Sunday, March 28, 2010

Reason Number 57: The Most Perilous Cod Disasters Can Be Resolved With Chickpeas

My mother got me a Costco membership as a gift. I went today for the first time, and oh. Not only can you buy Tupperware in various sizes (that all comes in one deceptively light box!), but organic chicken broth, Greek yogurt, a clamshell of blackberries, about six thousand grapes, and two hefty organic pork tenderloins can all be purchased for deals so excellent I want to fist someone's grandma.

But there is a catch, aside from the beyond stressful shopping experience, or the diarrhea I've experienced from eating about four of those six thousand grapes: the fish is so awful I am open-mouthed, and wordless (almost). Although this blog has a meager readership, I am earnestly begging those of you who are reading right now to never, ever buy cod at Costco.

I adore cod, in spite it its bad reputation. I always associated cod with pirates and forced stoned fast food runs to epicenters of breaded doom, as well as depressing jaunts to the Food Lion in College Park for my grandma (is this the second time I've referenced grandmas in this post? s-e-x-y). BUT David began roasting cod with tomatoes, fingerling potatoes, and olives, and my opinion was transformed by the meaty simplicity, the wholesome integrity of plain, unadorned fish accompanied by wholesome sidekicks.

At Costco today I saw the price--ten dollars for a piece of cod so huge it was actually frightening--and I HAD HAD HAD to buy it and bake it in the oven with paprika, sea salt, and olive oil and serve it atop a bed of sauteed spinach and tomatoes drizzled with sherry vinegar.

But unless you are fond of sniffing your (or your loved one's) sopping maxi pad, the subtle taste of condoms, or the unyielding texture of beachballs, I really wouldn't dare supplement Costco cod for Whole Foods'. Seriously.

Thank the dear lord I also bought a nine-can pack of Goya chickpeas for $4.99 (STEALIN!), which I mixed with the spinach/tomato melange and some brown long-grain rice.

You can't beat those little powerhouse nugs of stealth wonder.

Reason Number 52: Choosing Wallabees

My brother always gives me shit for my adoration (and adulation) of flats. Most of the shoes I've dropped significant sums for are definitively low to the ground. The idea of purchasing extraordinarily expensive heels feels counterintuitive to me, because cost per wear is still so high, and to me there is no mid-point--like, mid-high heels look atrocious, and if you're going to bother making yourself uncomfortable you may as well succumb to the rapturous extremity of the sky-high and make yourself five inches more commanding (especially if a built-in platform is involved, which facilitates much simpler and easier movements).

Not that I'm one of those women in denial about her height. Random Rant: women (especially under 5'7") who feel the need to wear heels at all times to provide the illusion of tallness. No thank you. I am five foot four and unabashedly content. Or at least resigned. It's the only body issue I've never had. I would never in a billion years want to be taller, and I definitely wouldn't want to resort to platform cork wedges and espadrilles to lengthen myself comfortably on a daily basis.

But in spite of my height confidence I do love the way supertall heels look, especially to occasionally elevate whatever outfit I'm wearing. But for everyday? What if I need to carry a bunch of paper towels up a flight of stairs? Or rush to get a sandwich on my lunch break at the awesome sandwich store that's twelve blocks away? The worst (as I addressed in my previous post) is not knowing how to walk in heels but wearing them simply because you feel you have to. Am I rambling?

It's strange because as a small child I was embarrassingly impatient for the day I could finally wear a pair of heels to the supermarket, or to get my emissions checked at the Jiffy Lube. My mother had very small feet, so by the time I was nine or ten I could almost fit hers--and she had some cool as fuck 1970's wooden platforms that I wish weren't too small for me now. Even in high school I was beyond thrilled to buy some Steve Madden black platform maryjanes (shhhhhh) rehashed by Miu Miu this spring. Not that there's any comparison between Miu Miu and Steve Madden (or that the designers at Miu Miu would do anything besides puke all over everything Steve Madden has ever envisioned. Ha! Envisioned. More like plagiarized). I'm just sayin. Is it really an opportune time to bring those back? (Though the print is pushing marvellous.) Pictured below is one iteration of these mildly underwhelming (though intriguing) shoes.

I wish I could find a picture of the (gulp) platforms I used to own, for comparison's sake. Though a part of me is very pleased with Google's inability to image-locate and thus implicate me on all style fronts.

In spite of my pre-adolescent lust for heel-wearing, at some point I was like, fuck it. I'm wearing the Clarks Wallabees I got for Christmas, and you idiots can suck my dick (I actually *am* wearing them right now, but I'm not imploring you to suck my dick for real, nor am I suggesting you are of below average intelligence). But. Like. I just don't know. I still don't have a pair of basic black heels. I know I would wear them if I did. Would I? Yes. Really? And put down my desert booties? I

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Reason Number 57: I have no idea.

In March, it's always excruciating to dig down and seek out life reasons, vital, exciting prospects that make me want to skip around East Harlem in broad daylight while wearing spandex. Winter has stopped being cozy. Summer is far. My bangs are overgrown. I have split ends. My skin looks waxy, my eyelids sag. My hair is always greasy, in spite of being washed every day. No matter how many times I floss/gargle/SoniCare, deep down I ooze perma-halitosis. I've exhausted my butternut squash excitement, my lust for burnished dying plants, rekindled each fall. Hot chocolate! Tea! Flavorless to me. My mittens are fucking pilling and and I'm ready to throw them away, and I'm ready to yank each of my teeth out with my crusty, nibbled fingers. I'm ready to dry-clean my eggplant sleeping bag coat and shove it into a deep, underbed dusty hole.

I have always hated March, practically since the day my mother forced me out of her vagina in Baltimore in 1983. Though growing up in Georgia, mid-March equals dogwoods and bluebirds and maybe even the daring to wear your sandals and eat ice cream, if only for a warm afternoon. Here, however, not. Although for some reason, I've been hearing the Mr. Softy truck round the block. What brave/stubborn manchild is ordering ice cream outdoors? Who forced Mr. Softy to drive his truck? Did he do it of his own volition? Was he so desperate to share his snowy cream with Upper Manhattan that he's braving real snow? Seriously.

I, for one, am still wearing my stupid ugly cumstain reservoir tip smurf hat that everyone on the street says looks like "Where's Waldo" but is so warm I can't bear to give it up.

This morning, a kitten pranced up to me as I bent down to pick up a carton of milk at my corner bodega. (After having already poured myself a bowl of cereal and wrongly anticipating the tiny amount of milk we had, it was a soggy, sloppy mess by the time I came home with the new milk, but I couldn't put it to waste because cereal is expensive, so I ate every gelatinous bite. And that sentence is so garbled not even I, the maker, can make true sense of it. I have truly lost my touch.)

At any rate, the kitten nuzzled me and my 1% (the perfect % for taste and texture and calcium absorption), attempted to ascend my arm, but I declined, exhausted by its cuteness as is. We are creepy, cats and I. It followed me to the register and stared at me as I walked into the dribbling rain to eat my unsatisfactory breakfast with my bitey handicat, who promptly scolded me for not having fed her earlier.