Not Your Typical Post...

Every Shabbat dinner my family had when I was a child was identical to the one prior. My mother's pots would clang over the Israeli music coming from our old, oversized silver casette player, the one with the counter my mother used for when she recorded my sister and I practicing the piano. My family, immediate or extended, is by no means boring, monotonous or mundane. We are lounder, more boisterous and a bit more sarcastic than your average tree of kin. But like all families, there are a handful of things which mine does exceptionally well (of course there are a few that we do extraordinarily poorly as well), but for these few works of art we've never attempted improvement. Friday night sabbath is one of the better in our repetoir, holidays in general we excel at, but friday night dinners stands out as exceptional. It's by no means because my family is perfect, we are far from that finish line, but we love and we love well. That is one thing this slightly irregular, haphazard family of mine knows, love-big gooey gumball drop sized pieces of love.

Chicken Insides and Mayo...

Braised chicken is what trickled into my gray matter during my weekend. Braised chicken and how to pluck and feather a bird properly. No, not really, but that you have to take the shmutz out of the middle, pull the neck out of the little bag and feel around for the heart. Then drop the neck on the clean kitchen floor and hear your girlfriend squeal. Before this weekend, if you had handed me a raw chicken I most likely would have cringed, sat it on the counter and preceded to stare down the already dead poultry. After confirming it's lack of life I would have googled to see if you are able to microwave a whole bird. Who knows where it would have gone from there. But alas, I know longer own a microwave (I know! Tell me about it!). They aren't allowed in my new home I now cohabitate in with my girlfriend. My girlfriend the chef, enough said. I do not believe her refrigerator had seen mayonnaise since the previous tenants! I snuck it in, and before she knew it, we were eating BLTs after work at 2 in the morning! A small miracle perhaps? Or the beautiful give and take of a blossoming relationship? The latter holds more validity I'm sure. For BLTs at 2am, I'll dispose of my microwave any day!

It's IKEA or bust... For a dresser that is. Recommendations for 2nd hand stores with funky/vintage/retro furnishings would be appreciated.

Reveling in Slow Reading...

I always believed I was a fairly slow reader. It doesn't really matter I suppose. Do I enjoy what I read? Yes. Does my father, the man who blows through two hardcover new releases in a 8 hour period while waiting to have surgery also enjoy his books? I assume so. But what I have come to determine over the past three days, a period of time in which I purchased a new book, read only that title and finished only 10 pages, is that I do not read slowly but read sporadically. What do I mean? I mean that I read a paragraph and am inspired and begin jotting notes in the margins. Then I'll make it through another paragraph, dog ear and abandon the page altogether. I love to read, I drool and spatter the pages of good prose with my saliva, but the time I have to to write is so minimal that I hoard it like a squirrel would acorns in November. My point, yes I do have one, it that when I'm and gray and wear matching purple paisley dresses with my girlfriend, then I'll worry about not reading quickly enough. Until then, slow sporadic consumption of words with intermittent pit stops for chicken scratch will have to do.

GO OBAMA!!!

Well, they did it. Healthcare, at least I think they did. I'm not exactly sure why they have to vote so many times and why they insist on using a gavel, but none the less, they did it. Go President Obama! Hell yes we can! It gets me all firedup and patriotic. Can't you tell? Well, if you can't take my word for it. It is a dreary Monday morning in Manhattan. Ironically, I'm sitting in my doctor's waiting room. I'm tempted to go running up to the receptionist (pardon me, administrative assistant) and say excitedly, "this is all free right!?" For some reason I do not think they would be quite as amused as I am (I tend to amuse myself easily, it's a G-d given blessing and curse at one time), considering they are sweeping in a bundle of cash from this poor bookseller. I know, cry me a river, but seriously, this whole "out of network" bullshit isn't necessary, at least not to my pocketbook (which I stress is no Berkin to begin with). But seriously, "out of network"? Whose network? The almightly gods of United Health Care? Apparently so. But what? Did my OBGYN miss orientation? Was he not allowed to rush or pledge some secret, underground fraternity, therefore is now labeled as an outcast or (insert gasp) an "out of network" provider! G-d forbid! Can I help my doc out here, write a letter? I suppose calling 311 for this matter wouldn't help. So for once in my life I'm left speechless with a large "out of network" charge on my Master Card. and once again, the grand MC, accepted everywhere you want to be, even the gyno.

Frustration...

So apparently it is much easier to setup your own FB page for your blog and have numerous individuals as your friends than it is to have more than five individuals follow your blog. Did that make sense? Then again, those five individual don't exactly count (no offense to any of the five). Let me explain... One is the girlfriend, one is the best friend (well two actually), one is best friend's girlfriend and the last is a friend of the friend... Oh forget it...

Onward and upward... Last night my girlfriend leans over on the subways and plucks a gray hair from my head. Foreplay. My first gray hair. I find another one this morning before I get into the shower and briefly debate bringing home hair dye this evening, having the girlfriend dye my hair and swearing her to secrecy. Then I came to my senses. I am numb to any expectations of beauty society imposes upon me. Is that a wrinkle I see?

Here it is!!!

http://www.ecosalon.com/orgasmic-organic-aphrodisiac-foods-for-great-healthy-sex/

Oh, how proud I am of myself!!!

It Must be the ADD!

So apparently "tracking back" and inserting a link are two totally different things huh? Didn't know that... So here is the link to the aphrodisiac food... Sorry about the heterosexual couple making out on the top of the page... Or would it be blog??? Does a blog have a page??? Oy...

Sit Like A Gentleman!!!

Perhaps I'm a bitch or innately an anxiety ridden country girl at heart. Whatever the truth may be, I've taken to heart the antisocial habits of a true New Yorker. Point in case (never loved that expression), public transportation. Don't get me wrong, I love the train, subway, metro; whatever you call or refer to it as, the NYC MTA hold a special place in my heart. No, it's not for the putrid odor of vomit slightly after midnight on January 1st, or the vile smell of freshly urinated booze on an August day at west 4th, no, it's simply that I think, or write, well while riding underground. A short aside- I do not discriminate against any form of public transportation and do not mean to cause insult to any or all bus routes, the simple existence of bus nausea prevents me from fulling appreciating their atmosphere. My apologies.
Back to the original topic at hand, I don't really like people very much. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I loath them, but depending on the day of the week, time of day and train line, there is always that possibility that I go bitch like some go werewolf! The most obvious characteristic of this transformation is my territorial nature when it comes to my personal leg space. Long explanation short-just because you are a man, and therefore have a single extra appendage (which I guarantee is smaller than you say) does not mean you are allotted twice or three times as much space on the metro. You're just dead wrong in that arena. So fucking sit up, put your legs together and, like my girlfriend says, sit like a gentleman!

Next stop is matching Hawaiian shirts!!!

Aphrodisiacs

Dating a chef is fabulous! She's a great cook and knows all the aphrodisiacs to put in our dinner. But in a way I feel like she slipping me the date rape drug!!! Here is a site on the food of love so you too can take advantage of your girlfriend! http://www.ecosalon.com/orgasmic-organic-aphrodisiac-foods-for-great-healthy-sex/

Ok, copy and paste bitches, and someone let me know how I can trackback to another site. Gracias! (No, I don't speak Spanish.)

"Pat the Dead Rabbit"

Work gives me anxiety, period. I don't mean butterflies in my stomach, first date or piano recital anxiety; I mean full on, full blown, stomach wretching, heart thumping, hand tremor anxiety. Why? Because "Pat the Bunny" doesn't have an ISBN.

I'll explain... An ISBN number, for those who are not aware, is pretty much a book's product number. Turn over any hard or softcover book and there it is, tadah! Now feel your life become enriched, just kidding.

Let's move on... There tend to be two different numbers, the "13" and the "10," but that's irrelevent to my story. What is relevent is that you sometimes NEED one of those numbers, especially if your biggest anxiety ridden fear materializes on a sleepy Sunday morning: having to ring at cashwrap. To make a long story short, cut to the chase, you can't ring up "Pat the Bunny" without a skew to scan or an ISBN number to enter. It just isn't possible, and of the 35 copies of "Pat the Bunny," this woman wants to buy probably the only copy of "Pat the Bunny" with both an unscannable skew and an illegible ISBN. Needless to say, after it was all said and done, I did not want to "pat" the bunny but "kill" the bunny!

The Utter Anxiety of Vino...

There is nothing quite like the anxiety that being sent to purchase wine ensues, it resembles the nervousness of a DVD rental (that is pre Netflix era), but there is nothing that tops off the nerves of an already axious individual like a good vino selection.The anxiety of grabbing a bottle of wine for Shabbat dinner exists tenfold when you live in NYC. You are either forced to pay through the nose for a bottle of Shiraz or forced into a wine store where the line for the register begins at the door and snooty New Yorkers, already beaming from their selection, stare at you uncomfortably while you first find your region, then your varietal and finally settle on the perfect vineyard (which half the time to a novice is chosen purely through the graphic design of the label).

Duck, duck, goose... Continued...

Perhaps I'll occasionally wander into my former place of employment and will mull around the bargain books looking for old calendars and muttering about times gone by and hours lost. I'll most likely attempt to punch in at the time clock and after numerous attempts and failures a kind-hearted M.O.D. will eventually give me faux numbers that they will have to alert Human Resources to. "Yes, I know she doesn't work here... Yes, I know she isn't being paid. But don't worry, she's in as seasonal so there are no worries about needing to give here benefits," the kind-hearted M.O.D. on duty will reassure H.R. over the phone.

"Thanks for calling Booksellers and Booksellers, this is one of many crazies... Hold for a moment, I'll transfer you."

Interview, shmiterview...

So please (who the hell am I addressing???), remember that the funny "thing" is a work in progress...

This photo is not a photo of the bookstore I work at... Nor is it where I had my interview (see below), but it makes me smile...

Much to my dismay, I had my second interview, in 18 months, this afternoon. I'll spare you the details of the first, the outcome being self-explanatory I assume. What is there really to say in regards to interviews anyway? I'm pretty horrible at them. My competence in this area is so poor that on this one occasion I had resigned myself to complete and utter failure, and success I believe I did achieve! No, I do not possess a self defeating prophecy, though that would explain a lot; instead, I see myself (if I may) as a sort of lesbian Woody Allen, completely inept and incapable of any or all forms of social (or at least acceptable) interaction. Perhaps now that this has clearly been determined I can resign myself to a life of forlorn and antisocial behavior.

So what happened with the interview you ask? To begin with it was with the YWCA and not the WMCA; which if I had known that, having a degree in women studies and all, I would have been much more excited about the potential professional prospect and perhaps would have made it there on time. Enough said? In conclusion: we were at the tail end of the blizzard of 2010, I submit that meteorological fact as my final piece of half assed evidence in my defense.

Duck, duck, goose...

Here are the stats; it's the top of 2010, I'm committed (in a relationship not in an asylum), slightly homeless though not on the street (we'll get to that later), 18 months out of my undergrad and chilling at the customer service desk at the local Bookstore and Bookstore. Well that is, I'm working.

I didn't bother going to my college commencement and never received my diploma in the mail, but I don't really care. What am I supposed to do with it at this point anyway- hang it on my nonexistent apartment wall and brag how it landed me this fabulous job? I don't think so.

Like many of my generation, I found myself during my early to mid twenties making a career out of transferring from college to college. After one last cross country schlep, I settled my restless brain in the all promising NYC, was accepted into my terminal college and began my short lived career in women studies (in my next life I will be a gender studies theorist complete with tenure). I moved into an overpriced LES studio, met my last boyfriend (I say last because I would shortly precede in discovering my own lesbianism) and landed myself a part-time gig as a book slave to Bookstore and Bookstore. Fast forward four plus years and here I am. My part-time gig has gone fulltime, President Obama has called for jobs to be the number one concern of the country (but of course let's not abandon healthcare reform just yet), and I'm banking on my tax return to pull me above the debt mark.

I probably sound downright miserable huh? Oh on the contra my dear friend! Yes, fiscally I'm screwed. The lights and sounds of NYC do not come cheap (neither does the smell or noise), but if I really wanted to fall into a deep depression I would have by now, bought a shot gun and popped myself off outside a mosques in Jackson heights while screaming g-d is great in Farsi. But my desire for that lags, maybe because I have that " been there, done that complete with the psychotropic drugs and inpatient treatment" experience that some of my fellow and fella recessionistas my age have not experienced. So apart for the occasional teary-eyed moment of overwhelming fear that I will never amount to anything and I'll windup a casualty of the great early millennium recession. I'll stay at my crappy bookseller job until the one day I crack. I'll be shelving books on existentialism and realize none of it matters! Nothing matters! Because it's all connected! Or is it everything matters because it's all connected? Either way, I'll look up at the florescent lights, close my eyes and scream, "I want waffles," and then "you're all being ripped off! Don't you know the markup on this shit? You're all sitting ducks, sitting ducks to a giant corporate retail scam! Ducks! Ducks! Duck, duck!" That will be it, I'll look down from my ladder and as customers walk by I'll pat them on the head and yell duck! I'll jump from my ladder and run through the displays of brightly colored ribbons and wrapping paper playing my own game of duck duck goose. When I make it to the front of the store, I'll look up at the caricature of earnest Hemingway painted on the wall, make glaring eye contact with the literary genius, point to him and scream "goose"! If security doesn't drag me out the back at that moment I'll make my exit through the revolving door.

The glamour will end there and I'll be homeless on the streets; I'm now the crazy book lady that wanders from Columbus Circle to Lincoln triangle staying between Amsterdam and central park west- except for the occasional venture east to feed the birds in the park.

TO BE CONTINUED…