Places

First of all, MASSIVE THANKS to all you wonderful readers, whether or not you have made yourself known (of course, if you haven't made yourself known there's a chance you don't exist and I am inventing you out of my legendary vanity, or that you exist and are not wonderful, but let's, for the sake of making this thank you as grandiose as possible, assume you do and are). It is bringing me great joy and excitement to write out little ditties for public consumption, and that joy and excitement are quadrupled (minimum, respectively) every time I hear from someone or just imagine someone reading these ramblings. So, thank you thank you thank you.

Now, on to the ramblings...

I get places stuck in my head like songs, sometimes. Does this happen to anyone else? It's always happened to me on and off, but it seems like it's been on, lately, extra on. Places are stuck in my head all the time these days, for reasons I really can't guess, and there's a trend, too, that I never noticed before: the same actual places triggering the same head places. An example: for the past I don't even know how many times I've "come to rest" in savasana - that pose at the end of yoga where you lie on the floor and try to do and think nothing - I don't just not think nothing, as is my wont, but I find myself envisioning Thornes, the homey-yet-upscale little shopping complex in Northampton, MA, where my friends and I used to go in college to look wistfully at things we couldn't afford. And not just a general picture of Thornes, either, no, once entering the place my mind goes straight to Herrell's, the ice cream shop around the back on the street level where they hand-chopped candy bars to smush into your hand-made ice cream on a marble countertop - like Coldstone but before Coldstone.

I realize as I write this how few times I treated myself to this deliciousness, even when with friends who did, and that the reason was that I was always trying to avoid my one true addiction - sugar - a practice that I maintain to this day, as unsuccessfully now as I did back then. It is truly bizarre to me that I have been able to successfully avoid Mr. Softee for two summers running now and yet succumb to eating donuts nearly regularly. It is like I am constantly using up what I mentally consider my sugar allotment on donuts or, much worse, cookies or brownies left over from meetings at work, and have no room left for ice cream.

But I have been changing that this summer, indulging in ice cream more often because it makes summer SUMMER, even if most of June is rain. So maybe that's why Herrell's has been showing up in my savasana dreams. Either way, I'm sorry, donuts. I'll be back for you in the fall. And Herrell's, I'll see you in yoga.

And for my next trick...

Ya'll, it's father's day, and the weather in New York is beautiful. Do you know what the weather does not actually need to be beautiful for? Father's day. No offense to my father or any other wonderful fathers out there, but we could celebrate and love you just as much in the rain. Do you know what is harder to do in the rain? The Mermaid Parade.


So I'm going to try to make this quick because I still have to call my dad because I couldn't earlier because my phone died and I was cat-sitting at someone else's house...and Poppy, if I don't reach you tonight, I hope you know how much I love you and think you're a terrific dad.

I also love the Coney Island Mermaid Parade with all the fibers in my wee heart, but I have to say that it has always produced several challenges, first and foremost it's being held every year on the same weekend as my birthday (or whatever weekend falls closest), which means that I am either hungover for the parade or have to leave earlier than I'd otherwise choose to in order to have a bday party. Either way, I always miss the Mermaid Ball. (I know I could have a bday party at Coney, technically, but I am vain and on the one day of the year when I feel completely allowed to be openly vain, I don't want to share the glory with such fabulousness as the Mermaid Parade.)


THIS YEAR, the parade did NOT fall on my bday, lo and behold! Once again I uncharacteristically made plans in advance to go, bought a dress, the whole thing. Only this time, my chosen companion fell ill, none of my other friends, including Lance, wanted to go (who are these people and why are they my friends?), and I had last-minute guests arriving that night. Fine. I adjusted my goals, decided to go to the parade on my own, and hoped to convince the guests to join me later for the ball. Then what happened? It POURED. And was cold. And I'd like to count my blessings and be happy for the miracle of the rain stopping just as the parade started, but by that time my dress was soaked through the sequins, a serious wind was coming off the ocean, and my back hurt (due to being on my feet most of the previous day, in heels, at a stupid work function, oh, and the fact that my dress was so tight I couldn't sit on the subway). Oh the agony!

Thank god for the paraders, who are worth the trip every year. I took as many pictures as I could before my teeth started chattering, then boarded the subway to stand all the way home. I still love the Mermaid Parade with all the fibers of my wee heart, and still hope to one day make it to the ball, but I might start lobbying for it all to go down in July.


p.s. Mer-hons, no? Worlds collide.

I am not allergic to fish

I know you were worried. I was, too, after I ate a rarely-done tuna burger yesterday (a delicious, rarely-done tuna burger with wasabi aioli, natch) and noticed near the end of it that I was feeling a little flushed. Gee, I thought, next time I'll remember not to rush into finishing a giant tuna burger just because it's delicious and I have to get back to work. In general, I thought, a good reminder that I don't need to eat what's on my plate just because it's on my plate even if it's delicious.

Back at work, I run to the bathroom before returning to my desk and see that my cheeks have an unusually rosy glow, the kind I usually have to apply blush to get. Actually, on second look, my whole face looks a little red, and not even in the way that it does on the rare occasion that I do aerobic exercise. "Does my face look red?" I say to my co-worker on the way back to my desk. Her response indicates that it actually looks a bit purple and is freaking her out.

Mayhem ensues; I'm getting recommendations from everyone on the floor, I'm having to tell my brief tuna burger story repeatedly, assure people repeatedly that no, I have no other symptoms and no, I don't have any allergies, and purple? Really? Meanwhile, I can't tell anymore what's an "allergic reaction" and what's embarrassment. A nurse on staff recommends I go out for some Benadryl, which I do, and according to the instructions, take 2. "You took two?!" my boss asks when I give her the update. I nod. "You're going to be asleep in an hour." I am shocked to hear this. "Oh, I say, I guess I should have gotten non-drowsy...I just didn't see any on the shelf." "There is no non-drowsy Benadryl," she says. She is disappointed. Understandably - it's only three o'clock. And I am further embarrassed for not knowing this, and defeated, since I had evening plans I was looking forward to. Later I found out that the friend I'd been to lunch with who had the same thing, also got flush and, what's more, sick to her stomach, which is a fate I avoided.

So I went home early, slept for two hours, and was fine. I had read on the internet that there are some types of fish-related food-poisoning that mimic an allergic reaction, and I was clinging to this hope because there are certain things that getting older has brought to me that are unpleasant (needing more sleep, carpal tunnel) and I know there are more to come, but if seafood allergies was one of them, I would truly have a nervous breakdown.

GOOD NEWS! I am not, as you may have guessed from this post's title, allergic to seafood. How do I know? I just had sushi for dinner.

It's Honfest, hon!

Some of you might have heard mention of my unnatural love for the city of Baltimore. Well, hon, this is the icing on the cake. (Above, me and a pack of young hons, brown-bagging it and wearing a necklace I bought at a vintage booth and later realized was a belt).

I don't remember how I stumbled upon knowledge of Honfest, but I knew I had to go. This was what, three years ago? It was at the height of my lust for Bawlmer and I was devastated that I had - typically - just missed it. Another year passed, and something came up that prevented me from going, probably one of those weddings people keep having. Then a curious thing happened. I was writing a blog post, yes the very same blog post preceding this one, yammering about how rarely I actually find out about and then attend these annual-type events, when suddenly said yammering reminded me of my most egregious case of annual event non-attendance, Honfest. You, good readers, might not have been able to tell, but WHILE COMPOSING THE PREVIOUS POST I was also finding out that, lo! Behold! Honfest was in TWO DAYS!

I did the only rational thing I could think of - I set off a flurry of texting that resulted in sudden plans for me and Lance to take the bus down on Saturday, stay with some friends, and Honfest it up.

Honfest is in the Hampden neighborhood where, as our host jovially put it, the freaks live. The nabe is a good part of my reason for loving Baltimore and the presence of the freaks is surely a good part of why. So after arriving on the bus, we traipsed across the Johns Hopkins campus to Hampden and encounted an enormous street fair. At first I was disappointed - Honfest is just a street fair? But it was a fabulous street fair, which lots and lots of fun artsy-crafty booths, Bawlmer kitsch, and stands selling crab cake sandwiches with giant tins of Old Bay seasoning as the only condiment. Also, funnel cakes, re-named for the occasion.


Part of the problem with my obsession with Baltimore, hons, and Honfest, is an inability to fully describe what they are, much less why they are so great (yes, people know what Baltimore is, but often in only the crudest sense). There were many varieties of hons at the Honfest, from young rockabilly hons to the truest type of hon - the woman in the purple housecoat with matching fuzzy slippers and rollers in her hair that, despite all the purple and despite the festival, seemed to be merely in her usual get-up. As if, should you walk through Hampden on a different day, you would see her wearing the same thing, hanging up laundry and saying "Hot enough for you, hon?" while her younger floozy sister was down at Cafe Hon wearing a slightly sexier version of the same outfit and asking patrons "you need more coffe, hon?"


That, anyway, is my own interpretation. The other part of the problem is almost too shameful to admit. We'd missed round one of the Best Hon competition on Saturday, but we were sure that on Sunday, which was the day of the 2nd, final round, we'd finally see some hon action that would elevate Honfest from a streetfair to an EVENT (the two stages had otherwise been filled with kid dance troops or folk singers - not bad, but not EVENTful). Sadly, when the time came for the competish, the only thing I could see getting elevated was hair. I waited in line for an hour for this beehive, and missed the Best Hon getting crowned, but it was worth it.


And it didn't stop me from brazenly getting my picture taken with the Hon of the Year. Note her flamingo gown.

I love the flamingo butt.

So the mystery remains on what makes Bawlmer's best hon. Is there a talent portion? Do they have to answer a question about hons and politics and world peace? There's only one way to find out, and that's to return next year. Baltimore, I'll see you soon.

p.s.

Did I mention Tove went in drag??


Though she did end up putting on pants and a tie.

Also, more pictures on Metromix of all the fabulous revelers including yours truly and my merry companions.

Jazz Age Lawn Party!

In my life it seems there are endless things I learn about after the fact that I wish, wish, wish I had known about in advance, even if they are things that I am actually unlikely to go to if given the chance. It's the missing them that makes it poignant.

Not so with the annual Governor's Island Jazz Age Lawn Party!! I was thrilled to catch wind of this a full month ago in a rare fit of web surfing and immediately acted upon it with equally uncharacteristic organization, adding it to my google calendar with a reminder, and emailing my friend Tove who is my equal, nay my superior, in the love of all things 1920s. Tove, by the by, has her own blog which I feel safe in saying is also superior to this one, as it is both beautiful and intellectual (while I can say the same for myself, I am not sure I can fully claim this for my wee rants/raves).

So, not only was Tove on board with her swell fella, my man was on board, too, proving his own swellness by taking me out for a brunch and hat-shopping date. Yes, even writing it makes me swoon. Incidentally, this is the second time we have patronized The Village Scandal, the second time I have tried on and fallen for a hat, and the second time Lance has said "Please let me buy you that hat." Ladies! Hands off, he's mine!

Okay, this isn't him, though, this is me with the best costume there - a vintage hobo. He had a can of peas and a wooden spoon, string suspenders and everything.


HERE'S my man, lookin' stern:



He is serious about his gin.

Strangely there was actually no gin to be had at event, but it wasn't missed too much by me, a) because I am (gasp) not the greatest gin lover and b) because what they had instead was a St. Germain and prosecco cocktail - by far my new favorite. There was also an old-timey band with an old-timey microphone that was very hard for me to not jump in front of and start singing. There was dancing OF COURSE and lots more fancy dress, and in general I would like there to be many more events like this. Next time I will remember to dance and drink more! Jazz age lawn parties are not a time to be shy.