At Last! The Frenchie Food Post!

I’m sitting in a pair of rose pajama bottoms and a tank top, drinking a cup of coffee from my favorite pottery mug, listening to the terrifying sounds of Cthulhu in my walls, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to be home typing on my blog. In theory, blogging from an iPad sounded like a great idea. (We’ll have less to carry! You won’t have to be paranoid about your computer!) But in practice, it was like trying to blog on a Speak N Spell.

Anyway. We’re back. I’ve been suffering from jetlag and other issues…but I’ll cover that later. This blog is all about the food. Frenchie Food.

FRENCHIE FOOD

Now, I have to say, we never ate at one of those fancy schmancy places. We had a chance to eat at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant at our hotel (The amazing Trianon Palace in Versailles) but we just couldn’t stomach spending $200 Euros on one meal. That’s like a MILLION dollars or something in American money. We just couldn’t do it. Plus, we were too busy.

Mostly, we stuck to finding little cafes that had both French and English printed on the menu. And there were thousands of them. Some better than others. You can tell that Paris is a home for beleaguered world travelers because there are restaurants everywhere to serve them.

TWO THINGS I LEARNED

1) Brasserie is a CAFÉ, not a bra shop. I’m relieved because a baguette simply couldn’t cover my cha chas. Two baguettes maybe could. And a croissant. But then I’d be attacked by pigeons.

2) Bathrooms in busy downtown Paris restaurants are gross.

After we figured that out, we were on our way to eating. Here are some highlights:

REAL FOOD

There’s just plain more REAL food in Paris. Like things aren’t packaged and ziplocked and flash frozen and reconstituted. They’re like REAL. Freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast every morning was a revelation. Sandwiches made on bread they baked that morning…amazing. Eating a crepe made fresh before your eyes…awesome.

SWEET & SALTY

Sweet things are less sweet; salty things are less salty; there’s more vinegar and less sugar in mayonnaise and ketchup. I think this goes back to the food being real. If food is real and less processed it doesn’t need tons of sugar and sweetener. In fact, we’re sure they used real SUGAR and not corn syrup. One taste of a dense glace (ice cream) and you’ll be astounded that the ice cream you’ve been eating from your freezer isn’t real at all. It’s like discovering that you’ve been celebrating Christmas all wrong and it’s way more awesome!

FRENCH LIKE MEAT AND SAUCES AND FRIES

Now I don’t know if this was for tourists, and I think it probably was, but it was like every French dish (beef burgundy, baked chicken, sausages) came with fries and a salad. No salt on the fries. And there was a lot of meat, everywhere. For a girl who waxes vegetarian 70% of the time, that was a lot to stomach. Literally. And every salad had the same dressing on it—what I like to call the…

INTERNATIONAL SALAD DRESSING

(See above picture of the sandwich and salad.)

Every salad had the same dressing wherever you went, with slight variations. There were no options. The dressing basically (from what I could taste and from asking) had Dijon mustard, olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper, maybe some garlic. I’m going to whip some up soon.

BREAKFAST BUFFETS ARE GREAT

Best breakfast buffet was at the Trianon Palace of course, but all our hotels offered pastries but also cheese, vegetables, smoked fish, etc. I don’t feel as freaky anymore for eating curry for breakfast.

VARIETY

A surprising thing to me was that I started to miss the variety of food at home. Every menu we saw was pretty focused with few choices. I sorta like the menus here with cuisine from all over the world served at one restaurant. And I would’ve liked some smashed garlic potatoes or some other kind of side dishes.

GOOD, BUT I CAN’T EAT LIKE THE FRENCH FOREVER

There’s a diet book for women called something like “Eat Like The French and Lose Weight”. I can see why. With sauces that are so rich, salads topped with sliced beef, pates served at breakfast, you don’t need to eat A LOT. After a while, I just wanted some plain old rice, or a taco or something. I couldn't eat like the French, but I sure could hang out at a cafe and just watch people like they do.

THE MORAL

I’ll take some ideas home with me. I’m going to start baking bread again. Maybe buy an ice cream maker. I’m going to make crepes with eggs and ham and cheese. First cook the crepe, then cook the egg RIGHT ON TOP OF THE CREPE. Magic! Then you fold it all up. Crepes aren’t just for Nutella and strawberries and crème, apparently.

As soon as my stomach gets back to normal, I might also cook some beef burgundy or escargot. I know HOW to do it, I’m just usually too LAZY to do it.

First things first though: Kealoha is going shopping today for a bag of oranges and then we’re toasting our return home with some good, pure, REAL juice.

Bon appétit, or as we like to say in our house, eat up ya dirty bastard*.

*We only say that when my mom visits. Just cuz, ya know, humor.

Random Thoughts of Paris

SKINNY PANTSMen, women, children and dogs all wear skinny jeans/pants. Kealoha and I have decided to buy a matching pair in red so we will look like Parisians when we get home. Parisian sausages that is.

PEOPLE IN PARIS ARE IN GOOD SHAPE You don't see a lot of what I call "Starbucks Bellies" in France, though with all the Starbucks chains popping up, this might change in five years. So they can get away with skinny jeans FOR NOW.

GRAFFITI There's a ton of graffiti...huge words painted on bricks and buildings, especially evident when you're on the train. It's a little sad. I hate that people have to paint tags over beautiful structures to announce that they exist. Booooo.

NOTRE DAME It's a big dirty church and the gargoyles on the side of the building have wide, open mouths that are terrifying. They look like they're screaming. (Or that they're Death Eaters from "Harry Potter")

The church itself is worth seeing. Apparently there are gypsy pickpockets everywhere, but unless they look that Japanese tourists, I never saw one.

PARISIAN MEN LOOK A LITTLE GAY This is a compliment. Now, I could be over generalizing, but the French men I've seen regardless of age are just plain cool and I want to ask them for fashion advice. They wear loafers and sweaters wrapped around their shoulders and if they wear jeans, they have a nice buttoned shirt tucked in.

The only French man I saw wearing stripes and a beret was our friend Frog, and he did it ironically just to mess with us, though I wish he'd also carried a baguette.

BLOWJOB The French word for blowjob is (I have to write this phonetically) is Le Peep. When I heard this, I said "That's cute but it sounds so small." I wasn't making an assumption, merely stating that the word itself was adorable.

BATHROOMS ARE RARE It's hard to find bathrooms here. So I've stopped drinking water and am mostly dehydrated. In this way, Paris reminds me of New York.

LIFE IS SLOWER It seems like things are more relaxed here. People don't seem to rush. Everyone sort of looks like they're strolling. It's lovely. I'm trying to slow down too, but it's hard.

BRING SNACKS If you have low blood sugar, bring snacks. You won't find snack stands and convenience stores every two feet. There are lots of crepe stands and they're very cool. There are no refreshment stands in the courtyard waiting to get into Versailles. We waited for an hour and fifteen minutes in the sun and I got sunburnt, had a blood sugar crash and needed to pee so bad that I tackled an elderly woman to make it to the bathrooms in time. The elderly woman said something lovely to me, but it was in French which just sounds lovely so she might actually have been swearing at me.

VERSAILLES I need a whole blog about this. The palace is packed with tourists to the point that if you're claustrophobic you'll have a major panic attack.
Was the house worth it? I think so. But I have to say, walking from the palace to the gardens outside, seeing the fountains and hearing the classical music....I can't express how beautiful this was. Have you ever seen something so beautiful that your heart hurts a little just at the sight? It was THAT beautiful. Besides when my kids were born and when Kealoha and I got married, I can't remember a more beautiful moment than seeing the grandeur of the Versailles gardens for the first time.

It has maybe convinced me that there is a little magic left in the world.

Blame It On The Beaver

Let me just say that last night ended in a spectacular evening with new friends over wine and then Kealoha and I emerging from the subway to find the Eiffel Tower in lights behind us. I'm saying that straight up here so that you know this blog has a happy ending.

It had a miserable beginning though.

I like to take things personally, mostly because I'm extremely self-centered. So I've taken these random Paris train changes as an attack against me SPECIFICALLY. (I've never claimed to be rational.)

I think I'm having so much trouble with getting around here because I feel like there's this intricate rule book that I can't figure out, nor do they want me to. For example, Kealoha and I went back into Paris to meet friends for drinks. We were going to have a light dinner first so we left around 4:30. It's a short 20 minute train ride to the center or Paris from our hotel in Versailles. OR SO THE GUIDEBOOKS SAY. You know what? GUIDEBOOKS LIE.

First we had to walk 20 minutes to the station, which took a half hour. Then we waited in this massive line for a half hour to buy tickets. Then we waited on the train for another 20 minutes or so until it left. So maybe we wouldn't have a LEISURELY dinner, but that was okay. The train stopped at every stop and waited for about five minutes, so while the actual time to Paris was 20 minutes, it took about an hour. THEN the train stopped. We waited along with two other couples. A pubescent conductor came upstairs and said "this is the last stop. Time to get off."

"But we still have three stops til Norte Dame!" Kealoha said in disbelief.

"It is because of The Beaver. Just follow the bananas." The conductor pointed to yellow footprints on the ground. WTF? I felt like I suddenly stepped into a Eugene Ionesco play. Someone was about to fill the station with chairs and not tell me what the fuck was going on.

We followed the bananas, got on a random bus, waited and then finally the bus took off and drove for a while then dropped us off somewhere. Our twenty minute trip took two and a half hours. Then we couldn't find the place where we were meeting our friends.

We stood in this touristy area surrounded by neon lights and gigantic pictures of clams with people all around us and I just started crying. Kealoha, I have to say, took care of us. He found us a place to eat, listened to me bitch, got more directions from our friends and a half hour later, we met four wonderful people that we've chatted with online and through blogs and tweets. (To give you an idea of these people, their screen names were: Frog, The Muffin Man, and Cutest Midget--even though she's not a midget at all. She's totally my height.)

We told them our tale of woe and they nodded and Katia (who runs a cool food blog and had a podcast for 6 years) said "Ohhhh...it's because of The Beaver."

I blinked, wondering if I was to blame for this. "What KIND of Beaver, exactly?" I didn't want to point to, you know, my own, ehm, beaver...but I was really confused.

Then she explained about the tunnel under Paris and they need to repair it or it could bust wide open and they call it The Beaver construction or something because beavers build dams. I thought BEAVERS were hairy with big teeth and ate things. (I'm talking REAL beavers here, people.)

After that, it was all glossy streets and twinkling lights and wine and comments like "You do yoga, don't you, Tanya?" to which I responded: "No. I just wear yoga PANTS."

Our friends walked us to the right station and we made it back to our hotel after walking down cobbled Parisian streets and being serenaded by happy drunks.

A strange night. A beautiful night. Fucking beavers.

The City of Love and Heartburn

For the first time since arriving in Paris, Kealoha and I are properly relaxing. We're sitting outside at our hotel in Versailles listening to funky jazz and waiting for our drinks. Kealoha has ordered a Mai Tai with real Cuban rum and he's so excited he actually giggled.

So far the trip has been a combination of emotions: stressful, exciting, exhausting, confusing, infuriating, and it's all left me with a mild sense of heartburn. I am not the refined world traveler I thought I'd be. Okay. I didn't think I'd be a great world traveler but I didn't know quite the extent of how LOST I'd feel at times. Not just physically lost, but just out of sorts.

We've done a lot of walking so far and trying to figure out the train system and the RER was a little humbling. The train makes random stops and we still don't know how or why. But we managed to find our way to Norte Dame and the Louvre.

There's so much to write and say but I'll have to save most of it for later posts or use in a story. A couple of things I've noticed. Traveling to famous places is interesting because you sorta expect a place to make you feel a certain way...like I thought when I walked down the Seine I'd feel like I was in Woody Allen's "Everyone Says I Love You" where the sidewalk is wet and glossy looking and the lights are flickering like Christmas trees and music swells in the background. In reality, I didn't realize I was walking along the Seine until I checked a map later. I thought it was just a random river.

What I'm saying here sounds depressing but I don't mean it that way. See, a place is just a place unless you fill it with your own story. Paris is just Paris until Kealoha and I have an experience that becomes a story. When we went to "Shakespeare and Company", Hemingway wasn't there but Dom the Cellist was expected.

There was one place where a story spoke to me. It was a bridge covered with locks. People who are in love take a lock and write their name with their loved ones and then lock it onto the bridge. Seeing all those locks brought me into the love story of Paris. But really you can make any place a love story, even your hometown.

I am having a terrific time and today in Versailles has been relaxing and beautiful. Tonight we're meeting friends for drinks and then more exploring to come. Every moment here, I feel a little more connected, a little bit less of an outsider. Of course this mojito I'm drinking helps.

More blogs to come. I've got to talk about the food too. And I'm still trying to figure out why our cabbie was listening to Tom Jones and Barry Manilow. I'm starting to think that all cabbies are quirky like that, universally.

The flight to Paris involved these 3 things

Paris Travel There were three traumatic things that happened on our flight.

1) SMOKE spewing into the aisles. Now I know this was actually just the condensation from the air conditioner, but when you're terrified of flying and you see this pouring out from the walls, it's honestly a little freaky. Okay. So this picture doesn't show the smoke because it's apparently invisible, but trust me, there was SMOKE. Spewing.

2) THIS SUIT We stood behind this guy and I was transfixed by the suit and the texture of the shirt. I almost reached out to pet him.

3) MY VIEW This was Kealoha's view on the flight:

This was mine:

The horror.

My Inner Neurotic Surfaces AKA Release The Kraken!!!

I know many of you will be totally surprised by this, but I am a slightly, wee-bit of an anxious person. Shocking, right? Yeah. Okay. Not at all shocking.

Usually, I keep my anxiety in check by making complicated To Do Lists, blogging, and every once in a while standing in front of the refrigerator and gnawing on frozen cookie dough like it’s an ear of corn.

But when I travel…yeah…that Beast pretty much breaks free of its chains and goes all “Roooaaaar” and then stomps on miniature cities. (I think I might be mixing metaphors here, like splicing Godzilla and the Kraken, but that’s what my Anxiety is: a mutherfucking MONSTER.) Actually, here's a scene from the classic film SINBAD that captures how I'm feeling. (I'm the Cyclops.)

We leave tomorrow and I’m so anxious right now that I’m THRUMMING. And not in a Fifty Shades of Grey way. No.

It’s like I have not just PMS but Super PMS, like my bitch-factor is wearing boots, a cape, and carrying a trident. (I’ve always wanted to carry a trident.)

I’ve tried to gently warn Kealoha. In my mind I said: “My love, I’m feeling a little bit anxious about the flight and travel and being surrounded by French people and possibly eating offal without my knowledge. Please just help me through this and let’s find me some anxiety meds.”

What I said in actuality, out loud in a snarky voice “You know they drink wine in France.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So just, you know, don’t order a rum based drink like you do without the banana flavors or blue color or whatever. Please, for god’s sake, just order WINE.”

Kealoha: blink blink blink.

I need to chill out. I already finished off the wine in the fridge yesterday. I may have to have Kealoha take me out for mojitos on an empty stomach.

He says he still loves me. Let’s hope that’s true after the honeymoon.

I can do this. I can totally do this.

Breathe breathe (choke on a gnat, spit it out, do shot of a tequila and) BREATHE.

Dreams Do Come True, It Just Takes A REALLY Long Time

If there’s anything that life has taught me I guess it would be that dreams do come true; just keep in mind that it can take a really, really, really long time. I’ve had a List of Dreams my whole life (2^nd grade is my earliest memory of my List of Dreams. I wanted to be a writer and announced it to the class), and so far, I keep plugging away at them. It’s like my Spiritual To Do list. Now, these are dreams that are—in theory—attainable.

Keep in mind that I grew up with a split family. My mom was a single mom for a long time and there were a lot of money struggles. Then I moved to my dad’s and with my stepmom’s kids, there was a total of 5 of us. Money was tight but more than that, my stepmom had a lot of psychological issues that affected the whole family. It deeply affected my sister and I and how our high school years happened. It’s a miracle I did as well as I did at school. It also meant that from age 18, I was pretty much on my own and kicked out of the house to figure it all out. If I didn’t have money, I went hungry. If I didn’t have a place to live…I’d have to find one. If I needed help emotionally, I had to figure it out. There wasn’t a support system, though my mom did try. My dad and stepmom…well, that’s a whole book there.

This isn’t a sob story. It really isn’t. The benefit of being on your own is that you get really strong and tenacious, and maybe it’s that background that’s made me indefatigable with these Life Dreams.  I don't think my List of Dreams are that big of a deal...but when you start from nothing, every little dream can be a very big deal and can feel almost impossible.

I dreamed of college. At the time, I was the only one of the 5 kids who did it. (My siblings have since gone back.) I paid for everything myself, with occasional $50 gifts from my Aunt. From 18-23, I worked as a waitress until 3 in the morning and went to class. I worked in the library. I took out student loans. And I got my BA in English.

I wanted to be a professor. I put myself through grad school while pregnant and then with a newborn.

I wanted children, and thankfully, I have them.

I wanted to write a book; I’ve written four.

They’ve all taken time and tears and moments where I’ve nearly given up, but time and again, I’ve gotten there.

Now, in a few days, Kealoha and I are heading to Paris. For our wedding, instead of gifts, our wonderful friends and family 'donated' money to a fund so that we could make this trip. It humbles me and makes me all weepy every time I think about it.

I’ve always wanted to go overseas, but this has been my first real chance. I couldn’t afford it in college and would watch other family members go on long vacations overseas. I never felt jealous. Mostly, I just felt hurt. It hurts to watch others get the things you dream of. But it just wasn’t in the cards for me. After college, I was too busy working and never had money. Then when I had enough saved to go, I didn’t have anyone to go with. Now, now…it’s me and my perfect partner, my Kealoha, off together.

I sorta can’t believe it’s finally here. But I guess like the other things I’ve wanted, it has eventually happened.

What else do I want? (Never fear. There’s more on the list. There’s always more.) I want to be published by a ‘big’ publisher. I want an advance for something I’ve written. I’d like to be a voice on a cartoon or video game. I’d like to own or rent a cottage where I can walk to the beach and hear the waves at night. And I like to go to England, and Ireland, and Italy. And I’d like to take a cooking class in one of those places.

I’m not wishing for world peace or to be rich and famous (although all those things would be nice.)

I guess I’m saying that there have been some pretty dark times in my life…times of deep struggle and times when I’ve been very, very alone without anyone to fall back on. But things change. THINGS CHANGE.

And they usually change for the better, if you can just wait long enough.

If This Dreams Represents My True Self Then I'm In Real Trouble

I worry about what my subconscious would say about me if it could talk to people. Consider my dream last night.

THE SETTING: A Burlington Coat Factory where I am putting coats on racks and then taking them off and then putting them on and then taking them off. (In Dreamworld, this could go on FOREVER.)

A WOMAN approaches me. She’s very hoity-toity. I mean, she just drips condescension. (Pause. Wait. I just reread that sentence. It sounds gross.) She just drips with a condescending tone. She is thin and has one of those plastically remade faces and could be anywhere from 35-85.

Here then is the dialogue from my dream.

WOMAN: Excuse me. Excuse me! Excuse me! Uh…HELLO!!!

ME: What.

WOMAN: Excuse me, do you have any scarves?

ME: I’m pretty sure we do. This is a coat factory. I’m sure there are scarves.

WOMAN: Right, but WHERE? I mean, WHERE are the scarves?

ME: What do you need a scarf for? It’s like 130 degrees.

WOMAN: I don’t want a WINTER scarf—I want a scarf to ACCESSORIZE.

ME: Why do you need that? I mean, look at your neck. You have all that extra skin there. Use that.

WOMAN: What?

ME: I mean, it’s like you’re carrying around your own natural scarf. Use THAT.

WOMAN: Are you saying my neck skin is loose enough that I could use it as a scarf?

ME: Yep.

End Dream

I woke up with a gasp.

I have no idea what that dream symbolizes, but I’m pretty sure that it means that deep within my subconscious, I’m a Super Bitch.

Okay. Maybe not even ‘deep’ within, maybe just waiting beneath the surface. Maybe not even beneath the SURFACE. Maybe I’m just, you know, naturally EVIL.

Man, that was harsh. That was really mean. And I woke up with a gasp and then started laughing. I’m a terrible person. And I’m still laughing. Ugh.

A Conversation In The Fifth Circle Of Hell AKA The MVP Sportsplex Center

Since I started this blog, I have tried very hard to use it for the Power Of Good. Words are powerful, and I like to think that my willingness to be awkwardly honest about my life and struggles does something GOOD. You know, maybe someone connects or laughs or feels a little less alone. Every once in a while, though, a girl has got to bitch. And that’s this blog.

Now, I’ve had many uncomfortable run-ins with the management at MVP Sporting Center. The last was the supremely condescending and offensive manager who was so rude to me that I almost cried. (He has tight curly hair and wears khaki pants that look like he's picked them off his floor for the sixth time.) Then there was the last four times I’ve gone in. They’ve stopped me at the door with a ‘problem’ with my account. It’s a little embarrassing to get stopped at the door. It’s sorta like you’re being accused of stealing. What was the problem with my account? They showed it wasn’t up to date, but it was up to date since I updated it with my credit card, only no one seemed to believe me, even when they looked at the updated credit card number in their system.

Today was the worst when the petite blonde manager on duty looked for me and approached me WHILE I WAS WORKING OUT. She wanted my phone number and my account and I said “I (huff) will (puff) talk to (gasp) you later.”

Here then is our conversation. I will call the lovely flower Britani, because she looked like a Britani. The setting of our conversation? HELL. Or, okay, a tiny office at the MVP.

BRITANI: Well the problem is that you don’t have an account here.

ME: Yes I do. I’ve been coming here for a year.

BRITANI: But you’re not in the system. Where did you sign up?

ME: At your downtown location. I paid a year in advance, and then gave you my credit card to charge me monthly.

BRITANI: Oh, you can’t come here if you registered at the downtown location.

ME: Yes I can. In fact, I’ve been coming here for a year.

BRITANI: Yeah, but then we’d have to charge you more.

ME: You did. And I paid it. FOR A YEAR.

BRITANI: But you’re not in the system.

ME: You guys gave me a card three weeks ago. And took my picture. And I’VE BEEN COMING HERE FOR A YEAR.

(I show her my card. She pulls up my account.)

BRITANI: Oh. I guess you have an account. But it says here that your account isn’t active.

ME: Yes, because I paid a year in advance. When the year was up, I gave you my credit card to charge me monthly like everyone else. See that number there that you have saved in your system? In the account that you don’t have? There’s my number. Three managers in a row told me that they’d update the account and that’s it not a problem.

BRITANI: Who did you talk to?

ME: What do you mean? I don’t know. I talked to three really unhelpful managers who clearly didn’t fix the problem.

BRITANI: Yeah, but did you talk to BRIAN?

ME: Who is BRIAN?

BRITANI: See, you probably talked to one of us young ones. You know, we’re the managers who are just out of college and we can’t do this stuff or fix it and we probably just forgot to update your account or forgot to tell someone. It happens A LOT. Now if you’d talked to BRIAN…

ME: You’re a manager and you can’t help with this?

BRITANI: I’m not authorized.

(Here I had to do some deep breathing while I tried to understand just WHAT she could authorize as a MANAGER. And if a MANAGER can't do this, who can? God? And I also wanted to say, “So because you’re young and just out of college, it means you can’t handle this job but it’s okay? WHERE DID YOU GO TO SCHOOL? WHO TAUGHT YOU?”)

ME: Honestly, right now, I don’t want to talk to BRIAN. I’m sick of being stopped every time I come in here and accused of not having a membership when I have a membership and have paid for everything AND given you my credit card.

BRITANI: But you’re not AUTHORIZED. You haven’t PAID.

ME: I haven’t PAID because you guys haven’t UPDATED my ACCOUNT. In fact, erase my credit card. I’m done here. There are lots of other options. I’ll go somewhere else. You don’t seem to want my business.

BRITANI: No, we want you. I’ll just ask BRIAN and he’ll update it or something. And like charge you for all the time you haven’t been charged.

ME: No. Erase my card.

BRITANI: I’m sorry. I can’t do that. But we won’t charge you until I talk to…

ME: BRIAN? Yes. I get it. No. Don’t charge me. I. Am. Done. Here. In fact, I’m going to cancel my credit card.

BRITANI: Why would you do that?

ME: Because I don’t trust you.

BRITANI: Now that’s just being hurtful.

(I laughed a little here. It was a funny line. I couldn’t help it.)

ME: Yeah. Well. I don’t trust you. I’ve trusted you—and I’m using the general ‘you’ here, not the specific ‘you’—I’ve trusted you the last four times I’ve come in to update my account and you haven’t. You’ve accused me of lying and manipulating THE SYSTEM. You’ve told me I don’t exist in your system. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings SPECIFICALLY, but clearly, you don’t want my business. I’ll cancel the card. My account doesn’t exist anyway as your four managers have told me over and over again. And I know this doesn’t matter to you, that you don’t care personally, but you guys have a really shitty way of treating your customers. Your MEMBERS. Please make a note for BRIAN.

And thus, I have now shared with you the infuriating experience at the MVP on Burton in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Actually, this is for the Power of Good. Maybe some of you will reconsider joining there. The customer service MANAGERS are all twenty-something college graduates with no skill sets at all except looking lithe and pert—and they’re okay with that. I’m not.

I’m becoming a bitter old man. It’s okay. I’ll just walk around the block and get my exercise the old-fashioned way.

Becoming Jabba and Other Thoughts on the Heat Wave

Okay. So, picture Jabba the Hut in your mind. There he is, just sitting there, talking in some kind of language that sounds like he’s had a stroke. He’s got weird creatures chained to him and he kind of orders people around.  

That’s been me this week.

I’m always amazed that you can have in your head all these plans and then they just don’t happen. The kids have been in Canada for a week so I was going to walk around Reed’s Lake every day and cook stuff only purchased at the Farmer’s Market, and Kealoha and I were going to ride our bikes while whistling Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head, and I’d finish “Tunnel Vision” in a flurry of intense creative activity, and I’d also read a classic novel or two.

Yeah. Then the mofo heat wave started and even though we have air conditioning….I just…Became Jabba. I had a couple of narration gigs so I’d go to the studio, sit still and read all day, then come home exhausted, talk like I had a stroke, watch Breaking Bad, read “The Walking Dead”, and eat dinner with Kealoha in the basement while watching MasterChef. All I needed was some creatures chained to me.

Exercise? Go for bike rides? Whistle? Are you KIDDING me? It’s been an effort not to fan myself continuously while speaking in a bad Tennessee Williams type accent saying “My, it is hot out there. My my my. So hot that you could fry butter on the sidewalk. Bring me a biscuit, Matthew. And sop up that butter with it and feed it to my soul. My aching soul.”

Actually, I’d much rather be a Tennessee Williams character than Jabba the Hut. For one thing, Jabba is all big and naked and green. Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof gets to walk around in a sexy slip.

I’ve totally lost my focus here.

I’m going to go put a slip on and watch Nigella Lawson reruns on the Cooking Channel. That way I’ll feel like I’m accomplishing something by LEARNING and will improve my body image by looking at a curvy cook while feeling delicious in my slip.

This heat wave needs to stop. NOW. I can’t take it.

And now I want a biscuit. For my soul. Goddammit.

Me, Kealoha, And Our Heated Conversation Over Master Chef

Yesterday, Kealoha and I celebrated my birthday with serious drama and intensity. We went to the Farmer’s Market, had BLTs for lunch, took naps, and then got gussied up for a planned bacchanal. We had San Chez for dinner and that was just the start of the insanity. We ate at 5PM, were home by 7, in pajamas by 7:05, and watching Master Chef by 7:10. It was so INTENSE. Sometimes, the writer in me sits back and listens to Kealoha and I talk. There’s so much excitement and intricate plotting going on. I mean, you could write an entire suspense-novel based on the conversations we have. Consider last night’s discussion while watching MasterChef.

KEALOHA: Oh man. They’re going to make tiramisu and strawberry shortcake.

ME: That’s nothing. I’d be worried about making a trifle.

KEALOHA: You make a great trifle.

ME: I have NEVER made a trifle. I refuse to make trifle. It has like JELLO in it.

Pause while we watch the contestants make various desserts and then bring them to the judges for tasting.

ME: Oh my god! No! NoooOOOOOO! She didn’t!! She put macadamia nuts in a tiramisu? Is she crazy? I mean, that’s like Hawaiian. And crunchy. In a tiramisu!!

KEALOHA: (getting angry) She can’t do that! What is she THINKING? You aren't supposed to be clever with an elimination round. It's about TECHNIQUE.

ME: And look at it! It looks like a brain. A tiramisu is not supposed to be crunchy. She’s going home. She’s totally going home. You don’t do that. Nuts in a tiramisu. I mean, COME ON. Oh, but she's crying. She's really cute when she cries.

 Pause while we watch some more. The trifle watching is VERY exciting. No one seems to have gotten it right.

ME: Anise in a trifle? Seriously? What is going on? Someone stop the insanity!!!

At this point, there is so much drama that I have to take a break and run upstairs and wash my face. I meditate a bit upstairs to control my growing anger. Then I run back downstairs and finish the show. I assume while I'm gone that Kealoha is reminding himself not to take MasterChef personally. It's not about HIM. 

KEALOHA: I’m not surprised he got booted off.

ME: I know. Right? You want to watch Mad Men now?

KEALOHA: Okay.

END SCENE

And that, my friends, is just ONE of our deeply heated, energized conversations. I’m thinking of writing an entire novel based on us watching TV. It’s going to sell MILLIONS, I just know it.

Nuts in a tiramisu. Really.

If Little Changes Equal A Big Reward Then Where's My Money?

I’m almost 40. 40!!!! Well, in another year. Actually, I’m almost 39. The Bday is pending. With it, comes major self-analyzing and general fatigue. With this next year, I’m hoping to make some little changes that will have big rewards, especially when it comes to my weight gain over the last two years.

I’ve developed some bad food habits, though they’re wonderfully comforting.

Here’s what I’m going to change:

GONE is my daily Starbucks run for a latte. It’s expensive and I’m starting to look like I have udders.

GONE is my nightly scoop of ice cream (see below).

GONE is my over-indulgence at restaurants. It’s time to buck up and take my lunch to work, even when I’m narrating.

RETURNING is my commitment to walk 15 miles a week. That’s like 3 miles five days a week with two days off. I can do that.

RETURNING (I hope) is a little bit less stress. It’s been a rough year career-wise.

Okay. So that’s my commitment. I’m really trying here, especially after seeing pictures of me from my family reunion. I just don’t look like ME anymore.

Here’s hoping I can lose a little of the puffiness in my face before we go to Paris, otherwise, I’m taking a lot of pictures of my feet. That’s scary, because have you seen my second toe? It’s freakishly long. I mean, FREAKISHLY, and who wants a photo album or tumbler blog of THAT?

Wish me luck. Change is hard. Even little changes. (Except if it was a little change to eat a chocolate truffle every day, then that change wouldn’t hurt at all.)

Ridiculous Family Game Night AKA Where I Get My Funny From

It may not surprise you to learn that my family is bizarre. Yes. I know you think I probably sprouted from matching turtleneck wearing parents, a Volvo, and an extended family where reunions involve slide shows and bad Salisbury steak. Yeah. No. (except the Salisbury steak thing used to be true when we went to reunions in Ohio.) My parents divorced early on and I was raised with two very different families. My mom’s side I credit for teaching me about humor. We’re all awkward and not the best conversationalists. There’s a lot of pausing in a conversation. But once we have some food and some drinks and bust out the board games, the laughing starts.

We met up at my aunt and uncle’s in Empire. If you don’t know what Empire is, it’s been voted one of the most beautiful places in America. I’m not sure who voted. I’m pretty sure everyone in Empire did. Still, it’s gorgeous. (It’s all the setting for “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage”.) There are rolling sand dunes, beautiful lakes, lush green woods, and roads so curvy they should probably film car commercials there.

Anyway. Usually we meet around Mother’s Day and go hunting for morels, but the weather was so freaky this year that we decided to meet in the summer.

I won’t go into everything we did as a family, because that’s sort of as painful as sitting through a slide show. I will say that a particular highlight happened around 10PM on Saturday, after dinner and a campfire, and after the kids were sequestered downstairs to watch “A Dolphin Tale”. Kealoha busted out the new game we bought “Cards Against Humanity”. It’s like Apples to Apples for horrible people. I think that may even be the game’s slogan. (Click on the title of the game if you want to know more about it.)

I didn’t get to play, because I was busy running downstairs checking on the kids, but I did get to observe.

Basically you draw a card, read it, and then everyone finishes the sentence using a card from their deck. Sounds nice, right? But these are HORRIBLE cards. Sexually inappropriate, politically incorrect, crass…basically a game designed for my wonderfully dysfunctional, socially awkward family.

For example here’s one card and it’s winning response:

QUESTION: Vladimir Putin likes his to eat                                      stuffed with                                     

WINNING CARDS: Vladimir Putin like to eat Natalie Portman  stuffed with Tom Cruise.

Another of my favorites: QUESTION: What’s that sound?

POSSIBLE ANSWERS:

--Fingering

--Republicans

--A mime having a stroke

The mime won.

We were laughing so hard that I’m pretty sure a few of us peed a little bit. I know Kealoha did.

The penultimate moment was when my brother drew a card and read the following out loud:

QUESTION: There’s a new Disney Channel special where Hannah Montana struggles with                                                .

He then struggled with reading a series of possible answers so deeply twisted and wrong that his face turned strawberry red. There’s was one card he kept looking at and shaking his head. “I can’t read that. I can’t do it,” he said. “It’s just too wrong.”

Well, of course, when something is WRONG, it’s probably really RIGHT. We made him read it.

MY BROTHER (reading in a strangled voice that got progressively higher):

“There’s a new Disney Channel special where Hannah Montana struggles with…Oh god. This is so wrong. It’s just NOT RIGHT. Okay. Okay. I’ll read this. There’s a new Disney Channel special where Hannah Montana struggles with…jerking off…(He breathes, shakes his head)…into a pool…(His voice is a squeak. He can barely speak)…filled with children’s tears.”

At that point I pretty much had a heart attack.

Is there any question why I write the kind of novels I do? Really?

I love my family.

Good But Not Quite Good Enough. Wah.

Now I try to be upbeat and funny, and most of the time I succeed. Then I have these blue times where I’m all depressed and I watch Food Network and eat ice cream and lament that all I wear is yoga pants. This is one of those times, except I’m eating cookies and it’s too hot to wear yoga pants, so I’m just schlepping around in my underwear and a tank top.

Why am I blue? I was up for a job as an Assistant Professor. Made it all the way to the final interviews, but didn’t get it. It’s a tough market. I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing I could have done differently or better. Part of that is comforting, but another part just sucks, because what that means is that for some reason someone else was just BETTER. I sorta feel like I’m always second in things.

You hear about overnight successes and A list Hollywood stars. About writers who sell millions of copies through self-publishing. Of narrators who win Audies and accolades. Then there’s the rest of them--all those other people who don't make it, but are trying. I’m in that group. I write well, but not good enough for a big contract with a national publisher, and my self-published stuff probably won't sell more than 100. I’m a decent narrator, but not quite good enough for the A list titles or reviews. I’m a good professor, but not quite good enough for a full-time position.

I know I sound like I’m whining, and I am. Admittedly, I whine A LOT. But sometimes being ‘good but not quite good enough’ gets damned exhausting. When you really try at something, when you give it your all, and it’s still not quite enough, that’s when it hurts the most, I think. And that’s when the Ice Cream Siren calls. Or Cookies. Or Indian Takeout. I’ve never had Lentils call. NEVER.

Whatever.

I’ll get over it. I’m almost over it now.

I’ll just keep plugging along. I do realize that I’m lucky I get to narrate and write and teach at all. I really do. I’m just a little tired. A little discouraged.

A friend of mine wrote on my FB wall “It’s nothing a little Paris won’t fix”. She’s right. A month from now, Kealoha and I will be in Paris and I’ll be too distracted to be blue.

I should stop whining and learn that one phrase of French that I’m certain will save me from Parisian disdain: “I’m a stupid American and don’t speak French. Please help me and laugh at me later.”

That should lift my spirits for a while. That and this here oatmeal and coconut cookie.

This is what happens when I take Benadryl while narrating:

Earth Mother I Am Not

Sometimes it’s like my life is a split personality. Part of the time I’m a career woman; part of the time I’m a stay-at-home mom. Last week I was in New York being Tanya-Goes-Nutso-In-A-Fun-Way and this week I was Tanya-Goes-Nutso-In-A-Stay-At-Home-Mom-Way. I was a stay-at-home mom for five years before I lost it and left the marriage and started over. I always thought I’d be like an Earth Mother and have twins attached to me with a complicated scarf technique where I could breastfeed them while making bread from scratch and meditating. I’d dance with the children and teach them how to read before they were two. I’d volunteer for the PTA and win awards for my awesome Momness.

Yeah. That didn’t work for me. I couldn’t breastfeed. I was exhausted. I felt empty. And the PTA creeps me out and angers me.

Now, instead of being Earth Mother, I spend my time trying to get the kids to “Leave Me Alone!” as I try to de-velcro them from my legs so I can take a poop in quiet.

I love being home with them; but I also LOVE when I get to go to work.

It’s a good balance.

This week, I’ve been home with them the whole time with no school, daycare, or work. It’s been a reminder at how much I respect stay-at-home moms and how I could never, ever not work again. At least by choice.

Take for example, the top things I say every day:

1. Who farted? Do you need to use the bathroom? If you’re farting like that, it means you need to use the bathroom. Trust me. I don’t care. GO USE THE TOILET.

2. Stop it. Stop it! Stop doing that. Stop! Stop it! Don’t. Just don’t. DO NOT. Don’t! Stop it. For all that is good and holy, stop doing that or you will send me to an asylum! Do you want Mommy in an asylum? No. There’s no ice cream there.

3. We do not hit. We do NOT hit! Because. Because it’s wrong. I don’t care who started it. We do not retaliate. You tell an adult. We don’t hit. Do you want a spanking? What? The adult can retaliate. Because that’s life.

4. Do your homework. Do it. Stop that. Do your home work. Because I don’t want you to go back to school and have forgotten how to read. No. Other kids won’t forget. Because their parents are intense and they tutor them all summer long. They also make them practice the violin. Be happy I didn’t buy you a violin.

5. Eat it. Just try it. Just take one bite. It is not disgusting. It’s healthy. No. I don’t want to eat it. Because…Okay, fine. Have some chips.

6. If you’re going to do THAT, go in your room and do it in private.

7. Pick that up. Put it in the trash. The trash is RIGHT THERE. No, I’m not going to do it. Because you can do it. Because I said so. Because that’s life.

I could go on and on. Seriously. The above pretty much encapsulates my Motherly Wisdom. In fact, you can boil it down to “Stop Touching Yourself In Public, Use The Toilet, and That’s Life.”

Earth Mother, I am not. I love my kids. I adore them. But I also like getting out of the house and escaping the crazy things I say every day as a mom.

I’m so excited I get to narrate tomorrow.

Eduardo. The Cabbie Of Love

After The Scariest Cab Ride EVER, I admit I was afraid to leave New York. But as soon as Eduardo pulled up to the Sheraton, I knew everything was going to be fine. As soon as the door closed he said: “Ah, beautiful lady, today your lucky day. I will be your cabbie. I will take care of you.” I believed him because he said I was beautiful and he had a Spanish accent.

Here then, are some of the comments Eduardo made, while weaving in and out of traffic:

EDUARDO: I believe in the positive energy, you know?

ME: Ah. Okay.

EDUARDO: You married or single?

ME: (slight awkward pause wondering why he was asking) Married. Yep. Happily married. (I was afraid he was going to try to ‘romance’ me into going somewhere with him.)

EDUARDO: What music you listen to?

ME: What do you mean?

EDUARDO: What music? You know? At the wedding?

ME: Uhhh… (How could I explain Kealoha’s music interests? Lounge music, polka, and Elvis?) I don’t remember. We had mai tais and mojitos. I think there was singing.

EDUARDO: Ha! Well? What music makes you romantic? Romantic is good, positive energy.

ME: Uh? Sinatra?

EDUARDO: Boom! Bam! Here you go!

Suddenly, Sinatra singing “My Kind Of Town” filled the cab. Eduardo giggled.

EDUARDO: Where you from, beautiful lady?

ME: Michigan.

EDUARDO: Ah! Big lake there! Big water! Not Chicago though. I don’t have a song about Michigan.

ME: It’s okay. This is good.

EDUARDO: It’s lucky day for you, lady.

We drove for a while and listened to Sinatra croon.

After that, Eduardo continued:

EDUARDO: I like everything. Everything is good. I like music. I understand. Music makes everything better so you don’t sit in cab all mad, yes? You relax. You enjoy. What song you want next? Pick anything! Anything at all! But not hip hop or rap or R&B. That not good energy.

ME: Why don’t you pick something? I’m kinda tired.

EDUARDO: I will pick something romantic for you. I will pick something for you that tells you who I am. It is beautiful. Bunky-punky-bomonkey! Here you go:

Then he played something that was very late 70s or early 80s something. Something you’d hear on EZ LITE 100 or something. I could just see the video with a guy with a mullet staring out into the darkness, his mullet ruffling in the breeze, and the camera panning to a dude in skinny suspenders playing a saxophone. I mean, it was BAD. There was one lyric I tried to remember so I could look up the song. “Another Lonely Night In New York”.

EDUARDO: You know who that is? It’s that dead guy.

ME: Oh?

EDUARDO: Yeah! Gibb! Robin Gibb! So beautiful.

This is when the cab ride became surreal. Eduardo then played for me some ‘beautiful, romantic music’ that included “The Lady In Red” and some more really lite music that had synthesizers and videos that surely had random pictures in soft focus of like a lion walking toward the viewer, or a room with a black and white checkered floor. Then we pulled up to the airport. Eduardo and I said our goodbyes. He said the plane ride might be a little choppy, but I would be fine. I believed him, because when Eduardo tells you something, you just listen.

To share his magic, here then, is Eduardo’s favorite song. Enjoy:

New York Snapshots

I forgot the cord to my camera, so most of my photos are on that. I did try to take a few pictures of what I've been up to. So, instead of a detailed, long blog, here's a much shorter one: I was in The Village (I think) and followed these two guys. It was like a Time Machine moment. Like there was the younger guy, and then his older self walking next  to him. They were wearing basically the same outfit and walked with the same gait. Their arms moved exactly at the same time. It was freaky! They're either father and son so there's something genetic going on, or they're enmeshed lovers. About the only thing different was the older one wore shoes with sole support.

Here's a picture of GHOST: The Musical! It was an 'experience'. There were some supremely cheesy moments, moments so bad that all they needed was a slow motion picture of a rose blooming to signify making love...but the show still managed to be entertaining.

Here's a picture of a NY Sidewalk. If you've ever been here, then this will remind you of the grime of the city. Throw in a little hot urine, and that's pretty much New York in the summer.

I waited outside the IFC for a friend of mine last night. We went to a grungy bar for dinner and then a quirky gay bar to watch the Tony's. As I waited, this was what I saw:

I chanced upon four random street fairs, with the same vendor clones sprouting up everywhere I turned. It was like being in a spontaneously regenerating labyrinth. I started to freak out a little. Eventually, I escaped (and got some adorable earrings).

Perhaps my favorite moment was when Rae and Kim and I were strolling through Little Italy and then Chinatown. We heard this ethereal music and stumbled into this:

It was surreal and beautiful. I'll write more about that later.

And, finally,  here I am drinking at the tiki club called "Otto's Shrunken Head". I pretty much had a shrunken head after that experience.

Coyote Ugly Needs More Jazz Hands

We did about a million things yesterday, and I could give you all the details, but who really wants to read someone’s travel journal? FIRST COMES THE DAY:

• Bacon waffles and mimosas for breakfast

• Walking through Central Park

• Touring the Metropolitan Museum of Art where Kim told us that the $25 admission price was only a ‘suggestion’. We watched her get in for only a dollar. I paid $7 and then apologized. Kim informed us that you can always tell someone is from the Midwest because they’re always apologizing. I promptly said, “Yeah. That’s true. I’m sorry.”

• We walked. And walked. And walked. And then Kim and Rae sent me back to the hotel for a nap while they had some random people in Chinatown rub their feet. Our plan was to go out at night and drink, and we all had to prepare.

THEN COMES THE NIGHT:

Kealoha uploaded all these things on my phone and conveniently put on the location for a tiki bar called Otto’s Shrunken Head. Our night started there, because if your plan is to go out in New York and drink until you’re stupid, it’s best to start at a tiki bar.

The drinks were so stiff that Rachel’s voice dropped two octaves and Kim grew chest hair. I was totally fine because Kealoha has put me through a rigorous training exercises with rum based drinks and hoops set on fire. I won’t go into that. Let’s just say we’re very happily married.

We decided to meet up with some old New York friends of mine. They’re not OLD, exactly, just friends from like ten years ago. I told them I’d give them Secret Identities on the blog, but I was so drunk that I can’t remember what they wanted to be known as. I think they were like super macho names or something, so let’s just call them Betty and Twinkle.

First, we had to eat. We found a nice little tapas place that looked inviting. It had dark wood paneling everywhere. It was like eating in a sauna. The Spanish waiter ignored Kim and I completely. He was smitten with Rachel. He even gave us a round of champagne FOR FREE. That has NEVER happened to me in New York. EVER. I think I want to carry Rachel around in my pocket. She’s like a superhero in hailing cabs and getting free drinks. She says it’s because of her boobs, but I think her face might also be part of the attraction.

Betty and Twinkle said they’d meet us at a bar that was close to us. They chose Coyote Ugly.

Let me say that again: COYOTE UGLY. You remember that movie? About the heart-of-gold girl who wants to Make It in the Big Apple so she takes a job at this bar where she learns to dance on the tables and sing? Yeah. THAT Coyote Ugly. Only this one was like the D List of Coyote Uglies.

We had a round of drinks, I went to the bathroom. The bathroom was straight out of Hades and I immediately threw up. Oh, the pleasure of having a weak stomach.

When I got back, the Big Bouncer dude came over to me and grabbed my hand and started pulling me to the bar. “No, no no no no!” I said. “No way am I dancing up there!”

And then I was dancing up there.

He lifted me to the bar. I guess they do this with random women. A few had gone before me. It’s actually pretty awkward and desperate to watch school teachers in their late forties dance all sexy-time. So, standing up there, I decided that what Coyote Ugly needed wasn’t another Sexy Woman Dancing. No. Coyote Ugly needed Jazz Hands. So I did what is probably the WORST DANCE EVER, and it might just show up on Youtube. Someone actually said “Oh, honey”. I bit my lip, I tapped, and I did this unique move where I pretend I’m hitchhiking.

Then I leapt into the bouncer’s arms ten seconds later and I was done.

I’m pretty sure that my dancing up there caused two, possibly three, pregnancies. It was that hot.

Rae got up next and I think she earned enough money to pay for our trip. (I’m telling you, I’m going to carry her in my pocket.)

AND THEN:

And then our New York friends with the cutest Brooklyn accents ever took us to this hipster bar. We did a round of shots and then we danced. We danced because they played the best mix of old-school Motown music. A smooth guy spun Kim around the dance floor and they did a complicated routine that just doesn’t happen spontaneously, but some how did. It was magic.

AND…

Then it starts to get a little blurry. We stopped for pizza where Kim and Rae and I pretty much told everyone how much we loved them and our Brooklyn buddies just laughed at us. There was some philosophical discussion about the importance of Fungi and then our friends looked at us and said: “You guys are done.” They hailed us a cab, and we were whisked away to our hotel, where we promptly collapsed.

THE MORNING AFTER

We have all made a solemn vow to never drink again. At least until lunch. This is what happens when you meet up with your college roommates.

Scariest Cab Ride Ever

Rae and I got gussied up for dinner. She wore a slinky sundress where men actually stopped her on the street to say: “You look FINE”. One guy ran two blocks calling after her “Summer! Summer!” I thought he was being poetic, but he actually thought she was someone named Summer. I was wearing a blue dress where women on the street stopped to ask me if I could carry large baskets propped on my hips. It just wasn’t fair.

Rae, needless to say, hailed the cabs for us. One guy saw her lifting her slinky arm and he pulled over so fast, flames erupted from the tire’s wheels. That should have been a sign.

Rae said: “We’re going to 6^th Avenue and Cornelia stree…” before she even finished the sentence, the cab driver took off, pushing Rae and me back into our seat with the sheer velocity. You know those car chases in movies where a cab is weaving in and out of traffic, nearly hits people, sends fruit carts flying? Well that was us. In between trying to breathe and passing out from fear, I checked the speedometer. He was driving 70mph IN MANHATTAN RUSH HOUR.

Rachel tried to talk me through the experience, the way a dentist asks you questions you can’t really answer because there’s an enormous shot in your mouth. I started laughing uncontrollably when he nearly took out a rickshaw.

“Can’t. Breathe.” I said.

“You want to hold hands?” Rae asked.

“Okay.”

Another five minutes of our cabbie trying to outrun a demon and I’d had enough. We came to a stop and I just couldn’t contain it and said “YOU ARE SCARING THE CRAP OUT OF ME!!!” Then I started laughing. Rae started laughing. The cab driver started laughing. “I mean, I don’t want to offend you, you’re clearly a really good driver, but are you TRYING to give me a heart attack? When is this going to be over?”

The cab driver said (in an actual New York accent which I haven’t heard in forever) “I’m sorry. We’re all okay here. Everything is okay.”

“Do you play video games?” I asked, because talking made the terror easier to bear.

“Only game I ever played was Donkey Kong.”

“Ah. Okay,” I said, and then: “So it’s just a natural talent for driving like a maniac, and not created by too many hours of Grand Theft Auto.” I didn’t say that last part actually, but I wanted to.

The cabbie gently pulled over and came to a stop. He smiled and I think shot us a salute once we got out of the car, but it was hard to see because of all the flames.

Scariest experience ever.

And it was also a tiny bit thrilling.