The 5 Week Itch

Through a lifetime of rigorous field studies, I have determined beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not a girl who needs a boyfriend. It’s important to note that this is not at ALL the same as not wanting a boyfriend – it just means that I am not going to bear the company of some dude who struggles with subject verb agreement and whose reading list consists of menus and street signs, just to have someone to spend my evenings with. That said, it’s probably not a good policy to ignore every guy who, upon first meeting, does not immediately strike me as a catch.



This leads me to my current situation and it is one I have found myself in before. The actual guy in question matters less than the situation itself (this time a fellow who does something related to cars and the maintenance they require – but it could just as easily be the foreign guy, the writer, the consultant). And the situation is this: I begin casually dating a guy who I think will be “fun” knowing 100% that it will not be “permanent”. I also know from the beginning that the fun will not last forever but I figure why not enjoy it while I can. So - this all goes along great until I reach the inevitable point when his lack of interest in anything besides Belgian beer and football stops being charming and starts being REALLY, REALLY annoying.


Then what am I to do??? This point is often reached after 4-5 weeks – too late to easily do my go-to: the fadeout (though I have done it). A conversation, on the other hand seems a little much given that this is not even a full-blown relationship. As a rule of thumb, I try to avoid conversations about feelings and whatnot as much as possible. And in this instance I don’t even have something dramatic to point to as a cause for my not wanting to see them anymore. 4-5 weeks isn’t enough time for: cheating, working too much, not wanting to have children, being an alcoholic – I mean, really I hardly know the guy. The only thing to say is - “You annoy me please stop calling. I know you didn’t annoy me before but you do now. Sorry.” I am definitely not ready to have that level of frank discussion. I am not even that honest with my doctor.






So, what am I to do??

Rachel McAdams to the Rescue

As you all know, I have suffered through my fair share of terrible movies (see also: Slumdog Millionaire, The Wrestler).  I, however, had no idea about the depths of misery that could be inflicted by a movie until I saw The Deer Hunter.  I should probably say that much of this experience was my own doing - although I did not suggest this movie, I was not tied or bound and placed in front of the television with my eyelids super-glued open.  My culpability ends there - the rest of the blame lays squarely with De Niro, Streep, and whatever satanic director thought up this visual monstrosity.

The beginning of the movie was tricky - a group of friends, a wedding, small town camaraderie.  Sure Meryl's dad drinks too much and hunting deer does not make me very happy, but it wasn't terrible.  I knew, though, that the relative calm and tranquility would be short-lived.  I just knew it.  And then, OUT OF NOWHERE, the unsuspecting viewer is transported from western PA to a freaking Vietnam POW camp.  There were underwater cages, nasty vietnam army guys, and games of russian roulette.  I am sure there were all sorts of other unpleasant things but I had my eyes closed for much of it.  I reopened them just in time to see some nice american boy blow half of his face off in that game of russian roulette I was just telling you about.

All told, I think I made it through about 45 minutes of the movie before I had to ask (demand strongly) my host to turn off the movie.   I just don't understand why people think the world would be such a terrible place if all movies featured Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts.

Fortunately, I was able to purge that horrendous experience from my memory this weekend when I saw Morning Glory.  A terrific little film with a star-studded cast: Diane Keaton, Harrison Ford, Jeff Goldblum, and the real hero: Rachel McAdams.    As Manohla Dargis wrote "If you spend enough time with Rachel McAdams, it’s easy to get lost in the pleasure of her company, or at least become enjoyably distracted. Effortlessly likable, she has a way of keeping you tethered to her character even when your attention begins to wander."  You hear that, Streep?  Oscars alone don't make you likable.

Fancy Picture Box

This summer, facing personal fiscal crisis and thinking myself culturally superior, I cancelled my cable subscription.  I was sick of paying $100 a month for something I barely used.  The way I figured, I could use the $60 of that that was for the TV on something else and fill my time easily with books (hello library!), the New Yorker (each article easily takes a whole night to read), and most importantly Hulu and Netflix On Demand (so I could watch my select shows and movies). And when my Rafa was top-spinning his way to 3 major titles I relied on the the good graces of friends and local drinking establishments.  All of that entertainment and I could still take the cultural high road and respond "oh, I don't have TV" when someone would ask me if I had seen Dancing With the Stars.

The problem was - I am not nearly as sophisticated as I thought.  I missed the TV real bad.  I lived in denial abou this for several months but what finally spurred me to action was Sunday mornings.  I REALLY missed Sunday morning talk shows.  The main drawback of online TV viewing is that you can't watch anything live or current.

So, last weekend I went to Best Buy determined to remedy the situation.  I asked one of the helpful clerks what I could get to "make the pictures come on" without cable and he pointed me to some old-school rabbit ears.  I was THRILLED.  Sunday morning TV for a one-time $11 purchase?!  I got home and followed the instructions (very short - old school technology is so user friendly) and hooked those little guys up.  NADA.  I stuck the antenna out the window and the best I could do was fuzzy Home Shopping Network and spanish cartoons.

I was crestfallen.  Defeated and downtrodden, I got my phone and called those monopolistic bastards at KableTown and made an appointment to return the pictures to my life.  The experiment is over and I am once again part of mainstream, tv viewing America.  A car AND cable - it's like a whole new me!

Super pumped for Millionaire Matchmaker tonight!!

Hello!  Wow, it's been awhile since I have tapped out one of these little posts.  Something special has inspired me to write again.  A friend (technically, a husband of a friend...but he's a nice enough guy so we'll go ahead and call him a friend) has recently started a cool blog called Feed the Animal. On the site he tells little stories and anecdotes through recipes - I know there is a parallel to be drawn here but it escapes me at the moment.  In any event, check it out.

So this weekend Rafa and I packed up our bags and headed to Flourtown, PA to dog sit for the Goodmans (of the aforementioned Feed the Animal) fame.  Inspired by Dave's cooking and not wanting to miss an opportunity to cook in their AMAZING new kitchen (a considerable upgrade from what passes for a kitchen in my apt) I headed out to the Whole Foods and procured the makings for a fall feast.

Grilled Halibut with Sauteed Brussel Sprouts and Roasted Butternut Squash with Sage and Shallots.

Over on FTA, Dave is pretty good with setting out recipes and measurements...carly pumpkin...not so much.

The brussel sprouts are a variation on a dish served at Audrey Claire and they are delicious.  If had bad brussel sprout experiences as a child or have avoided the food all together because you just assumed it would be vile; this dish will change you.  It's REAL good - and very easy to make.  Just halve the brussel sprouts, put a healthy amount of butter and olive oil in a pan, salt, pepper, and away we go.  It's important to get the sprouts to brown, the more brown the better.  Equally important to cook them thoroughly, you want them to be very tender.  Tough sprouts are no good.  Here are the sprouts in action:

Next up we have the butternut squash.  This is a little more labor intensive than the sprouts but very tasty.  First, you have to peel and cube the squash:

Helpers:

So after you have peeled and cubed, slice a shallot and some sage leaves.  Toss all together with olive oil and place in 400 degree oven.  Ideally, after 25 minutes you have have nicely browned little squash bites, this didn't really happen for me so I threw them under the broiler for a couple of minutes to finish and that worked pretty well.

There was also halibut which a) does not photograph well raw and b) was so easy it's hardly worth mentioning.  Cover halibut with olive oil, salt, pepper place on well heated grill pan.  Sear each side and finish in oven with the squash.  Served with a shallot butter (minced shallots, butter, salt).

Delish.  The finished product:

If only our movie selection had been as good as our meal.  For future reference, Katherine Heigl and Ashton Kutcher do not make convincing CIA operatives.  I know, I was as surprised as anyone and had to discover this the hard way.

Stacy, judging from the clues left around the house, was this the meal you would have guessed?

Cooking Sountrack: Bruce Springsteen.

Served with Malbec.

Some People Wait A Lifetime for a Moment Like This...

First, let me apologize for the delay in this posting;  I know many were disappointed.  But frankly, when something this major happens it's best to collect one's thoughts before commenting.  No, I did not find a husband or a new job (I obviously would have at least updated my FB status for such a major event).  The moment I have have been working towards for five long but satisfying years finally happened: A Career Grandslam. For my Rafa of course.  My Rafa, fresh off of wins at Roland Garros and Wimbledon, dispensed with opponenents from near and far as he steamrolled his way to victory at the US Open.  All while dropping only a single set. 

The whole tournament was amazing and I even got to go see a match.  That handsome gigante, John Isner.  He didn't win but watching in person was super fun and yelling "COME ON, JOHNNY" is really satisfying.

And although I did not get to see my Rafa in person following him through the Open was thrilling.  He looked downright princely in his evening attire of jet black and neon green with a sporty new short hair cut to match.  His play was mesmerizing and the win well deserved.  It's so gratifying to know that my yells of "VAMOS HONEY" and the lengths I go to watch all of the matches despite not having a TV are worth it.

You're welcome:

PS Thank you to Kelly Clarkson for the amazing song that lent this post its title.  You never fail me and will always be the American Idol to me.

Let Jesus Take the Wheel

If all goes according to plan, I will be starting a new job in the near future. The process of getting said new job has been painfully protracted and the consequence of the delay has been the incessant asking of EVERYONE I KNOW if "the new gig has started yet" and "any word on the start date" to my personal favorite "you're still here?". I have to muster all my charm and goodwill not to respond "I am sitting at my computer right? I would take that as a pretty sure sign that I am still here". But instead, I smile and say "Ha. yep. still here. keeping busy, though".

Last night I was skyping with my father who, despite his strong efforts, can not resist asking me about the new job. I tried to allay his fears last night by saying that he could rest assured knowing that I would not forget to mention to him that my months-long wait had come to an end and I had started my new job.

By way of quasi-apology he said that he just had so little to worry about that he couldn't help but worry about me. I pointed out to him several things in his life that I thought were worth worrying about to which he quickly responded "nah, that's all in god's hands". I agreed with the approach and said "yeah, god is my co-pilot". And then, without hesitation, my dear dad informed me that: "Nope, god's riding with me. He say's you're fucked".

Guess I'll have to switch my bumper sticker, then. Rafa would never let me down.

Dreamweaver

About once a week I have some variation of the same dream. I dream that I am driving a car but can not hit the brakes. Sometimes I can't reach the breaks even though I am stretching my leg out as far as it will go. Sometimes it's because I am in the back seat and can't figure out how to get to the front. I also have the opposite of this dream, where I am trying to run but can. not. get. my. legs. to. move. These dreams are right up there with the "holy shit, it's final exam day and I didn't study...I am not going to graduate" dreams...which I still have and wake up feeling oddly uneasy. Not nightmares, per se, but still unpleasant and not nearly as fun as the time that I dreamt that Justin Timberlake and I were dating and on vacation in Sun Valley, ID. I woke from that dream feeling awesome.

My friends at the New York Times are telling me now that I can have all Justin dreams and no more car dreams and definitely no dreams where I have a baby and can't remember where I set it down only to realize that one of the cats at my aunt and uncle's house has eaten it! Oh no, no more of those dreams. From now on, what you see below will be what I see between the hours of 9:00pm and 7:00am:

AC

I feel like lately my second job (albeit a super fun one) is celebrating 30th birthdays. I celebrated my own with a blow-out pool party that was filled with family, friends, dogs, and a parrot pinata. We had Brie's (friend not sister) in Nashville at a great restaurant where several bottles of wine were ordered and Real Housewives of New Jersey meets jet-lagged-Japanese wedding-guest impersonations were performed. And the evening ended magically with a killer round of charades out on the patio of the Hampton Inn with Brie exposing her stomach to get the group to "Team Jacob" (sidenote: I am now a staunch member of said team but we shall save that story for another time).

And this past weekend we had Jordan's birthday. Jordan flew to Philadelphia on Friday for night in the city before her brother joined us and we headed to Atlantic City. Wanting all of my friends, former boyfriends, and childhood playmates to know about the spectacular weekend I had on tap, I updated my status on facebook to let all who were interested (and all who weren't) know that I was about to have a weekend of "ACs". The first AC was Audrey Claire where Jordan and I dined on Friday night, followed by AC (Atlantic City of course) all of which I hoped had AC (air conditioning), don't worry I complimented myself on the cleverness of that wordsmithing.

Atlantic City managed to exceed my rather high expectations in multiple categories. Accommodations: we stayed at the Water Club where our room was really nice and the complimentary toiletries were top-notch. Dining: Great seafood dinner at the Borgata. Sadly, our performance at the blackjack table did not permit us the $395/oz caviar on the menu. People watching: It was in this last category that A.C. honestly nailed it. I mean, they hit this one OUT OF THE PARK. If Jersey Shore ever needs to host an open casting call, they need to look no further than the pool at the Water Club, it is gold! I can now spot fake boobs from 100 yards out and realize that it makes NO sense to have 1 tattoo when you can have 17. But wait, the people watching gets even better. In addition to the wanna-be Snookis at the pool, I got to add another A.C. to my list: A.C. SLATER!!!!! Unbelievable. I peeped him coming out of mur.mur and stood on my chair and screamed "holy crap, is that Slater???". The blackjack dealer quickly and firmly told me to sit down. I did one better, grabbed my chips from the table and Jordan's iPhone to get a couple of candids!!

All the News That's Fit to Print

I read the New York Times everyday. I look forward to the Science Times on Tuesdays, Dining&Wine on Wednesdays, Thursday Styles, and the Sunday Magazine is one of life's true pleasures (even if the articles are a little long and it sometimes takes me a week to finish them). I have favorite writers and contributors, David Pogue (the technology writer...a testament to his writing really that I read his columns at all given that I don't have TV and my cell phone is 5 years old) Mark Bittman, David Brooks (recently names the Liberals' favorite conservative). And I have least favorites: I am looking at you nose-in-the-air film critics A.O. Scott and Manhola Dargis.

Well, I have a new favorite to add to this: The Crib Sheet: The 10 Things to Talk About This Weekend. I am not sure how long this column has been around but I am just now catching on and this shit is FUNNY. Here is # 7 from the week's list:

Bedbugs infest Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister stores in New York. God sends insects to those who flaunt their abs in the workplace.

Rafa Nadal 5, Rafa Bolger 0

This weekend marked my Rafa's (the boy not the dog) return to his rightful place at the top of the ATP rankings. He fought his way back to number 1 after a year of injuries. On Sunday he found himself across the court from that Swedish weasel who knocked him out last year. Only this time my Rafa was on fire (el fuego). Fist pumps abounded and he marched all over that weasel in a straight sets victory to claim the Coupe des Mousequetaires for the fifth time. In a related story, in the women's final on Saturday Francesca Schiavone grabbed the women's title...just a few weeks shy of her 30th birthday. Watch out Paris, I am looking to get me a title in 2011!!!

In between watching tennis matches, I managed to fit in some quality country time and took my other Rafa for a nice run through the woods. Although Rafa doesn't "run away" per se, he is very much a trail blazer. He far prefers bounding like a bunny rabbit through the woods than trotting beside me on the trail. Usually this works out ok and after his speedy pursuit of a deer or other Rodents of Unusual Size that are lurking in the forrest - he returns to my side and we wrap up the run. This time though the trail got the best of him and at the end of our run he had two divots missing from his rear paw pads and by the next morning a pretty gruesome hot spot on his tail. We went to the vet the next day and emerged with antibiotics, steroids, a cone, and booties for the little guy. I am not sure if it's the shame of walking through the neighborhood dressed like a freak show or mood swings brought on from the juice, but our daily walks are NO fun right now!

Be sure to check back for updates on the Rafas. Vamos!

The Real World: The Country

It appears as though this summer could well entail a temporary (though extended) stay at my country house. In previous seasons of "Real World: The Country" cast members included a former nanny, said nanny's work-at-home fiance, their albino cat who was confined to the basement, and an incredibly loquacious friend of lynnie's who slept on the couch and whom we avoided as much as possible. This season's cast will see the addition of Aunt Nancy and the Ronster Monster (the RM) and of course Woody and Splash. So all told, the housemates will include: 2 aunts, 2 uncles, 2 cousins, 4 dogs, 4 cats and ME!!! Oh boy, what a way to say hello to 30!!

Unsurprisingly, the planning of summer activities has begun in earnest. Nancy and I are set to have a summer book club where we will read and discuss the building and defense of our great democracy. First selection: The Federalist Papers. The dog agility course is on order and ready to be assembled in the back yard (I think Rafa is going to really excel at this). Standing appointments have been set up for 6am workout's with Nancy's trainer. So, last night as we were rattling off these plans , Nancy took a slight detour to talk about my cousin Hannah's recent dance recital (a 3 day event that I was informed I should put on my calendar now) where she performed routines in jazz, ballet, hip-hop and tap. Nancy expressed genuine enthusiasm for all the performances but told me that tap was now on her "bucket list"...the list of things of things she would like to do before she kicks the bucket. I said "you want to learn to tap?" to which she humbly responded "Carly, I don't know how I CAN'T learn". She has already consulted with the RM about the construction of a ply-wood dance floor in the basement.

This is going to be awesome.

Happy Camper

I have often commented that my weekends in the country are like summer camp for grown-ups. Activities abound: trail run in the morning, tennis after lunch, bike ride before dinner and then dinner which is definitely better than standard camp fare if only because the canteens are filled with wine and cheetah-ritas! Well, this past weekend was my first real country visit in quite some time. The weather was perfect and we spent nearly the entire weekend outside. There was much anticipation for the first bike ride of the season. Lynnie got a bike last summer (a Specialized designed for a racer but remarkably well-suited for a .... Lynnie. See the Blue Bullet in action above).

The family pelaton assembled for the inaugural ride, banding together as Team Pathetic for summer 2010 racing. The belly-aching began before the first foot hit the pedal, excuses were laid out before the helmets were buckled, and the slow-pedaling commenced as soon as the downward coast out of the driveway ended. In case you are wondering, the answer is "yes" I do sometimes feel like Michael Jordan playing a pick-up game during these rides, what with my lightning speed and all. See Nancy looking victorious after launching the speed assault on wheels that is Team Pathetic.



The ride was great and was followed by a delicious dinner. Given the persistence of my quasi-vegetarianism, Rafa got to eat my helping of lamb. And it wouldn't have been a holiday without a Wong. This time Cousin Amanda was the lucky recipient, so glad she doesn't have one arm.

PS I hope you all enjoy the freshened up layout... I would have liked something a little snazzier but it turns out blogger really doesn't give you much to choose from!

It's the End of The World as We Know It

Snowpocolyse, Snowmaggedon, and today: Snowzilla vs. Flakenstein Grudgematch. The mid-atlantic region has recently looked a lot like Alaska (if only Rafa could pull a sled) with record breaking snowfalls blanketing the area. Aside from taking Rafa for snow romps, I was left with a LOT of time to fill this weekend. I have mentioned before that TV sometimes struggles to hold my attention (exceptions of course for Glee, The Wire, Real Housewives of NJ) and now a new unlikely TV hero has arrived to rescue me from hours of snowbound boredom: Patty Stanger. That's right, my friends at Bravo have brought me a little present in the form of The Millionaire Matchmaker. One episode and I was HOOKED. From "sex-toy dave" to the botox ridden "superficial bitch" the entertainment just doesn't stop.

We are supposed to get another 12-18 inches of snow, and while I could spend the snowday saving our schools I will instead be praying for a Millionaire Matchmaker Snowmathon.

Edited to add: I was so caught up in relaying my love of Millionaire Matchmaker that I forgot to tell you all about Rafa's future as a search and rescue dog. Rafa's nose is second to none, he can sniff out the dog park and discarded chicken wings from a block away. During our wintry walk on Saturday, he was burrowing his little snout into a three-foot snowbank with purpose! I commented to my walking companion that he clearly had the makings for a search and rescue dog, and all this without ANY training. After nearly a minute of determined pursuit, Rafa resurfaced with his rescue: a raw, semi-frozen chicken cutlet. So provided the would-be victims of the next natural disaster strap themselves with raw poultry before being buried alive by rubble....Rafa to the Rescue!!!

Suave Tigre!

On Day 1 of our Costa Rican adventure I set out with my Aunt, Uncle and two cousins to Playa del Oro, a remote beach on the pacific coast of costa rica. This was not a beach like Miami, Cancun, or even the Jersey Shore where the sand is packed with groups of people each producing their own symphony of sound. The silence on the beach was blissful and precisely the reason we had flown five hours and driven 2 hours on dirt roads to get here. There were no boom boxes or obnoxiously loud sun bathers; just the sound of the waves and the muted noises of the few other people on the beach. As for the others on the beach…this was a local spot, we were the only Americans on this plot of sand. A fact immediately understood just by glancing in our direction.

My aunt and uncle had toted two beach chairs down from my father's house. Not the kind of beach chairs with the various stages of recline and relaxation but rather the short, stout, and stiff variety. The little squat chairs that put your butt approximately a half an inch off the sand and are favored by unnaturally tanned, older women who like to bring them to the water's edge so that they may read their romance novels while the ebb and flow of the sea keeps them cool. There they sat perched upon their striped chairs, he wearing a shirt designed to keep one's base layer dry when performing daunting physical activities like climbing K2 or making breakfast. They also work well at protecting one's winter white body from the beating Costa Rican sun. My aunt employed a more classic technique and was but a stick figure beneath a sun dress, a towel draped across her legs, a baseball hat and sunglasses.

I don't know if the books they were reading were boring or they grew tired of watching the waves roll in, but they mutually decided on an impromptu Spanish lesson. And out came the Spanish to English dictionary and the Latin American Phrase Book. The latter quickly became the preferred text and as I drifted in out of awareness from reading my book I could hear the murmurs of mangled Spanish followed immediately by cackles and giggles. I paid closer attention as the impaired declaration of Spanish phrases grew louder. As any born entertainer would, my aunt and uncle sensed the interest growing from my cousins and me and began to play to the crowd. Before long they were shouting these Spanish phrases and I was no longer paying any attention to my book. Because, really, whatever I was reading was not nearly as engaging as the screams of "mas rapido! mas duro! mas lento! suave!" (faster! harder! slower! softer!)

My uncle had stumbled upon the chapter dedicated to pillow talk (conveniently located after the chapters on "in the bar" and "pick-up lines") in the phrase book and he and my aunt were now effectively holding a public audition for a Latino porn. When my uncle offered "Queres entrar un rato? (Do you want to come inside for awhile?) My aunt demured "No lo voy a hacer sin protecction" (I won't do it without protections). When my uncle persisted " Vamos a la cama" (Let's go to bed). My aunt shut him down with "Suave Tigre!" (Eaaasy Tiger).

Just another day of family fun time at the beach!