Drink Me

The oldest drinkable bottles of champagne in the world were found recently on the floor of the Baltic Sea, and are going to auction for about $69,000 per bottle. If anyone wants to get in on that, let me know. i've got about $60 in my wallet.

There will be Blogs

Happy President's Day! I have the day off and Rob and I are driving to Long Island to see his sister and her kids. Here is what happens when we do that: His sister opens the fridge to show us the 7 bottles of champagne she bought for the occasion, and we all make noises like "we can't drink all that, that would be craaaazy" and then a few more people show up and we drink all the bottles. She also makes an amazing home-cooked meal which usually involves several entrees, all of which we are expected to eat on top of a mound of pasta. Then there's dessert. Skipping this course is not an option.

But despite the fact that my brain and body will be in recovery mode and not doing anything creative besides digesting for a few days, I am promising blog posts. Here's a sneak peek:

Deepish Thoughts on Joaquin Phoenix

A Deepish recipe and the search for ingredients

Deepish Thoughts on My Insane Student Loan Institution

Tip me over and pour me out

I got up at 6am yesterday to go to yoga. There is something so invigorating about being up and out in the early morning, before the sun is even fully up, walking past people who have likely not been to bed yet. I was sleepy, but I assured myself that yoga would make me feel better, and would give me the start to my day that sleeping in and chugging coffee on my way out the door would not.

Theories are a nice thing to have.

In yoga, I was completely off balance.

When I got to work, I discovered that the coffee I had made and put in my travel mug had spilled all over, soaking everything in my bag, leaving a big stain on my light pants, and seeping onto the bottom of my shirt.

I was in a foul mood all morning, until I went to Starbucks and got coffee. I had not wanted to go to Starbucks, though, hence the coffee-from-home plan. So that irritated me.

I cancelled a drinks date with a friend.

At the end of the day, I found a recipe for sweet and sour cod with broccoli and cabbage. I bought the ingredients I needed on my way home and got to work, chopping and stirring. The sauce needed 15 minutes to reduce. Somewhere between 12 and 12.2 minutes, it burned in the pan, causing an acrid smell to fill the kitchen and making my eyes tear up. I threatened to throw away the entire pan. Rob asked me not to.

New pan. I tried again, but I had run out of honey and when I put my face towards the revised mixture that was simmering on the stove, I was sure that I had been poisoned. I threw it away.

I texted Superdad Jay, who had honey--and finally a sleeping kid. Take three worked out ok, but not before I spilled my glass of wine into the toaster.

I'm actually not sure I should be typing right now, lest the computer explode.

Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor

Last night I was cooking dinner and listening to a Nick Cave CD I got in Germany. I don’t buy physical CDs anymore, which is maybe sad, but nevertheless true. I buy them online or get copies made by friends. For my birthday, Amanda sent me an ITunes playlist she had created, which was very cool and a fun way to share music. It included a slow, beautiful cover of Outkast’s Hey Ya by Obadiah Parker that I absolutely love. As an aside (to what might already be an aside), when I was in Thailand 4 years ago and met a group of small kids who spoke no English, my friend Krista and I entertained them by singing Hey Ya, after we ran through our brief repertoire of nursery rhymes.

But back to Nick Cave. I was in Germany. More specifically, I was at the Frankfurter Hof, a bar that publishing people all go to during the Frankfurt Book Fair, resulting in the regrettable fact that we have all traveled intercontinentally to hang out with each other. Acknowledging the pitiful nature of this situation did not stop me from going to the Hof on 2 of the 4 nights that I was in Frankfurt.

Bellying up to the bar, I asked for glasses of champagne for myself and 2 colleagues. I know what you’re thinking. Really? At your exotic American-filled bar in Germany, you thought champagne would be the appropriate choice of beverage? To which I reply, there was one bar that served champagne only, and I didn’t realize it until I reached the front of the line. I peered across the large hall to the other bar that served beer and thought, screw that. Also, there were totally British people there. Now stop asking questions.

As I gave the bartender my order, a bouncy-haired sprite (aka a publisher I have never met before) came out of nowhere and asked me if I could order 2 more glasses of champagne. He wanted, he informed me, to present one to an author of his who had just won a major award. He would give me cash for the champagne.

So I changed my order to 5 glasses of champagne, for the bargain price of 75 Euro. And that cash that he was going to give me? Yeah. He handed me a Nick Cave CD and said conspiratorially, “Only 200 of these were made. Enjoy.”

I am enjoying it. But I’m not sure it was worth 30 Euro.

The case of the missed yoga class

So here's what happened. I ate a nutritious dinner of red snapper with zucchini and black olive tapenade, cleaned up the apartment, did some laundry, showered, packed my yoga bag, set out my outfit for the next day, and went to bed. I was determined to start the week off with a 6:45am yoga class before heading to work.

Because you are allowed to shower at my yoga studio, but you are not allowed to wash your hair, and I had a benefit dinner to attend tonight, there was rather involved preparation the night before. But I was ready. So, I don't know what it was...the fact that the snapper was actually perch? The 2 glasses of wine that I had with dinner? General Sunday night confusion? I changed the alarm to 6am, but, like a total doge, I forgot to turn it on.

This morning, I woke up at 6:20am, far too late to make it to yoga across town. As I stood by the bed, halfheartedly contemplating going to the gym instead, Rob walked back from the bathroom, bodyslammed me, and wrapped me up in the blankets. I fell back asleep for an hour and a half.

It is entirely possible that I am not a morning work-out person. But as I am clearly not an evening work-out person, and I have no time during the day to work out, I may just have to come to terms with reality. I am actually a bed pillow.

The Reindeer Effect

First of all, YAY OBAMA. Obviously. Tuesday was enormously exciting--we were coming back from dinner when the results were announced, and the ecstatic reactions we heard coming from everywhere gave me goosebumps.

And yesterday, our first full day with a brand new President-Elect, was a great day for America and the World.

Let's stop to think about America and the World for a second. Here are my thoughts on that: No one in America or the World was as hungover as I was yesterday.

It was a devastating hangover, brought on by, well, alcohol. In its various forms and colors. Not really various forms, actually, they were all liquid. What is the point here? Oh yeah...

This article in the New York Times, which makes mention of Deep Thoughts, humor, the election, and "Hambone's affection for dolphins."

An epiphany over cocktails

Today I had a meeting every hour, and some every half hour. It was a really busy day. After work, I went to a work event and had a glass of wine with a cartoonist for The New Yorker. He said to me, "People who are too busy don't have time to be creative."

"But everyone is busy," I said.

"Not me," he said. "I hang out, I nap. When I hear my wife coming home, I sometimes run over to my desk and pretend to be hard at work."

I'm not saying I want to be this guy (though he did have cool hair.) But it was an interesting conversation and made me want to strike that fine balance between being busy enough to stay conscious, but not so busy that I can't find time to be creative. How to actually strike that balance continues to elude me, but I'm thinking it involves getting a job that pays a lot of money and doesn't require many hours of work.

I know what you're thinking. Genius.

Italian Adventures in Overindulgence

I seem to have officially gotten over my jetlag this weekend, just in time to leave for a book fair in Germany today and start all over again.

As my brain is finally beginning to resemble that of a normal human being, I have been able to pull myself together to post some Italy stories. But because a brain resembling a brain doesn't work the same way as an actual brain, they will not be in chronological order.

4 of our nights in Italy were spent in Positano. It was completely different from any of the rest of the trip, much less walking and sightseeing, much more drinking by the pool (where 2 glasses of wine conveniently allow room for the contents of an entire bottle) and staring at the water from our balcony.






We took a ferry to Capri one afternoon and when we arrived at the marina, realized that Capri was actually way up a hill and that you needed a second form of transportation to get up there. We cabbed up and wandered among the crowds down streets with boutiques and other expensive shops. It was much like walking down 5th Avenue in New York City, and it was all very lovely, but we weren't completely enamored with it until we wandered off the main road and found the quieter backside of the town. Here we made it our business to get to know the beverages of Capri.





When we finally had to leave to catch the ferry back to Positano, we decided to take one of the shuttles down the hill. It seemed easy enough and one was leaving right then. The bright orange bus was pretty full, so Rob and I stood at the back. The engine started, and the driver, who didn't look like a sociopath, began careening down the hill at breakneck speed. He was clearly on a mission and the mission was this: maim at least one American retiree who is innocently meandering up the hill or the whole afternoon can be considered a failure. He did his best, and Rob and I held on tight as we negotiated the hairpin turns. I banged my head on the glass back door at one point, and I think I heard the driver cackling. The theme to The Godfather was playing in the background.

It really was.

We made it safely back down the hill (I'm sure the driver was cursing the lack of casualties) and took the ferry back, where we immediately started drinking again, I think. I don't really remember, but it's a safe bet.

Positano is also the place where any portion control we had been exercising in Venice, Florence, Siena, and Tuscany flew right out the window. We stuffed ourselves everywhere we went, but for at least a week, we did try to share entrees and generally not make pigs of ourselves. Not the case on the Amalfi Coast.

One particular day, I had a huge plate of gnocchi for lunch (with wine), waited maybe a few hours before we went up the hill to another hotel and had champagne, oysters, tuna tartare, and breadsticks, and then waited the length of time it took to walk further down the hill to a restaurant where we had another bottle of wine, pasta with lobster, grilled seafood, a wild strawberry tart, and glasses of the ever-present limoncello. As we left the restaurant, I looked around to see if anyone had left a spare wheelbarrow leaning against the side of the road. I didn't see one, so we just rolled ourselves all the way down the hill and back to our hotel.

Molto bene

We leave today for Italy: Venice, Florence, Siena, Positano, Rome.

It's unlikely that I'll blog for a while, but I will collect lots of stories while Rob and I are traveling. I'm guessing a few will be worth sharing.

Give bread a chance

A group of friends threw a baby shower for Cameron on Sunday. It was so much fun, mostly because it was a potluck kind of thing and every single person brought bread. Ok, 2 people didn't bring bread, but everyone else brought so much bread that it seemed like everyone did.

Bread.

I love bread. Why does it get such a bad rap? It never did anything to you, other than offering delectable sustenance. Stop creating diets that center around avoiding it. There are so many different things you can do with it, and if you just eat it moderately and not by the entire loaf, I think you'll find you can be a very fit and healthy person.* Don't look to me for your example, though.

Today I had wheat bread, french bread, crackers, tortillas, sticky buns, cupcakes, and cheesebread.

I call it the "Go ahead, pretend you're not getting married on Friday" diet. It also involves lavish amounts of champagne.

*Not sure who I'm talking to.

Celebrate good times

Rob is at the US Open tonight, which marks the second time in one week that he has partaken* of the tennis and not invited me.

But I'm not upset, and I will tell you why, people.

Because I have discovered that my happy place is right here, on the couch. Alone. Watching terribly terrible romantic comedies and drinking wine. I have already forgotten all the stressful things that happened today--must be the magical romantic comedy potion.

Even the Republican National Convention, which I DVR'd and plan on watching next, won't be able to ruin this. Famous last words? Maybe, but I'll be too drunk to notice.

Despite my buzz, I can still recall some genius asking the cats a mere moment ago: "Who needs the US Open when you have drunkenness?"**

*Yes, an actual word.

**Also an actual word.

Tasteful! Fun! No strippers!

My sister, friends, aunts, cousin, and mom threw me a fabulous bachelorette party in Chicago on Saturday. Below, our day in pictures (mostly because I'm still hungover.)

There's always a reason to celebrate

Rob and I went out on Saturday night with John. We had dinner at Bar Blanc, which would have been a better experience if their air conditioning had been working. The food was good, service was solid, but Rob kept blotting his forehead with a napkin each time a restaurant employee walked by. The "free wine or death" rays he was sending were practically visible. Our server ignored them.

We then walked to the Gramercy Park Hotel for drinks on the roof. Rob and I each had three glasses of champagne and John had two watermelon martini-things, his drinking speed hindered by numerous attempts to hit on the cocktail waitress. She told us she was a recent graduate who was looking for a place to live. I could just see John's brain working and I was really proud of him when he opted not to invite her to stay with him for a while. Nevertheless, in a smooth move that may have compensated for the fact that he was basically drinking Juicy-Juice, he did offer to hook her up with his real estate agent. She took his card.

When I woke up Sunday morning (and it was barely still morning), I vowed not to drink that night. It didn't sound like a difficult plan, as there was nothing I wanted to do less. But as I finished making dinner, Rob opened a bottle of red wine and I decided that my new vow was not to drink champagne that night. I've found it's best to be flexible with one's goals.