When Anticlimactic is a Great Thing

It's amazing how sometimes the buildup to asking for a favor can be so excruciatingly worse than asking for the favor. For instance, it seems that each of the times I ask for anything at work, my agonizing over the how and why and wherefore to is never worth the aggravation.

I should have realized that it's not worth stressing over approaching my boss when over a year ago, I had to ask for a raise. I had been under the impression that I wouldn't be stuck with a salary that was less than my last hourly rate for very long, and after seven months, was unhappy enough about it to try to do something about it. Well, after speaking to my supervisor about it, I went to my boss and, turning redder and stammering more than I ever have, attempted to tell him that I'd been working really hard and had been there for over half a year and wanted him to consider giving me a raise. Before I could progress into a deeper shade of red-violet and before my tongue swelled up to fill my entire mouth (what was coming out already sounded like 'bneah, bneah, nya'), my boss said, "You want a raise, right?" I nodded wordlessly. And that was it.

The second time I had to talk to my boss about doing something for me was something I will owe him forever for: my knee surgery. Again, this was simplicity itself. He asked me how long I'd be out for, who I was going to see, and what the proposed plan of action was to take the screw that's been plaguing me for almost a decade out of my knee. Showing that he really does care about his employees, he went out and found me not necessarily a "better" doctor, but the best doctor for the job, a traumatologist, who was an orthopedic surgeon that specialized in rods and screws. Even better, he trained under the guy that invented the procedure that got the rod in my femur in the first place. Then, to go even further, he gave me a week's paid medical leave to recover. Hurricane Gustav cut into that quite a bit, but it was great to have the support of my boss and my supervisor, who has knee problems of her own as a former athlete.

The last and most recent thing was this: I'm getting married in May, and I was very concerned about time off. My wedding date was pushed up from October of 2010 due to

1. the rapidly declining health of Boy's grandparents, who shouldn't be traveling but are already doing so for his graduation
2. the fact that everyone from Boy's side would already be here, again, due to his graduation
3. we weren't sure where we were going to be in 2010
4. and that he really wanted to do something huge for graduation and I already wanted to go to China

So now the big date is May, Tulane's graduation weekend (eep!). With the encouragement of my parents, we decided that our first choice in honeymoons would be a fantastic extravaganza of a trip, and what more exotic and once-in-a-lifetime destination than China? With the help of good ol' Mom and Dad, who found us a few options in tours and tour companies, we put ourselves on the list. And since it was a 24-hour flight, we figured we'd want to make it worth it, and make our honeymoon the vacation of our lives.

Now, in a recession like this, it's scary even thinking about a) spending that much money and b) asking for a huge amount of time off, paid or unpaid. I had broached the subject to my supervisor, who seemed very uncertain that it would be possible. Since the trip is not yet set in stone (these tour companies operate in a way that a certain amount of reservations need to be made in order for the trip to even occur; personalized city-by-city tours like this need a minimum to be met to even be profitable, and we certainly didn't want to go by ourselves!), I put off and put off speaking to my bosses about it, getting more and more nervous as I waited for a confirmation and thought of ways to make my case and the very real possibility of getting canned for having the audacity to request a 20-day honeymoon.

Well, all of it was for naught. My supervisor, as promised, spoke to my boss about it, and he, as a hopeless romantic and a bit of a self-proclaimed yenta, let me know when I bumped into him at the gym, that sure, I could have the unpaid time off and to have fun--I hopefully will only get married that once. Although this could all be a moot point if the two trips I'm on the list for don't become guaranteed, it still is great to know that if we get to do this, I have health insurance overseas and a job when I come back.

Whew!

What an anticlimax to all that anxious buildup! And it's things like this that make me appreciate a whole lot that even if the job itself kind of sucks, sometimes the most important thing is to be working for someone who doesn't suck. So cheers to that.

Boy's Best Moment

It's been quite a while since I posted, long enough to deserve a slap on the wrist. But on the upside, I've been keeping up pretty well with TheVicariousFoodwhore.com, which is more career-building than this, which, as I say often, is more for cathartic purposes, just to purge my mind of unpleasantness and such.

What's my excuse? Two words: Mardi Gras.

This year's Carnival festivities were really awesome. One of my closest girl friends, the first friend I made on my own in New Orleans, who ended up being one of my sorority sisters, stayed with us and brought her new boyfriend with her. Hooray for that. Friends were in from out of town, which was also fun, and for a very long weekend, I felt like I was on vacation. Double huzzah.

However, this year's Mardi Gras was still a far cry from the Mardi Gras of my college days, which was especially sad since I was with my college friends. I was the least drunk of any group I was with, considering I wasn't at all drunk during the entire weekend. Shameful. However, I was determined to make this Mardi Gras a memorable one for The Boy, since last year's was a whole lot of fun, but not as fun as it could be considering that it was basically just him and me for the season. With all these people in town, I forced him to socialize, and the fact that he'd made some friends helped, too. So when he was invited to a balcony party on Bourbon Street, he went with my blessing.

I was not to know that he was going to be returned to me a hilarious but pathetic disaster.

Parties at the Royal Sonesta tend to be pretty raucous and swank. Open bars, luxurious trappings, and high quality accommodations, from what I remember of the party I'd gone to several years back with some random Sigma Chi alumni. The Boy was good for a while, drinking, flinging beads, ogling tourist boobs (also with my blessing ... he's so tame, devoted, and generally well-behaved most of the time that it seems almost unfair to veto any non-physical contact good times that may come his way), and being the frat boy he never was. And more power to him. I wanted him to enjoy himself.

Well, enjoy himself he did. He started off on a good note, with our bartender friend fixing all the drinks. Exceptionally talented, everything she makes is light, well-mixed, and delicious. This was all good, since he knows how much he can drink and it doesn't hit like a Mack truck. Unfortunately, the drinks he makes do.

I've known him for eight long years, and in that time, I have never seen him so sloppy and utterly sloshed. He'd ridden his bike downtown with his friends (to avoid traffic and driving drunk, both of which are wise choices) and by the time he called me for a ride, he was sad and confused. When I asked where he was, he asked me to hold on, then promptly hung up.

Now I was getting ready to mock him when I got to him at this point, since I've never known him to get irresponsibly drunk. How many times have I heard his lecturing on "safety" and warnings against getting totally wasted? More times than I can count. I couldn't wait to throw this in his face. It was going to be fun.

I finally found him and our friends in the Central Business District of downtown New Orleans, after much instruction and aid of Patrick, collapsed over his bike, not even able to sit on it, and barely able to keep his eyes open. This was not nearly as funny as I thought it was going to be at the present time.

He was able to sleep it all off, though, and we had a lovely Mardi Gras day relaxing and doing random-Tuesday-off things. And through all of that, it did end up actually being laughable, with the extreme role reversal and the fact that I've never, ever known him to be so blatheringly incoherent and incapacitated. And now, I'm telling everyone. :)

Feeling Venturous

It seems that creativity is often inspired by exhaustion, and late the other night, I was struck by an idea that seemed like a particularly good one. It was after writing the rough draft of the cover story for the Spring Restaurant Guide edition of Where Y'at magazine (which, I'd like to point out with a grumpy face on, I was given a total of TWO DAYS to organize, compose, and submit ... not long at all for a feature story, even less for a cover piece, and a shorter time frame still for someone who still holds a day job and writes in the precious hours between dinner and passing out) that I came up with this, partly thanks to The Boy. As he was urging me to "hurry up" so we could get the burrito I promised him for cleaning the house, I was trying somewhat unsuccessfully to rush through edits.

Editing down my own work is always such a struggle. I tend to be kind of longwinded when I write, as I'm sure you noticed, with many asides and dips into the adjective pool to find just the right way to describe a feeling, a taste, a flavor, or anything at all, for that matter. 1500 words is just not a whole lot when you spend two hours with somebody extremely interesting, and I felt that to cut too much of what we discussed would be an injustice to Tommy Cvitanovitch, that imposing and authoritative managing owner of Drago's here in New Orleans. I didn't want to leave out anything, and was already forced to cut down on my introduction and unable to find the room to describe the utter deliciousness of their famous charbroiled oysters.

I thought, 'well, what if I had total creative control over an outlet and were given the license to fluff and butter as I pleased?'

Fine; I thought it a little less eloquently, but you get the idea.

Thus was TheVicariousFoodWhore.com born.

Basically, the premise of this site is to allow me to "wax poetic and rhapsodize about the food I crave, the dishes I dream of, and the snacks I obsess over, in drool-worthy detail." I mean, I do that on this blog, but to have one unified theme in a central location? Brillz!

So here we go: on this new web site, I discuss the taste, texture, feel, similarities, comparisons, details, nutrition, recipes, and preferences of whatever food item or dish I feel like (including restaurant recommendations), and do it so graphically that the reader is essentially eating vicariously through my description of the finer points of the experience. I plan to write about high end food and comfort food; exotic gourmet and common stock; supermarket brand products and specialty items, and everything in between. High-quality images, including regular photos I take of "Gratuitous Sexiness," which is particularly delicious looking food, further illustrate my points and activate your salivary glands, and I tackle the types of questions that I often research for my own personal edification. For example, future topics include the differences between the cheapo turkey roll cold cuts and oven-roasted twice-the-price meat; the naked steak versus the sauce-enrobed version; and advantage of using lump crabmeat instead of claw, and exactly where it comes from.

The style? Informational, fun, and above all, sensory. The purpose? To inform, share, and reawaken excitement and passion for food and eating, with topics in a spectrum as wide as my experience, which continues to expand.

I hope you subscribe, pass it on, become an official "follower," or just plain like it. Enjoy eating vicariously.

- www.TheVicariousFoodWhore.com

Journalism Jobs - The Great American Paradox

The journalism industry has been a battleground for several months now, but it seems that things are getting worse and worse. Rather than the hiring freezes thawing out (as I had hoped would happen, starting around now as the weather hypothetically thaws out ... in the Northeast), it seems that fewer and fewer opportunities are presenting themselves, and that any contacts you may have that aren't sitting pretty at the top of the masthead are too worried about their own hides to deal with someone they only kind of know through virtual connections.

It was disappointing, to say the least, when I found out yesterday that a magazine I contributed to, Louisiana Cookin', had a full editorial calendar completely booked up for 2009. This is partly due to the fact that a few of the issues are doing double duty on the newsstands, staying up for two months rather than just the one. For instance, this month's issue, the February--a delightful issue, might I add, chock-full of handy recipes from Heart-Healthy Creole (my own article) to blackening methods (written by Bonnie Warren, a legend in her own right with whom I had the pleasure of dining with at Brennan's when researching my dessert cover story for Where Y'at)--became available in mid-January, not to be replaced until mid-March. Next month, my Lenten Light article makes an appearance in this publication, but unfortunately, that's going to be it for me and this beautifully presented regional glossy for the rest of '09.

New Orleans Bride is just a quarterly, so there's not much brewing on that front for a while; and the other magazines owned by local periodical Renaissance Publishing, holder of titles like St. Charles Avenue, Mardi Gras Guide, and New Orleans Magazine among others can easily have their in-house editorial team provide pieces as sizes of publications around town, the dry, politically-leaning Gambit Weekly included, get smaller. New Orleans Living, headed by PR superwoman and managing editor Cheryl Lemoine, is hard-pressed to find pieces for their regular contributors, and Where magazine wouldn't return my calls. Granted, I only made around two calls and wasn't nearly as persistent as I am now, and didn't have the credentials I have now, but still. Same goes for Urban Dog.

So what's a gal to do?

In light of this local drought of work, I've decided to chase bigger game. I sent out some pitches to Taste of the South, a bigger publication similar in theme to Louisiana Cookin' in its focus on Southern food and recipe density. Alessandra Bulow, an assistant to the EIC at Food & Wine magazine in New York, helped me send pitches to the right editors, all of whom are out until ... well, basically next week. Bummer. I still need to buckle down and write the journal pieces for consideration for Southern Living, that warmer outreach of the hard-hit and badly hurting giant Time Inc., so that I can better petition for consideration for a position when their freeze lifts.

The outlook isn't that great, though, for any kind of hiring hold to be loosened at publishing conglomerates anywhere. MediaBistro's Revolving Door, their industry newsletter, grows more and more depressing every week as this web site is axed, that title is folded, and hundreds upon hundreds more in outposts everywhere get their pink slips. Advertising is down everywhere, which means the media industry, on the whole, is suffering in an unholy way.

In short, it seems that editorial jobs, freelance or otherwise, are the stuff dreams are made of these days ... more so than they were when I was a kid hoping to grow up and be a writer. Journalism jobs are more a contradiction than a qualifier now; more an oxymoron than a term.

This is a shitty, shitty time to be chasing a dream. But if I don't have a dream, what have I got to live for? It's the pursuit of happiness and fulfillment that makes life life, right?

O, to Eat in Peace

So we all know that my life revolves, unequivocally, around food. Food, food, food all the time. I wonder what I'm eating for dinner as I pour my morning bowl of cereal (if it's a weekday); create grocery lists for fun with ambitions of making something from any one of my dozens of cookbooks (which I then don't follow through on, opting instead for a tried-and-true crave-worthy favorite); I chart out my meals for the week, planning calorie- and indulgence-wise what makes the cut for what day, based on what else I eat that day in question. Everything food, 24/7.

It then pretty much goes without saying that to me, eating is one of the most pleasurable experiences one can possibly go through. A good meal is tantamount to pretty near anything. A cracked peppercorn-encrusted, dry-aged New York strip steak, with a rosy-tinted juice running in rivulets onto a sizzling plate with snapping clarified butter beats the hell out of having sex, and cutting it into small pieces guarantees it lasts longer, too. Roast duck in a fragrant, dried shallot-infused broth with fresh wonton noodles cooked al dente is a powerful bargaining chip if someone ever seeks to bribe me, as my father used to do to get me to the dentist. Even something as simple as my grandma's sweet and puffy battered fried shrimp with a side of garlicky sauteed spinach and brown rice has the power to turn a shitty day into a wonderful one. And a well-crafted whole-wheat burrito with coconut and cilantro rice, fresh pico de gallo, moist steak, ooey, gooey cheese, and slightly charred onions and peppers, flavored with chipotle pepper? The things I'll do for a trayful of those.

And so on, and so on. You get the picture. I secretly ate a really, really fat kid in my past, and continue to harbor those tendencies. There is no satiating the compulsive eater in me. And having an endless appetite? Well, honestly, I kind of love it. The more room I can make in my belly, the more I get to just taste things, one of the most hedonistic senses to awaken. Oh, yum. *Shivers.*

With all that info in mind, I will now launch into my tale of woe and sorrow.

My favorite things to do consist of this:

1. Get in bed with my book of the day, and a good meal, and eat and read simultaneously in clothes I keep aside just for getting messy.
2. Get in bed, flip on one of my favorite sitcoms, and eat a good meal as I watch mindless television programming. This is also done in my "eating clothes."

Therefore, it's all the more tragic to me that I never get a single meal of peaceful eating anymore.

Case in point: Because I'm a fan of the snooze button (it tells me how long I can cuddle my dog for before I have to get up) and have thick, "spirited" hair, I don't have a whole lot of time to get breakfast together in the morning. Usually, bites of Wheaties ('cause I'm a champion) with juicy raisins or Rice Krispies in 1% are taken between packing my lunch, feeding the Lil' B (the puppy), and making sure he pees and doesn't eat his own poo. There is no relaxation time there, and it's go, go, go until I sit down at my desk at the office. This, my friends, sucks. Back in the golden years, during college, I would sit in the sun with my full breakfast and contemplate my textbooks until I had to get dressed for class at 11 AM. The good old days.

Exhibit B: at work, because I like to read and eat at the same time, I hide out in my office with a novel and munch. However, because I'm in my office, people don't seem to realize that I am, in fact, taking my hour lunch. Everyone else plays video games for an hour and a half in the conference room, so it seems completely reasonable that I take a mere 60 minutes to enjoy a break in the day and do something I love. Right? Apparently, WRONG. Since we have yet to replace our receptionist, I--as the lowest-paid non-new minion and general lackey (it seems)--get the unspeakable pleasure of dealing with pissed off orthopedic surgeons and their wives/assistants, who are so tech-savvy that they often attempt to email our web site or call to yell at me for their content-less site not showing up on Google's first page for something as generic as "knee."

Anyhoo, because I take my lunch at my desk, I'm often asked to schedule meetings (ironically, between the person asking that I schedule a meeting ... ironic because it's that person is usually on the phone with the person they are to meet with), answer questions ("What's a browser and where do I buy one?"), or other random things. So then, that meal is quickly shot to hell for enjoying in leisure, as I drip chicken cutlet sandwich all over my keyboard, chomp as discreetly as possible into my phone, and greasify my mouse. Wonderful.

Exhibit C: Now that I live with my fiance, we don't see each other very much. I know--what a paradox. But the thing is, you stop putting time aside to hang out, you each have your own lives to live (his is school; mine is work), and when you do get home, you just want some alone time. Unfortunately, his alone time is during the day and spent in relative leisure, compared to my forced social interaction of the workday. So when I get home, he wants to have the TV blasting on something utterly inane or grisly (The Boy is a sports fan, and also enjoys his TruTV [aka CourtTV]), and tell me completely irrelevant things about himself before I even get a chance to settle down and let the tension in my neck unravel. Before my plate hits the table, and before I even get one paragraph into the book I'm trying to read amidst all the din of that night's football game.

Although I love The Boy dearly, when I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is spend any time with any other person in close quarters. I'm partial to long, brisk walks for decompressing conversation, but the tinny treble of the television set and artificial lighting indoors is not exactly conducive to any kind of significant interaction ... so why bother? If I'm in an environment like that, all I want to do is eat something extremely unhealthy and read a book that may kill as many brain cells as it engages (enter Tweenage Fangirl), going straight to my happy place. No, I don't care about your day. I'm EATING.

For Chrissakes, dear Lord, give me one meal a day that I can indulge in peace my biggest vice: gluttony. For without simple pleasures, what is life?

Regression Into Tweenage Fangirl

I think that as I'm realizing my age, I'm steadily regressing into all of the things I didn't want to be as a kid in high school. All of the things I thought I was too badass to be (after all, I was and kind of still am a hard rock and metal lovin' girl who plays an electric guitar) or embarrassed to show any kind of positive opinion about. But now, as I've settled into a comfortable embrace with my nerduality, my inner dork, I'm going backwards and developing relationships with pop culture phenomenons that I should by rights be blushing to admit.

However, as you get older, I think, you just stop caring. Everything that was such a big deal in high school is now ridiculous, and I find derision by others infinitely amusing. I take pride in being a strong enough individual that it is impossible to shame me, since I'll just think it's really funny anyway. I mean, I do honestly think that the things people make fun of me about are highly entertaining; my sense of humor is already ironic and self-depracating, and I like it that way. I'd much rather be the butt of a joke that I'm in on than be too afraid to show my personality and the likes/dislikes/characteristics that make me ... well, me.

Besides, as I download the new Britney Spears album Circus, belt showtunes and classical choir pieces, play air guitar to old 3 Doors Down, read the Twilight series and other fantacrap for teenaged girls, I have my only semi-pretentious (I say that with love; she can't help it -- she goes to Brown University!), uber-accomplished, literati sister Su-Yee to be embarrassed for me. So what do I need to be ashamed of? She does it for me and mocks me for it in wry disgust, to balance out the pure, inane joy I take in shaking my ass in the car seat to synthesized basslines that make her hide her face in horror. And I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Viva la unabashed nerd!

N.O. Sense

In most cities, towns, and villages throughout the U.S., public transportation is encouraged. With the growing concern over global warming and focus on green initiatives, this is a great thing, and it gives areas more opportunities to public works systems to make money during local festivals.

Well, in New Orleans, Mardi Gras is the biggest thing since sliced French bread, and in order for the parades to safely march down the famous St. Charles Avenue, the streetcars have to stop rolling down the median (a.k.a. in local lingo, the "neutral ground"). That makes sense; sure. I mean, you can't have hundred year-old trolleys running people down. That would never do for tourism.

So with this form of public transportation obviously impossible, you would think that the NORTA (the transportation authority) would have a contingency plan, up their available buslines, post their holiday schedules, or something along those lines. After all, with thousands upon thousands of people converging in one general direction to one pretty narrow band of the city, a good deal of money can be made by the RTA, and they'd be doing a good thing for the environment, too, by offering the option of busses. We all know that taxis are impossible to get during this time, and parking is a hellish experience, one that can cost you an entire parade's worth of throws if you happen to get stuck behind anyone that can't parallel park effectively or press your luck trying to find a spot closer to the center of the action. The entire Garden District and downtown area is effectively congested to the point that getting anywhere powered by anything other than your own two feet is not even an idea worth entertaining.

Apparently, the conclusions I've drawn about what Mardi Gras could mean in terms of smart city management and business are beyond the powers that be. I called the NORTA last week to find out about their bus schedule for the next two weeks, so that me and my group would have an idea of where to go and how to get there. Even though the parades started *last week*, they didn't have a holiday schedule up yet, and I was advised to check back Friday, February 13. Today.

Okay, fine.

Remembering this, I check the RTA's web site for an update. Except there isn't one. All there is is a note saying that the streetcars would not be running (welll, duh) and would be brought back to their main stations at 5:30. Cool. Somewhat useful, although not really.

Since there's no information on the site, I call the NORTA, and speak to a lady who tells me that -- get this! -- they cannot release the Mardi Gras bus information to the public.

Umm ... wtf?! Is it just me, or does that seem to defeat the entire purpose of, uh, "public transportation?"

My mind, at this point, is completely boggled. I tell her nicely that I'm sorry, but there is absolutely no way they can't release the bus schedule. Aside from Fat Tuesday, people still work, and there are many, three in my office alone, that rely on the New Orleans buses to get them from A to B.

Her amended response? "I guess people have to call in. We don't have a schedule we can give out, but we can tell people if the bus they need is still running."

Again ... what?!

That, to me, is the mark of inefficiency. What the heck is the point of keeping a public route and schedule for the public private? Does New Orleans want everyone to battle it out for parking for the parades and take their own cars instead of putting money back into the city system?

N.O. sense ... an oxymoron one way, and a true statement the other. Go figure, because my brain hurts right now.

A Little Piece of Home

It's funny how when you grow up eating something, whether it's good or bad, it becomes forever associated with a comfortable feeling. It doesn't necessarily have to be delicious, made a certain way, or by a certain person, but remembered flavors can bring you back to a simpler time, where eating the item in question was a highlight and a treat.

When you grow older and move away, you start to truly appreciate the way things were done "back when" or "at home," regardless of the fact that the said "home" hasn't actually been "home" for quite some time. It becomes something to get really excited about when you're able to replicate a recipe that smacks of familiarity or find a restaurant that is able to do the same.

Here in New Orleans, I've had my fair share of amazing food. Actually, more than fair, since as a food editor, I'm privileged and honored to have been a guest at many of the world-famous dining destinations this amazing city has to offer. But sometimes, when times are rough and you're feeling down, it's not a medium-rare ribeye in a red wine reduction or a seared duck breast with pecans and an orange au jus that you want. It's the comfort food of your childhood that you crave--a paper container of chicken and broccoli in a brown sauce, greasy pizza with a sweet marinara, a moist-in-the-middle bagel, liberally covered in dehydrated onion pieces, poppy and sesame seeds.

It took me five years to find suitable substitutes for the tastes of "home" here (since a few places were good for one thing or another, but not for everything overall) ... but it has been done. Unfortunately, we may only be able to enjoy these substitutes for one more year before having to embark on the same mission elsewhere, no thanks to the tanking economy and job shortages, but the point is, that for the time being, those warm/safe/fuzzy feelings in the belly are available to us.

When Boy's friend unfolded a long, white menu with red and black print on it in front of us, our hearts jumped into our throats with excitement and nervous anticipation. Where did this foreign-looking object come from? Why were there pint and quart options on a New Orleans menu? Why was the layout exactly the same as what we grew up with? These were all questions that flew through our heads at rapid speed when we saw the New York style menu of Chinese take-out Green Tea on Louisiana and Magazine, in the little shopping center that Blockbuster's in.

This little restaurant didn't disappoint. Authentic bastardized (or, "Westernized" -- but the irony is intended, since there is an extreme disconnect between the true and American versions) Chinese food, made Long Island style! What glory! What wonder of wonders! Fried rice -- yellow! Shrimp with lobster sauce -- white, eggy, and with no pesky vegetables! Brown sauce -- sauce, and not just watered down thin soy! Egg rolls in thick, crispy wraps with cabbage and pork! And lo mein was lo mein and chow mein was chow mein!

This was a happy day.

Another great day was the one that I found New York style pizza, thin crust, sweet sauce, stringy cheese and all. This was an experience long coming, since in my stubborn obstinancy, I refused to eat pizza during my undergraduate years at Tulane, believing that I'd only be setting myself up for disappointment. Therefore, I boycotted all things pizza that didn't have TM after the place name (i.e. Pizza Hut, Papa John's, and the like ilk).

But I grew curious. As I became more a part of real life with office pizza thrust upon me, I became more interested in finding quality pizza even as the other shops let me down. Finally, due to some urging from the more open-minded Boy, I checked out the pizza place down the block from where I used to live, right on the edge of campus: The Dough Bowl; or, affectionately known as Boot pizza, due to its proximity and affiliation with the notorious bar of under-21 popularity.

The slices were generous, the grease provided a lovely thin sheen of golden gloss, the crust was crisp but foldable without breaking, and the cheese came off in thin strands. Heaven.

Now, I know it sounds silly after all of my experiences at culinary heavyweights like August, Cochon, Commander's Palace, and Brennan's, but when I'm wading around "in the Doldrums" (ahh, The Phantom Tollbooth, my old friend), it's cheapo Italian and Chinese I crave. To me, it's not that my tastes are still yet unrefined, but it's essentially that the pleasure these flavors and textures provide for me will never be ruined for me the way cheap steak has, since they're connected to memories so deep inside me that whatever the taste in my mouth is, it will be enhanced with memory like so many granules of MSG.

Cussing Isn't a Sales Pitch

Even though, when you really break these phrases up into literal translations, cussing is actually extremely silly, these meaningless words still cut. Even when hurled from the throats of strangers, profanity has a unique power to undermine your humanity and make you feel bad, regardless of the fact that the things you're being called or asked to do are completely nonsensical.

I was insulted by a telemarketer today after telling him that 'we were not interested but I could take a message.' He was selling leads, something I know for a fact we don't buy into. He called me "unprofessional," said he was "not interested in talking to [me]" for my "bitch attitude" (all, of course, heavily accented, so these derogatory remarks were even more of a shocker), and at some point, said something that sounded like "hussy."

Umm ... what?

I told him very firmly, after he started insulting me, that if he wasn't going to be nice, I didn't want to talk to him. His response was, "Well, I didn't want to talk to you; this is regarding a professional sales matter that doesn't concern you, since you are not a professional." Rather than stoop to the level he was goading me to, I simply hung up, as my boss had said once before to do when telemarketers got aggressive and angry.

I'm not sure if it was sheer ballsiness or stupidity, but a second after hanging up, he called back, and was brassy enough to skip the introduction this time and launch right back into insults. I said, "Fine, let me see if The Boss will speak with you," and put him on "park."

Well, before I could even go find The Boss, he called again from another phone. Then again. Then again. An obvious move to block all the phone lines until someone patched him through.

Due to his aggressiveness (and the fact that I was already really too busy to deal with this nonsense), I went to interrupt The Boss's meeting. He was not happy, but it made him even more unhappy to know that I was being berated by a nasty telemarketer with no idea how to sell.

I mean, really! Being a negative asshole to an employee of a company you're trying to do business with? Doesn't sound like a smart sales move to me. Customer service much?

I went back to my desk, and from the same number (since Mean Guy was now firmly ensconced in conversation with The Boss), some lady called, asking for someone that doesn't work here and never has. I let her know that someone from her company just called and was very, very nasty, and has turned us off completely from her company. I was in no mood to be charitable at this point.

Apparently, neither was The Boss. The Boss, in very colorful language, told him very explicitly where he could stick what, when, and with whom, and dared him to call ever again and mistreat his employees.

Take THAT, eLeads. I hope the Better Business Bureau gets at you.

Here's the number NOT to pick up the phone for --
301 727 7297

P.S. Mean Guy, you really hurt my feelings.

Over On "Humane" Way

There is so much irony in the fact that the Jefferson Parish Animal Shelter, also known as JPAS for short, is located on 1 Humane Way in Harahan, Louisiana. A kill shelter, this poorly funded, poorly maintained, poorly staffed, and poorly run facility is perhaps one of the most disgusting and depressing places I've ever been to in my entire life.

When I adopted the love of my life, my little (well, he USED to be little) Lieutenant Baxter Bear, the situation at the JPAS was disgraceful. The floors were filthy, the water taps leaked, there was urine and feces in the corner of almost every kennel, the dogs were anxious and hungry, and in the dead heat of a New Orleans summer, there were only these big industrial fans to help cool the air within. These fans were aimed at the people walking down the narrow aisles, not the kennels. In the winter, there is no heat in the facility, the warmth of each suffering animal completely dependent on donations of blankets that the community would make.

By the time Boy and I decided that Little B would be the perfect addition to our household (as Wendy's, nonetheless ... it seems that a lot of the most monumental moments of Middle Country School District alum happen at a local Wendy's) and returned to the shelter, it was 3:15 PM. Or, as the staffer put it, too late since they stopped processing paperwork promptly at 3.

Now that would have been fine and dandy, if not for the fact that it took them about five minutes to notice us waiting for them to pay attention to us and that we had been listening to them chatting about nothing at all of importance, just gossip, for the past few minutes. Which means that we actually arrive a mere TEN MINUTES after they "stopped taking paperwork."

What made it even worse was that a) It was a Saturday and the shelter didn't reopen until Monday, b) Bax had just gotten fixed the day before and was suffering -- we didn't want him to recover on a cold cot in a dirty, unsupervised kennel, c) the lady hadn't even let us play with him at all to bond at this point, since she said "it's a Saturday and they don't do that on Saturdays." Yet we wanted him anyway.

So they couldn't take the two seconds to accept the completed forms we had in hand and give us the damn dog?!

Anyway, it proved a good thing that Boy went and got him first thing Monday morning before classes, since a major scandal rocked the boat just a few weeks later: an employee "accidentally" sprayed undiluted insecticide into the kennels and water dishes of the puppy/dog area and around 25 dogs met their ends.

This incident caused a great deal of publicity and attention began to be directed at the shelter's practices, and since the disgraced resignations of several key members of the organization, things seemed to get a little better since the public was demanding reform and a closer eye on it all. Unfortunately, things only changed on the surface and JPAS is again embroiled in scandal, with the prompt euthanization of a sick owner-surrendered lab. And by prompt, I mean a mere fifteen minutes. And one of the saddest points? The lab was given up for "escaping from the yard too often."

And here's a sad statistic, quoted directly from the piece the Times-Picayune ran about this most recent incident: "...the number of animals euthanized dropped 23 percent from 9,967 to 7,720 this past year."

So if you bought your pet, stop and consider that mind-boggling number and remember that you can get on lists for your desired breed, because this is still an astounding number of animals in just one shelter alone that were sentenced to die. How easily could your pet have been one of them?

Butterflies Fly North

Everyone talks about how, when they get nervous, they get a fluttering feeling in their tummies that can best be compared to the light wing beats of butterflies. Or, when they get excited about something, that those feather-light sensations at the core of their beings happen in the pit of their guts, closer to their intestines than their actual stomachs.

My butterflies have seemingly migrated north for the winter. Maybe they've always been there, but it's been an anxiety-ridden few months, enough that it's become apparent that my little indicators live closer to my actual stomach and chest cavity than anywhere else, causing my heart to beat faster, my breathing to feel more constricted (although that part could also be attributed to my not-fully-functioning right lung), and my head to get that light, starry feeling.

It seems that nothing good comes of aging, considering that my nervous reactions never used to be this strong. I never used to be nervous for job interviews when I was young, for example, until I started going on job interviews after college. Granted, the commute time to said interview used to leave me utterly drained by the time I got there, and I interviewed in the winter, which does all kinds of crazy stuff to my systematic responses, but still ... the point is, anxiety reigned.

Also, I think more about the future these days, now that I'm getting married and it's not just MY future anymore, but rather, OURS. It's a scary, scary jump, especially when you're not altogether sure that "my" future and "our" future necessarily mean the same thing to both parties. You also have to consider that no matter what "the" future brings, that you're in it for the long haul, whether it's good or bad. Also nerve-wracking and butterfly-inducing, considering that the economy is what it is and that if one of you is screwed, the both of you are pretty much SOL and you can cut your own salary in half in that the case.

I'm wondering if I'm becoming neurotic as I get older, as my habits, likes, dislikes, and personality traits become more emphasized or deeper ingrained in who I am as a person. I've always been a tense, anxious person when it comes to the future and with careers (though oddly laid-back when it comes to the rest of my life, even for "monumental" occasions like graduation and stuff), always worried about where I'm going, that it makes me even more nervous to think that I'm becoming the kind of individual that lets the constant worry take over and turn the simple and everyday into tedious sources of frustration and aggravation. The feeling of being trapped doesn't help any, either, so is it even my own thirst for achievement that's biting me in the ass?

Either way, the butterflies are migrating north. They've moved from my gut into my chest making it tight and inflexible; the cavity is too small and they're fighting their way further up. Seems it may be a matter of time before they settle in my throat and choke me.

Suffocated by brightly hued wings, beating lightly with ambition, impatience, and a tendency to over-organize and over-plan. How ironically picturesque in a tragic, Gothic kind of way.

Sabotage of the (Physical) Self

I hurt myself today.

This in itself isn't anything remarkable. In fact, a day that I don't injure myself is a surprise to everyone I know. Grace, obviously, is not one of my higher attributes, having about as much physical finesse as a hippo in a tutu. I'm possibly only a little less accident-prone than Bella from the Twilight series (which I've just finished with a great deal of that satisfied sorrow that accompanies the end of great sagas).

Anyway, I was walking down the street today with my dog on a pretty well-packed stretch of grass alongside a house, when oomph, my foot hit a soft spot just off the path and down I went with a mushy crunch. I sat there flat on my ass for a little bit waiting for the throbbing pain to slowly ebb down to a more tolerable level so I could get back up, and was amused (slightly) by the fact that, of course, I fell on the ankle that still wasn't fully recovered from the fall, twist, crunch of my most recent attempt at "shooting [a] hoop[s]." Which was really pretty pathetic, being as not only did I have to walk with a limp for the week I was on the cruise ship, but also in that I didn't even make the basket. ... By a pretty long shot.

The revelation was essentially that, although people are more coordinated on one side, they usually injure themselves on one side. Ironically, on the side that's either a) already damaged or hurt or b) the side that they are technically more coordinated on.

Case in point: I am a righty. Yet, every bone in my body that's been broken (femur, ribs) or sprained (wrist, ankle) is on the right side of my body.

You would think, in terms of evolution and all, that the body would automatically go to protect that stronger side for the good of the whole, and the weaker side be damned. The weaker side of your body obviously can't be more valuable than that stronger side. So then why is it that the side that is better suited for survival is sacrificed? Is it because your body subconsciously gives it enough credit to think that since it IS stronger that it can handle whatever abuse you may inflict on it?

One would also assume, in keeping within the lines of self-preservation, that your body and mind would want to take extra good care of any body part that is already injured. That your brain would keep that injury fresh in your awareness so that you would make a conscious effort to avoid aggravating it even more. But that seems not to be the case!

I've found that when you're nursing a cut or a sprain, you pay so much attention to it that even though you're trying to take care of it, you end up focusing on whatever further hurt you may do it. Essentially, if you focus more on how much something hurts or having to avoid touching something, when you do, it's that much more obvious and you notice it more. Meanwhile, if you don't, as in the case of my ankle, you forget that any extra cautionary measures need to be taken and you further hurt yourself.

Even so, that doesn't explain why, when you bite yourself, you continue to bite the same spot in your mouth. Shouldn't your mouth want to be more careful so you can continue eating with the same exuberance that caused you to bite your mouth? It's hard to believe that the swelling is such that it becomes unavoidable, but every time I bite myself, it gets infected, and I do it again and again in a never-ending cycle. (Well, never-ending to me. A gluttonous foodie, just a week of eating cautiously seems like an eternity of sacrifice.)

The point is, it's ironic how the body and mind work together, or even sabotage one another if you choose to take that perspective. I just find it interesting that this isn't just a Su-Jit-being-clumsy thing, but that it's actually pretty universal: people always hurt the same side of their bodies and continue to hurt that same area over and over again ... intriguing how that goes so against the rules of self-preservation and survival of the fittest.

Fuzzy Battles: Unhappiness Vs. Dissatisfaction

I find that one of the toughest things to differentiate is every feeling of dissatisfaction versus actual unhappiness. Dissatisfaction can include: boredom, a feeling of a lack of fulfillment, dissension, even anger, rage, or resentment. But in the end, does it actually equate unhappiness?

For instance, I know for a fact that I'm not necessarily happy with my current situation. I feel unchallenged, like I'm stuck in a rut, and like there's really not much to look forward to every day. It's just the same old, same old, just a different voice complaining about the exact thing a screechy voice complained about the day before. There's no real excitement, and without any big projects for me to handle, it's just a list of weekly tasks that read off like a study in the mundane. Phones, follow ups, letters, reports.

It's not that my job is hard. It's not. And multi-tasking may be challenging for some, but I do it without even thinking.

The thing is, though, that I can't help but feel unappreciated for what I have to offer, like an untapped resource. I don't like to be completely in over my head in terms of stress level, but I like a faster pace, and most of all, I just really want to do what I want to do. I want to be able to work on my creative chops, and more and more, as I grow more successful with my writing, it frustrates me that I'm spending my time at a job, not building a career. A massive difference.

So then what is it? Am I actually unhappy or just a malcontent? This is a terrible economy to be considering not just sucking it up, since I know I should be grateful I have some semblance (even if it's only a surface impression) of financial security, and I should be extremely grateful for what has been done for me in the past couple of years. But is that enough? Does it outweigh the extreme boredom, the lack of gratification and recognition, the glass ceiling for aspirations and compensation, irritation about the fuzzy parameters of my responsibility, bitterness about the latter items, or the gray hairs that stem from being subjected to unpleasantness every day? One has to wonder ...