My Head is Full of Tunnels

Happy Belated 2012!

Where have the days gone?  No, seriously?  It’s more than halfway through January, but somehow that doesn’t seem possible.  A few weeks ago we bought tickets for a short trip to Houston and at the time it seemed like February was never going to get here.  But it’s so close!

There is a light at the end of the tunnel, or so I keep reminding myself.  These tunnels are nasty little buggers and it seems like there are so many of them.  I find my way through one and I’m rewarded with beautiful moments, full of laughter and love and fun.  But then there is another damn tunnel.

Who makes these tunnels?  I guess I do, but I prefer to imagine tiny little dwarves inside my head, chipping away slowly and methodically.  Must be why I get the occasional migraine.  I just wish the bloody bastards would make the tunnels a wee bit more interesting.  Perhaps they could throw in an interesting curve every now and then?

Well, seems they may be listening.  I often find myself lost and stumbling through tunnels full of boredom and mundanity for weeks on end when Lucas is gone.  But the tunnel I’m currently in has smoother edges and the air I breathe is spiked with motivation.

It’s a nice feeling.  Who knows?  Maybe the dwarves are getting better at what they do and I’ll continue to have an easier time in between the moments I truly look forward to.

Oh, what the hell am I going on about?  Tunnels and dwarves and the flying spaghetti monster only knows what. I’m rambling and making no sense to the average normal person.  Methinks it’s time for bed.

Niagara Falls

Blame Canada!  Blame Canada!  They’re not even a real country anyway.

On our way to Niagara Falls a couple of weeks ago, Lucas and I were stopped at the border crossing and questioned thoroughly.  We were then told to pull to the side so our vehicle could be searched.  As we stepped out of the truck I began to feel nervous.  I was concerned that my prescriptions would be a problem because they have a different name on them than what’s on my passport.  And then if I had to explain that the name on my passport isn’t actually my name anymore … would they let me in?!

But no, they weren’t worried about my name.  Or my klonopin.

When we heard the border patrol mention guns multiple times Lucas and I began to lighten up and laugh at the situation a little.  This caused one especially serious guy to look over at us and snap “if you have any guns it would be a whole lot easier if you just told us now.”  Um, yeah.  Because if I had a gun I would be laughing at that very moment?  No, I’d be hyperventilating on the pavement, confessing to everything and bawling my eyes out.  I know it’s sad, but I would be a horrible criminal.

So why did they profile us as gun smugglers?  Could it have been the Pennsylvania license plates?  The big, white truck?  Do Canadians hate redheads?

I think it’s because they’re just a bunch of assholes, eh?

Whatever it was, moments like that leave me feeling a bit violated even though I haven’t done anything wrong.  If they wanted to scare us enough that I’d be reaching for my klonopin, they failed.  I win!  The most surprising part – and a wonderful tip for you wanna be gun smugglers – is that they didn’t even search us individually.  It was quite chilly outside and we were wearing big coats.  Could have easily been packin’ a gun.

Alas, they let us in to their (not real) country and we headed to what I’m now calling the “WTF Hilton”.  You’d call it that too if you had to wait in a line 20 people deep just to check-in.  But I digress.  After finally getting our room key and heading up the elevator I was desperate to throw my stuff on the bed.  I assumed that we would have a nice view from the 44^th floor, but I was floored when I looked out the window.  Lucas and I opened a bottle of wine and sat at the window, mesmerized by the panorama.

Eventually we decided go out and made our way down to the 34^th floor for drinks at Myst Lounge.  This was a pretty cool place!  I ordered a martini and sipped on it, watching the snow fall and switching back and forth from one seat to another in an attempt to decide which view was best.  It didn’t matter, each was different, but amazing.  Watching the snow fall outside made me feel like I was inside a snow globe.

Pollyanna Walks at the End of the Movie and I’m Writing Again. Fuck Pollyanna!

You know those times in your life when it seems like your spirit is half-dead?  It’s hard to keep moving, damn near impossible to get out of bed and jeezus forget about taking a shower on a Sunday when you’ve got nowhere to go and no one to see?

Just about the whole past year has been like that for me (if these feelings are not part of your life experience, please pop this movie in your VCR and go away).

I have barely written.  And what’s that thing you do to burn calories?  Oh yeah, exercise?  Umm … not so much.  Also, cooking for one pretty much sucks.

Spring & Stress, Margaritas & Martinis, Toons & Transformers

As Spring slowly approaches nature has begun to perform a coquettish dance right before my eyes.  The snow falls, only to melt quickly as warmer days pop up here and there.  When the snow melts the dark red earth is lit up brilliantly by the sun.  Greens and browns freckle the landscape, hopeful of things to come.  I fucking love those days.

But they are easily replaced by cooler temperatures and as the rain turns to snow, it once again covers the earth – hiding that which I love.  I am left feeling morose; stuck in a world of black and white.

But I am hopeful.  I long to see leaves budding on trees.  Flowers.  Hell, I even want to see other people’s toes again because it means the days have grown warm enough to wear flip-flops (I imagine this is still a ways off).  For days I have been daydreaming about hiking – fresh air, peanut butter sandwiches and making out next to a waterfall.  Yes, Lucas has been gone too long.

The last time he was in town I was drugged up on klonopin due to a ridiculous anxiety attack brought on by the stresses of work, loneliness and the complete inability to cope with my situation.  I’m feeling better, thanks to an attitude adjustment, yoga and yogurt.  May The Schwartz be with you.

But the time before that?  When I still thought I was a somewhat well-adjusted individual?  We spent a Saturday together exploring, eating and laughing with each other.

We started our day with lunch at Azul Bar y Cantina, a tasty little Mexican restaurant located in Sewickley.  We munched on homemade chips and salsa and then enjoyed some tacos along with three of the most incredibly delicious roasted jalapenos you could imagine (coated in salt!).  Their house margarita was on par with those I’ve had in Houston and we left giddy with happiness over finding a restaurant we really enjoyed.

Penn Brewery

After moping around like a big loser for the past couple of months I finally decided to go out and try to make some friends.  The site meetup.com was recommended to me by someone so I got online and applied for membership with a group of women who are not native to the Pittsburgh area.

They had a meetup tonight at the Penn Brewery, the first craft brewhouse in Pennsylvania.  I arrived about fifteen minutes late because I got lost.  If it was up to me I would have driven all the way to Harrisburg, but common sense hit me.  Okay actually I saw a sign that said Brewery <—.  And still made a wrong turn after that.

I was nervous at first, especially when I saw that the table was full, but someone quickly made room for me.  Within a few minutes I had a Penn Weizen in my hand and was chatting with everyone, thanking myself for showing up.

Because really?  I needed girl time like it was nobody’s business.

What is it about female relationships that are so important?  I love Lucas so freaking much, but there are certain needs that a guy simply doesn’t have the capacity to meet.  Just goofing off with women I hardly know awakened something in me that has been dormant for months.  I smiled.  Felt happy.  Hopeful.

The food?  Wasn’t even important.

Why I Will Never Really Love Pittsburgh

I never realized how spoiled I was growing up in a big city.  There was so much to do, but more importantly there was cultural diversity.

Pittsburgh ain’t all that.  And I know it’s bad when I get excited in the line at Chipotle because right there, in that very line, was the biggest melting pot I had seen in weeks.  An Indian couple in front of me, a black woman behind me.  Wait, was that it?  You see?  That was enough to impress me.

This is a white ass city.  And yeah, I’m a white girl.  But I like color.  I like Chinatown, Long Point, Greenspoint (Gunspoint), Mission Bend, Hillcroft, Airline and all Six Wards of Houston.

I miss attempting my rusty Espanol at a taco truck.  The goofy smile on the face of the owner at Kim Tai as he corrects my pronunciation.  “Cám ơn”, he says.  “Gum on?”  I respond as he laughs once again, patiently sounding “thank you” out while I continue to butcher his language.  I should stick to food.

Almost everyone I work with is white.  There is not a single Jesus to make fun of.  Just Doug’s and Nancy’s and other boring ass names like Kelly.

The closest thing you get to culture here is the Polacks.  And those delicious pierogies.

Peace, Courtesy of Bourdain

Like most people, I have an inner battle with myself about how I can be a better person.  I mean, good people at least try not to cuss, right?  But it feels so good to really say what I feel.  And good people donate to charities instead of, like me, bashing that damn pink ribbon relentlessly.  I hate pink.  And what about colon cancer for Pete’s sake?

Overall I’m fairly comfortable with the person I am.  But there has been one thing (let’s just leave it at that for this post) that pops up every now and then, gnawing away at my sense of compassion.

Eating meat.

Penguins

What appetizer do you take to your first company Christmas party in Pittsburgh?

Penguins!*

Okay, okay.  We didn’t eat REAL penguins.

Just olives stuffed with a cream cheese mixture, skewered, and brought to life by a carrot – for the penguin’s beak and feet.

They are fun to make, insanely cute, mildly tasty and definitely a big hit.  Co-workers were taking pictures to send to friends & family and asking for the recipe.

Here’s a link!

*For those of you not-so-sporty types … The Penguins are Pittsburgh’s hockey team.

Tamari

A perfect meal is hard to come by.  Often it is not just the food that matters; there must be a perfect mélange of key elements:  atmosphere, the person or people you share the experience with, perhaps a slight intoxication from good wine, a feeling of love or even nostalgia.  And yes, of course, flavors that dance on your tongue, textures that make you close your eyes and savor the moment.  You chew more slowly.  Perhaps you moan in pleasure, feeling incredibly content.  You have been drugged by your food until reaching a state of absolute bliss.

You don’t have to eat at a fancy restaurant to find that bliss.  It can be found in a bowl of pho on a cold day, at a rib cook-off with friends or while making a simple pasta dish with the one you love – purposely brushing against each other in the kitchen until consuming al dente noodles with a voraciousness you didn’t know existed.  Food and passion.  Mmm.

On Saturday night Lucas took me out for an early dinner at a restaurant named Tamari in Lawrenceville, a neighborhood just minutes from downtown Pittsburgh.  Most of you probably know that Tamari is a Japanese soy sauce, but Tamari can also mean “people who do things passionately” in a native South American tongue.  I think that’s quite clever, considering the restaurant is predominantly a fusion of Japanese and Latin cuisines.

And as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, the meal was perfect.  Why else would I write – no, how else could I have remembered the way that a perfect meal makes me feel?  It has been too long since I admired the simple beauty of a chef’s presentation, treasured every bite, anticipated the next course.  Shiro’s in Seattle ring a bell?

We arrived early and were seated at one of the few tables downstairs.  Tamari is a small restaurant with beautiful, yet simple decorative touches.  The bar takes up the entire right side of the restaurant; beginning as a place to enjoy a drink, but as it extends further patrons can enjoy their meal with views of the open-air kitchen or at the treasured seats in front of the sushi chefs.  I am so glad that we sat where we did because our waitress played an essential role in helping to make the experience so wonderful.  When I mentioned that I was torn between starting with a cocktail or a glass of wine she recommended the Asian Pear Sake-Tini (Asian Pear Sake, Grey Goose La Poire & Prickly Pear), an ambrosial, barely sweet drink that still packed a wallop.

Five Weeks

Well ladies and gentlemen … today marks five weeks in Pittsburgh.  The first week and a half was spent recovering from the drive, settling into the new apartment, sightseeing and trying to acclimate to the bone-chilling weather.

Since then I have started my new job, driven through snow for the first time, eaten sandwiches with French fries on top, tasted my first pierogi, consumed beer in a church, signed a waiver before eating the second hottest wings I’ve ever tried and baked more than I have in the last five years.

Five weeks.  Five long weeks without my friends, my family, familiar sites.

And Specs.  That’s what I dream about most days, people.  Specs.  Such glorious aisles lined with an incredible selection of liquor, beer and wine.

But it’s the wine selection I miss most.   Who am I kidding?  Pittsburgh is a beer town.  I’ve been impressed with the selection everywhere I’ve gone, but can I find a good California Cab for $15.00?  So far the answer is no.  I’ve never been a big Merlot fan, but the best wine I’ve found so far is a Merlot.  Drinking a glass right now.

Going to eat some soup, too.  Because that’s what you do when it’s fucking cold.