Olive Project

Tom has 2 olive trees. Pretty, huh?



Ever since I noticed them, I've been tempted to pluck an olive off and eat it. What do they taste like before they've been sitting in brine?



Today I found out. They taste bitter. And it lingers...

I also found out how to salt-cure them. I picked a bunch and then rinsed them.



Then I covered them with coarse sea salt, put some cheese cloth over them for protection, and placed them in the sun.



I have to stir 'em up twice a day for a week--this will draw out all the bitter fluid. And at night, they need to be moved intside to prevent mold. And then they should be good for eating. I'll let you know.

Winter Olympics, aka "Tearjerker Marathon of '06"

I just got a voicemail from a friend who was confessing her inability to watch, let alone talk about, the Olympics without crying. "I don't know if it's inspiration...or like, disappointment, when people fall or mess up." (That's a real quote. I went back and listened to the message.)

At the very moment she called, I was watching either the Ladies' Snowboarding, the Men's Freestyle Skiing, or the Ladies' Figure Skating Free Skate. And crying. I was watching it with Tom's mom.

Conversation was typical girl chat.

Me: That Italian girl's outfit is the best. So simple.
Tom's mom: Yes, very elegant. And what a beautiful girl.
Me: Yeah, and she skates with such passion.

At this point, we make eye contact. Both of our eyes are welled up. We nod, do the lips turned down "I know what you're saying" look, and look back to the TV.

T.m.: Oh look, she's crying.
Me: She should be, she did great.

I'm really shedding tears now, thinking, "What is this? Why am I crying?"
I realized I was inspired.
I'll make fun of this in a minute, but first I have to jump to a couple moments.

Ladies' Snowboarding:
Some lady veers out of control and into the fence. It's not embarrassing for her...that's the one perk of being an Olympic athlete. Huge tumbles are seen as huge disappointments. If that were me on the snowboard and I were to wipe out on a hill in front of my peers, I'd feel like a total jackass. People would laugh. But when an Olympian does it, people cry. I cried when that girl rode into the fence.

Freestyle skier, Jeret Peterson, had an awkward landing.
I cried.

Because Jeret was a huge disappointment for the U.S. and he should be exiled immediately.
Kidding!
I felt disappointment FOR him. For all the work he put into getting there, all for that one moment in time.
Give him one moment in time, when he's more than he thought he could be, when all of his dreams are a heartbeat away, and the answer is all up to him. And he chooses FAILURE.

(I'm going to write something serious and thoughtful about this in my secret journal but I'll just make fun here...considering the only comment I got on my one serious blog [see WINTER] was from my mother. Thanks, mom, but I'm playing to the masses on this one.)

I was a mess during the entire figure skating competition. Figure Skating is a highly emotional* sport, for the following reasons:
A) Music is played. Often it is Classical.
B) The human interest stories are of particular interest because many times figure skaters are Orphans...rescued, trained, and dressed-up Orphans.
C) The camera loves these people, thus the many close-up shots of the skaters, showing their varied expressions. The competitions are performances and, unlike races, they last for a couple of minutes where we can see the dramatic expressions of the Ice Folk.

*Note: Because of its highly emotional nature, emotionally stunted people are often compelled to make fun of figure skating.

To watch Olympic athletes is to witness enormous energy, passion, and perseverance in humans and that's inspiring. When did the Olympics get so emotional? Right now they did, that's when. Right now, when I stopped watching and started recognizing what is required for them to do what they do. Paying attention to OLYhuManityPICS...the humanity in the OLYMPICS.


I've had dreams of being a figure skater since fourth grade, as I watched the Olympics at the Bourgets' house up the street. I was cheering for Debbie Thomas, who ended up winning a medal. She didn't win the gold--that was won by the monstrosity known as Katarina Witt. But that's where it all started...

My humble beginnings:
The practice rink.


Now I do double, triple axels...in my sleep, with my eyes closed! I do flips, triple toe loops, you name it. It's about the EVERY DAY. You just have to do it everyday.
You think one mulitvitamin's gonna make you healthy? Think again, Sanchez. It's about a multivitamin every single day. That's when it works...when today = one day in an army of days. That's dedication. That is success.

Maybe I'll bust on a triple-axel-Salchow into a layback spin...but I showed up to do it. I showed up everyday to get to that point. I forwent any hope of friends, boyfriends, a social life, children, pets, sleeping in, learning how to drive and learning how to love (anything but ice skating) to get to the rink at 4am and let millions of TV viewers live vicariously through me and my efforts because that's what the Olympics are all about.

Mrs. Havemeier's Top 10

Of all the songs I sang to Elsa, these were her favorites:


10. Try Again (Aaliyah)
9. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go (Wham!)
8. Zombie (The Cranberries)

7. Simple Gifts (Shaker Hymn)
6. Sugar Town (Nancy Sinatra)
5. Morning Has Broken (Cat Stevens)

4. God Save The Queen (National Anthem, Great Britain)
3. Give A Little Bit (Supertramp)
2. O Mio Bambino Caro (Puccini)

1. Oh, Mrs. Havemeier, you beautiful tree. You are the most elegant tangerine tree in all the land. Do-do, do-d-do. You photosynthesize with such grace. Sparkle! Dazzle us! How is the fruit today?


So cute! And delicious.

Swearing At Motorists

Saw 'em this weekend. A flawless, high-energy performance.

Singer/guitarist, Dave = kinetic genius. Was he on coffee? I don't know...but more people should move like him. It was real, live rock 'n roll.

Drummer, Joshua = stoic. Never cracked. Terribly effective.


Swearing At Motorists

Painting Requires Tape

Prep for painting trim...





Suzanne joined me, expressing her feelings for the young Regis Philbin.







(4-eva = 8 months, max)


I was quite pleased with our work...until Tom walked in and said, "Dude, maybe you want to do that with some different tape that doesn't cost $8 a roll."




Sorry Tom.

PROK

According to an anonymous cafeteria worker, the pork egg roll is made from "prok," a mixture of meat from crickets, fish, and hamsters, and any other animals found in classrooms that have died. Fillers for prok include pencil shavings, chalk dust, and shredded paper. Prok is rolled into dough, along with shredded cabbage, and deep fried.

Bon appétit, kids!

I Wonder What The Kids Are Eating These Days

Some of this.

Finnish People Rock

If there's one thing you must do today, it is watch
this

WINTER

I feel confused in this warm weather. I keep thinking it’s spring. It smells like spring. What year is it? And how old am I, anyway?

I felt winter, this year, for an insubstantial amount of time. And therefore, I don’t feel like I’ve earned this balmy weather, with its gentle fragrances. I haven’t spent those inhospitable months bundled up, longing for warmth and release. I just boarded a plane and landed here.

A friend and I were talking yesterday about regional differences among people. Areas of this country have their stereotypes for a reason. Why are New Englanders so tough and capable? And Midwesterners so down-to-earth? People from the Northwest make good company. And why? Because they experience seasons. Winters, in particular.

Every place has its different story. Southern California feels good, like a romantic comedy. Sure it’s unrealistic and fluffy, but the people are pretty—lots of smiling, nice teeth—no thinking required. Sit back; enjoy the show. (Throw in some guns and Republicans and you have Phoenix.) The South is like that too, with the added elements of humidity and backwards.

Texas is Texas.

The Midwest and northern regions are the Oscar winners. There is substance in four distinct seasons and the trees change color in the fall. Those who reside in such areas navigate the course provided by nature and experience the metaphor of being human, where we are born, grow mature, wane, and die. We experience symbolic deaths and rebirths many times throughout our lives, most obviously with seasons.

It’s winter. The sun is shining in a blue sky, birds are chirping, the people wear flip-flops and t-shirts. There is no grounding for the soul during winters like this. There is no cozy conversation, no introspection. I’m making things.

I wanted this. Retreating to warmth for the winter is an option. I wanted to try it out. I might even do it again. It does, however, require some adjustment.

I long for a fire by which I can sit and read, and a sled ride. I want to eat stew and drink red wine. But they are the rewards for those who endure the layers of clothing—the extra five minutes it takes to get out the door, hunched shoulders, the car in the morning—with it’s frosty windshield and impossible chill. For the ones who delay gratification until next season or next year, when the timing is right, and hide away in living rooms and talk—as if speak is the only thing to keep them warm—secrets will be revealed, and characters chiseled. It is during winter that the unknown is discovered in those with patience.

Almanacs

I wasn't sure if tonight was a full moon so I checked the Farmer's Almanac...but only after checking a lunar calendar that I scored from a GS (that's short for "Google search").

See the lunar calendar for yourself.

We need "full moon" written in there somewhere, people. I can see that the pie in the sky is looking delicious but the waxing and waning gibbous moons can also look full sometimes. (I could have always fallen back on the old "Skimming The Headlines For Crazy" trick...cuz you know V.P. Dick wouldn't shoot a fellow quail hunter on a cresent moon...aw, snap!) but I needed to be certain so I checked the almanac for actual dates. Happy full moon Sunday.

So now I'm all thinking about ALMANACS. The word reminds me of CHEESE and DUST. And I can't figure out why. So I'm thinking about it...thinking...thinking...
And I believe it's because saying the word has the same effect on the mouth as eating cheese--right there, toward the back of the tongue--on its sides--and at the back of the throat. Those are the places where cheeses and the word "almanac" go to dance. (Go ahead and say it out loud, if you haven't already.) Aw, snap...
And DUST because almanacs are like Manual GS's...which is to say, old...which is to say, dusty.

Here's a ditty from Poor Richard's Almanac:
Many a little, makes a mickle.

Indeed. I saved my change in a jug for 2 years in NYC. After pillaging the jug for silver on more than several occasions for groceries, all that was left was pennies.
November 29, 2005: I haul my pennies to Commerce bank and dump them, clinckety-clank-a-jing-diddy-jang, into the penny arcade. I wait anxiously for many seconds as the machine calculates my chips. I have heard whoppers about the penny arcade...thirty, forty, even fifty dollars! people have won from the sugar accumulated on their dressers.

My total tallied, I bring the receipt to the teller. In turn, he hands me my mickle, twenty and some change, as if to say, "Put this toward your next visit!" In a perfect world, he would have winked then. And maybe executed a perfectly synchronized backwards nod/air kiss...then an eyes closed/biting the bottom lip/air guitar jam, yes, those are always fun.

Dreamish

I had a dream last night that I was playing tennis with Steven Spielberg.
He's pretty good.
So was I, which is what I love about dreams. However, my swerve (a typo, meant to say "serve"--but typo is more accurate) was a little off.

It makes me think of the recurring dream I have about figure skating. I'm a damn fine figure skater between the hours of 3am-7am on some days.

Which brings me to an idea: a Fantasy Figure Skating League is just what kids like us need. Who's in? The Olympics are just around the corner. We can even be like the guys who play Fantasy Football and wear their favorite player's jersey...we could wear, you guessed it, Spandex! and Sequins!

For Mr.Blum & Jessica, who think this blog sucks...and after reading this, they will be queasy and think this blog sucks

I'm back. Been on a bit of hiatus.
Want to know what's been on the going?
Tom, the Master of the House, so to speak, where I am currently residing, has found himself in yet another unfortunate rout concerning his health.

Note Tom, circa 3 weeks ago, showing his benign eye-blister to Matt and I.

(The both of them are cleverly displaying their middle fingers because I asked that they re-enact the scene that had played out just moments prior, when they were using their pointer fingers, and I thought it would make a good picture. Apparently, displaying this gesture in a photograph remains quite a funny joke for some males pushing thirty. Awesome.)

Eye-blister indeed! How does one get such a thing?
Years ago, according to Tom, he's walking to his car in the parking lot of Lens Crafters, after an eye exam. He opens the envelope the optician gave him and with a miscalculation of his hand, a slight wind, and an ironic twist of fate, the razor-like edge of paper from Lens Crafters slices his cornea.

Two mornings ago, I was summoned from my bedroom quite early by Tom. His eye-blister popped.
Fate had played yet another twisted joke on Tom: It was 3 years ago, to the day, that he had felt the wrath of the paper's raw edge upon his eyeball.
"Does it hurt?" I ask. (I was still, more or less, asleep.)
"Yeah," Tom says. "Feels like a shard of glass is in my eye."

And that, my dear reader, is the first of many colorful descriptions of the State of Tom's Eye, by Tom. I mean no disrespect here...I understand pain, I talk about my pain, I describe the conditions of my pain. The problem is that during his descriptions, I actually listen to him, and my imagination does not do me the favor of relaxing. Also he had me look at his eyeball to make sure it wasn't bleeding.

"Sorry," Tom says, "to make you look at my eyeball, oozing pus..."
Nausea.
"Dammit, Tom!" I yell internally. "Look at it yourself!"

I look. No blood. Just red & bloodshot, with a dangly, little flap of eyeball protrusion.

Cold & flu symptoms: I can handle the talk. Blood: one reason why I could never be a doctor. (I'll be honest, there are plenty of reasons...lack of "book smarts," poor "bedside manner," inability to "stay in school," my parents think I may have "ADHD.") But talking about the EYES! About objects or lesions on the EYEBALL! Oh dear God!
Excuse me,
I have to go vomit.