The Snow Globe

Okay, I'll admit it: I had been skeptical about the imminent storm that had all inhabitants of the tri-state area absolutely hysterical (needed to make a quick stop at your local Target/Rite Aid/Safeway Thursday night for something casual like toilet paper, cereal? HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAA. You mean you didn't stock up on a lifetime supply of Charmin and Kelloggs the moment the weather girl cried "snow"??) There was a general air of terror and knee-shaking that only seemed to amplify as the sky pooled snow clouds overhead.

We tucked in with some Snow Day Stew (potato-broccoli-cheddar soup I made up combining this and this recipe) and our well-timed Netflix of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Season 4. And we waited. And I've got to say, I was all but rolling my eyes at the dribbly, innocuous, slow snowfall that fluttered down Friday night.

Ever heard the phrase "Slow and Steady wins the race?" Yeah, okay. You win, snow.

Here we are, knee-deep, under a sky that just won't quit.

Below you can see the Hello! sign in lieu of a snowman. This was sheer carving, no piling necessary.

That night David and I trekked out to his show at the Annex with our friends Josh and Liz. We'd started the afternoon delights with hot buttered rums (and though I strangely had no aversion to the thought of drinking melted butter, sugar and alcohol, I would really only recommend this one for the brave at stomach. Also, a rum that doesn't taste like gasoline might be the way to go) and had quickly progressed to a case of Tecate. Despite this, the involuntary faceplant into the unplowed roads was still highly possible. Here, Josh trips in front of a hill that used to be a vehicle.

Baltimore is still a snow-globe;everyone's on gchat "working from home." I'm making Valentines and beginning a very exciting collaboration project that I'll be sharing soon..

EDIT:

We are SIX DAYS into the blizzard. We are working on an additional 20 inches, as I type. Also, there was apparently an earthquake in Chicago last night... Anyone else feel like Mother Nature ain't just crying wolf anymore?

The Lotus Feast (or, On Pleasure)

In 1997, Brian Gilbert directed a sort-of biopic on Oscar Wilde, which you may not recall because a little ol' movie by the name of Titanic dominated the hearts, minds and credit cards of Wilde's intended target audience-- women ages 18-44, and gay men the world over.

I call the film a "sort-of biopic" because the focus is largely on Wilde's homosexuality (a point drilled into us about a quarter in, when David noted that we were on semi-explicit love scene #3), leaving the complexities and nuances of his working life as mere plot fillers for lag time.*

In fact, a viewer unfamiliar with the writer may walk away from the film forgetting the fact in lieu of the oh-so-more-juicy events surrounding The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. Yes, his work is mentioned; theaters feature his plays in the background; Constance reads his stories to their children; but the only time we actually witness Oscar writing is in one scene, a truly incredible scene (maybe the scene that made the film worth seeing) when Lord Alfred Douglas decides he is bored with Oscar's frugality and throws a hissy fit that is just so, to put it mildly, delicious:

"You're always so vulgar! No gentleman ever knows what his bank account is!" the very young and very convincing Jude Law screams, right before he runs from the house with abandon-- spit flying, arms flapping like some maladroit bird attempting a first flight. Child-like at vocal pitches maybe only dogs can register, his anger transcends even his vanity, and as you watch those delicately carved, pretty little features mangle in rage, you will have difficulty suppressing the image of Dorian Grey's matted soul. (And a good giggle.)

Nonetheless, the film, based on the celebrated biography by Richard Ellman, does shed a rather sensitive light over the man who brought us such quips as "It is better to be good-looking than to be good." We see him as warm, thoughtful, and compassionate, though certainly willing to forsake solemnity to entertain and be well-liked. In the scene where he is drilled by an irate Irish prosecutor while on trial for "acts of indecency and sodomy," he gives a very poignant, compelling speech that (paraphrased) while there can be no morality or immorality in thought, in truth it is not pleasure, not happiness, but one's true nature that must govern a life. Gilbert's Wilde seems willing to accept his, though he does appear somewhat shy and befuddled by it.

As any diligent neophyte of the School of Wilde, (circa 2002, junior year English class, The Importance of Being Earnest) I vividly recall the romantic tugs of Oscar's "Not happiness! Above all, not happiness. Pleasure!" The memory has me contemplating the frustrating dualities of such a seemingly simple concept: we all want to feel good, but there is a hairline border between evil Vice and acceptable Indulgence. And we humans are exceptionally prone to crossing the border.

Hedonism was hardly a foreign concept in my formative years: those who enjoyed themselves (or, lived for enjoying themselves) were usually the brunt of many-a off-the-cuff morality tale delivered if I was too entertained by a movie, or singing too soulfully with the radio. It became a challenge to even read a novel without someone accusing you of enjoying yourself too much. In the world of Wasps, you are trained to value suffering, to savor the right to complain about what you've endured, how many things you don't get to do; pleasure nullifies one's claim to a good sob story. And what would a Wasp do without her soap box?

Equally as important in my household were the Others, or, Those Who Made Us Feel Good About Ourselves Because They Are Not Whole And Pure Like We. (A.K.A, Democrats and Aggies.) As far as I knew, attending A&M meant you didn't know how to screw in light bulbs and voting blue was on par with petty theft. I remember a classmate parroting their parent's Clinton vote on election day and staring, mouth hung, as though he had just announced that he was, in fact, a voluntary Eunuch. And liked it.

As when, for the first time, I met intelligent Aggies and kind people unabashedly proclaiming themselves Democrats, I was agog when I heard my friend Ariel's parents shrug at a price tag for a family cruise to Bermuda (in the middle of the school year!): "Money is made for spending," her father said. It blew my mind.

So I did a quick thesaurus search for "hedonism" and discovered that "lotus eater" is a Macbook approved synonym. Otherwise known as lotophagi, this tribe consists of the pleasure-seekers from the Odyssey who lazed about doped up on lotuses.

(Above, Odysseus removes his men from these indolent pleasure-junkies.)

"Pleasure" certainly has it's negative connotations (which brings to mind that Mean Girls scene when the high school coach says, "Have sex and you WILL get chlamydia and you WILL die." Never mind he spelled it "Klamidia," he speaks the truth!) But what I've always struggled with is how the general school of thought, as distinguished by dear Oscar, seems to be that one can pursue pleasure OR happiness. But what about pleasures that beget happiness? Like travel, reading, bubble baths, or a really really good piece of cheesecake. Is it because I enjoyed it I can't possibly feel real happiness?

I'm just not buying it. To completely re-contextualize a Bill Maher quote for my own purposes:

"And it really is outdated in some ways - the "Life sucks, and then you die" philosophy was useful when Buddha came up with it around 500 B.C., because back then life pretty much sucked, and then you died - but now we have medicine, and plenty of food, and iPhones, and James Cameron movies - our life isn't all about suffering anymore. And when we do suffer, instead of accepting it we try to alleviate it." **

I mean, I'm down for a life with brunch, Amazon.com, cocktails and Netflix. Who's to say that these "simple pleasures" aren't actually little pieces of real Happiness? How is anyone who's ever found a 90% off flight to Hawaii, or completed a full marathon, or even just had a really solid, productive day, going to deny that the calm, quiet feeling nestled in the wake of accomplishment isn't an unalloyed bid for the Big H?

Whatever the case, Oscar's presence in Pleasure's corner just got me thinking about the complexities of definition, and the inevitable rupture of ensuing schools of thought. As usual, I tend to not choose a platform, but rather swallow the big gray pill with relish; to me, it is the mark of measured thinking to at least straddle the fence for a good long while before throwing a hat on a donkey or elephant (for example). Likewise, Wilde himself is not a compelling enough mascot for me to completely throw myself behind. Even if he did wear lush purple waistcoats and stand trial for something he (and I) believe in.

But I can throw myself behind hardback books, and french press coffee makers. And red wine and letters, runner's euphoria and yoga. Because, while happiness is certainly a concept worth scratching the head about, pleasure, dear, is not so difficult.

*This was a point that somewhat disappointed me, as I've taken a rather strong interest in the habits and schedules of writers. Annie Dillard's A Writing Life is a good source for anyone else interested in the exercise habits of Chekhov or the sleeping patterns of Octavio Paz.

**Bill Maher's comments on Tiger Wood's "Sex Addiction." Remarkably applicable.

I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.

So, in light of the fact that I'm apparently talking in my sleep about this, I guess I need to try to air it out in hopes that I will give my subconscious a rest.

The title post is taken from Jessica Rabbit's famous line in 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit." Jessica is, um, one hot mama, sporting every single physical jewel that plastic-surgery junkies consider mere modus operandi to "looking like the best me": soft, enormous, pillowy lips (often referred to as the Angelina Lips), teeeeeeeny tiny nose (think Heidi Klum), and, duh, some big ol' titties.

If Jessica Rabbit were real, I'm sure her repertoire would have been extended to an ear tuck, brow lift, cheek injection, and many additional "nips and tucks" to keep that waist so trim it's a miracle she doesn't crumble from the weight of such impressive décolletage. She may even have had some more personalized procedures, such as having an elongated chin shaved down, or implants wedged into her flat trunk ... sound familiar? Maybe like a certain young "starlet" who not only did get that chin shaved and butt "augmented" this past November, but also underwent each and every one of the aforementioned procedures in-- wait for it-- one, completely unnecessary, ten hour surgery. (Click for full photo)

As much as I wanted to resist joining the ranks of Heidi Montag's critics, I simply cannot get over these interview quotes that keep popping up over my dear Jezebel. (That and, when David informed me that amidst all the sleep-talk garble I'm famous for, my subconscious was apparently fuming over how she "looks like a tranny!") There have been some true gems that came out of her post-op interviews, but some quotes were, well, gut-wrenching. I'll let you differentiate:

• In response to whether she had chosen to unveil the new look in order to promote her conveniently timed release of her first album, she responded swiftly that, "Ohhhh no! That's all God's timing."
• On how young girls are supposed to respond to the apparently superficial and self-loathing message she's sending: "Well, my message is really that beauty is within."
• On if she thinks DDD is large enough: "I actually want H for Heidi."
• "I'm not addicted [to plastic surgery]. If I was addicted I would have had ten plastic surgeries" (Um... she did. Ten.)
• "I had to look through hours of photos for what boob size I wanted in Playboy...if you're going to do surgery, it's like doing research you know, for a paper you're writing."
• Paraphrased: "It's a spiritual transformation. God made Dr. Ryan who made me so it's okay with Him."
• "I went to an after-care place, and I was in so much pain, and like, literally crying, and just saying I-- I felt like I wanted to die, almost."

Wow. I love how she talks about the recovery with a definitive air of surprise, "It really.. hurt." What? Really? You mean that injecting all those foreign objects and substances and fats into your body didn't feel awesome? Because I always imagined that having my jaw bone sanded down would feel amazing.

I'm not really anti-cosmetic surgery, just to be clear. When I was growing up, the only kind of plastic surgeries I knew about were the standard boob/nose jobs, lipo and face-lifts that were generally frowned upon and seemed to only happen with the rich, bored, and unhappy. Now, while limelight, insecurity and shitloads of cash seem to make up the dangerous combination that launches many-a young celebrity into the rusty jaws of cosmetic surgery, I know many women and men who undergo the knife for reasons that are entirely reasonable: relatively so. While I don't think that multiple procedures (and certainly, some procedures even by themselves) are all that healthy for your body, I can definitely sympathize with the feeling that you're missing something (or have too much of something) that has nothing to do with exercise and healthy living. In an effort of full disclosure, I should say that I fully plan on having a boob-job of some kind after my breasts have served their purpose (after a life-long struggle with these guys, I will savor reclaiming them in my later years).

But while I don't necessarily love my chin or lips or nose, I think that shelling these features in favor of some stock plastic replacements wouldn't possibly bring me happiness. And while I don't know Heidi Montag, I just can't imagine that now that she looks like the Cat Lady's little sister, she's 100% happy with herself. And I can guarantee she isn't 100% finished getting work done either. One doesn't get neck liposuction at 23 and just ride out the fruits of that labor til death. Tis not exactly an endeavor with totally solid long-term effects.

Animalia

I'm finally getting around to sharing trip photos, a task that becomes quite daunting once your photo counts surpasses 500. My very human instincts are telling me to do so in a methodical, organized fashion, one that presents the photos by motif, and most importantly, in much more manageable sizes. Today I offer a small sampling of Animals Encountered (with the sub-theme of "Animals with whom we directly interacted.")

Llamas in San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

Sea lions at Las Islas Ballestas, "The poor man's Galapagos."

Kitten on Las Islas Flotantas in Lake Titicaca, (Uros woman behind me)

Kitten in Llauar, Colca Canyon, Peru.

Llama at Machu Picchu. Those things are a little frightening in person.

A staple of South American streets: stray dogs. Atacama desert, Chile.

Addendum:

There were alpaca and vicuna herds, condor sightings, flamingos. Those will probably be included in a more touristy, picturesque category like "Landscapes." I've begun with these photos because these are some of the moments from the trip that I recall most vividly and with much relish-- I remembered sitting on the back of a llama on a childhood trip to Santiago, and hunted down the sequel experience as resolutely as I scoured shops for the Nestle Trencito chocolate bar my abuelita used to send Christopher and I in the mail. Nostalgia is a powerful motivator and I found myself, an otherwise somewhat nervous foreigner, demanding candy in almost-perfect Spanish and staring down those cow-like, long-lashed placid eyes of South American livestock without trepidation. Someone would be proud.

But I really included these photos not for their uniqueness (cats, incidentally, are equally as impassive to their human companions across the Americas, though South Americans appear to have the good sense to be impassive back) but because I, much to my humiliation, never quite shed that childhood impulse to want to keep, love, and be the best friend of every solitary living animal I meet. Thank god for Customs, or I would have returned happily but stupidly a-lugging quite the array of companions for my two feline friends.

I don't know how, why or when this idiot love of animals was born, but it seems to have become exponentially illogical and emotionally-fraught. As a child, my father used to cook these semi-raw, fatty steaks a lo pobre (with a fried egg on top) for dinner. I remember barely grasping the ability to poke the flesh, pooling in its own blood, with that obscene strip of fat gleaming on the sides. "Be a man!"my father was known to exclaim. "That's where all the flavor is; don't be so American!" My brother, ever the sycophant and red-blooded hispanic male, devoured the cow while I choked back bile. My only saving grace was Lent, when Dad permitted abstemious vows. At 14, rebellion coincided with my father's death, and he was thus spared the event of becoming a vexed witness to a six year stretch of vegetarianism.

For monetary and health reasons, college re-introduced fowl and seafood to my diet, though I can only maintain the appetite if the foods in question in no way still resemble the animal from which they came. Granted, this tends to stem more from a "gross-factor," than emotional attachment, but I am hardly immune to Peta, or worse, Homeward Bound. Eight Below. The Never Ending Story. Once, on a very crowded bus crossing the Peruvian border to Chile, the same discerning film censor who had brought us Homeland Security and Human Trafficking just hours before, puts on the Will Smith blockbuster I Am Legend. Guess who lost her shit when the dog gets attacked by the zombies? And I'm not talking about one shining, silent tear-- no, that would have been mildly acceptable to our stoic and seemingly blood-thirsty passenger companions. I was sobbing. Blurred vision, hyperventilation, dry-heaving. The couple next to us, who had been ascribing to the South American tendency to offer zero consideration for personal space the first 6 hours of the bus drive, were looking at me with the dawning realization that I wasn't just some American tourist, but a very unbalanced American tourist. They inched away with the cautious deliberation of a level-headed hostage held at gunpoint.

I'd like to think that my pets feel love for me. I'd like to imagine that when my cat curls himself a nook on my chest, he is consciously cuddling. When my dog met me at the door with such violent tail-wagging he knocked himself over, I liked to think it was overwhelming happiness to see me. Do I understand that these are wildly fanciful notions meant to feed my ego? Yes. Does that deter these notions? Absolutely not. Consider the dust bitten.

..After a word from our sponsors

These past few weeks have been quite the busy ones.. I quit my job, took the GRE, applied to grad school, found another job, baked more banana bread than Curious George could ever eat and wrote a tome of new poetry. Christmas seemed to sneak itself in there, didn't it?

A few years ago I illustrated a children's book about the nativity story. I have a small box of the beautiful, first edition hard copies left I should probably start peddling:

So here's my shameless sale pitch:

If you know children, have children, or have ever encountered a child, this is the book for you! Send me an email and we'll get down to business.

In the meantime, I have turned our little den into a tissue-paper snowflake extravaganza. Christmas cards this year are handmade, yes, though I'll have to admit that the kitsch that another person with an art degree may achieve in such an endeavor is wildly lacking in mine; this card would be at home on your refrigerator, right next to your first grade art project where you were introduced to Elmer the glue bull.

Vale la pena.

I feel politically endowed somehow, with this official badge:

Yes, I did.

Spelling it out:

This Christmas, everything I'm giving (including my holiday cards) will be completely handmade. Given the state of most of our bank accounts to daily expenses ratio, plus the fact that I know so many artists/writers/crafters/bakers/thing-makers, this seems to be the absolute best way to get into my usual holiday fervor with nothing but construction stress (and what's a few lost sleep hours to way-too-much spent cash?).

All that said, I still have an Amazon wishlist, and there are absolutely books that I desperately, hopelessly, endlessly want for my own.

---------

Since my last, somewhat embarrassing and manic post about all the wonderful new things I'm doing in the place of the things I should be doing, I need to appease my ego by announcing that I have successfully sent off my first-ever submission to a residency. Hurray! I am now in the full throes of GRE study, which is proven to be a slow but somewhat painful process while I'm reminding myself of math that I have never, not once, in any capacity had to employ outside of my high school classroom. My brain feels kind of like a plucked chicken.

Undergoing such a futile process can cause me to tumble into discouragement, and so I offer the following excerpt that's been the proverbial light at the end of this muddled tunnel:

Give up all the other worlds

except the one to which you belong.

--David Whyte

To the library!

Subterfuge

Deadlines are looming, deadly things:

True to form, I'm a mere 4 days from a travel essay contest, 5 days from a residency application, and a week and a half from the ugly GRE and guess what I am doing? Baking. I'm baking like my life depends on it, because every time I pick up a flash card (a flash card... that I made. Because I couldn't remember what a prime number is) I am filled with such dread, such angst, such discouragement, that I resort to an old trick my step-dad used to use to help ease the tension from childhood migraines:

"What color is the pain?"

"White."

"If it could fill a glass, how full would it be?"

"Overflowing."

"Would you say that it is hard or soft?"

"Soft. And dense.. and maybe creamy."

"What color is it now?"

"Still white. Like powdered sugar."

"How much would it fill in a bowl?"

"Ooh, just about halfway.. but it needs butter."

I don't know how or why my anxiety manifested into a dessert-vision, but I'm not one to ignore a good auspice. And so I began to bake. Under the delusion that it would be, ultimately, the catalyst I need to a calmer, saner, more productive state of mind. I made a cinnamon/chocolate/banana bread. A pear/raspberry/cranberry cake. Moroccan chicken with raisins and lentils. Dutch peppermint cocoa with homemade whipped cream.

I have created a recipe bookmark on my computer and am obsessed with David Lebovitz and this recipe for homemade marshmallows (WHY don't I have a standing mixer???). I'm dying to have a try at French macarons, though everything I've read indicates you need to give yourself supplies and time for at least half a dozen failed batches before success. Tomorrow, I'm making 4 different kinds of shortbread for the orphan's Thanksgiving we're attending at my dear friend Eric's house.

Have I written anything? NO. Not in almost two entire weeks. Have I even been reading? Nope. With the exception of recipes and baking blogs, I have been a pseudo-illiterate for almost a fortnight. How am I feeling about the GRE, the contests, the residency, and (sigh) the eventual applications I need to pull together for grad program deadlines? Um, I don't have time to answer. I'm a nebulous elf made entirely of cinnamon and cream.

Deadlines are magical, motivational rainbows:

I've learned how to bake! My secret ingredient is sour cream, and I'll throw cinnamon on anything (including chicken). I've been remarkably productive in thousands of other, non-academic ways that include:

• Yoga-- I'm finally learning some of those incredibly scary twisty moves that put a lot of pressure on your elbows and involve Lamaze-esque breathing.
• I made a Christmas card list and began designs for my first ever holiday card.
• I drew a fairly convincing aardvark.
• I drew a terrible fig.
• I braved the 3 week pile of laundry.
• I signed up for Netflix. Finally.
• I set up my Christmas tree.
• I began my Amazon wishlist.
• I updated and revised and constantly admire my iCalendar.
• I've painted my nails.
• Trimmed my bangs.
• Written a blog update..

There's something about looming deadlines that make me remarkably productive in areas of my life that aren't nearly as dire. But nonetheless, I am grateful to have at least discovered a penchant for baking, abilities to organize, and the willingness to undertake such challenges as the drawing of the complicated innards of a freshly cut fig. That's not so easy, you know.