Strongly Worded

There's nothing sexier*

... than a hot guy in your kitchen gently and expertly folding (stiff but not dry) egg whites into a warm souffle base of goat cheese, herbs, and egg yolks ... and then, when you ask for some folding tutelage, he stands behind you and puts his arms around you and puts his hand over yours as you slowly and rhythmically bring it all together.

*OK, maybe a few things are sexier.

Posted by Dori at 9:55 AM 1 comments

Joy and Rage, Part II

Some Things that are Bringing me Joy:

- My recent discovery of Planet Zeb on iTunes. It's streaming radio (or whatever you call it), and it's all lovely '80s and '90s music with no commercials. I listen to it all day at work.
- My recent purchase of an extension cord for my earphones, so I can now listen to iTunes and move around my desk within an 8 ft radius (before this purchase, I had to constantly take the earphones on and off).
- My "new" car. I just love it so much.
- Thoughts of continued kissing with the hot guy.
- Plans for game night on Sat. night. I just love game night, especially playing Taboo, which is one of my core competencies.
- The "brain team" formed by a bunch of my friends from grad school. We meet every month for a potluck dinner, and then we each present a work-related challenge and coach one another. The Team met on Monday and helped me prepare for a scary contract negotiation. The Team also helped me get a significant salary increase a few months ago.
- Project Runway, which I love so much that I subjected the Guy I am Kissing to it.

Some Things that are Bringing me Rage:
- My co-worker's CONSTANT throat-clearing. He had the Horrible Flu of 2006 a few weeks ago, and still has this dry, hacking cough that is driving me nuts.
- Fucking Alito and his opposition to my reproductive freedom.
- Today's migraine, and the fact that there were no refills on my extraordinally expensive medication. Now have to wait until my neurologist calls it in. I have a few pills left, but it's stressful having to wait.
- The owner of my foster car continues to avoid reclaiming it. In a few days I will have to pay another $100 for parking.
- My desperate, desperate need for a vacation or at least two consecutive days off. I am planning to visit my high school friend in California (Davis), but she's in India, so I have no flight or concrete plans.
- The insanity at work. The copier has died. The office is a mess. I had to work today (SATURDAY). I have to work late on Monday. I spent hours yesterday doing annoying administrative tasks. I think we need a wireless Internet connection, another staff person, a halogen lamp, and, of course, a new copier. Where to begin? Oh, and did I mention I have at least two major advocacy battles in the pipeline? A scary legal negotiation? Higher-ups ditching?

Posted by Dori at 9:54 AM 0 comments

Kiss Bliss

Since everyone seems to be intrigued by my recent kissing experience, and since I have nothing else that's remotely interesting to write about (unless you want to read a lengthy account of my latest work event planning exploits or the recent demise of the copier), I will provide some details herein.

So the Guy I'm Kissing does noble stuff for a living. To put himself through college, he created and sold gourmet sweets (think Godiva) on Newbury Street. As I mentioned, exceptionally attractive and well-dressed. I am unaccustomed to such beauty and such impeccable style. In fact, I feel a little self-conscious about my wardrobe and my not-so-perfect skin.

So anyway. Date #1 was the amazing Mediterranean dinner followed by dessert at an upscale hotel in Harvard Square. Date #2 was an independent flick followed by tea at an Algerian cafe. Date #3 was a ramble through the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, where we sat in the courtyard and talked about our travels and past relationships.

I have some experience with the pressure associated with third dates, and the fact that no kissing had occurred on dates #1-3, was causing me more surprise than concern. Completely uncharacteristically, I told myself it would happen eventually. On Date #4, we went to look at couches at a fancy furniture outlet (He's moving into a new apartment, and is developing a decor concept. It was cute and flirty trying out all the couches and beds.), and then we bought fancy snacks to sneak into the sucky movie Match Point. Afterwards I engineered us to go to his house and make dinner.

So we were cooking, and listening to his cool music (on all the occasions in which I've driven us around, I've stashed my embarrassing CD collection in the glove compartment). He asked: "Can I ask you something?" My heart sank. I thought he was going to say something like, "have you ever thought about addressing your not-so-perfect skin/poor taste in music/unfashionable shoes?".

But I told him to fire away.

"Do you think it's a little surprising that it's our fourth date but we haven't kissed yet?"

?!?

I said that I had found it a little surprising, and thought we hadn't gone on very kiss-conducing dates thus far. Also I suggested that if he thought of me in a "cool-as-a-friend -and-eating-buddy" kind of a way, as opposed to a kissing prospect, he should let me know. He refuted this notion. Then I proclaimed that I was definitely on board for some kissing.

But then I also told him that now we couldn't possibly kiss, having just discussed it.

He assured me that we absolutely would find a way to kiss without it being weird and contrived.

And he was right. We ate our amazing meal. We watched a hilarious DVD. We looked at his stunning travel photos. And then he kissed me with great skill. We went out again last night, to this amazing unknown Italian place where he knew the staff and they gave us free unpitted dates for dessert. Afterwards I engineered us going back to my place. There was much less kissing, but I'm holding out for this weekend. We are going to make Apricot Souffles with Creme Anglaise. It takes a long time to cool.

Posted by Dori at 7:43 PM 2 comments

Getting Saucy

In my ongoing quest for culinary excellence (and, OK, let’s be real, my ongoing quest for food-appreciating men)*, I registered for a class at the local culinary school. This is the real deal, a class in a commercial kitchen with a-twelve burner gas range, a fleet of slave-boys washing all the dishes/pots/pans, and massive troughs of flour and sugar.

My expectation of Friday’s saucing class (allegedly scheduled for 6:30-8:30) was that the instructor would demonstrate the preparation of some mayonnaise, béchamel, and maybe some béarnaise from good measure, and then each of the students would individually whip our respective sauces, and then we’d pour the sauces over some pasta/poached eggs/asparagus, chow down, and be on our merry way.

Chef Dave shattered my expectations after he demonstrated the wrong and right ways to make mayonnaise and hollandaise (two of the six “mother sauces” that are the basis of classical cooking). Then, at 7:45 p.m., he asked to choose among a sheaf of really complicated recipes. Apparently the nine of us were about to produce, collectively: handmade cannelloni stuffed with béchamel and shrimp, almond-encrusted squid with a caper-and-gherkin mayonnaise, grilled steak with sauce Robert, poached salmon with hollandaise, eggs benedict spiked with chipotle peppers, shrimp bisque, shrimp-stuffed crepes, chicken supreme, a sole vegetarian entrée, and pears poached in red wine with caramel and crème anglaise.

All this was to be accomplished simultaneously, in an unfamiliar commercial kitchen, with a massive, heat-spewing range and pots with metal handles (I burned myself twice). Thank God I picked the pears. I’d prepared poached pears and caramel before (Caramel is simple to make: it’s basically just sugar, water, a squeeze of lemon. You stir the sugar and water and let it cook for a while. Then it hopefully becomes caramel. It has this very, very narrow window in which it transforms from caramel to a sticky, nasty, dangerously hot mess that takes ages and steel wool to remove from the pot.)

I got cocky in the cooking class. My pears were poaching (all though Chef Dave reprimanded me because they did hit boiling temperature and that’s a big no-no). For a while, the caramel was safe on the range, squished between the steak, squid, and shrimp. And the crème anglaise seemed simple enough, and anyway it had to be prepared at the end.

I decided to pitch in and help this other chick who was up to her elbows in some serious chopping. Minutes later, Chef Dave yelled that “someone’s caramel is burning!”. It was too late to start over. Chef Dave was disgusted. But he proclaimed that we’d reduce the poaching liquid and make a syrup (which came out perfectly).

The whole enterprise was so stressful. It was like Project Runway with everyone trying to execute a task under tight time constraints and shared equipment. There was no space to stand and watch your caramel burn. There was nowhere to privately coax a crème anglaise from egg yolks and sugar. Chef Dave was overwhelmed with demands and could barely help. The food was ready at irregular intervals, and finally, at 10:45 p.m., we gathered around the demonstration counter (there were no chairs) and consumed a nauseating array of rich and expensive food. Overall the food was exceptional (how could it not be, given all the amazing ingredients?), but by that point, I was so exhausted and unnerved and hot and sweaty to care. My pears were devoured before I could sample one. But I still triumphed in spite of the caramel debacle. I made a mean crème anglaise and now I feel empowered to try some of the other sauces. It’s nice to know what the danger signs of doomed sauces look like, and that it’s not such a bad thing to start over. It even happens to Chef Dave.

* I should also report that I have had some immediate success in nabbing a food-appreciating man. Remember the Hot Bachelor #1 from my last UpDATE? We had our fourth date on Sunday and collectively made 3-cheese grilled cheese with herbs de provence, butternut and apple squash soup, salad, and orange shortbread topped with marscapone cheese and mandarin oranges. Then we did some seriously delightful kissing. Sigh.

Posted by Dori at 10:54 PM 3 comments

Altercation

While I talk a good game about being "full of rage", I actually have become somewhat even- tempered since I recovered from the hell and injustice of high school. While I do rant on a pretty regular basis about Republican behavior, stuff at work, and the state of my skin/love life, I think my ranting is more about frustration than anger, and it's generally confined to calls with my mom, this blog, and friends who listen with some bemusement. I can't remember the last time I yelled at anyone directly.

Until last night. As I've mentioned on several occasions, the 2-family house in which I reside has a poorly maintained heating system. While the landlords upstairs are sweltering, I am shivering and miserable, positioned inches away from space heater, debating whether to call them yet again and ask them to turn up the heat. I cannot emphasize enough how much I am asking. As you probably know, because you've discussed this with me at least 20 times, I have this warped notion that if I antagonize my landlords, they will raise the rent or treat me poorly and I'll be forced to move out, and moving sucks. Thus, I call them a few times a week with my faux-cheery request: "hi, it's Dori downstairs. It's 63 degrees down here (or 59 or 61 or 65--I only call if it's below the 68 housing code standard that one of you posted on here the last time I ranted about this). If you could turn up the heat, that would be great!"

At which point, the landlady sighs, indicates that she is extremely put-out, and says "OK" before hanging up (no goodbye). Occasionally she'll add that it's 71 or 73 or 75 upstairs, and that they're so hot, and once she said that she feels like she's in jail because if she opens the window or turns on the oven the whole system goes nuts. Then I get all deferential (never mind that I feel like an exile, staying late at work in my toasty office because I don't want to face the cold at home).

However, her complete and utter lack of reason drives me MAD (literally). Yesterday, after she flung down the phone, she sent her husband downstairs to yell at me. He showed up in his T-shirt (further proof that upstairs, it's warm), with a thermometer and a hammer and a nail, and insisted he'd put up his thermometer at eye level (because of course, when it's 63 degrees at Dori level, it's definitely much, much warmer at eye level and therefore Dori is unreasonable and no, the heating system is fine, and no, there is no need to have it checked out. Dori's thermometer is a big fake fraud. And clearly getting an accurate temperature reading will solve the non-existent problem with the heating system).

Because the screen/storm window on the kitchen window was stuck (meaning, the storm window was only halfway down), and I knew that if he saw it I'd never hear the end of it, I didn't let him in. I said repeatedly that he was welcome to come and look at the radiators, the windows, the chimney, and any other aspect of my home, but not right now, it wasn't a good time. I stood firm. I got mad. It's my fucking private apartment, and I don't go barging into their fucking private apartment unannounced with a hammer and nail. But of course now he's convinced that I've got a whole tanning salon/pig roast/heat-powered crack den in my apartment, for which I am using inappropriate amounts of heat, financed by the sweat of his brow and his own hardship.

Anyway. I yelled at him. When he told me that last year everything was fine (implying that this year my metabolism and the whole tanning salon/pig roast situation was causing the problem), I yelled back. When he ranted about how I call about the heat as soon as I get home and don't even take off my coat, I yelled back (that's KILLER. It's none of their fucking business when I get home, and the home needs to be warm ALL THE FUCKING TIME). I yelled about how I am seriously considering my tenancy and about fucking housing codes and so forth. While I did not use any foul language, I definitely raised my voice.

And did I feel better? NO. I shut the door politely. I banged around the kitchen. Then I drove to the gym to sit in the WARM sauna. I did some very aggressive exercise. And I slunk back into the apartment to compose a cheery morning message inviting them in so we can find a solution that will make "all of us comfortable."

The rage? Still in full effect.

Posted by Dori at 8:55 AM 2 comments

Feedback

So, you know how I get Gourmet and Bon Appetit? Well, in both magazines (and also in TV Guide, sometimes) they interview famous people and then publish their special recipes. On a number of occasions I have been asked whether I have a signature dish. I do not, but I do have several standbys that I prepare often, because they are quick and require minimal dish-washing. I thought I'd share a few of these with my stronglyworded readers. You'll note that I don't include the measurements/quantities, because I just do it to taste, and so can you.

Chickpea Spread (Great with crackers or on a veggie sandwich):
Rinse 1 can chickpeas and combine (using an immersion blender) with garlic, olive oil, sesame oil, lemon, and salt. (You can also do this with white beans, and add cumin.)

Tomato Pesto (adapted from my friend K.):
Combine (once again, using an immersion blender) a small can of tomato paste with garlic, olive oil, parmesan cheese, and pine nuts if you have them. Toss with hot pasta.

Broccoli Bake:
Prepare ziti or other sturdy noodles in salted boiling water. Once they are mostly cooked, add frozen broccoli to the pot. Return to a boil, and drain both broccoli and noodles. Mix some light sour cream, grated cheddar cheese, mustard, salt, and pepper together until smooth. Add to the broccoli/pasta mixture until well-coated. Bake in the oven until the cheese melts or you've run out of patience. You can also add shredded cooked chicken (to the pasta-broccoli).

Apple-Squash Soup (I believe that this combination has become passe, but it's a good recipe nonetheless):
Sautee a chopped onion in olive oil until translucent. Add a peeled chopped Granny Smith apple. Once the apple is tender, add chicken broth (or the vegetarian equivalent). Add chopped butternut squash. (You can use frozen butternut squash and microwave it first to save time. But fresh butternut squash is tastier, and it can also be nuked beforehand). Simmer until squash is very, very soft. Blend until smooth. Season to taste.You kick this up a notch by adding fresh minced peeled ginger to the mix, along with a dash of chili powder.

Zucchini-Pesto Soup:
Sautee onions and thinly sliced zucchini in olive oil until tender. Add prepared pesto (next to the fresh pastas in the supermarket) until well coated. Add broth and bring to a boil. Blend until smooth. Season to taste.

Awesome Chicken (adapted from Cooking for Mr. Latte, by Amanda Hesser):
Combine apricot preserves, light sour cream, a lot of lemon, mayonnaise, curry, salt, and pepper until smooth (should be tangy). Pour onto skinless boneless chicken breasts (pound them first if they are unevenly thick). Bake/broil until perfectly done, about 10 minutes (if it's a small quantity, you can do this in the toaster oven).

Faux Waldorf Salad:
Chop a Granny Smith apple (leave the peel on). Combine with walnuts, vanilla yogurt, and dried cranberries.

Faux Pasta Carbonara:
Sautee basil and garlic in olive oil until browned. Add some chopped tomato and chopped smoked turkey or ham (the kind meant for sandwiches). Once tomato is cooked, add some white wine, a little bit of prepared alfredo sauce (about a tablespoon per serving--from a jar or your own fair hands if you feel like it), and combine the sauce with hot pasta.

Not Very Original Chicken Salad:
Remove skin and bones from a rotisserie chicken (I hate doing this and use rubber gloves to avoid the greasiness). Cut chicken into bite-sized pieces. Combine with light sour cream, mustard, curry, chopped green grapes, chopped Granny Smith Apple, walnuts, and chopped red onions. Season to taste.

Spanish Orange Salad (not as weird as it sounds):
Combine sliced peeled oranges with excellent olive oil, a splash of vinegar, slivers of red onion, and salt. This is considered a sophisticated first course in Spain.

Fast Rosemary Homefries (adapted from A.P.):
Peel and dice some boiling potatoes (about 1 potato per serving). Microwave in a covered dish until mostly cooked (usually about 6 minutes--you may have to do it in batches). Sautee in olive oil with fresh rosemary, sage, salt, pepper, and a dash of red pepper. If you can stand waiting, use moderate heat and leave the potatoes alone for a while and then turn them (so they'll be crisp on the outside).

Not Very Original Quesadillas:
Combine grated sharp cheddar cheese (I use Cabot's reduced fat) with prepared salsa. (You can also add sauteed peppers, onions, black beans, and/or shredded cooked chicken). Spread mixture onto one half of a flour tortilla. Fold tortilla in half. Put it in a George Foreman Grill until the cheese melts and the tortilla has browned. Serve by itself, or with additional salsa, guacamole, sour cream, or whatever suits your fancy.

Posted by Dori at 11:40 AM 0 comments

Turns Out I'm Spain

So I am fully dating now. Last weekend I went on three dates. Bachelor #1 is fundamentally hot. He has blue eyes, edgy square glasses, a beautiful face, a low and sexy voice, and a fabulous metrosexual wardrobe. Also, he found himself at a career crossroads a few years ago: deciding between civil service and culinary school. We went on this phenomenal date which included a platter of cheese (at three stages of maturation) served alongside a bunch of FIGS. Bachelor #2 was brilliant and knowledgeable but neither fun nor hot. Bachelor #3 was fun (and funny) but not hot (though more hot than Bachelor #2), but clearly the most marriage-minded of the three. So there you go.

I am not cool enough to be dating more than one person at once. It stresses me out. Even though I know it is completely fine and expected, I worry that I’ll mix up the different prospects and double-book them or bump into one while I’m with the other.

Anyway. Last weekend I was discussing these prospects with some girlfriends, and they asked me about Good Dating Questions. I’d say that any date in which the guy asks me any questions is good. (I have gone on way too many dates in my life, and in most cases, the experience is like a one-sided interview after which my listening skills are complimented).

Last night I went on date #2 with Bachelor #1, and he asked me a number of interesting questions, which I’ll list among other good date questions:
- What were you like in high school? Did you go to the prom [thus indirectly asking: have you experienced suffering? Are you a compassionate person?]?
- Siblings/parents: how are you like them or different from them [thus indirectly getting at: are these potentially likeable in-laws, and are you traumatized, and how do you see yourself]?
- Why do you do the work you do, how did you end up doing it?
- Why do you live here and how did you end up here [thus indirectly asking: are you going to live here for the foreseeable future, since that is my plan]?
- Anything about past relationships, first love, etc. (this is not a topic I’ll introduce myself, but if the other person does, I thrive on these conversations). I am also very interested in how the person learned about sex (again, not something I’d ask until I know the person pretty well, but it’s very illuminating). Was it a parental lecture? Stolen moments in the locker room? Is the guy self-taught?
- What does it mean to “pull a [name]”?

A.P., the Unitarian I loved madly in 2001, asked me all about my enneagram category
on our first “date”. He also asked me to tell him a story about myself (which sounds like a job interview question, but was actually very cool in context. I told him the story about how, while living in Spain, I took a solo daytrip to a remotely located monument to the fallen of the Spanish Civil War (erected by Franco, Spain's dictator at the time). Because of a transportation strike, I ended up hitching a ride from the train station with a dancer in the National Spanish Ballet Company, and then getting a ride back on an Australian tour bus).

Last night, bachelor #1 described himself in terms of a Scandinavian country—now calm and full of progressive goodness, but once a rageful kingdom of pillagers. I thought that was extremely cool (the analogy, not the pillaging), and I’ve since identified myself as Spain-like: repressed by dictatorship (the evil school systems, my harshness towards myself) and then blossoming into a cool, fun place/person that supports equal marriage.

How about you?

Posted by Dori at 1:02 PM 3 comments

Seized With Worry

So I know I've mentioned before that I have epilepsy. It started when I was 14 and I was talking to my mom and all of a sudden I dropped to the floor and had a seizure. This event was so traumatic that, when later asked to describe the convulsions to the doctor, my mom had blocked it out of her memory. And, in all the years since then, my dad has been unable to hear the Mozart concerto that was playing when this happened. I had two other seizures that year--one at the gym, one in the shower. I underwent many scary tests, and ultimately was put on Depakote, a pretty hard-core anti-convulsant that can cause liver damage, hair loss, weight gain, and nauseating "phantom smells". (I'd suddenly become sickened by the smell of nonexistent cold cream.)

I'll spare you the rest of this scintillating medical history, except to add that I stopped taking Depakote in college and was fine until two years ago, when I was walking to a friend's house to watch the finale of Sex and the City, and my latent spike wave neurological patterns got set off. Suddenly, I found myself in an ambulance (for which my stingy grad-school insurance barely chipped in--$400!). (Some good Samaritan found me and called 911—if you’re out there, thanks!) The doctors put my ass back on a more modern, much less harsh anti-convulsant (Lamictal), and (touch wood) I've been fine. The side effects are minor but still weird. I have random trembling in my hands (which makes me look ultra nervous when I'm not), and nighttime hallucinations. I sometimes "see" neon rain descending upon me as I'm falling asleep.

Which is all to say, epilepsy is no cakewalk, but I feel really lucky to have it under control (again, touch wood). And the point of all this: one of my acquaintances has a pre-teen daughter, who's had some fainting spells recently. He took her to the doctor yesterday, and this morning she's having some tests. Having tests the next day is a scary sign. Usually one is booked for tests weeks and weeks in advance. And it takes an agonizingly LONG TIME to get results back. I can't stop thinking about this kid (even though I've never met her). She'll be fine, because she probably just has some minor pre-teen hormonal thing (fainting spells are actually common at that age). But I see how worried her dad is. It could be epilepsy.

And I wish I could say something all reassuring like, hey, I have epilepsy, and I'm fine (once again, touch wood), and I've lived a relatively normal life, and it's no big deal. But that wouldn't be totally honest. Epilepsy is a scary, scary condition. It takes a long time to find good drugs that keep everything under control while having manageable side effects. Even so, you don't know that the drugs are working until you go a long time and you're fine (or your EEG looks normal, which mine never has, not even when I take the drugs). And an epileptic person can never say with absolute surety that (s)he is fine.

I really, really hope that this kid really is fine. I hope she just has low blood pressure or some minor other thing that can be easily remedied and that her family won't have to live with this time-bomb sense of uncertainty. But in worrying about her, and worrying about my colleague, I'm realizing that fine is quite a relative term. I'm not sure what to say to him. He doesn't know I have epilepsy. Would hearing my assertion that I'm "fine" –given my definition of the term--make him feel better, or worse?

Posted by Dori at 11:01 AM 3 comments

Redemption

I forgot to mention that my former boyfriend, who recently joined the "online JDate community" (aka eighth circle of hell--am I getting melodramatic much?) and posted a photo from which I had been cropped out, called me the next evening to explain that he'd agonized over that decision. He had consulted a "panel of experts" (from work) who had encouraged him to use the photo, since his only other option was an unflattering shot taken in 1997. He said he still treasures the original photo in which I am prominently featured in my hot maroon bridesmaid's dress (OK, he didn't say anything about the dress or my hotness. But it was implied.)

I told him that *my* panel of experts (numerous friends and stronglyworded readers) had deemed his behavior shady. But I also let him off the hook. I get it.

It was super, super classy of him to call, and we had a good conversation, so all's right with the ex.

Posted by Dori at 12:25 PM 1 comments

Fear Factor

So, have I told you lately that I love my adorable "new" car? I think so. Said car (who I think I'll name Sybil) is now sporting an inspection sticker AND a PERMIT PARKING STICKER, a joy you can only appreciate if you live in the Greater Boston Parking War Zone. As I write this, Sybil's cute little self is undergoing some extremely expensive repairs, including rear new tires and tire alignment. The jury is out on whether tire alignment is actually necessary, or whether the earnest guy at Firestone has just talked me out of about $200 more than I expected to spend (at least I held fast and turned down his offer of a “fuel flushing” procedure and a “buy three, get one free” tire sale).

But I digress. Today I had planned to make the pilgrimage to Ikea, the Mecca of Affordable Scandinavian Furniture. I had planned to take the day off and partake in their fabulous service concept, along with my friend R.., an experienced Ikea shopper.

But when I map-quested the drive yesterday, I discovered that I’d have to take some combination of several equally horrifying roadways in order to get there: Rte 128, the Mass Pike, the McGrath Highway, or Memorial Drive. Even with my new cute car and my intense Ikea desires, I completely panicked.

I once attempted the two-mile drive from my apartment to the Home Depot off one of these roads, bolstered by false confidence and “simple” mapquest directions. I arrived without a hitch, but on my way back, I got snarled into a tangle of highways, darkness, angry motorists, and confusion. Somehow, despite my tears and pounding heart, I managed to get home in one piece.

It’s been over a year, and I still haven’t ventured in that direction. My supportive friends acknowledge that this particular patch of highway is really horrible, and that if I can drive there, I can drive anywhere. They also praise the progress I’ve made thus far (driving fairly successfully around MetroWest and also making multiple trips to my hometown on the admittedly sleepy State Highway). I have conquered Harvard Square and even Central Square.

But I still feel like a big loser. Even with my own car and a year of driving on my belt, I’m still too scared to drive to Ikea. I get this fear from my mom, who’s been driving for over 40 years, and still fears driving from our small hometown to the Hartford airport, the local hospital, Boston, and almost anywhere outside her immediate environs. I don’t want to be like that.

But Ikea beckons, so R. and I are planning to go next weekend. I’ll drive to her house (actually no small feat), and then she’ll drive the rest of the way.

Posted by Dori at 12:17 PM 1 comments

Some Joy and Rage to Kick off 2006

Joy:

- My 2000 Honda Civic in teal-blue-ice, is just the cutest, most cunning car you ever did see. It now has MASS PLATES on it that I put on myself (OK, with just a little help with the guy at the Gulf Station). After three trips to Lexington (DON'T ASK), it is now insured. This car makes tight, smooth turns. It actually fits into "compact" parking spaces. It has multiple cup holders, one of which now houses this cool knitted purple creature that R. created for me. Also, the car has heat which can be adjusted in increments (as opposed to the "freeze vs broil" option on the foster car). I could go on about the stereo and CD player, the remote lock and starting mechanisms, but I'll reserve these sweet nothings for the car itself.

- I discovered that iTunes can be downloaded on PCs as well as Macs, and that one doesn't have to own an iPod to partake in their loveliness. Thus, I now own "Closer to Free" (the Party of Five theme song--you know you loved it), U2's "With or Without You" (prominently featured on Dori's List of Most Agonizing Songs*), and this enchanting new poppy tune called "These Words", from some English singer named Natasha Bedingfield. Also I have access to radio streaming which is so cool. I acknowledge that I have come to iTunes very late. Nonetheless, it is a joyful discovery.

- After five years of membership, I discovered that the steam room in my gym is a lovely, lovely place to be if you're constantly cold (or worried about being cold), and if your pores are still all angsty despite regular application of Retin A and assorted other nasty-smelling dermatological remedies.

Rage

- The real owner of the foster car has yet to reclaim it (she really is a neglectful mother!). Thus when it snows this week I will have to shovel snow off of two vehicles.

- While I was in iTunes bliss, I discovered that my printer cartridge has completely run out, and was not available at either commercial establishment in which I searched for it. This killed today's printing-related plans.

- As a reward for a whole day of New Year's Errands (which included 20 minutes on the treadmill followed by stretching), I hit the gym's aforementioned steam room. A very annoying woman entered, spread out her towel, and took it upon herself to exfoliate in the sacred, eucaluptus-scented space. The exfoliation, while inappropriate, was endurable. But I could not handle the unnerving jangling caused by her locker key. She'd affixed it to her wrist, and exfoliated so vigorously that it was like fucking residual sleigh bells. She did not respond to my sighing or my pointed glances at her key. I was forced to cut short my bliss, and retreat to the locker room.


*Dori's (Abridged) List of Most Agonizing Songs:
"And So it Goes" - Billy Joel
"Why Should I Cry for You" - Sting
"Baby Can I Hold You" -Tracy Chapman
"Ghost" - Indigo Girls
"Words Fail You" - Kris Delmhorst
"Weatherman" - Kris Delmhorst
"I Know What Kind of Love This Is" - The Nields
"Two Points" -Deb Talan
"After All" - Dar Williams
"The Shape I Found You In" - Girlyman
"This is Me" - Eddie from Ohio

Posted by Dori at 7:48 PM 0 comments

A Thwack to the Heart

So I survived Christmas. I survived New Year's (very nicely, I may add! With fancy food and good friends and none of the dreaded kissing at midnight!).

'Tis the season, however, for New Year's Resolutions. I have two.

1) Do everything in my power to meet my husband and
2) Ramp up my career.

Both of these activities fill me with dread, in large part because they both involve ambiguity, people I don't know, and obsessive checking of email. Dating and career advancement also, by definition, involve rejection, disappointment, and (sometimes worse)a kind of panicky hope that has to be managed, in an attempt to ameliorate aforementioned rejection and disappointment.

So today I swallowed my feelings of hatred and dread and coughed up $34.99 for a one month subscription to JDate. (The first time I did JDate was in 2002, and it was free. I posted my profile and got 14 replies in the first 24 hours. I was completely overwhelmed, but felt fantastic. I went out with a handful of guys and realized I was still too in love with my ex to endure the process, but I always kept it in the back of my mind as an option. The next time I did JDate was in grad school. I got many fewer responses, because, let's face it, I'm older. It sucked and battered my self-esteem, but I met a great guy after remarkably few dates and we dated for six months. Now, he periodically stops by my office and we have coffee. It was a good outcome.

Then I did JDate for a month or two last year, and I met my last boyfriend, the one you've all read a lot about. We broke up six months ago and I acknowledge that it is time for me to Get Out There, much as I despise, and I mean despise the thought.

So here are some horrible things about re-entering the world of online dating.

1) Some of the people who were on the site during my brief membership periods are still on there. And I have this strange, irrational worry that they will think that I've been JDating since 2002, rather than having 3 brief and fruitful forays. I want to put in my profile that I am not a member of the JDate wasteland, that in fact I've been in several awesome relationships, and this is just kickstarting the next one. OK?

2) JDate now has all sorts of crazy features in which you can torture yourself about the number of people who have viewed your profile, how well you've been "rated" and whether you are more or less "active" or "popular" than the next chick. Also there are all these communication options, like IM-ing and "teasing" and "flirting" in which I refuse to participate. You like me? Write me a fucking message.

3) Some of the people on the site are people I've met. It's so discouraging to think they still haven't fallen in love, further evidence that falling in love is time-consuming and erratic.

4) But, by FAR the worst part: my former boyfriend is Jdating his little heart out. I was convinced that he'd resigned himself to a single, celibate life, and I was planning, in fact, to encourage him to seek out new love. But then, I'm an idiot, because, as I browsed tentatively through the profiles (this was 15 minutes ago, when I bit the bullet), I saw his smiling face out there in cyberspace, with a new username (his used to be "indenturedservant"). I saw his photo and experienced this lurching feeling of betrayal, and also, a deep sense of shame knowing that he'll know that I, too, am back here at square one.

Even worse: his photo was taken at my friend R.'s wedding, and it was a picture of US, that I emailed to him in happier times. Of course, I have been unceremoniously cropped out on many levels.

I felt so good about my commitment to this odious process until now. But I will persevere ...
I will ...
I will.

Posted by Dori at 8:24 PM 2 comments