Hurry, I've got to get to class!

The Brooklyn Flea: Part I

Hippies are a complex species these days. As I wasn’t there for the adventures of historical hippie-dome, I can only assume that no one denied a friendship with Hell’s Angels on Facebook or negotiated LSD deals via Blackberry, the same goes for free love—not Skype sex. But on this day at the Brooklyn Flea, a new breed of 21st century hipsters has flocked with various techie paraphernalia (I can’t attest to the Skype sex). They are here to buy and sell the junk that was probably stashed in their condos and couldn’t be sold on ebay. It’s not the traditional picture of hipness but don’t be square man, times they are a changin’. Clothing, furniture, jewelry, postcards, artwork and everything in between can be found here. The Brooklyn Flea attracts over 600 vendors who sell to visitors who push, poke and pillage through three floors of the Williamsburgh Savings Bank.

Today I am one of these scavengers. I am eager to meet and greet the new hippies who have discovered how to reconcile the new with the old, and still make money. I want to throw myself into the flea market matrix and as soon as that first cup of organic, locally grown, fair trade coffee hits my lips, I am ready to strategize. Strategy is the key when navigating The Flea. One must establish a plan, set a pace, and prepare rations. This is no exaggeration. When a mass of dreadlocks or a cloud of patchouli is all that stands between you and the perfect pair of Salvatore Ferragamo cufflinks, it pays to be prepared. I have trained for years and still have not completely mastered a strategy, but I have enough skills to get me through, the most important of which is, the look.

Flea market hippies can spot a poseur from a mile away so camouflage is essential. I was once denied a set of dishes because my jeans were from “Old Slavey.” Today I must also compensate for my super-square companion who is clean cut and pea-coat clad, and generally looks like he fell out of an LL Bean catalogue. But no matter, I have piled on half of my wardrobe, skipped the shower, and fish-bowled my car with sage. We are the odd couple, but I fit right in. I am ready to infiltrate.

We start on the top floor which seems to be where novice sellers have to do their time before they’ve earned ground floor status. There’s not nearly as much foot traffic as the floor below us, the result is a string of unpleasant vendors. Actually they were some downright bitchy hippies—noses hidden in recyclable coffee cups while bloodshot beady eyes glared and followed me from one table of crap to the next. These must be the rookies, or those banished to the upper levels for failure to exude the happy hippie spirit. Another possibility is I am looking more like a Fagin than an Olsen, an easy mistake given the wardrobe similarities.

Then suddenly, out of the warm glow of an electric disco ball comes a smile and my confidence returns. From a tucked away nook appears—according to his nametag—John. John tells me about the great deal he’s offering today: any three items off his table for $10. I am so relieved to see a smile, and quite an attractive one, that I’m a bit stunned and can only manage a quick nod and an over-eager “great,” which comes out a lot louder than I expected. Then I look at handsome John’s table, then back to handsome John, then back to the table. And I wonder if there is any sane explanation for three Playboys from 1976.

I decide not, and leave handsome John with his collection. That explains the smile at least, with three decades of porn what guy wouldn’t be smiling?

We move back to the ground floor and after circling for some time, I decide I am ready to haggle. The items I covet? One money clip of Winston Churchill’s face, three used postcards from Susan to George postmarked 1954, a copy of Reanimator and an aloe plant. That is what I love about flea markets, one stop shopping. As it stands, my purchases would come to a whopping $25 which is really a deal considering the money clip. But I have to at least try haggling, just for the sport of it. The woman I am up against though, does not take things so lightly. Her unflinching grey eyes are surrounded by clown-red hair that only makes her look that much more psychopathic. She only comes up to my shoulder but could easily take me down with a nudge of her elbow.

The next few moments are a blur. The adrenaline is pumping as I hear red-head say $25. Then I hear my own voice boldly suggest $15. Am I doing this right? My mouth is drying up, and there’s a slight twitch below my left eye before red-head concedes to $20. The stale air hangs for a moment while I compose myself and wonder what was slipped in my coffee that’s making the room spin and why in mother-earth’s name I chose this woman to haggle with.

Then I breathe and hand over the twenty. I do this a little too quickly but I don’t think she senses the full extent of my relief. Red-head hands me a paper bag and with sweaty hands I load up my goods. As I start to leave, she gives me her card with her website, ebay and twitter accounts listed. With that gesture, I feel like I got what I came for, an understanding of the very specific moment where the new and old come together. Happily I walk away with Red’s old junk and my new sense of accomplishment, careful not to let the 100% post-consumer waste door hit me on the way out.

Old Dog, New Tricks?

I'm going to do my part and start brainstorming a a new shape of hot dog but, in my humble although professional opinion (I am without a doubt a hot dog pro), the problem (for adults at least) isn't the shape of the hot dog, but the amount. It's like the problem many have with booze, one is never enough. I'm more likely to start choking when I'm on my third dog: my jaw is sore, my eyes glaze over,the ketchup-coma sets in...but it's too good to put down...:)

Rockabye

I have not quit, I will not quit, I cannot quit. It's been a drab week here, so I'm really looking forward to getting into Brooklyn on Saturday, hitting the Brooklyn Flea, then flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

In the meantime, I'll imagine rocking around in this wonderful egg chair and nibbling on delicious checkerboard cake.

Feeling better already!

Things we eat alone

I need this book. Julia recommends it in my favorite episode, The Omlete Show. I watched it this morning and now I'm starving, omletes for lunch! My new obsession is to put sweet paprika and turkey in my omelet, try it...amazing!

Take me higher

I bought high rise underwear and I didn't quite mean to. (And I don't look exactly like the girl in the photo, mine aren't that high but...you get the picture, without a (graciously spared) picture.

Like up to your belly button Lauren?

Why yes, gentle reader...and you know what? I kind of like them. They're unbelievably soft and when my pants start falling down (because I have no hips and can't find the perfect belt), there's no crack show.

But isn't it just a big ol' whale tale?

Well, maybe, I've never got a look from behind. But I think it's more of a
1920's look, with a touch of badass-ness (super high rise underwear + low rise jeans=interesting new "style"). I should probably just wear them with skirts, but they're too damn comfy. I didn't realize they were quite so high when I bought three pairs, but now I'm hooked, judge as you may.

And I love that this picture was from Glamour.com, and pitched by one of my favorite bloggers !

I had it coming

I firmly believe that every once and a while, the universe intercedes on my behalf. Someone or something out there protects me from--not necessarily harm--but more likely, myself, or in tonight's case...disappointment.

For weeks I have been preparing myself to watch Twilight. Don't judge, I can't help it. There's only so many times I can watch and re-watch every Harry Potter, and it was time for a new supernatural indulgence. So I bumped it to the top of my Netflix and carefully studied every Robert Pattinson/Kristen Stewart photo shoot/interview session ("interview" is a generous phrase, since I'm pretty sure neither of them were able to construct a comprehensible sentence).

But I proceeded, not wanting to be left behind when my grandchildren eventually watch the movie (like I did with "The Way We Were"...saving the gushing for another post), and want to hear my first hand account of the generational phenomenon.

Enter: The Universe, when I accidentally returned my unwatched Twilight to Netflix. At this point, an unfortunate accident. A few days later Cul surprised me with my very own copy, complete with limited edition Twilight Post cards. Now I was ready.

So we planned a Twilight night, I bought a bottle of "Spellbound" Cabernet to really get in the mood.

Re-Enter the Universe: The movie won't play, damn my laptop. But I persist, unable to accept that perhaps the universe is trying to shield me from something. We finally get the movie playing...

And the disappointment is so great I still can't express myself. Fifteen minutes in and I had to turn it off. There really are no words, just sadness and a very cold empty feeling.

Thinking positively though, the wine was delicious and we ended up watching Interview with a Vampire instead. An oldie but still a goodie.

Resolutions...

Just a quick note, because it's 2:27AM EST. I had a lovely evening out with some of Cul's friends from work. I got to experience all that heavy metal had to offer, even got a steak and cheese sandwich out of it. Mind you, I'm not a heavy drinker, far from it. And tonight was no different. Two beers, neither of which I finished because I still don't really like beer. But both of which were ordered because they were Hunter Thompson beers (Flying Dogs, if you're interested...and really great labels, which is my favorite part).

So yes, I'm getting home late, and yes I have to work with loads of children at 9AM. But that I can deal with. Then the Saab starts acting up. I gave the blessed thing ten minutes to warm up, but still it insists on stalling all the way down 290. So I flip on the warning lights and pray for the best. Clearly, I got home fine.

But all I could think about was having to pull over and wait in the -10 degree weather for AAA to come. Then the world (in my paranoia) pulls a Bill-Cosby's-kid on me, and sends a "good samaritan" who pulls up behind me and proceeds to slaughter me. Now from all the Law & Order I've watched, the ME would have a hard time identifying my time of death because of the cold weather, but on the plus side it would also take me longer to bleed out because the unbelievably cruel New England weather would also slow blood loss.

New Year's resolution: Less Law & Order (sorry Stabler, I love you), and more car maintenence.

A man, a plan, a canal, panama

Keeping it short today because I had my Non-Fiction writing class tonight and I'm in hyper-editing mode-which is a nasty monkey on my back-right now. I will tell you a quick story though. Because it's absurd and I believe it's important to remember the absurdities on particularly mundane days.

Last semester there was a woman named Karen in my class. Karen, in another life, must have been a manicurist or held a world records title for longest fingernails because she would obsessively clip and file her nails, then proceed to trim her cuticles. No exaggeration. Not push them back, TRIM them. With the salon style clippers and everything. Personally, I don't think those things should be allowed on public transportation...see something, say something.

Ten or so minutes into class, after she'd finished her sandwich, out came the clippers. Somehow we always ended up sitting next to each other. No matter where I moved, there was Karen. The first time I witnessed this, I was curious. The following week I was disgusted. Fingernail clipping flew onto my papers and she just kept going at it. The amazing stunt came when she was able to offer feedback on my paper...while filing.

I've had the break to cool off, and now I find myself missing Karen. If we had class together this semester, I might even have asked her to buff and shine my nails. I think it was the lack of self-awareness I admire. I'm a fidget by nature. Hair twirling, toe tapping, knuckle cracking, the works. So maybe this semester I'll pick up a hobby to work on during class. I've given up on doodling and I usually like to stay focused. But maybe I could try my hand at some scrap booking mid-lecture.

Any ideas?

(It's actually making me very nervous to solicit ideas into the blogosphere, but I figure I'll have to get over it eventually, so I might as well face the beast now)

Baby, you can drive my car

There are many things I've learned as a commuter:

1. Always have a roll of quarters handy
2. Always carry a wad of ones, even at the risk of looking like you earned said cash in a solicitous manner
3. The lyrics to every Chaka Khan song...ever
4. The proper technique for creepily spying on the car stuck in traffic next to you (I recommend wrap around sunglasses)
5. As you approach any cop with a radar gun...start singing (this theory is still in the testing stages, so don't try it quite yet)
6. That blinkers are optional

Today though, all my hard earned knowledge was rendered useless in the way many things are rendered useless...my mother's voice in my head. Granted, the rains were torrential and my poor Saab gets knocked off course when I sneeze, but still...it shouldn't have taken me and hour and a half to get to school. And I probably didn't need to go 55 the whole way, but I did because my well intentioned mother always leaves me with these parting words:

"Be careful, it's slippery" (that's what she said...can't help it)

Back on track though. Yes, she always says this, or some version at least. The roads are terrible, it's icy even though it doesn't look it, etc... On cloudy days I'm warned about the ice on the road, or a possible storm so be careful of falling branches. On warm days I should look out for the fog. One day last May she was convinced there was black ice.

I believe driving anxiety to be a learned behavior, so it's no surprise that this paranoia has been ingrained in me, although my fears have manifested themselves in other ways. I consider myself pretty easy going, but behind the wheel I am generally a wreck. Weather is a factor I can handle. I will be the idiot you scream "it's only rain!" at as I scoot along highways. Feel free to pass, I will go no faster. Rain, sleet, snow, I can deal with. I'll be white knuckled and shakey, but I can deal with it.

What I can't ignore is the possibility that I will have a brain aneurysm while driving, careen across three lanes of traffic and meet my fiery doom at the guardrail. I know this is not a joke. No one takes this more seriously than I do because I've read the horrible stories of perfectly healthy twenty-somethings having aneurysms behind the wheel. And I'll never see it coming.

Or there's the chance that I'll get pulled over by what I think to be an unmarked cop car, only to find myself mugged and carjacked. This possibility leads to another problem. The cop pulling me over really IS a cop, but because of the paranoia that I've let fester for the past seven years, I ignore the sirens and wait to pull into a public area, only to be an unwitting participant in a high speed chase.

Fear breeds fear.

So while I've learned a lot driving around this fair state and holding my own against so many lovely Massholes, there are obviously problems I have yet to solve. Besides the practical/obsessive/insane/absurd ones I've listed above, I should probably spend my commuting time figuring out/quelling above paranoia, or quieting my mom's voice in my head.

Until then, I will patiently wait for the day when I will hire a driver,whose background I will have thoroughly investigated. We will have a relationship like in Driving Miss Daisy, I will teach him to read and he will teach me how to trust and reunite with the real world.

Until then...

I never read Kite Runner...and other confessions

Last week I finally got my hair cut...the woman found a bobby pin in the mass. I'm fairly certain there was more booty in there too, maybe a cork or a lost earring, luckily she had the tact to withold that from me.

The next day I discovered a parking ticket...in my sock drawer.

Then there was the ink stain on my boots because I dropped an old cartidge in my boot bucket (a post for another day, when I will finally admit and analyze how/why said boot bucket contains seven pairs of boots in various shades of brown)

Oh, and the popcicles that I forgot were in my trunk...when I went grocery shopping before Christmas.

Clearly, I've let myself go. Lucky for me my culinary companion had the good sense to draw my lacksidaisicality (real word?) to my attention, in his painfully blunt and annoyingly right way. So here's the sob story: I've found myself on this bleak Sunday in the middle of a graduate semester that I am totally unprepared, and unequipped for. I happen to (occasionally) write a blog about food, but the most exciting thing in my pantry is a box of sesame Wasa crackers and a vial of terribly expensive espresso powder...that I dropped all over the floor yesterday then carefully scooped back up after picking out the dog hairs.

Throw into the mix a looming (sort of) audition with an aerial dance company whose current members have bodies...well they fly around and balance on their heads all day, so you can only imagine. Panic + hunger + writers block = a very nasty me.

BUT...I've decided to make a conscious effort to post...ideally daily, realistically every-other-daily. Not writing for a professor, a boss, or more recently, a member of the Boston Transportation Authority. Just for me, or for you.