me at times, but as I get older (wiser?) I'm gravitating towards the Lemons into a Lemonade Stand model of life. When I feel rage coming on, I try to take a step back as much as possible and deal with it instead of allowing it to simmer. Humor is how I deal with it most effectively. I'm amazed by how much a short clip of Maru or a funny stand up act can influence my thoughts; I'm working on getting that inner joy/laughter from within, but when it doesn't work, you can't blame a girl for getting it however she can. I usually need to get past the initial pissed off angst, then it gets surprisingly easier to calm down and enjoy whatever it is I'm supposed to be pissed about. Or I just force a smile and to oft surprising results.

{EDIT: I have an even better example of choosing to laugh at something. The other day, I was wearing my absolute favorite pair of corduroy pants, which have been worn so much they basically don't have the raised threads that make them corduroy. I took a deep bend and they split right open all down the leg. I was deeply surprised, and could've gotten embarrassed and decided to embark on a diet then and there, but instead, I laughed. A lot. Then I ripped the pants further as a way of eulogizing them, since they can no longer be worn. I loved the hell out of those pants, and I chose to enjoy a laugh at my own expense rather than getting upset. I haven't been able to throw the remains away, just yet...not until I find another pair to take their place. Now that I think of it, that's not the first time my pants have ripped, but it is the best reaction I've had. :D }

So that's my gem of wisdom-y lemonade for today: you're in control, and feeling angry = bad, feeling joy = good. Why not increase the joy to anger ratio if you can? Again, this is a constant work in progress for me, but then again, so am I. Forever the same, always refining.

Pick your Poison

While I'm not an under-employed musician living in Chinatown, I can appreciate the basic tenet of this song: living in the city is stressful.

I've realized that one fail-proof way to gauge my stress/anxiety level is to simply check my fingernails. Some people's weight fluctuates. Others break out, or get dark circles under their eyes. While I'm not immune to any of these either, my fingernails are the constantly victimized ones.

My thrashing, stress laden teeth come down on my nails with no abandon. The pearly white beasts don't stop until there's (literally, sometimes) blood. I'm not kidding, though it has gotten better over the years.

I've struggled with nail biting my whole life, trying various remedies. Most notable: my dad bought me the terrible tasting nail polish to deter me from biting. Turns out I liked the feeling of ravishing my nails more than I disliked the taste of said polish.

Lesson #36: Learn to accept that some of your bad habits/vices are simply here to stay. There are enough pressures and outside stressors that you should pick your battles, and pick your cuticles if it helps deal with stress. My nail biting has only been exacerbated by living in this city. I go through phases where I'm able to grown them out a dainty millimeter or two. When I get to this point, my nails become a precious, exotic novelty, and I protect them the way a mother shields her fragile babies.

But then, lo and behold, I get stressed and the next thing I know, they're gone. I generally have no recollection of the nail biting happening, but I have learned to keep them a bit longer than in the past. I suppose I'm learning the subtle art of restraint?

At the very least, you'd think I'd appreciate the decadent iniquity of nail biting. But the stress saps that small joy from me, and essentially bites my nails for me since it happens so quickly, and without memory.

Somewhat ironically, the only things I've found consistently cheaper in the city are manicures. However, the last time I went, the nail technician seriously considered whether or not it was worth painting my nails. They're beyond hope (her words). But now that I've started to just accept this vice, I can focus my time figuring out how to handle inevitable stress more effectively. Who knows - maybe that'll help with the nail biting, and lead to a new career as a hand model.

(if you ever see me with these, please introduce me to stress immediately.)

Veggies! Get 'em while they're...Crisp.

Never trust the Man, man. Unless he's wearing overalls and a big straw hat.

One of my favorite and delicious choices I've made in this fine city was joining a CSA. While paying up front for six months of groceries was hard to swallow, it's more than paid for itself both in quality of food and in what I've learned (been semi-forced) to cook.

Every Wednesday, my friend Lizzie and I split a share of fresh fruits and vegetables from local NY/NJ farms, which is delivered directly to our office.

It reminds me of a grab bag (aptly titled The Bag - Jamie, you know what I'm talking about) full of jewelry, which you don't get to open until you purchase. While living in Ann Arbor, my roommates and I shared one CSA with another house (meaning it was essentially split six ways), but ironically, we rarely finished it. Reminds me a little of the bystander effect, if you think of vegetables as desperately wanting to be eaten, which I generally do.

Having ownership of an entire half has caused me to step up to the (dinner) plate, and up my cruciferous game. No two weeks have been the same, and I can honestly say I wouldn't ever have bought on my own:

fresh dill, parsley, thyme

swiss chard/kale

leeks

radish

to name a few.

It's kept me on track to eating well every week, since it comes automatically and doesn't require a trip to the grocery store. Obviously, living in a food capital like this one, it's easy to eat out and spend little time in the kitchen, which I find incredibly soothing (I really hate identifying with gender stereotypes, but I seriously love to cook. Give me an apron and pie recipe, and I'm set.) I probably end up shopping even more to make complete meals with seemingly random vegetables, but it's so worth it.

I've only had two issues with the CSA, since the rest has been bliss:

1. It's awkward bringing a bag o' groceries with you to bars and happy hours. Be prepared to be called 'Farmer Cathlin' by friends.

2. The peaches. They just haven't been rave-worthy this season. It wouldn't be a big deal if it weren't for the free, amazingly succulent peaches we have at work...mere feet away from where our food is delivered.

Lesson #35 in moving to a big city: Join a CSA! Or at the least, vow to shop weekly at a Farmer's Market if you're not ready for CSA type commitment. Not only will this help you feel more connected to local farms and your community, but you'll cook more adventurously and often. My only regret was taking so long to join to get in on the action.

So now, I leave you to chew on this thought:

"Sex is good, but not as good as fresh, sweet corn." - Garrison Keillor.

Reading Rainbow

Opening Books, Opening Minds

I've made a series of important realizations in the last year, which I've begun reflecting on as this week marks the end of my first year in NYC. While I plan on sharing many of these in due time, there's one realization that I simply must share. Don't judge me for the lack of depth on this one.

One of the books I've been most fascinated with over the past year is called the China Study, and I'd highly recommend reading it as soon as possible. As Neal Barnard, M.D, put it, "reading it may save your life." While Barnard makes a good point, I'd argue that you're more likely to be asked incessant nutrition questions when you'd rather not be bothered than saving your life, at least in the short term.

Lesson #34 in moving to a big city: Be wary of your reading materials in while public, especially on the Subway. Instead of reading the China Study, for the past couple weeks I've felt like I was reading a book called "Pretend You're Interested in Nutrition and Try to Pick Me Up. Seriously. Why Else Would I be Reading This?"

I recently heard the Subway described as "the traditional hot bed of lust in the city" on NPR, no less. Apparently the golden ticket for creating lust is being armed with a well titled book. Strangers rarely talk to one another here, but without fail, people start up conversations about this book.

So my main point is this: if you'd like to meet more New Yorkers, possibly get some dates, and get a few lusty looks, find an interestingly titled book and take and hold it proudly everywhere you go. If you're not interested in any of this, which is where I'm at, keep the China Study and other bold sounding books at home and instead pick up some some romance novels, the Twilight books, and perhaps Eat, Pray, Love. It'll ward the onlookers in this city off as effectively as silver to vampires.*

*I actually haven't tried any of these books on the train, but I have read the Sookie Stackhouse vampire novels on the train before. The most attention I ever got was a sad knowing smile from a woman across the train reading the same thing. I can't believe she wouldn't give me her number.