Lessons in Cultural Competency: Silence is Golden: Part Deux

I learned this weekend is that a hotel room in an office park 30 minutes outside downtown Chicago is eight million times quieter than an apartment in the East Village.

Of course, no one wants to live in Oak Brook, Illinois.* Not even the people eating dinner at Maggiano's like it was Nobu.

*(Not to be confused with Office Park, Illinois. Which would be extraordinarily easy to do. Trust me.)

This American Life

Fresh from the not-so-Windy City (except that it was! it was windy!), and with either a head cold or a case of midwest allergies (not to the midwest, per se, but perhaps to the pollen therein), I spent the day unpacking, walking from the East Village to Chelsea (to return a jute rug and to surprise The Painter at work) in high heeled sandals (summer will be here if I will it so). And then, I came home to take care of my whatever-it-is, and to catch up with my DVR.

I used to listen to TAL all the time, but have lapsed of late - it just wasn't on at a convenient time in my neck of the woods. But when I heard there would be a tv series that I could record and watch whenever I wanted, well, the princess in me started jumping up and down.

And then.

The first story was about urination. In the second tale (mostly about a cloned bull), a man was gored in the groin and required 80 stitches. Even more disturbing was the way his wife giggled while telling Ira Glass about the location of the injury (in greater detail than I've illustrated in the boudoir.

I just thought you should know.

Shuesday: I say tomato

you say Fatakata?

Let's call the whole thing fabulous, shall we?

Trying to throw your arms around the world

sometimes it's easy, and sometimes it's a lot to ask. I'm just saying.

Upping the ante Part Two: @ home

More people who are so much better than the rest of us.

Welcome to Walden Pond, Fifth Avenue style. Isabella’s parents, Colin Beavan, 43, a writer of historical nonfiction, and Michelle Conlin, 39, a senior writer at Business Week, are four months into a yearlong lifestyle experiment they call No Impact. Its rules are evolving, as Mr. Beavan will tell you, but to date include eating only food (organically) grown within a 250-mile radius of Manhattan; (mostly) no shopping for anything except said food; producing no trash (except compost, see above); using no paper; and, most intriguingly, using no carbon-fueled transportation.

This new life involves none of the following: toilet paper, olive oil, coffee, toothpaste, moisturizer, new clothes, and eating out (remember, this is New York City). Isabella is two.

Of course, being a Real Girl,

Ms. Conlin is clearly more than just a good sport — giving up toilet paper seems a fairly profound gesture of commitment — she did describe, in loving detail, a serious shopping binge that predated No Impact and made the whole thing doable, she said. “It was my last hurrah,” she explained. It included two pairs of calf-high Chloe boots (one of which was paid for, she said, with her mother’s bingo winnings) and added up to two weeks’ salary, after taxes and her 401(k) contribution.

Previously:
Upping the wedding ante

Shuesday: Slush puppies

What we hope are the last vestiges of winter are melting oh so slowly on every street corner in the city. (You should have seen me trying to get from the East Village to the Angelika in time to catch a movie on Saturday afternoon. Olympic level puddle jumping, I'm telling you.)

So get these already. You know you want them, and they go with everything. Besides, who wants to worry about wet feet?

FYI

Vermouth? Freezes. I'm just saying.*



Of course all we do is wave it over the glass, but still!

Real Time

The LA Times has an op-ed by Bill Maher today, full of lol, pithy witticisms. To quote:

When I heard that Bush was reading my e-mails, I'm sure I had the same reaction you did: "George Bush can read?"

This administration has gone through our phone records, credit card statements, our mail and our Internet logs — I feel like I'm on "Cheaters."

I mail myself a copy of the U.S. Constitution every morning just in the hope they'll open it and see what it says.

We have sacrificed a lot; it's just that we don't care that the NSA is listening to our phone calls. And that's especially tough for me, because I'm dating a girl named Jihadi Madrasa.

Shuesday: Walk softly ...

And carry a spike heel?

I've been reading non-fiction lately, about the history of salt and what we learned from the Greeks, and somehow they led me to this shoe from the boys at D&G.

Not sure if it's the gladiator-esque straps (yes, I know that's Roman, not Greek), or the heel-as-weapon functionality that appeals, but these are kind of fun.

In a don't even think about messing with me kind of way.

And what would you wear with them? Other than a smile.

Proust would approve

Last night found me flying uptown on the 6 train for an extraordinary meal. Cafe Boulud is a re-creation of M. Daniel's great grandparents' restaurant in Lyon, and it was fantastic.

I began, comme toujours, with a dirty martini whilst awaiting the Drug Czar's arrival. After the ritual water discussion (tap or bottled? flat or sparkling?) and the presentation of a bread basket with 5 choices (sourdough, pumpkin seed, raisin, boule & petit baguette), it was on to the meal. I chose the Satur Farm baby beet salad with fourme d’ambert, caramelized hazelnut, and asian pear, then moved to the appetizer portion of the curried Thai lobster, with spicy red pepper curry, thai basil and sticky rice. The DC had pate with foie gras and roasted duck breast “Castelluccio”, with lentils, pancetta, and kabocha squash. We chose a lovely French pinot noir that complemented everything well, and finished with the Devil Food Cup Cake with caramel gratin and salted caramel ice cream, and a shot of espresso. And dessert comes with a basket of delicious madelines.


We then retired to Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle Hotel, to view the murals by Ludwig Bemelmans, sip framboise eau de vie and armagnac, and listen to a delightful jazz pianist who was undisturbed by the young turks singing along to the Sinatra songs. No sign of Mr. Allen, who apparently plays there on Mondays. And Elliot the cab driver got me home in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

For a nightcap, I caught up with Camarooned, who's alive and kicking, and cooking lentils on the West Coast.

Strike a pose

Ever since the word went out that the people tasked with keeping us all one big, happy, connected family were taking head shots of all the worker bees, I've been bitching about it. Can't I just submit my own photo? How can this possibly be good use of anyone's time? Surely we're not all going along with this? How are they ever going to get everyone done? What about my privacy? (the photos are for the intranet).

Etc, etc etc.

The truth is I'm vain and have image control issues. As a relative newbie, I know the value of the office lookbook. They did their best to make it a pleasant experience, and the photo was fine.

I got over myself, just in time.

Shuesday: Pull here

The FG actually had to check prior editions of Shuesday to make sure that I hadn't already blogged these Marc Jacobs sandals. I can't say exactly what appeals, but I like them.

There's something about black velvet. And it's not just that it always reminds me of this story from my pre-teen years.

FG, meet RG

That's right, Restaurant Girl has joined the Fabulous Links over on the lower right hand side there. Enjoy!

Le Weekend

This weekend, it was for the shopping. Not the window shopping, the serious, expensive, I need light/a place to sit/something to stare at that will keep me in touch with pop culture/something to put my books n' clothes n' stuff on and in. The only thing I actually brought home was a TV (where /a TV/ is a 32 inch flat screen LCD that looks like it belongs on the deck of the Enterprise and not on the floor), as the lamps, bookcases and couch had to be ordered, being either not in stock or it just takes them forever to upholster and deliver it. (I'm not telling when the couch is expected to arrive.) But bringing home the big screen meant that the speaker system got hooked up, and it had to be done because the cable/internet guy comes tomorrow morning to set things up.

This weekend, it was also for the eating. Dinner Friday was at my new favourite local place, Hearth, where the hostess wore Marc Jacobs shoes, the bartender designs jewelry, and the wait staff were incredible. We started with arugula and shaved fennel salad with marinated white anchovies, pickled cipollini onions and bread crumbs, followed by braised wild striped bass with artichokes, fennel, blood orange and cockles, and roasted sturgeon, wrapped in prosciutto with a black olive & garlic rub. For dessert, apple cider doughnuts with apple compote and maple cream. Sunday brunch, after viewing the Nan Kempner exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, was at Sarabeth's - a pickled bloody mary and a pumpkin waffle with pumpkin seeds, raisins and sour cream. Scrumptious.

Bi-National

Are you living in a diverse household? Are there regularly discussions about the pros and cons of life on either side of the 49th parallel? Do you live as close as possible to the border, but remain stubbornly on your own side, determined to change the system from within? Do you wish you had an appropriate pillow with which to bean your opponent during these civilized/no-holds-barred conversations? Fear not, and click the link to determine whither your destiny lies.

Note: these pillows will not help you decide where the kids should be educated.