Martha's Vineyard 2009

Mia and her sister live in a treehouse of sorts. Their apartment's elevated so when you look out from inside, all you see are leaves. Peaceful.

MV Update to Come Shortly

10:39 a.m., July 4, 2009

Perched atop beach rocks in Oak Bluffs

All right. As you can see, I'm having problems motivating to get the pictures from Martha's Vineyard downloaded and cleaned up for juliaipsa. I started the process, but it's been absolutely gorgeous in New York this week and there simply isn't a better time to embrace the rare opportunity to aimlessly walk around the city on a whim than when I'm still unemployed. In addition to my lack of focus, I'm waiting on a few snapshots from people on the Vineyard, and Lord knows how long that will take seeing as how they are the polar opposite of city folk. There's not a single type-A personality on that island!

Anyhoo, to satisfy a deeply hidden part of me that must be narcissistic, I thought I'd at least post this pic. I took this to commemorate my first visit to the beach in...six years? In fact, I think the last time I stepped on a shoreline was in 2003 when I last journeyed to Martha's Vineyard. This time? I. LOVED. IT. It was still morning so no crowds, the water was cold, but it was warm in the sun, and there was a strong cool breeze. It was amazing and now I want to live on the beach. You turn 28 and you start liking the beach after a lifetime of hissing at sand, sun, and waves. Weird.

Of course, this brief forty-five minute session in the sun left me with the flakiest face ever. I have a pretty peeling nose and a chest that is currently in the process of transitioning from a screaming crimson red to a wrinkled brown leather. Uber attractive.

Just Got Back From Martha's Vineyard

...and all I have to show for it is a gnarly sunburnt chest and neck. It hurts like a bitch and if the security guard hadn't patted my burnt shoulders so hard during the random body check at the boarding gate that my hand came this close to slapping her square across the jaw (reflexive involuntary muscle movement, ahem), I'd have nothing else to complain about save for the puffy pink mosquito bites gracing my juicy little legs. I will gather photos and put together a little synopsis tomorrow. But I have something on my mind...

After being tucked away in the woods and the beach for four days, one of the first things I did upon returning to my apartment tonight was scan through my news feeder in Google reader. (I'm freaking addicted to up-to-the-minute news.) I am really bothered by this article in the New York Times today. It tells of the first family's vacation destination this summer. Word on the street is that they're heading to Martha's Vineyard.

"The island, which is 23 miles long and 9 miles wide, has six towns with distinctive traits. The Obamas are likely to stay in or near Oak Bluffs, where upper-class black families have been vacationing for decades."

Um. Really? Who the heck gives a flying pig's ass whether the first family stays in OB or not? Just because the Times published that line, I hope Barack parks his clan's butts in West Tisbury. I can't possibly be the only one weirded out by the whole "upper-class black families" comment. I suppose when the Clintons vacationed there, the Times also noted that they would most likely not stay in OB because oh, um, they're not black?

And You Wonder Why I Love Roseanne

Scene: Becky's husband Mark walks in on David and Becky. Becky is holding David's hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MARK to DAVID: What the hell are you doing holding my wife's hand?!

DAVID: She was just trying to make me feel better.

BECKY to MARK: God, Mark. Can you possibly be more boorish?

MARK: I'm sorry I'm boring you, Becky.

The Baby Exists, Really

Lest my friends on the internetz worry that I am a crazy lady posting pictures of a baby that I don't really know, I present proof that she is not a figment of my imagination and I do get to play with her. These are shots from Tuesday's lunch at Già Pronto taken by her mama on her Blackberry, hence the fuzzy quality. Good to see that the little one has an appetite and can be an adventurous eater when she's in the mood.

There Are Three of Us in New York Now

Wednesday, July 1, 2009
7:15 p.m.
@ Boqueria Flatiron
If you ever make it for some tapas, we would recommend the dátiles con beicon.

Classic Rice Krispie Treats

I foiled my very own magnificent plan to cut these guys with pretty cookie cutters, dip 'em halfway in melted chocolate, and then shower them with dainty rainbow sprinkles. It happened when I realized how incredibly uncooperative the sticky marshmallow batter was behaving with the pot and the spoon. It had been years since my last batch of Rice Krispie treats; it wasn't until the warm mixture stubbornly clung to everything but the flat pan that I remembered that I should have lightly sprayed the spoon and my hands with cooking oil before handling it. Irked and annoyed at my own poor planning, I nixed all the fun parts of the process. Well, at least the finished treats looked pretty in my head.

Directions:
>Melt 3 tablespoons butter
>Add 10 oz. (usually 1 bag) of marshmallows to melted butter over low heat. Stir until melted.
>Toss 6 cups of Rice Krispies into melted marshmallow batter. Coat well.
>While still warm, transfer mixture onto flat pan.* Pat mixture firmly down onto pan.
>Cool for 20 minutes.
>Cut into squares.

*Spray hands and/or spoon lightly with cooking oil before handling mixture to avoid sticking.

Half Korean, Half Chinese: Identity Crisis This Is Not

Sometimes it's nice when the UPS guy buzzes your apartment in the middle of the day when it's humid and sticky outside and you're slouched over on a heavily stained Ikea couch in front of the idiot box feeling schlummy and sorry for your unemployed self who - did I mention? - must drop $75 to replace keys that she carelessly left in a NYC cab this past weekend.* This is because the delivery man brings a padded envelope containing a picture of a cute baby that now graces the cover of said girl's ice box. At least that's what he did today. UPS men are magical.

*Maybe next time he'll deliver a manual on how to avoid run-on sentences and on the importance of maintaining subject consistency in written communications.

A Harmonious Union

It's really kind of comical how perfect these two are for one another. It was a lovely ceremony, my first that wasn't affiliated with any religion. The biggest difference that stood out to me was that the bride and groom stated their intentions for one another instead of their vows. Interesting, n'est-ce pas?

H.R.H.

I do not speak to my father. He was an ass when I was born, a bigger ass when I was growing up, and has since sat comfortably on his throne as His Royal Highness The Biggest Ass On This Planet. While my sentiments may sound harsh, cruel, and most certainly disrespectful, they're nearly thirty years in the making. I spent most of my childhood praying that the man would just go away. Let me be honest: I sent out a lot of prayers to the big guy asking that he be thrown into hell. I wish I were joking. Imagine an eight-year-old praying that her father be sent to hell. Go ahead and judge me all you want but understand this: it was just that bad.

I'm no longer a little kid at the mercy of her parents and have sought forgiveness for praying that my father be sent to hell. What I pray for now is that I just get over it already. I have accepted who he is, but with that acceptance, there is a sobering reality: I cannot include him in my life. He is not welcome in my home. I do not entertain his occasional attempts at e-mail or phone communication. Distance is the only way to keep the peace, if you can call it peace.

Tomorrow will be his twenty-ninth Father's Day. I wonder which, if any, of us four children will wish him a good day. I'm gonna guess none. There were moments when I've wondered if we have half-siblings somewhere out there, siblings who saw a [good] side of our father. There's that wishful thinking again. Alas, he is a man deeply flawed. My father is weaker than most, a man whose pride is insurmountable, whose misgivings and ego together make him an ugly monster to his firstborn. I accept the overwhelming disappointment.

Image: http://www.someecards.com/

Me Thinks They're Real

Soeur went to Koreatown to get her eyelashes did. And by did, I mean extensions. This Ebenezer place on 32nd Street is supposed to be da' bomb. Looks freakishly not fake and lasts for up to two months. Those Korean people are krayjee. But it looks krayjee good.

He He. Ha Ha. Peace Out.

Y'all. Check out that sky. Simply. Beautimus. This is a snapshot taken during my homeward-bound walk to the subway stop from my SoHo office for the very last time on Monday. And yes, that's right, folks. IT IS ALL OVUH. I couldn't be happier to be done with that place. No more kindly and patiently explaining definitions of words to ignorant morons. Figure out nuance, per se, and née on your own, fools. Sucks for you that no one will be there to say, "Erm, I don't think that's a word" and when you give me a quizzical look, I suggest, "Why don't we look it up?" and sure enough IT'S NOT IN THE ENGLISH DICTIONARY and thank goodness we caught that before it went to print because can you imagine someone dropping $300 on a cream if they read that on the box? On second thought, they probably would regardless.

/Continue Slightly Tangential Tirade.

I'll never forget clarifying the meaning of "catalyst" to someone on our team, a former seventh grade English (Language Arts) teacher. He taught in one of the most affluent public school districts in California for four years and a few of his sections were designated as honors. And we wonder why international students time and time again surpass American students on American standardized examinations? TRAIN YOUR FREAKING TEACHERS, AMERICA. Throwing textbooks, calculators, and computers at them isn't enough. For starters, give them qualified teachers. Don't place a teacher in a seventh grade English classroom if he doesn't have a seventh grade vocabulary level himself. What an idiot.

/End Slightly Tangential Tirade.

After serving my last day, I feasted at my favorite Thai place and then caught Up in 3D. Does anyone else heart Russell, the chubby lovable Asian kid? I for one was very pleased that Pixar didn't blow his character by relying on Asian stereotypes. He didn't have a choppy accent or a debilitating shyness or any super duper mathematical abilities. He was just a plain old awkward American school-aged boy.

Pixar, thanks for keeping it real on a day when I really wouldn't have been able to handle it otherwise. And one more thing: "SQUIRREL!"

Last Lunch: Duke's Udon

In case you were wondering what seven dollars gets you in SoHo at lunch time, Duke's Cafe on Broadway between Prince and Spring has enormous cups of udon noodles dodgered up with vegetables and tofu. This here is evidence of my last lunch at the office, circa Wednesday of last week. I locked myself away in our empty conference room, read a few chapters of Toss of a Lemon, and gazed out the window across the street at the Mercer Hotel's housekeeping staff making their daily rounds. I'm gonna miss Duke's. There's just nothing like a team of hustling Koreans barking orders at their customers.

I return to the office for my final day tomorrow, but I'm pretty sure this udon was my last meal in that place - ever. Things got ugly over the course of this past week and as a direct result, I lost my appetite for lunch. I'm looking forward to marching out of that hell box with my nose turned up at the trash I'll be leaving behind.