Date with Downtown

Inspired by the beautiful Fall weather, I decided to take myself on a date. I made myself a hair appointment, did a little recon on fun places to target, made sure I had my handy Clipper Card (the new "re-loadable" magnetic card that all in-the-know city folk use to ride the BART), donned my comfy boots and set off. Today was the day I was chopping off my hair - well 6 or so inches of it anyway. I felt empowered!

Having researched short hair styles on-line, I was ready with a photo that represented the look I was going for. While showing Ledora the picture (and wondering if she was secretly hating me) I gave all the disclaimers I could think of..."I know I might not have the hair for this, not sure if this style will look good with my face shape, I  mean, I know I'm not 'Heidi Klum'"...and several other self-doubting statements that we girls are so good at coming up with before a major beauty change.  After talking me out of that particular style, but assuring me that she had a plan, Ledora took the first snip.  It felt good.  Once she was finished, I have to say...I didn't completely hate it. After a few more minutes I actually started to love it. (in this cloud of bliss, I momentarily lost sight of the fact that $30 for a can of mousse is downright outrageous and agreed to tack it on to the bill. damn. it better make me look like Heidi Klum.)

Enjoying the "swish" of my new do, I found myself walking more quickly down the street.  I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while attempting to steal a glance at my reflection in the store windows.  Finally reaching the nail salon, I was pleased to see that I was the only one there. No wait= lucky day. Continuing my bold streak, I picked out a deep purple for my toes and plunked my feet into the soothing bath water. Bliss. Attempting to make conversation, the nail lady asked about my day.  I told her about my daring move to chop off my long hair and she looked at me puzzled saying, "why you do that?" hmmm. Wasn't expecting that. After a defensive giggle and mumbling something about "ready for a change," I closed my eyes in attempt to signal I wasn't really up for conversation. To this ingenuitous young lady, my relaxation signaled I must want to upgade to a foot message..."ten dollahs...ten minute?" ok...what the hell? I had already blown 30 on a can of compressed air...what was 10 more? Gotta say...best foot message...ever. Completely worth it.

With my new shiny purple toes, I headed down the street in search of more adventure (and specifically a quest for the perfect pair of black riding boots).  I pass so many alluring shops Anthropologie, Sephora, Prada, Urban Outfitters...it was like the Candy Land of shopping. Enter Tory Burch. Can no longer resist. Defenses are down. I go in. I am greeted by two "associates" at the front. Two. Young preppy girl with long blonde hair and fabulously gay Asian man. YPG must have laid her claim to me as she was the one that followed me to the boot section. No sooner do my eyes land on the holy grail of all riding boots than her perky voice eggs me on, "would you like to see these in your size?" Can't do it. These have to be well...above my price ran...oh lord...yes. Staring back at me...$495 price tag. I muster up some kind of "Christmas list" excuse and evacuate. Need cool air.

Head on to try to find the Benefit "Brow Bar" that I've heard so much about. In retro throw-back form, I have the address written on a piece of paper (GPS has burned me badly before while downtown. we're currently working out our trust issues).  485 Market Street. Find Market. Determine that I am on "even" side of the street. Cross over to "odd." 463 Market Street. Keep walking to determine if I am walking in correct direction. Pass Aldo shoe store. Could be hit or miss. Worth a look. Lust over authentic looking cowboy boots. Muster will power. Exit Aldo. Walk past several store fronts without seeing any address identification. Feeling frustration mounting.  Pass open doors of Abercrombie and Fitch store. Model-eque boy greeter makes eye contact. Use this to my advantage and ask him for direction. He passes me off to not so model-esque security guard (should have known using addresses and map location to find places was waaaay before Boy Wonder's time).  He tells me to walk back the way I just came from. Frustration now oozing. After retracing my steps for the 4th time, I ask a Victoria's Secret girl. She tells me illusive Brow Bar is located inside Macys. Of course it is. Would have been excellent if they had mentioned that little tidbit next to the address on their website. Eurekea. Brow Bar is in sight. A few less brow hairs later, I am on my way to BART.



During my walk, I attempt to rationalize purchase of more-than-a-car-payment boots. "I mean riding boots are classic...I could wear them pretty much forever. So if I amortize $495 out over the next say....25 years...that's totally affordable."  Pass H&M (remember I am in shopping Candy Land); see perfect black riding boots on model. I walk in with a purpose...not going to look at clothes. Just boots. Navigate self to shoe section. No black riding boots. Hunt down snooty associate. Points at the shoe section we are two feet away from. Yeah, got it mister, that's where they should be. I plead with him and show him the ones on the model.  Snoot McGrumpyPants informs me that those are just for show...they do not actually sell those. Fantastic. Feeling dejected after being so close to my goal, I see a gorgeous double-breasted coat with brass buttons...and it happens to come in a fabulous 50's turquoise.  Wait...what's that....there's a 50% off tag on it. Oh yes, please come home with me!

Regaining focus, I descend to the BART station. After being briefly verbally accosted by a man "needing a favor...and it's not money" (he was wanting a BART ticket home or so he said.  I say he needs to work on his intro a bit),  I was on my way home (still, of course,  attempting to rationalize boot purchase) feeling pretty successful about my date. This could definitely lead to a long-term relationship.

Ignorance is Bliss

Dear Pepperidge Farms,

I agree that you have captured the essence of a great pretzel with your Baked Naturals Pretzel Thins.  I am a fan. However, your packaging department leaves a lot to be desired.  It seems that on average there were about 12 wholly intact thins in my box. This is a problem.You see, I have this new app on my iPhone that allows me to track my caloric intake for the day.  I've become a bit obsessive about it. (I tend to do that.)  It's become like a game...it even has a bar code scanner.  So you see, I scan your little box of carby-crack...ahem...pretzel thins and there it comes to my iPhone...11 crisps 110 calories. I dutifully dole out my allotted 11 crisps. For a brief moment, I marvel at how health conscious and responsible I am being. My first few crisps are too soon replaced by a gaping void on my paper towel. I want MORE. Those are soon added to the carbohydrate cue waiting to become inches around my thighs. I reach my hand into the box to repeat process but all that my hand grabs are pretzel shards. How am I supposed to keep caloric track of these? I'm not. I don't. It is soon a prezel-shard free-for-all. I then realize that almost the entire box is gone. There's no point in saving this piddly amount - I might as well finish it off. Quickly assessing the salt to crumb ratio at the bottom of the bag I opt for the old "down the hatch" motion tipping the bag up to my mouth (my mother who tortured me with "etiquette school" would be so proud...no really, she did. ). Really bad idea...which brings me to another point. Could you please foresee that gluttons like me need protection from ourselves and either (1) make the salt actually affix to the pretzels in the first place or (2) dye the salt a bright neon color so that I may better assess ratio in the future.

and no this has nothing to do with lack of self-control. Thank you.

Southern Comfort

There's just something comforting about being home.Your body melts from holding the attention stance of being in an unfamiliar place. There is a lightness to your step and an effortlessness about your behavior.  You have conquered this place and know exactly what to expect from it. This is where you are rooted.

The drive from Bluffton to Charleston is a spiritual one for me. It used to be 45 miles of two-lane road along the coast of South Carolina. Breathtaking views of the Coast are interspersed with miles of forest and remnants of towns that once thrived in the Old South.  For most of the drive, the land revealed no signal of time or era or having been touched by man.  I feel a twinge of anger and regret at the sight of the large cranes and orange cones as they manipulate this beauty to bend to man's whim. I fear it will never be the same. It will never be the same. Almost as soon as a pit starts to rise in my stomach, the sultry smell of pluff mud and sweet grass brings calm over me. My lips begin to mouth the words of a familiar country song that comes across the radio as if it is an innate response.  I open the windows in order to take in every moment.  The chirr of the cicada signals it is summertime and sunset is coming. The whoosh of thick, warm air envelops me as if offering a hug.  I smirk at my moment of nostalgia thinking this, too must be the thought of each generation enduring "progress." So I concede to the four-lane highway like many Carolinians before me. Our beloved Carolina will never be the same but it will always be beautiful.  It will always be home.

Protection from the Witness Progam

Jehovah's Witnesses - a force of nature that will make most humans hunker down as if the words "Hurricane Warning" had flashed across the TV. Seriously, I put it to you, who out there hasn't drawn the curtains, turned off the TV, and recoiled into the deepest part of the house at the mere mention of these heralds.  I was out walking Ollie the other day and saw a group of of nicely dressed individuals leaving the front stoop of a house. Not an unusual site in the city.  In fact, I'm a little surprised I noticed them at all, but they were walking rather slowly. Congregating. Carrying books. Formulating a plan. Oh dear Lord. I quickly reigned Oliver in, switched direction and darted home. Must warn Lewis! I attempted to be crafty with the direction I took.  I didn't want them to see what house I went in to. Then they'd know we were home.  We'd be sitting ducks!  No sooner do my feet cross the thershold than I warn Lewis of the impending forecast, "Juh-hovuh's Witnessessssss. Dohhn't ahhnser thuh door!"

Why is it that these prophets of the pamphlet strike such fear in our hearts?  Does it hail back to medieval times when we felt the need to protect our castle? After all, the Witness only becomes scary when he's in your neighborhood, close to your castle.  If you happen to drive by while in the safety of your car and see some poor sap about to answer the door, do you not chuckle to yourself, and think, "thank gawd that wasn't me?!" You do.  Or is it that we just don't want to hear it?  After all, the spiel is never a quick one. Perhaps if it was, "Hello. God loves you. Come to our church if you'd like. We have doughnuts on Sundays. Have a nice day," maybe then we'd answer? I mean, how many times do these agents of Jehovah really gain a follower? I can't imagine the odds are in their favor. Maybe they should try the doughnut idea.............or a pitcher of Kool-Aid.

Caroline-the Human Voo-Doo Doll

I'll get you, you little yuppie you...muhaaaaahhaaaah!

While on my soapbox for a moment, I want to say that I think there is a lot to gain from other cultures and being open to multifarious ways of thinking. [ok, I totally know what you are thinking right now..."isn't she showing off with that big word?!" and you are right...I am. But hey, I tortured myself by memorizing all these ridiculous big words when studying for the GRE and only think it is fair to get my money's worth by using one here or there] However it is also good to know one's limits. As many of you know, I recently ventured (way) out of my comfort zone and tried acupuncture. While I consider myself to be a completely healthy person, I do have certain pesky ailments that -truth be told- many of us are haunted by, specifically to me...muscle tension and (pretty chronic) sinus infections. However, what actually prompted me to dip my toes in this latest sector of "medicine" was a crippling pain in my neck that began a few weeks ago. [ok...maybe not "crippling"per se...I do have a tendency to be a bit on the dramatic side, it is one of my many charms really, but the condition did leave me walking around like an 80-year-old woman...not exactly attractive for a newlywed woman pretending not to be on the brink of her "early 30's"]  I digress...So, looking into exploring other doctrines, I happen upon <dah...dah...dunnnnnn> acupuncture. Why not? After all, (I justify to myself), if I had grown up in China this would be the norm...the only reason why I rely on a person in a white coat with a "dr." in front of his name is because that is what I grew up with...what I am accustomed to. <Insert self-congratulations here...aren't I becoming the self-reflective one?!> So I make myself an appointment.

Her name was Rebecca. Normal enough, right? I walk in, seems like a typical San Francisco apartment/working space. We go in. She asks me if I want a cup of tea. I think to myself..."awwww, how cute! How very-Chinese-medicine of her...tea!"  We sit down and she asks me the pro forma questions about why I am there, including a question about my "stools" I'll have you know, and is very thorough about getting to know all about my health. Then she places a white towel over the desk and asks me to place my forearms on it. She will take readings on my pulse for the next 4 minutes.  Ackkkkward. Should I be making conversation? Does she need to summon the spirits at this time? Shit. What do I do? Great. Now my pulse is probably racing and she can tell that I am nervous. Is she going to extra-stick me with needles?! Am I giving a false reading?!!! OH LORD!!!! Ok, Caroline, relax. Maybe you should have taken her up on that chamomile tea. Fast forward...awkward pulse test over. great. let's get to the meat and potatoes of this little project. I'm clearly through the awkward part....oh wait....what's that? You need to look at my tongue? Jeez. I would have used one of those fancy tongue scrapers and Listerined if I had known this! Ok, fine, I swallow and stick out my tongue. man, this is weird.

Finally on the table, which now I'm convinced will be the most comfortable part of the session, she begins with the needles. Needle One. Not so bad. Ok, I can TOTALLY handle this!  Needles TWO, THREE, FOUR. I am congratulating myself on how completely hardcore I am...whoa, this is nothing! Needles are being inserted into my flesh and I can totally handle it! GRRRRRR! I AM SHE-RA! She continues to ask me if I feel the needles. Not wanting to portray myself as a total wuss, I report, "well, kinda, but it's not bad, really." WRONG ANSWER! Apparently you are supposed to feel it...in a not-so-zen kinda way...like numbness, dullness, or a shooting sensation in your muscles! Every time I would report back that I didn't feel a certain needle meant that she would either dig that needle in further or remove it and, (with much more vigor) replace it into an adjoining "meridian" until I reported feeling it and therefore, as I would not soon enough learn, establish my "chi." So much for trying to be hardcore, I was quickly learning to cry "uncle" at every opportunity.  Ok, so my previous idea of this being a relaxing Chinese-medcine-zen kinda' thing was very quickly going out the window. But wait. I had researched this on youtube and youtube wouldn't let me down, right?! The people on youtube said this wasn't supposed to hurt! They even said that most people fall asleep! Damn! This doesn't seem right! Rebecca clearly does NOT want me to be zen let alone FALL ASLEEP!  WHERE AM I?! Is she going to incapacitate me and harvest my organs (especially since they are now tenderized)?!  UNCLE! UNCLE! UNNNNNCLEEEEEE!

In-humanely Human?

So many of you have been wondering what I've been doing with my newly found spare time. May I humbly say that I think you'll be very impressed. You see, dear readers, I have embarked on the momentous endeavor of reeducating my pets to believe they are human. If Orwell can do it with pigs, I can certainly do it with these superior species. No folks, these photos are not doctored...they are completely legitimate. Yes, that is my dog (skeptically) READING the "Litter Kwitter" box which reports that cats will be completely trained within 8 weeks (and he called it...I will admit, we are well beyond week 8), that IS my cat using the toilet (and quite unhappy with the breach of privacy), YES that IS Oliver sporting the latest in doggie fashion, the Rain Barka,  all while secretly plotting my demise. (get it? "Barka" like parka...ok, you're right, this post is going downhill quite rapidly) Look out Caesar Millan, this is novel material right here. 

BAM! is Not a Magic Word

So delving deeper into my newly found hobby of cooking, I torture Lewis with a trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond for a pressure cooker. From the moment we walk in the door, I am like a spastic 4 year-old child who is distracted by all the shiny toys. My previously focused adult brain is now consumed with one thought - "I want it!" Knowing that my hubby has an extremely low threshold for shopping, I attempt to regain focus and head toward the intended direction of the pressure cookers. However, out of the corner of my eye I see a bright yellow package with a beeeeeutiful cast iron grill-top inside. I don't have one of those. I want one of those. I NEED one of those. Now here's where the story gets slightly shameful. I pull out all of those powers of persuasion towards husband that we girls are pretty much born with. I hit'em right in the gut with "honey, we haven't had a steak in FOREVER! (which is true since the grill is still buried in the mountain of boxes in the garage that I like to pretend don't exist) Wouldn't it be great to have a nice steak for dinner...and you wouldn't even have to set up the grill?!"  Feeling the stage has been set, I continue my sell. "Oh and we still have a credit here from that gift card we got for the wedding!" Hubby picks up the box to examine it. To my complete delight it bypasses being put back on the shelf and is slam-dunked into our cart. success.

After a stop at Whole Foods for all the components of our favorite steak dinner, I am excited to be home and play with my new toy. It is cast iron after all, and any southerner knows that a good cast iron pot must be well-seasoned. I research how to speed-up this process and head back to kitchen to commence seasoning. After two hours of basting oil and baking pan in 350 degree oven, I am ready to get these beauties on the grill! Turn on gas burners, await pan to start to smoke per directions, and add steaks. sizzle. smoke. louder sizzle. more smoke. check timer. wait another two minutes. thicker smoke. open window. close bedroom door to muffle sound of smoke alarm. flip steaks. admire grill pattern left on cooked-side. flee kitchen to wipe tears from smoke-tortured eyeballs. check timer. pull steaks. sit down to table. ahhhh. time to feast. take first bite of steak. really really want to be impressed. not impressed. have undercooked, grey steak with faux grill patterns. oh and a REALLY messy grease-encrusted stove. DAM!

The greatest kitchen innovation?

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to...onion goggles. You see, I have a love-hate relationship with onions. I love to cook with them, in fact I am hard-pressed to think of a recipe in my repertoire that doesn't call for one. However when I chop them they fight back with potent chemical warfare.  I know that most people tear up when slicing these bad boys, but me, I look like I have watched the ending of the La Bamba for a week straight. Ugly crying, mucous pouring...not exactly appetizing. I have tried all the tricks - cutting them under cold water (not exactly easy, I might add), lighting a candle, rinsing the knife, opening a window, you name it, I've tried it. Finally fed up, I turn to that ever-faithful search engine with all the answers...Google. I weed through familiar wives' tales and Hark, I happen upon "onion goggles." Apparently these beauties seal around your eyes preventing those vexatious vapors from wreaking havoc on your membranes. <cue choir of angels, please> oh...and they come in pink. Hallelujah!

Sweet Tea Hospitality

So really I shouldn't complain (but since I happen to be very good at it, here goes:). My new city is really pretty perfect (minus the fact that the earth beneath me could open up and swallow me at any given moment). For the most part there are no bugs. People don't even have screens on their windows here - no need; there is nothing to keep out. Having grown up in the deep south where people joke about mosquitoes being the "state bird" and shrug their shoulders at the site of their ten-millionth cockroach (no, fellow South Carolinians I will NOT use the euphemism "Palmetto Bugs," these creatures are vile and not deserving of a cutesy name), this ranks high for me. However, we do have ants. Seasonal sugar ants. When it is cold and rainy, these little buggers seek refuge and take over the kitchen (eew. gross.). That said, I have had to retrain my brain to keep all alluring food products in the fridge or some other impenetrable fortress. Lewis' frosted flakes - in the fridge. Sugar bowl for his coffee - in the fridge. Oreos - fridge. Needless to say, my fridge is quickly filling up with items that my OCD deems don't belong! However, if this is the price I have to pay to send these pests packing, I'm happy to oblige. So far, so good.......until this morning.

While back home in the 843, my new hubby discovered Firefly Sweet Tea vodka. He quickly became a loyal follower and it has become his libation of choice. Last night he made a drink while I was getting ready for our Poker Night outing. Being a "girl," this took a little longer than I had planned so we found ourselves rushing out the door. Sweet Tea vodka glass gets left on kitchen counter. Ant Frat Party begins. Ants party well into morning hours and were still gathered when I broke it up at 8 a.m. This got ugly. While I should have had the sober advantage, these insects quickly showed me who was boss. I first tried an aerial attack using a hot-water waterfall to flush them down the drain. But there were more. I then attempt to squash out the remaining battalions with wet sponge. This seemed to do the trick.  I had reclaimed my territory! Proceed to wash syrupy glass and surrounding counter top, then on to (finally!) making pot of coffee. Out of corner of my eye I see a black speck on the arm of my bath robe. "Damn coffee grinds mocking me again!" I disdainfully say to myself. To my horror the errant ground is approaching. I pluck it from my sleeve and give it the old 'finger squish.' HA! GOT 'EM! But wait...there are more! The ants have unified Normandy-style to take ME down! They are crawling up my arm and from my waist! I quickly go into sniper mode plucking each one at a time until the last blip of black was gone from my (thankfully white!) robe. Humbled by strategery of these intoxicated arthropods, I grudgingly add the bottle of Firefly to the stash in our fridge.

Failure Is Not An Option

So we're married! I am an official housewife - a housewife who cannot figure out how to use the glamourous new coffee maker that she HAD to register for (hmmm...Aesop any advice on this one?) I'm pretty sure that makes me a big, fat house-fraud.  Allow me to set the stage...as many of you know I have self-diagnosed OCD.  Ground coffee (and glass top tables...I can NEVER seem to get all the streaks off no matter how many passes I make with my Windex and over-priced paper towels) is among one of my arch nemeses. When it spills into the coffee maker or worse yet into the grout of our (white!!!) tile counter-tops it makes a huge mess. I e-hat that [phrase borrowed from "Everybody Loves Raymond - the Pig Latin episode]. When you try to wipe it up with a dry paper towel, it's impossible to get all the grounds; use a wet paper towel and you've created a coffee-colored mess all over the place. Miss a ground or two, you leave a ticking-time bomb just waiting to make its mark on the carpets in your house (Freud?). My solution? BEANS! I'll only use BEANS! Super-easy clean-up if over-zealous scooping occurs with the bonus of added coffee freshness! Ahhh, you might point out, until now you'd need a separate grinder to grind the beans, then have to transfer the grounds to the machine risking the same problem all over again. BUT ALAS <insert choir of angels here> meet the Cuisnart Grind and Brew. Simply scoop the beans into the chamber, pour in the water, and press "on."............. or....not so simply as I would soon discover.

After diligently reading the instruction manual from cover-to-cover (yes, I do that with all my new toys, even the "War and Peace" manual that was my digital camera instructions) I set up, press the shiny new "on" button, step back and prepare for ensuing delight. However, after pouring my first cup of joe, adding the proper ratio of soy milk and creamer, I take a sip only to discover I've created a truly "uninspired" cup of coffee.  How could this be? Chalking it up to being a coffee bean ingenue, I pour it out and start again this time filling the chamber up completely with beans in order to hedge my bet. Same outcome. Coffee colored water with a hint of soy flavor. Damn. So this housewife finds herself under-caffeinated and overwhelmed...guess I need to go apologize to the Mr. Coffee I gave the old heave-ho to last night. Hopefully he's in a forgiving mood.