Where's Omega?

Dealing with some shit. Sit tight for an update.

Vegas. Baby?

Well, we’re back from what my father refers to as Lost Wages, Nevada (all the lame jokes on this blog are hereditary). You may remember that the original purpose of the trip, aside from getting crazy drunk and pissing away our house fund at the blackjack tables, was to assess our current lifestyle and determine where we are as far as expanding the family goes. Are we mature and responsible enough to remember to poke a baby with a sharp stick before it can crawl all the way to the electrical socket and stick its tongue in? Only after 96 hours of no sleep and overpriced whiskey would we know for sure.

Or so we thought. Going into the trip, I was pretty sure that we’d either have a rockin’ time and decide that we need to save our money and energy for drinking, gambling, and crazy vacations, or that we’d be old tired married people who complained about the smoke, noise, and teeming masses of humanity nonstop before falling into bed at 9:00 PM and ordering pay-per-view movies and room service for the rest of the weekend, thereby resigning ourselves to having advanced to the stage in our lives where, since we can't hang with the kids, we might as well have our own.

As it turns out, we sort of did both. Glen kicked major ass at the poker tables, and although I, ahem, didn’t so much at blackjack, I still had a fantastic time playing. And I managed to win $80 on the slot machines as well. We handled the crazy-time thing like pros: ate when we were hungry (even if it was 5:00 AM), slept when we were tired, drank when we were awake, and successfully made it through the marathon final day of our trip (checked out of the hotel at 11:00 AM; flew home at 1:00 AM). By the end of that day, though, we could barely summon the energy to eat or have a conversation. We were definitely cranky from the lack of sleep, we couldn’t seem to catch a decent buzz from the watered-down casino drinks (and I couldn’t help thinking that I could get much drunker, much faster, and much cheaper at home), and Glen is coming down with a sinus infection from all the smoke inhalation. The cranky factor was also exponentially increased by somebody’s decision to pack only the ludicrously impractical Pointy Shoes of Uncomfortable Sexiness, which made for some long, whimpering-filled walks around the casino and up and down the strip. (If you guessed that Glen packed the impractical shoes, you’re wrong, although he does look damn cute in a sassy pair of heels.)

So we left Vegas feeling as ambivalent as ever about starting a family. We started talking about it in the airport, waiting to board our redeye home, and we continued to chat about it as we headed onto the airplane. On the way to our seats, we passed a couple and their freaking adorable year-old son, who was happily chowing down on the safety information card while waiting for takeoff. I remarked to his mother that I love it when the airline provides a snack, and she replied that the safety card really is about as good as the airline snacks get these days. As we laughed together at her joke, the baby burst into giggles as well, just as though he had been following the conversation.

Glen and I took our seats and waxed rhapsodic about the cuteness of the baby, but also expressed our private relief that we weren’t responsible for the happiness and well-being of a one-year-old on a three-hour overnight flight. We could barely hold ourselves together by this point because we were so tired and overstimulated. Trying to soothe a screaming child amidst a cranky bunch of post 9/11 passengers who want nothing more than to sleep through the flight and temporarily forget about how much money they’ve lost sounded like sheer torture to us. Suddenly, the answer seemed clear: we’re not ready.

But then, guess who sacked out at takeoff and behaved like an angel through the entire flight? Sure, he fussed a little when the cabin lights came back on in preparation for landing, but sheesh, the snoring old man next to me made more noise. We’d never have known there was a baby on the flight if we hadn’t seen him.

So, parents of the cute baby on Northwest 774: your son is adorable, unbelievably well-behaved, and obviously well cared-for. You should be extremely proud of the job you’re doing as parents. However, you’re making my life decisions very difficult and complicated indeed. I hope you’re happy.

Bitch broke my book club

When I first decided to join a book club, I thought about a lot of things: widening my social circle, making a point of setting aside time to do something I love on a regular basis, expanding my mind by gathering with other intelligent women and comparing our shared perspectives on what we’d read. What I didn’t think about, but what I definitely should have, was that That Woman would undoubtedly find us and crash the party.

You know That Woman (or perhaps you know her as That Guy). That Woman is also in your book club, or she’s in your writer’s workshop or your improv class or God forbid your master’s program. Or else you work with That Woman, and she attends many of the same meetings and serves on several of the same committees as you, because meetings and committees are her favorite things. That Woman’s opinions and insights are just too darn important to keep to herself.

That Woman can’t stand it when the group’s attention isn’t on her. She’s so brilliant and sensitive and awesome, you understand, and she just has so many things to say and share, and it’s really quite rude of the rest of you idiots to try to keep piping up with your own thoughts because that just distracts the group from all of her ideas. No, we don’t need to ask another group member how she likes her new house, and we don’t need to try to establish our next meeting time, and we certainly don’t need to return to talking about the goddamn matter at hand, because perhaps you didn’t notice, but That Woman has so much to say. Hey, why are you looking at your watch? Ideas over here!

Nothing can ruin an otherwise pleasant gathering of like-minded people faster than one of these needy attention-whore types with nothing even remotely resembling social instincts. I’ve encountered a variety of strategies for monopolizing a discussion over the years, but the one That Woman in my book club is employing is particularly grating: she just hates everything.

The book we’ve read for this month? I guarantee you, she hates it, if she even finished it, which she probably didn’t because she hated it so much, and which she will mention repeatedly throughout the evening. The night we’ve chosen to meet on? She hates it, not that she had anything else going on tonight, because she lives alone and hates that, and she doesn’t have any friends and also hates that. Other things she hates include: any other book that we might tangentially reference, all movies (past and present), whatever the hostess is serving by way of snacks, the state of Minnesota, all the other states where she’s ever lived, and anything else that happens to be going on in her life at the time. Oh, and if the critical and belittling way she treats everyone else in the group is anything to go by, she hates all of us as well.

In a way, I kind of feel for her. The other five regular members of the group have jobs in fairly similar industries, and she works in a very different area. I also suspect that her politics aren’t really in line with the rest of ours, just based on the fact that she’s kept so quiet about her own political leanings so far. I’m sure there are times when she feels left out, but it doesn’t change the fact that after a while her constant complaining just gets old. It’s so easy to identify it as a cry for attention, and since none of us are her mom, our inclination is not to gratify that impulse.

It’s really starting to take a toll on the group. Attendance is spotty, and we haven’t heard from a few of our founding members in months (coincidentally, we lost contact with them right around when That Woman joined us). The conversation has become stilted and awkward, because we’re all just waiting for her to jump in with more complaints and criticism to which we have no idea how to respond. The last straw came right before our last meeting, when she called around and canceled the gathering (because “nobody can come,” she alleged, although later on we established that at least some of us could). She later confessed to me that she hadn’t got around to finishing the book, but that she was actually liking it and wanted to finish before we met again.

When she spoke with me that night, she opined that maybe interest in the club was waning and it might be time to disband. Interest is still there, I wanted to respond, just not for a group with you in it.

The other women in this group and I didn’t know each other before we formed the book club. I think most of us find that refreshing – we all have our own friends and families, and we appreciate having this group of people dedicated exclusively to this one pursuit. I also think, though, that we are pretty much That Woman’s only social outlet, and that’s why she keeps hanging onto this group that clearly doesn’t suit her in any way. A part of me feels sorry for her. A bigger part of me, though, thinks she’s just a total whiny pill and is quite resentful that she’s singlehandedly ruining one of the important little luxuries in my life. I used to look forward to our meetings, but they are quickly becoming more of an obligation than a pleasure, and it’s entirely due to her.

We’re not going to disband the book club, and I’m not even thinking of hunting around for a new one right now, because I’m afraid that there will be somebody like this in any group I find. There’s just enough people like this in the world to ruin it for the rest of us. My hope right now is that she decides to leave on her own – who knows, maybe there’s even a group of people out there that she’s fit in with better.

In the meantime, though: I miss my book club.

And suddenly, I'm old

Getting ready for work this morning, I found a gray hair. 25 is going great so far.

Here’s a quarter (century); buy a clue

25 things about me at age 25:

1. My life insurance agent has already called to wish me a happy birthday.
2. When I was a baby, I wouldn’t eat anything unless it was red, so my mother had to douse all of my food in ketchup.
3. I’ve decorated my entire apartment in red.
4. I don’t like ketchup.
5. I’ve already been out of school for three years... and college for five.
6. I have an actual grown-up job and carry a briefcase to work.
7. I am married to the most wonderful person in the history of the universe.
8. When anticipating where I’d be at age 25, I saw numbers 5 & 6 coming, but number 7 has been a very pleasant surprise.
9. By age 26, I hope to be a homeowner and to have been promoted (so I can use the extra money to be a homeowner who can still afford food).
10. When I arrived at work this morning, my desk was entirely wrapped in red paper.
11. I am going to be awake all night, because Bomb brought me a birthday chai and Southside brought me birthday Dr. Pepper and I don’t usually have caffeine.
12. I’m still trying to find a sport or form of physical activity that I like.
13. I read faster than anyone I know.
14. My current hairstylist gives me the best haircuts I’ve ever had.
15. My special celebratory birthday lunch consists, as usual, of rice and beans.
16. Very few people have ever tried the “combination Valentine’s Day/birthday gift” maneuver on me.
17. None of my friends, family (except Glen) or co-workers know about Omega’s Diner.
18. I like to keep it that way so I can write freely and not worry about hurting anyone’s feelings or having uncomfortable conversations later.
19. Obviously, I have no secrets from Glen.
20. My cocktail of choice is a Jameson on the rocks.
21. When I’m nervous, I make jokes. When I’m at ease, I also make jokes. The only difference is the quality of the jokes.
22. Anyone who wants to get on my good side can do so quite efficiently by taking me to Buffalo Joe’s in Evanston, IL.
23. Someday I’d like to compete on Jeopardy!
24. This list took me a lot longer than I thought it would.
25. My 25th year has been the best of my life so far.

Foodgasm

Glen and I celebrated Valentine's day by attending the seven-course Valentine's Day dinner at La Belle Vie in Stillwater, MN, which we've heard raves about for years but obviously can't afford on a regular basis. It was absolutely sublime, and my mom asked for a detailed description of what we ate. Writing it made me re-live the experience all over again, which was awesome, so I figured I would share it here too. Non-food geeks will want to exit the ride now.

Amuse-bouche
Three breaded and deep-fried Washington State oysters with something resembling a tartar sauce and something resembling a mignonette, only both were much, much tastier than the typical versions. I think the mignonette was made with raspberry vinegar instead of sherry. They were served with some julienned something - Glen thinks apple, I think fennel. They were incredibly tasty - rich and salty and ocean-flavored, but so tender they literally melted in our mouths. We were kicking ourselves afterward because we only tried raw oysters when we were actually in Washington, and clearly cooked is the way to go.

Course 1
Tuna Crudo "Tonnato" with Black Truffle Remoulade
This was two small pieces of sushi-grade tuna tartare garnished with tiny little green radish sprouts, which were delicious - I don't know if they were dressed with anything or not. Served with the tuna was a small piece of veal, just barely seared but still very tender, garnished with julienned radish and a large Spanish caper berry. The whole thing was shaved over with black truffles, and the dipping sauce (the "tonatto") was an aioli with anchovies and capers - very salty and piquant.

With both these courses, we were served a glass of Domaine Collin Blanquette de Limoux, which was a very smooth Brut champagne with a nice tart green apple fragrance.

Course 2
Lobster Bisque served with Avocado, Curry, and Osetra Caviar
This was a fantastic curried lobster bisque with lots of chunky pieces of lobster. Resting in the soup was a smoky-tasting black corn chip (we don't know how it got to be smoky) garnished with a dollop of pureed avocado, a dollop of creme fraiche, and a dollop of the caviar (black eggs, very small and relatively mild in flavor). We each ate the chip separately and then stirred the garnishes into the soup, which worked really well because the soup was warm but not hot, so it didn't pulverize the caviar.

We drank a glass of Domaine Jo Pithon "Pepinieres" Anjou Blanc with this, a light white wine which was very herbal (when I first sniffed it I thought "soap" and the flavor of lavender was very strong). It was strange by itself but worked well with the soup - very cooling after the spicy curry.

Course 3
Pan Roasted Sea Bass in Citrus Butter with Cauliflower and Coriander
We've made sea bass before and it turned out horribly, so we were apprehensive about this course. They did it much better than I did, though--it was seared in a very hot pan, so the fish had a very crispy medium-brown crust and the rest of the flesh was fully cooked (not slimy, which is what happened when I prepared it). It rested on a dollop of pureed cauliflower, and then the fish was surrounded by sauteed cauliflower florets. The florets were tiny and very thoroughly cooked, to the point where they were a dark brown--they looked roasted to me. You could really taste the coriander in the little florets. The citrus butter was flavored with kumquats, which I always see at the grocery store but am scared to buy because I don't know how they taste. Now I know! They're citrusy, but even sweeter than oranges.

We drank a glass of Domaine des Deux Roches Saint-Veran, which was a fruity, sweet white wine that worked well with the dish--we couldn't identify which fruit the wine reminded us of at first, but it may well have been kumquats. If it wasn't, it was some fruit that really resembles kumquats (like a melon or pear).

Course 4
Range Hen Stuffed with Prunes, Armagnac and Walnuts
When we entered the restaurant, the smoke alarm started going off and we could smell smoke coming from the rear dining room. We think this was the dish responsible--the chicken was smoked right there in the kitchen with applewood, and the exhaust system stopped working. So, the applewood smoke flavor in the meat itself was quite pronounced, and we're not sure it was supposed to be that way, but it was delicious. The meat was falling-apart tender, and the stuffing was rich and a wonderful blend of sweet and savory. The meat and stuffing were served over a mound of garlicky wilted escarole, which was fun for me. Drizzled over it was, I think, a plum and red wine reduction.

They switched us to red wine for this course, a Domaine Des Nugues Beaujolais-Villages, which was a lighter red with an earthy "country" flavor--it worked well because the entire dish made me think of the French countryside. Where I've never been, but which I have, you know, read about.

Course 5
Herb Crusted Beef Tenderloin with Porcini Mushroom, Balsamic and Ricotta Gnocchi
Glen still hasn't stopped smiling about this course. It was just about the nicest beef we've ever had--they had warmed it all the way through, but the center was still reddish-purple, and the meat was so buttery and tender that we barely even had to cut it. It was crusted with a crispy mixture of herbs and parmesan cheese and then (I think) quickly broiled to brown the crust. Surrounding it were pearl onions, porcini mushrooms, and the little ricotta dumplings - if you eat a bite of dumpling and beef together, you keel over and die, but you die happy. The whole thing was drizzled with a tasty balsamic vinegar reduction.

They served us a glass of Blue Rock "Alexander" Cabernet Sauvignon, the presence of which our waiter heralded by announcing, "Here comes Big Red." It was simply awesome, and they poured us a bonus glass to go with our seventh course as well.

Course 6
Cava Cocktail with Pink Grapefruit
This course was definitely the most fun. They brought out a plate with a lacy caramel chip (made, I think, just by drizzling very hot sugar onto a cold surface), a little dish of vanilla sabayon with tiny pieces of pink grapefruit hiding inside, and a chilled tall shot glass about a quarter of the way full with blood orange liqueur. Then, they came by our table with a bottle of Cava (Spanish champagne) and filled up our shot glasses the rest of the way. Our waiter recommended that we eat the two desserts and then drink the entire cocktail in one shot to finish off the course, so that's what we did--dipped the caramel chip into the sabayon, then ate the rest of the sabayon with a spoon, then shot the cocktail. I'd never shot anything fizzy before and had a pretty severe case of the giggles at this point, but I managed not to douse myself. And it was extremely refreshing, almost like a palate-cleansing sorbet.

Course 7
Coconut Financier, Roasted Banana, and Cashew
We had some fun with the name "coconut financier," but apparently it's a real pastry. This course was a cold semisweet chocolate soup, surrounded by roasted diced pineapple and strawberry. In the middle of the soup were a coconut pastry and a small piece of banana, both of which had a crispy cashew brittle coating that I think had been deep-fried. The inside of the banana was very soft and liquid, so it must have been cooked at some point, but the banana itself was cold, so it must have been chilled as well. Glen ate the whole thing; I tried but couldn't get past my fundamental dislike of coconut and ate everything else. This was where we had our second glass of Big Red as well.

Then they served us coffee, and then we basically staggered home and passed out in a happy food coma. Best special-occasion meal ever.

Currently bugging the crap out of me

Like many who foist their writing on the internet community, I'm a big usage snob. But I've also come to terms with the fact that most people don't care about grammar, style, and usage as much as I do, and since I spend my days in a corporate environment, the language will be bitch-slapped repeatedly in front of my helpless eyes on a daily basis. By and large, I'm resigned to it, and I hardly even notice anymore. *twitch*

But.

Nobody who works here understands time. My colleagues and I have a lot of occasion to make appointments and communicate hours in our line of work: "We are in the office from 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM," "I am available at 1:30 PM," etc. Since we work with people who live all over the country, we often need to remind people that we're in the Central time zone so they can plan accordingly. So just about every day, I see a communication from a colleague (or, worse, official language on our website) that reads something like this:

"Our hours are from 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM CST."

Which is wrong, because CST stands for "Central Standard Time," and "Standard" is as opposed to "Daylight Savings," and I don't recall a memo going out stating that we only work from October to April. So, if your meeting is in Minneapolis at 10:00 AM on February 22, then it's at 10:00 AM CST. If it's on May 22, it's at 10:00 AM CDT, or Central Daylight Time. If you want your description to apply to all seasons of the year, then you just say "Central Time."

I think it bothers me so much because inserting "Standard" is one of those things people do to make themselves sound more important, official, and smart. And, as usually happens, it's backfiring, because to anyone who knows what they're talking about, we sound like a bunch of jackasses. Argh.

Thus endeth my petty rant for the month week day brief moment of time until something else incredibly minor makes me angry.

I don’t think you understand

Dear Glen,

Do you understand how wonderful you are? You probably don't, over there all reading this and blushing and looking down and to your right and smiling just a little with the corner of your mouth. You don't understand that your particularly cute brand of modesty only serves to make you more wonderful. You don't understand that you get cuter and more modest and more wonderful and on and on because you are caught up in a vicious cycle of wonderfulness, and now you're beet-red and chuckling on top of it.

You don't understand that you could have had any woman you wanted. You don't know about the evenings I spent at bars in Madison, whispering to other girls that I had a life-threatening crush on you and hearing them giggle and whisper back that you were indeed so funny, so smart, so cute with that smile and those eyes and that guitar. You know that I grabbed myself a handful of your left ass cheek on the way home from the bar on one of those nights, but you don't understand that I did it because I had to make sure that thing was real. Because, damn. Sometimes I still can't believe it's real, which is why it takes you five full minutes to swat me away and put on underwear every morning. I don't think you understood that until just now.

You don't understand how terrified I was that night in your apartment, just a month after we'd met, clutching your sheets up to my chin and agonizing over how you wouldn't meet my eyes. And then when you sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and sighed, and stammered that you felt like you had wrought something final and permanent - that you'd never be able to take it back now because you loved me, you don't understand how relieved I was that you'd put my fear into words. It was the first time we ever said it, but we say it fifteen thousand times a day now: every time we email, every time we hang up the phone, getting out of the car and getting back in and sitting on the couch whining for another beer. You don't understand that I only verbalize it one out of every hundred times that I think it.

You don't understand the effect you have on people. It's not just that you make them laugh, or make them think, or make them feel like the most important and fascinating person in the room, although you do. Something about you makes people light up inside - they become better versions of themselves. Around you, suddenly, everyone is more charming and funny and exciting and excited. It's your enthusiasm, your gentleness, your silliness, your fundamental goodness - people can't help but rise to it. Every life you touch, however briefly, is better for having known you. You really don't understand how having the privilege of loving you has changed me into a better person.

I think you do understand that I'm hard to be with, but the thing is, you never act like it. I'm neurotic, weepy, impatient, perfectionistic, stubborn, critical, high-strung, and insecure, and I never, ever, ever stop talking. I don't think you have any illusions about any of that, but to hear you talk, I'm beautiful, smart, funny, ambitious, responsible, loyal, and a great cook. Being married to me is the hardest thing you've ever done, and all you ever have to say about it is how much better it's made your life. You know me so completely and you love me so well; you look at me with your eyes wide open and choose me day after day. You don't understand how lucky this makes me.

You probably won't ever understand just how wonderful you are; it's not in your nature, and the fact that you're unaware of your own wonderfulness is probably a fundamental component of said wonderfulness. You already know everything about how to be the best husband ever in the entire world, and yet you're constantly trying to learn more. I know that probably occupies too much of your mental energy to take on the enormous task of trying to understand how great you are, but don't worry: I know how great you are, and I'll never stop trying to show you. Fortunately, I have a lifetime.

Happy Valentine's Day. I love you.