Food for thought

            There is a love and love relationship that I have with food. If I could just sit around all day and eat, I would. I'm positive that I'm not the only one who would be a member of my food-loving club. A friend of mine recently brought up the topic of food while we were out for a walk and we began a discussion about all of the affiliations we have with food. One of those connections is certainly life. We humans cannot live without it, in fact, no animal on Earth can. Besides that, love goes hand in hand with this dire resource.  It's the way many of us know how to show how we feel about one another. For instance, my mother has always been a very loving and affectionate person to my three brothers and I. But, beyond the hugs, kisses and sweet words, the way that she really showed how she felt about us was through food. Like many women from any European culture, they would rather starve than think for one-second that their husband or children were even remotely hungry.
            As I was grocery shopping this morning, I began to reminisce about my days as a wee little lass. Growing up, grocery shopping with my mother was the bane of my existence. While my father was out working one of his two jobs and my brothers had the time of their lives terrorizing the neighborhood, my mother would drag me on a walk to the grocery store across the street, or really, it was very busy Route 44 going through southern Massachusetts. Food shopping for my mother was the only time she didn't have to feel guilty about spending money, so she went to town in that place every week. The first stop was always the fruit and vegetable section and by the time we got through that, the cart would already be half-full before we got to isle two.
            One thing that my mother never bought, to her credit, it junk food. Our meals were always big and hearty filled with lots of protein and vegetables. Although, at the time I hated any and all fruits or vegetable because that was all we were allowed to eat. If we even mentioned that we might be hungry, my mother would run to the fridge pull out the carrots and start peeling the whole bunch of them. However, we never had a chance to be hungry. Before we could peel our backpacks from our shoulders coming home from school my mother would have a banana peeled and ready for us when we walked through the door. We would find the most demented places to hide our bananas just so we wouldn't have to eat them. I was master of this hide and seek game. I would stuff them in the shower drain, drop them out of our second story window at just right angle so that they would plop down into the bush below or just toss them into the woods behind the house. The toilet was never an option because my mother would listen for the flush. To this day the four of us can't even take a whiff of a banana without the need to suppress our gag reflex. What I wouldn't give to have an Oreo cookie or a cheese puff like the other kids at school. 

            On our grocery store adventures, the last stop however, was always the challenge. It was the dreaded dairy section. You see, my mother didn't believe in giving her children just one tall glass of milk a day, it was always a minimum of a quart size glass twice a day for "strong bones". To fulfill this quota, it was necessary to purchase no less than five gallons of milk at a time and I was responsible for finding the little nooks to put them in the already mountainous cart, while my mother would decide in that moment to go back for the things she forgot.

            At checkout I could almost feel the thoughts rolling around the checker and bagger's heads as they tried to assess the situation that was rolling towards them. Trying to get through the shopping without being spotted by anyone from school was bad enough but exiting the store and getting back home still makes me flush with embarrassment to this day.  Rolling the cart out of the store was a balancing act between the two of us, as we would make our way down the long ramp to level ground. Then, before we even hit Route 44, there was the massive minefield of a parking lot with man-sized potholes to swerve around every six feet. God forbid we got stuck in one of those. I'd be picking up groceries all day. I would try to hide my face behind the towering cart of paper bags as we finally hit the road but there really was no hiding for me and it was do or die trying to cross Route 44. By the skin of our teeth we always seemed to make it, however, slightly deaf in both ears from all of the honking.

            The grocery stores here in New York City are probably a third of the size of the one's back home. However, I can't help but think of what it may have been like doing our shopping here in that time. I'm sure my mother could probably clean out this store in a month. Key Food would certainly need their stock boys if we lived in the neighborhood. 

Dr. do little

            The average person would probably list visiting a dentist as one of their greatest fears in life. The way those people fear the drill toting, PhD certified, closet sadists, is how I feel about physicians. At least with dentists you don't have to strip down to your underwear, adorn a flimsy robe that flaps open in the back and lie down on a bed too firm for comfort, in a small, claustrophobic room, usually without windows. Actually, I'm beginning to wonder if it's the physicians that are more like the sadists than the dentists. I've had my health insurance in place since January and haven't had a physical in nearly four years. Putting myself in an uncomfortable situation for no particular reason, just never occurs to me, unless, I felt there was something I should worry about. Thanks to good genes and my neophyte, nutritionist mother, I have been the picture of health for most of my life. Why mess with a good thing?

            Earlier in the month, I mustered up the courage to make an appointment with a doctor, just so that I could put my mind at ease and rule out any possible health issues that could come creeping up on me. I'm nearly middle aged you know. This morning I dragged myself to this here appointment with sweaty palms and a racing heart rate, which I'm surprised they didn't assume I was in the early stages of cardiac arrest, when I finally got there. After checking in with the cranky receptionist at the front desk, complaining under her breath about having to fill in for the regular who called in sick today, (not a good sign if she works at a doctor's office) I had to wait over an hour to be lead through a maze of hallways to my tomb of an examining room. From there, I had to sit another fifteen minutes in half nakedness for my doctor to show up. What on earth do these doctors do for fifteen minutes EVERY time I do this? I did make an appointment didn't I? I used to wait tables at a restaurant once where I was responsible for ten tables at a time and I don't think I ever had anyone waiting more than five minutes for a side of ketchup.

            Finally, this little woman comes in, asks me all the appropriate questions about my family history, bowel movements, sleeping patterns, etc., all while she pulls out her tools to check my ears, eyes and makes me say "ah" like a toddler asking for her bottle. Then five minutes later, she gives me the thumbs up and the exam is over. That little thief! I want my co-pay back! I could have done the exam myself or had a friend do it for me for free!  I suppose I could have asked her to do blood work, just in case, but why would I want someone to stab me with a needle and suck out my precious blood? They already took my precious money! I should have been a doctor. Then I could make hundreds of dollars an hour interrogating people while shining bright lights in their orifices for five minutes and then take fifteen-minute breaks in between to go hang out at the Starbucks down the street. And here I thought that being an artist was living the dream. Silly me.  

Parli Italiano?

            Of all the languages that I've come to hear in my life, Italian is the one that I find most sumptuous to the ear. I can't help but think that all Italian's think they live in a musical. Every word they say sounds like they're singing them to you. The words start in a low tenor then they suddenly hit a mezzo-soprano before sliding back down to a sultry bass. Ah, like a day at the Riviera.  They could be yelling at you but, that doesn't matter, you can't help but smile and tilt your head at them as they sing song the F-word to you.  One of the languages I just have to learn is Italian. Visiting Italy is one of the major destinations on my register of life's ambitions and I don't want to go there like a typical American, assuming every other country in the world should know how to talk to me in English. I'd like to earn their respect and give America a better name. Something other than stupid and arrogant would be nice. Luckily, I happen to be fluent in Portuguese because of my parents. Both being immigrants from Portugal, I grew up only knowing Portuguese for the first five years of my life. Then eventually learned English as they did, watching Sesame Street together. Having a Latin based background certainly helps the cause.

            About two weeks ago I loaded up my Italian version of Rosetta Stone and began lesson one. Now, those of you who have never taken-on a Rosetta Stone lesson before... you would have to be an idiot to not be able to digest and master lesson one of anything they mean to teach you. They drill words and phrases into you that will have you waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares, screaming in the language you didn't think you knew. Before long you'll be dreaming of bambinos (little boys) on bicicletta (bicycles) with their big drooling cane (dogs) chasing you as they scream the Italian you haven't learned yet because it's all in lesson two of your Rosetta Stone. It may be wise not to study your lessons just before going to sleep. Just saying.

            After finally having the second lesson of Italian completed and recently ingrained in my head, and because I like cooking, I learned a generous helping of some culinary terms to boot, I thought I'd take the chance and try to put it to some use, or rather, show off. Today, while waiting for my train to arrive, I heard a couple talking earnestly to each other while hovering over a sheet of paper they held in their hands. My ear gleefully picked up on some of the words that I recently acquired to my vocabulary as they were singing their Italian to one another. They seemed a little confused so I thought I would try to help them.  I first stood around earshot, like a stalker, and tried to understand what they were talking about so that I might be able to better understand what the problem was before I jumped in. It sounded like they were arguing about how to get somewhere and they didn't understand the directions they had on their paperwork. Filled with great pride that was able to put this information together, I put on my sweetest smile, walked up to them and asked, "posso affettare?" (Can I slice you?) It looked like their eyes were about to pop out of their heads and I think they stopped breathing for a few seconds. Slowly, they begin to back away from me and went to stand with a group of people across the platform, keeping me in their peripheral vision. I was so confused and hurt by their reaction because all I wanted was to win their approval. Jeez. What did I say?

            Later, I downloaded a translation app on my phone to figure out what I had said wrong. Ah, now I see. Thought I was asking them if I could assist them, (posso aiutarvi?). This is not the right way of going about making Americans look good. Sorry compatriots, I tried.

Sucker for Dummies

            There's something like awe or maybe it's more like envy, which I feel for musicians. Playing the piano has always been something I wanted to be able to do, master it even. I watch prodigies like Harry Connick Jr. who started playing when he was something like 6 years old and released his first album at eleven and I want to kick myself in the face for not wanting to learn earlier in life. The other day I was at Grand Central station transferring trains when I heard this amazing rendition of a sonata by Mozart and I had to follow the source. I climbed up the escalator going in the opposite direction from where I needed to go from the train platform that I was on, to the upper level where I saw a small crowd gathered around my prodigy-come-to-life pianist right before me.  To my amazement, or resentment, I saw that it was a small Asian boy of about nine-years-old or so, playing a keyboard larger than he was. He played the instrument with his tiny little fingers floating effortlessly over its seventy-six keys and I wanted to kick him in the face.

            I've been saying for years that I would teach myself to play the piano if it was the last thing I did! And now, I find myself in my thirties and I'm hustling to stuff my head with all of this knowledge and condition my hands to do things it has never dawned on them to do.  It's like making yourself run a double marathon when you've never even sported a pair of running shoes in your life. A few months ago I splurged on myself and finally bought a basic sixty-one key Yamaha keyboard and a copy of Piano For Dummies. I tell you, if there were a How To Survive Your 30's For Dummies, I would buy it. I love these books like a fat kid loves candy. Over the last few years I've compiled a small library of these books and this one is my Holy Grail of them all. I'm not one of those people who can just scan through self-help books and get the gist of it. No, I read them from cover to cover because I know that if I miss just one verb or adjective, the whole thing is a bust and the only thing I'd end up playing is a tambourine.

            After studying the Dummies book, highlighting the important matter and making little flash cards for study later, I unpacked my Yamaha. This was a very exciting moment here. I then proceeded to carefully place the lovely instrument on it's stand, pulled up a chair, got into position and had no idea where the power button was for five minutes. Not a good start. I surely didn't become a master at playing after a day or two but practicing for about an hour everyday for the next few weeks I became very comfortable with fingering the keys and keeping my eyes on the notes on the sheet music in front of me. However, like many things I delve into with great passion, I also begin to slowly dissipate from and that's the worst thing you can do when your mission is to excel at something.

            Last night, before my head hit the pillow, I looked over at my neglected Yamaha and felt a pang of guilt. It's been at least two weeks since I've practiced and I could feel that I had already forgetting a slew of what I've managed to teach myself. Then this morning I woke up early to see a friend and get some writing done before going to work but when I got off at the 34th Street station subway, there he was... that little Asian boy prodigy out to haunt me and feed my guilty conscience. Why are you tormenting me little Asian boy? I didn't really mean it when I said I wanted to kick you in the face. Forgive me? Please? I'll practice more, I promise.

Three tequila...floor

            In this city, called New York, where many major financial partnerships and career investments have probably been made in any one bar around the corner, mixing with the natives is key for any one involved or seeking a career in any business. This goes for artists of all forms as well. It's a rough job, that networking, especially when you've had one too many tequila shots and fishbowls filled with God knows what. Having my first Friday night free in months, I felt it might be a good idea to let loose a bit. I've spent too much time doing nothing and that had to change if I wanted to prosper in life.

            Overly dressed for the warm weather that came out of nowhere, from the time I left my cool apartment and set foot in Times Square, I decided I needed a wardrobe change if I didn't want to be walking around a sopping mess all day. Grabbing my best girlfriend, Erin, who also showed up wearing the same dilemma from head to foot, we hit the overcrowded stores in the square to redress. The second we walked into the nearest store, I took one look at Erin and pure horror stretched across our faces. It was a three story mad house of women tearing clothing off racks, hair whipping about and lines snaking through the racks leading to the dressing rooms and cash registers. Taking in a deep breath, we braved the sea of disaster in the name of fashion and dry armpits and jumped in.

            Two hours later, our ordeal was over and we hit the pavement running as far from the stores as possible and settled in to a Chevy's Tex Mex and ordered their biggest margaritas on the menu. Much better. After two of those bad boys and a shot of Patron, I was in no way able to have a decent conversation with anyone other than my equally inebriated friend sitting across from me. Foolishly, thinking I had finally escaped the dark cloud of my birthday, our waitress, whom must have overheard our conversation about my recent birthday, came out of nowhere and slapped a rather large and badly beaten sombrero on my head and I was suddenly surrounded by half a dozen singing waiters secretly hating every moment of this degrading situation. God bless them though. I knew they equally hated their lives right now too. As a waitress going on eight years, I knew exactly how much they hated being birthday singing waitresses. Erin chose to take a picture of my initial reaction of the situation, which I saw posted later on the Internet, and my face hid no trace of the disgust I felt. I was an open book to my inner anguish. Forgive me Chevy's staff, nothing personal, you all sang so lovely, honest.

            Our next destination of the night was Hoboken. The occasion: someone else's birthday party. One of top things to do on my bucket list is to travel as much as possible. Sadly, my monetary situation will only allow me to go as far as New Jersey at the moment. I didn't exactly have this year planned out. Hoboken was about a ten-minute train ride from Manhattan. I figured, I've got to start somewhere, why not New Jersey.

            Hoboken had the same feel to me as Cape Cod, Massachusetts, with a splash of urban flavor. As soon as you step out of whatever transportation brought you there, you can immediately smell the salty waters of the Hudson nearby, as well as lime scented bile permeating from the guy throwing up his margarita in the alley next to the tiki bar you just passed. Perfect harmony. The little town had a youthful energy with funky shops, hip bars and restaurants running along one major strip while brownstones gave it that city vibe you might find in parts of Brooklyn. Honestly, it was much nicer than I had expected and I hoped to visit Hoboken again, during the day. I wondered if it still looked as lively then.

            The good thing about drinking is that it really does seem to melt away all of your anxieties, inhibitions, and the stress that seems to cake onto you like mud on pigs living in a large city. The bad thing about drinking, however, is that the only thing you end up remembering at the end of the night is you, doing the running man in the middle of a crowded dance floor just so that you can score an XL cotton blend Coors Light t-shirt from the DJ. They make great pajama tops. Although, if everyone else around you is too sober for forget you exist the next day, you may finally have the fifteen minutes you always dreamed of, but you'll never want to show your face in places like little town, Hoboken, again.

P.S. Stay away from the blue colored fish bowls at Bahama Mamas, unless you want to end up doing The Worm under the disco ball. Had I finished mine, it would have come to that.

One down

            Well, I made it through day one with not a scratch on me. Only 364 days to go. I'm off to an excellent start here. Although, yesterday, I spent the night at work, trying to be discrete and forget that it was my birthday. Just the way I like it. However, that's an impossibility these days, due to social media. Damn, that Facebook! I get to work and the first thing I see before I can even focus my eyes in the dim lighting on the person in front of me, I get hit with half a dozen screeching adults yelling "happy birthday" in my ears. Then at the end of the shift my co-workers go so far as to sing to me while hovering a warm chocolate cake in front of my face. Woe is me. I'll take the cake just stop singing, PLEASE. I suppose it was worth the embarrassment for a good sugar fix.

            Sitting at a Starbucks on this fine foggy morning with a tall cup of joe in front of me, I decided to begin day two of my life getting the wheels turning. One of the many things I hope to accomplish within the year is to read and learn as much as I possibly can. At the moment, my guilty pleasure is the famed Fifty Shades Of Grey by E. L. James. For those of you who are not familiar with this here book... it's basically housewife's porn in the guise of a harmless paperback with a discrete and simple cover design. Open those pages, however, and oh boy, it will swallow you whole. Walking in with a copy of the book tucked under my arm I sat down at the only table available hoping to focus solely on reading. Bad idea. Awkwardly enough, in the middle of the cafe where I have no place to turn where I can hide my blushing face. I couldn't get more than a page or two without looking like a giddy twelve-year-old after hearing someone say fart or penis in a quiet room, full of people. I need to stop reading this book in public.

            For those of you who frown upon my reading choices, I can say that this is actually "required" reading for me. I'm a proud member of a small book club that meets once a month on a rotation. I say proud because it's quite exclusive. I had to wait a few friggin' months to first, wait for someone to drop out, then, second, be recommended by someone who was on the "inside." You got to know people in high places apparently. Who would have thought you would need to go to so much trouble to be in a book club? Jeez. Well worth it though. I'd never get through reading a book I normally wouldn't pick up otherwise. And it keeps my introverted-self social. Each member of the club has a chance to host at their apartment. The host prepares a dinner based on the theme of the book for everyone and the rest of us bring a bottle of wine. After we have all read our book we vote on a date to meet and discuss it over food and lots of wine. We are all intelligent, avid readers with different backgrounds and different tastes so our meetings have had some great debates and revelations because of this. Monday is our meet date for Fifty Shades and I'm on pins and needles to get to the end of this one. I'm a little curious to know where this month's host will go with the theme this time. Hmm, I think I should bring two bottles of wine.