I heard you like to laugh. At my expense. Sounds like you're ready to take our friendship to the next level. You won't be disappointed. I swear on teeny, tiny baby chipmunks.
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The other day, one of my Masters program professors reminded me of an old adage: Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet.
Corny, sure, but it suddenly seemed like a fun challenge. In light of my landlord’s recent display of kindness (of which I am still highly suspicious), I thought maybe I, too, should adjust my attitude with this platitude.
I played out a scenario in my head first:
INT. GROCERY STORE – EVENING
“Hi!” I smile while the teenaged clerk checks the price of my almond butter. Forty-seven dollars, I want to tell her. That is the going rate for dry roasted almond pulp.
“Hello,” she grimaces.
“It’s so nice to see you, Kim!” I say, eyeing her name tag and assuming my role as transient bagger. “Let me do this. You’ve had another long day.”
She keeps her eyes on the task at hand.
“How’s your mother doing?” I ask.
“Um, fine,” she replies, glancing up briefly.
“And your dad?”
Kim stops, mid-scan, and stares at me.
“Do I…do we…I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“You do now! Did you see Sully yet?”
“Um…”
“I love Tom Hanks. Aren’t he and Rita Wilson so inspiring? You should really try to find a guy like that. Enough with the bad boys.”
“Who’s…Rita Wilson?”
“Just a friend we haven’t met yet!”
Then, armed with the confidence only new confidants can bring, I’d go into situations like the one I was in on Wednesday night -seeing Amy Schumer live- with guns blazing. (Not actual guns. Amy and I don’t like those.)
“Amy! Amy!!! Hi!” I shout from 17 rows back. “It’s me! Jules!”
When Amy fails to acknowledge this attempt, I stand up in my chair.
“It’s JULES! Remember the time we never met?!”
I step down from the chair and flag a security guard.
“Can you please tell Amy I’m here?”
The security guard warns me that I’ll be removed from the theater if I stand on my chair again. I nod, wait two minutes, and then sneak down the aisle towards stage left.
“Amy!!!” I whisper loudly, taking the first step onto the stage. I wave a fluorescent pink band. “I brought you a slap bracelet!”
No matter how many times I run through this in my head, I wind up in jail.
How about you? What stranger would you like to turn into a friend? (And do you think you could do it without getting arrested?)
This week has been filled with a delightful series of diversions. It’s amazing this post even ma–
Whoa.
What the…?
Is that my backyard?
I got home yesterday and someone had planted flowers. Lovely purple, orange and yellow, ah, daisiesgeraniums I-don’t-know-’ems, just to the side of my door.
I assumed it was the landlord, but even still, like any New Jersey native, my first instinct was suspicion.
I immediately texted a photo to Babs (my mom).
“Check the house. Is anything missing?” she replied in two seconds flat.
“Maybe he’s just trying to be nice?” My words sounded weak, even in writing.
“Did he use the flowers from your flower box?” she asked.
“No…” I answered.
“I hope they’re not flowers FOR YOUR GRAVE.”
“I hope I don’t come home tomorrow and they spell, ‘YOU’RE EVICTED.'”
It’s not that my landlord is a bad guy. No, no, no. He just, well, he seems to be of the more frugal variety, and in almost two years of renting, I haven’t seen any other display of Mother Nature’s bounty.
I’ll keep you posted. Random acts of kindness must not be trusted.
Have you had any surprises lately?
P.S. – Seriously, guys. What the hell kind of flowers are those?
Left to right: Go Jules Go, Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings, She’s A Maineiac
You heard me.
Last Sunday, the stars aligned and three bloggy universes collided (much like my car with many, many rocks and trees).
Peg (Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings), Darla (She’s A Maineiac) and I stumbled across each other’s blogs eons ago, back when we were still trying to figure out how you posted the whosewhatsit up by the whatchamathingy. I’d been lucky enough to hang out with Darla before, but this time we upped the ante and met Peg in Portland, where she was visiting with family.
Any Catfish fan knows that meeting an online friend can go terribly, awfully, heinously awry – but not with these two. They’re every bit as hilarious, warmhearted and adorable as their words. Last weekend we were just a gaggle of blogging vets, inhabiting the same fresh Maine air, trying to fit four years worth of conversation into two short hours.
In fact, rather than try to cram all of the goodness into one post, I think I’ll let the two of them explain the rest. (Click on their logos below to check out all of the great things they have to say about me their accounts of our meet-up!)
When I got a dog, I vowed never to leave him home alone for more than a half a day, tops. “It’s not fair to him,” I said. “I’ll be his whole world, the side pony to his elastic hair band, the ‘stache to his wet nose, the Kelly Kapowski to his Zack Morris.”
And for the past six and a half years, I’ve been pretty successful.
This week, I took my dog with me on a trip to Maine, and for the most part, the scene out and about has looked like this:
RANDOM PASSERBY 1: Is that a Labradoodle?
ME: Yup.
RANDOM PASSERBY 1: What’s her name?
ME: His name is Uncle Jesse.
RANDOM PASSERBY 1 (smiling): Dukes of Hazard?
ME: Full House.
RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Adorable!
ME: Thank you!
RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Is she a puppy?
ME: Nope, he’s six.
RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Wow, she looks like a puppy.
RANDOM PASSERBY 3: Oh my god. She’s so cute.
(Repeat above to infinity.)
And then we dine al fresco.
On Wednesday, I took Uncle Jesse to Jordon Pond in Acadia National Park, and just as we set foot on the trail, a shout stopped us.
“Hey! Hey! Can I see your dog?”
A thin, middle-aged man took his foot out of a red kayak and jogged over.
No! Shut your eyes and turn around, madman! I thought.
Uncle Jesse squatted and pooped.
“Goldendoodle?” the man asked.
“No, Labradoodle.”
“I have a Goldendoodle. I couldn’t bring her today because I’m going kayaking.”
“Yeah… well… that makes sense,” I offered.
“Here, let me show you a picture.”
Kayak Man pulled out his phone and took three minutes to bring up a blurry photo of a giant Goldendoodle in front of a tent.
A park ranger who’d been within earshot approached. He stared at Uncle Jesse.
In angsting over pondering what to write about this week, it occurred to me that I needn’t labor so hard. After all, it’s Labor Day weekend for us Americans, and the only work we should be doing is squeezing every last, sweaty drop out of summer before she packs her bags and says sayonara for another year.
So, from the bottom of my Jersey girl heart fringe top, I wish you a safe, healthy and happy holiday. And to my fellow chipmunks across the globe sharing in the season’s end: Yes, yes you have every right to judge us.
“I saw there was a food festival in Flemington,” Babs, my mom, said on Sunday morning.
It was 10:30am and we were standing in my living room, the only two people in New Jersey who hadn’t escaped ‘down the shore’ (as we Jerseyians say) for the weekend. We were searching for something to do besides go to the movies. Again.
“I can only find times for 2015,” I groaned, looking at my phone. “And they say 4pm! Who starts a food festival at 4pm on a Sunday in August?”
After another five minutes of fruitlessly browsing NJ.com and Facebook, I looked at Babs.
“I feel like I want to see something I’ve never seen before.”
I said it facetiously, figuring I’d settle for some roadside tomatoes and a latte. We’d lived in New Jersey my whole life, a.k.a. 34 29 years. There wasn’t much we hadn’t seen.
“Well, there’s a toothpick sculpture exhibit in Morristown,” Babs said casually.
I put down my phone and stared at her, mouth agape.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my god.”
And just like that, our mother-daughter day went from mundane to magical.
All of this unexpected splendor got me thinking.
I’d applied for -and gotten accepted to- a Masters Program that started on Tuesday. On top of a full-time job, the syllabi for my first two classes seemed daunting. In fact, over the past two months, I’d spent more than a few days doing activities with what one could only call dutiful merriment. All things I had been looking forward to initially…
And yet.
Why does making plans two, four, seven months out always sound so shiny and promising, yet the closer they come, the more we say, “What the f&*@ was I thinking?”
I wondered if Stan Munro, the toothpick maestro himself, ever got halfway through a project only to think, “Well, this was a colossal waste of time.”
What, really, made the difference between, “This is just a stack of toothpicks” and, “Holy sh*t, this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before”?
Sure, sure, sure. We all know about the power of positivity and points of view and pots of gold at the end of the 9-to-5 rainbow.
But what actually makes us choose the straight and narrow versus the winding road, stripes versus polka dots, coffee versus more coffee? And how can you know before you click ‘submit’ that you won’t spend hours, weeks, months or years second-guessing your decision?
Do you think this was Stan’s Plan A?
Have you ever set a goal and regretted it? Not regretted it? Pretended it never happened?
P.S. – If you’re in the area, you can see the toothpick extravaganza for yourself at the Morris Museum through August 31st! (Who loves you?)
A year and a half ago, I moved into a quaint two-family home. There aren’t many historic houses in the area, and my entryway bears a unique mark of pride:
Of course, this agèd gem comes with a few charms that some might find off-putting: low ceilings, slanted floors, light switches to nowhere, and my personal favorite:
Ghost cows.
The house is a renovated cow barn, and late at night, I can almost hear the far-off cattle cries.
I think they’re coming from the beam where I hide my flask.
I haven’t told anyone this, but I stopped eating meat a few months ago, and my top theory is that the ghost cows took over my body.
Recently, my quiet and respectful human and living neighbors, with whom I share a very, very (did I say very?) thin wall, moved out. I recall overhearing something about “carpenter bees” and “allergies,” but I was too busy Googling Yankee candle scents to appease undead livestock to fully appreciate their rationale.
Strange families were suddenly perusing the now-vacant apartment next door. This past weekend, I stepped outside and nearly collided with an older gentleman.
“You’ve probably surmised that I’m looking at the apartment,” he said in an I’m-just-a-guy-who-likes-hugs-and-hey-I-wonder-how-many-human-heads-will-fit-in-that-freezer tone.
“Ah,” I replied, avoiding eye contact and wondering why his tour included my half of the yard.
Uncle Jesse, my dog, barked loudly from inside.
This is the actual apartment ad. Oops.
Since this run-in, I haven’t been able to shake the nightmares of what who might move in next door.
Please, help prepare me: What’s your worst neighbor story?
My lucky bamboo (a housewarming gift) committed suicide long ago. I need all the help I can get.
I grab my shirt and pull it away from me. The Manhattan skyscrapers have formed a barrier, trapping the early August humidity and dashing any hope that a breeze might dry the sweat running down my back.
“Do you think we’ll get a table?” my sister asks.
It’s 11:45am on Saturday and we’re part of a line snaking down 8th Avenue and 22nd Street. In 15 minutes, they’ll open the doors to Chelsea district’s Momofuku Nishi.
We can already taste the succulent red meat and pan-fried char, our mouths watering at thoughts of the secret-sauce-and-blood-soaked bun.
That’s right. Today we would sample the acclaimed brainchild of Patrick Brown, founder and CEO of California-based start-up Impossible Foods. According to all accounts, Brown had managed to create a plant-based burger that sizzled, bled and -hopefully- satisfied just like its meat-based counterpart.
Despite enjoying many bacon and cheese-smothered burgers in my day, I’ve always been a fan of veggie burgers. The ones that tasted like vegetables, that is. The more a veggie patty tried to disguise itself as meat, the more it seemed to fail.
Until (spoiler alert) now.
Using a combination of science and more science, Impossible Foods attempted a feat no man nor chipmunk had yet mastered: Making vegetables actually mimic meat. How did they do it? Through reverse-engineering taste and including loads of something called heme. Heme is what peanut butter is to Reese’s cups, what cherry Chapstick is to a Katy Perry song, what Miss Piggy is to Kermit.
It’s the stuff that makes something what it is.
Or, you know, if you want to be all LITERAL about it, it’s an “iron-containing compound of the porphyrin class that forms the nonprotein part of hemoglobin and some other biological molecules.” (Credit: Wikipedia)
Brown combined heme -the thing that gives beef its meaty, bloody flavor- and a number of plant products (namely potatoes, soybeans, and coconut) to achieve the Impossible Burger. A longtime vegan and accomplished biochemist, he wanted to make a veggie burger for people who loved meat. After all, who would forego succulent, savory bovine for lentils and chalky carrots?
Us, apparently.
And we’re not alone:
Impossible Foods surveyed 600 “hard core middle America burger lovers” about their eating habits and asked them whether they’d choose a plant-based burger if it was identical—in taste and cost—to the beef version. Nearly 70% said they would. –Wall Street Journal
But with production costs still too high to actually offer the Impossible Burger to the masses, you have to wonder: is it worth all of the trouble? I mean, cholesterol aside, is there really anything that bad about sticking to the traditional?
According to NPR, this is what goes into producing a single beef patty. Photo Credit
With plans for a slow but powerful movement, Impossible Foods is piloting their burger in limited quantities in places like New York City, and soon, San Francisco. Within five years, we can expect to see some pretty happy cows, but for now, some pretty happy humans:
Do you think the Impossible Burger can do the impossible? Would you try it?
So, how was your weekend? Do anything fun? Have a good Mother’s Day?
Huh? What? No, I’m not just asking so I can tell you about my weekend. Geesh. I thought we were friends.
Oh, well, okay, if you insist.
I walked 32 miles on Saturday.
Shortchanged!
That’s how far it is, apparently, around the perimeter of Manhattan.
Even though I’d taken a break from running due to 30 extra pounds and a complete lack of natural running ability injury, I still fantasized about the Next Big Thing: ultra-distances (races greater than 26.2 miles, the length of a marathon).
Because I never really loved myself.
Several months ago, someone mentioned to me that you could actually walk around the island of Manhattan. As in, there’s a continual path (more or less) that’s pedestrian-friendly (more or less) that circles the perimeter of New York City’s most famous borough. Upon Google searching, I found an event called The Great Saunter, hosted by the Shorewalkers club, where roughly 1,500 people gather annually to do just that.
Half sightseeing tour, half endurance test, the journey at Manhattan’s edge takes you into the shadows of 19 bridges, through as many parks and past art installations, city landmarks and 360 degrees of ever-changing views. – New York Times
If by “ever-changing views” you mean this, I totally agree.
The Great Saunter isn’t a race or a fundraiser, and is in fact meant to be a saunter at 3 miles per hour, but seemed like the perfect opportunity to test my limits. Besides, even if I changed my mind, the registration fee was only $20.
I knew it was unlikely I’d find anyone equally eager to walk 32 miles, so I mentally prepared to go alone.
Good thing, too. By mile 15, I really WAS alone.
In the days leading up to the event, the forecast was doom and gloom. Most people assumed I would bail, but clearly they had forgotten about my pride and boastfulness commitment to greatness. On Friday night, I borrowed a proper windbreaker and put everything I thought I’d need in Ziploc bags: Band-Aids, ibuprofen, Band-Aids, vodka, Band-Aids.
Project Management Professional, at your service.
I was probably more nervous about driving from New Jersey into New York City than walking around it. It was drizzling slightly, but stopped by the time I arrived. I found a nearby parking garage and headed to the starting point, a pub near Battery Park at the southernmost part of Manhattan. I saw more people than I expected, conspicuously outfitted in hiking boots and backpacks.
The official start time was 7:30 am, but dozens of walkers began early, including me, around 7:15 am. I was feeling anxious, antisocial, and eager to get to that evening’s Cinco de Mayo party.
Margarita Jell-O shots: the world’s greatest motivator.
As I told my father the night before, it wasn’t a matter of wanting to quit along the way, but rather, how quickly that feeling would arrive. I knew I would suffer. I might not make it. I walked quickly, passing many Saunterers along the way. No one said hello. Eventually, I had nothing but my overstuffed backpack to keep me company.
Greaaaattt big lamp post. Teeeeeeeeny tiny Statue of Liberty.George Washington Bridge.
My legs started feeling stiff by mile 8, which is when I conveniently remembered I hadn’t trained at all for this. I promised myself a quick stop at mile 10 to pop some ibuprofen. The first of many.
Next time I’m bringing more vodka.
Around mile 18, still feeling optimistic that I would finish, and nursing only one blister, I met a woman named Grace, who was walk-jogging the entire distance. Grace had the inside scoop on the fastest walkers.
“Did you see the woman in pink?” she asked me.
I stared back blankly.
“Holding a plastic bag?” she probed.
“Ah! Yes! Bag lady!” I exclaimed. I tried not to sound out of breath trying to keep up with Grace. “How could she hold a plastic grocery bag for 32 miles? Why didn’t she use a backpack? And she was so fast! I couldn’t catch her!”
“I know! Me either!”
Brooklyn Bridge. (Okay, so my pictures aren’t great. I was afraid to stop moving. Actually, this is kind of artsy. I should charge for this.)
I thought I’d been enjoying my solo trek, but by mile 25, I was eternally grateful for Grace’s company. It turned out we had a lot in common, and she shared kind words that had an effect more powerful than 6 months of therapy: she thought I was 22.
“I just turned 34,” I told her. “And lemme tell ya, I feel it right now.”
“When I signed up for this, I thought it would be so easy,” she said.
I looked at her incredulously.
“I can’t believe you’re holding up this well if you came into it with that mindset. I knew it would be awful.”
We shared an “I just want to finish” mentality and held our pace for as long as possible, our conversation wandering between divorce, dating, food, and spirituality. You can cover a lot of ground (pun intended) when you walk with someone for 4 hours.
We stumbled through the remaining few miles, feeling sheer delight when the numbered streets turned to names – that meant we were getting close. The last mile was the hardest physically, but by then we could already taste the beer victory.
South Street seaport, our victory apéritif.
We started celebrating as soon as we saw Fraunces Tavern, the [starting and] finishing point.
It was 4:30 pm, 9 hours later, when we crab-walked up the stairs and met a very cheerful woman, who took our names and presented us with certificates. We immediately asked about the plastic bag-holding woman in pink.
“Everyone keeps talking about her!” she replied. “I haven’t seen her. Only one guy finished the whole thing before you two.”
Grace and I let out a collective squeal and hugged. Sure, it wasn’t a race, but…
*mic drop*
Second and third finishers of the 630 who completed the full 32-mile walk. (And many will tell you it was 34+ miles. I think they’re very wise and should be trusted.)
After our single celebratory hefeweizen, Grace, who’d found street parking, drove me the 4 blocks to my parking garage, where the attendant said,
“You took a long time.”
“Huh?” I replied, suddenly remembering that I’d told him I’d be back by 5 o’clock. It was only 5:30! And did it really matter?
“That’ll be $45.00,” he continued.
“Huh?” I said again. “I must’ve misread the sign.”
“You went over 10 hours,” he explained.
“So that was a $55.00 beer,” I grumbled, reluctantly handing him a wad of cash.
Don’t ever park here.
But I’d done what I’d come to do. I quickly recovered and drank patted myself on the back for the rest of the weekend.
And by quickly recovered, I mean I’m still hobbling. No marathon, triathlon, or long-distance cycling has ever left me so sore.
So naturally…
I’m already looking for the Next Big Thing. Any ideas?? Have you ever done anything like this?
Bonus shot: Surreal, undoctored view of the Freedom Tower on the (painful) drive home.
*GIVEAWAY WINNER UPDATE: Many thanks for your hilarious entries in the latest Go Jules Go giveaway! Babs (my mother) had a hard time picking a winner, but chose Misty from Misty’s Laws! Congratulations, Misty – your copy of Jen Kirkman’s memoir, I Know What I’m Doing and Other Lies I Tell Myself is in the mail!*
Go Jules Go 
