Runner’s High

Upon further analysis I have realized that I have indeed experienced the proverbial “runner’s high”. It occurred to me today around mile 2. For many people I am sure this is a minuscule drop of a run in the ocean of miles to be completed. However for me (yes I was that chick walking the mile in middle school) the fact that I was alive after running two miles is nothing short of a miracle. Anyway I digress. So my heart was racing, I know this because a) it was beating so hard I could essentially see it beating outside of my chest and b) my heart rate monitor was flashing to indicate that I was nearing my maximum heart rate and I could be soon on the brink of death.

I slowed down a bit to avoid said sudden death. The abrupt change in pace must have caused some type of blood/head rush because that is when the spins kicked in. As the room was spinning I noticed the sandpaper type quality the inside of my mouth had taken on from dehydration. I stopped the tread master, chugged a bottle of water and stumbled over to the stationary bike, but as I did that it hit me! Racing heart, dizziness, disorientation, and dry mouth. Runner’s high? Achieved.

Peppers Galore!

This may over-date me by a bit, but I have an insatiable love for all things Williams Sonoma. I love perusing row upon row of Technicolor Le Creuset, Copper, and Cast Iron. I love each and every signature sauce and seasoning. I love the country linens, and kitchen soap and lotion sets. And don’t get me started on novelty pans and spatulas. I can imagine each occasion in which I turn the corner to a room filled with eager party guests as I present every heart shaped, Octopus shaped, and cupcake shaped cake perfectly adorned with branded sprinkles and funfetti flakes. I can see the admiration in my guests’ eyes as the first slice is presented to the lucky recipient. In my opinion this is what Williams Sonoma does best. They create a need before creating a product to fill it. And I am happily there waiting to find out what I need before I want it and then purchase it. And then enhance my life with it.

It all started with my jalapeno pepper roaster. This solves the basic problem of how to grill stuffed peppers in an upright position so that they grill evenly and without losing filling. Now I have never tried to grill peppers before, but I clearly remember the day when I realized that I would need to immediately begin. I was sitting on my computer, around noon when I received the Williams Sonoma Newsletter, which featured my future miracle roaster.

As I moved my right hand to delete the e-mail, a little voice inside of me said, “Don’t do it, this newsletter could change your life.” Without a clear understanding of why I clicked open said newsletter and to my delight became face to face with genius. There it was; a simple metal contraption with holes to support 18 jalapeno peppers filled with bubbling cheese and chorizo. Suddenly a slow motion montage unfolds before my very eyes, “I love jalapenos, I love cheese, I love chorizo, and I love grills. How will I ever be able to make grilled, stuffed, jalapenos without this glorious gizmo?” A flow chart diagram connects my three innermost desires in a virtual cartoon thought bubble above my head. A block arrow yields the solution of the jalapeno grill pan as I click purchase and enter my order.

And hence the pepper griller, filled pancake pan, and hand held mini pie griddles were born. And now my barbeques, brunches, and soirees are all the more festive and delicious.

I am Basically a Triathlete

It is a known fact that I am hyperemotional. I have many highs and a few lows. There are times I feel as jubilant as a Sound of Music-esque child, skipping through the scenic Austrian hillsides and then there are days when I am hovering of the bottom of dark abyss of misery. I am an all or nothing kind of gal and mostly I go with the all. This becomes particularly problematic in the world of consumption. Eating is one of life’s greatest pleasures and I could be perfectly content journeying along life’s continuous smorgasbord until I am to be rolled to the juicing room to be squeezed. I often drift off into daydreams in which I have been blessed with one of those nebulous fast metabolisms that I have heard whispers of in the form of folklore legend. But alas I was not, so I have embarked on the journey of becoming equally zealous as I am in my workout routine as I am my consumption.

I have tried spinning and have been an avid cyclist since the remorseful post imbibement rides of College. Typically these workouts were either prefaced or punctuated by one of many trips to the all you can eat buffet, which fortunately through the years have minimized in volume. In addition to my overindulgence/portion control issues I also have a tendency to get mildly overheated in stress inducing situations in temperature and temperament. Hence, I have tried several times to embrace my inner yogi to become a more balanced and cool individual.

But alas, my mind wanders when supposed to be focused on breath, I have horrible balance, and I still can’t touch my toes. I even dabbled in the world of Bikram, enduring tropically inspired workouts and cult followers who believe that if one is not in a severe state of pain, the “yoga isn’t working. “ After I was told that a night’s sleep could be replaced by holding a certain pose for 30 seconds, I bailed on principle alone. Additionally, it came to light that I couldn’t actually eat whatever I wanted while my body worked out the toxins and kept only the nutrients it needed.” As one particular zealot had proclaimed one hazy Sunday. I have always felt there is something more for me in the workout world.

Above all, I have always wanted to be a runner. Runners seem smarter and healthier than any other type of exercise fanatic. They always look so coordinated and focused as they trot around scenic lakes and sculpted paths. They are dedicated, running at all hours, and in all terrains. I imagine that runners enjoy among other things, fresh squeezed juice, the New York Times crossword, and home made granola. I bet they read before bed versus watching hours of Sex And the City, and Frasier re-runs. Most likely they wake up naturally in the morning allowing extra time to make a sensible breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt. They probably work with a charity that allows them to mentor troubled children and spend Sunday reading to the blind.

Anyway, in need of some serious motivation and perhaps a little discipline I have decided I will need to become a runner. Since I need a goal and a marathon seems too overwhelming, I have determined to devote myself to training for a triathlon. I am two weeks in and I can’t say that I have yet achieved the acme of a runner’s high, but I do feel very happy running through Central Park with my newfound compatriots. I also am not sure if it counts as running when most elderly walkers have passed me on my few outdoor runs, but I do know for a fact that when a raccoon makes a surprise appearance on the reservoir running path, I can go at least 2 miles faster per hour. So if push comes to shove, I am hoping random wildlife can help inspire a quicker pace. We shall see if I begin to wean off late night TV or become more charitable, but for now I will be happy if I can just continue to manage to chug along on the path of life without passing out. Stay tuned.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

SO it’s been a while, but life has taken my lemons and opted to provide me lemonade. So I have been busy drinking up. I have finally given up on being a miserable cow and opted to be surrounded by all that is good in the world by making the big move to Manhattan. It truly is the city that never sleeps and even though I am typically tucked away into bed by 10 with several hours of Frasier re-runs to lull me to sleep, I have had the blessed opportunities to share a few laughs and oddities since I’ve been here.

When I first arrived, the beauty was overwhelming. Everywhere I went statuesque beauties haunted me. There was always someone more emaciated, more layered, more hidden by gargantuan sunglasses. I simply could not digest the perfection that assaulted me on my daily commute. Shiny men with strategically sculpted hair, tiny pores, and skinny jeans. Tailored women with bags larger than their shriveled frames and dogs tinier than street rats. I am not the jealous type, so playing the part of a fly on the wall of a very exclusive party was thrilling to me. I felt special by association honoring every walk along 5th Avenue and nap in Central Park as the first. I often would comment on how it was impossible for something to be this perfect. How was it that I get to live here- forget Disney- this is the most magical place in the world I would often shout from assorted rooftops.

Then I looked around and realized that really nothing is perfect at all. First I realized how sizzling hot I feel at all times, how much I hate tourists as I am forced to shimmy by their fanny packs and poorly behaved children on a daily basis, and how low my standards of living must be shifted. My once ‘quaint’ apartment is too small, too dark, but mostly infested with pests. Yes, the hell of my life is centered on what has become a very furry situation.

The first mouse had me paralyzed on the couch for a solid 45 minutes crying about the fact that I no longer had control over my life. And not much has changed. After a mouse in the kitchen, a mouse by the TV, a mouse on the counter, a mouse in the garbage, a mouse in the shower, I finally reached an all time low last night. As I sleepily stumbled into the bathroom around midnight I was forced to sprint back to my sleeping chambers before terror paralyzed me, as I spotted a brown fur ball with a gigantic tail perched beneath the bathroom sink.

Panic set in. I broke out into a cold sweat and repeated the word “no” aloud approximately 50 times. I am pretty sure I blacked out for a period of about 5 minutes during this chant. I shivered for several minutes before I mustered up the strength and courage to call my mom and whimper for nearly 20 minutes about how I had no control over my life. She gave me the power to run past the bathroom, confirm the existence of said rodent, and leap onto the coffee table to whimper for another 30 minutes about my need to end my life. My poor mother gave me several options to get out of the sticky and tiring situation of standing on a table for the remainder of the night, which I declined one after the other. After much reasoning I agreed to run past the bathroom back into my bedroom and as I did so I heard what I then determined could only be classified as a rat whimpering, frozen in fear in my bathroom. My mom pointed out that it would be more scared of me than I it, but I still vowed never to go into the bathroom again. I figured I could find away to avoid the bathroom for the rest of my days here. I could move out early, crash on my friends’ couches, shower at work or the gym, it would be fine!

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make until my roommate’s boyfriend came home and I alerted him to the pest issue. A few resigned moments later he asked me if by mouse I meant the hair dryer chord that was dangling out of the cabinet underneath the sink. It took me a few delayed moments to remember that I had in fact left a mouse sized chord dangling from the cabinet not 15 minutes before my rodent sighting.

It was then that it settled in that the mice own me so much that even when they aren’t running the halls and stealing our bath bubbles they sneak their way into my mind in by means of visual hallucination. I felt a little silly after my mistake, especially since I kept my poor mom up way past her bedtime by crying to her on the phone. But also it caused me to wonder- will I ever be able to handle issues such as these on my own? There is only one way to find out- but in the meant time I am getting a giant fuzzy feline to keep the enemy ships at bay.

So the apartment situation has been eye opening, but as I always said when friends would move to NY and complain about rent, “You aren’t paying for the apartment, you are paying to live in this glorious land.” And although I have uncovered a few imperfections, and perhaps the party I am at is really not so exclusive at all, and for every modely type I see, there are equal parts lunatic, isn’t imperfection the most interesting anyway? Besides what in God’s Green earth would I do all day if I couldn’t complain about something? SO I am back. To observe, to complain, to inspire. (Just kidding about the inspire- well you never know, it could happen!) The book is still happening, but the hiatus had gone on far too long!

Why must all good things come to an end?

Yesterday evening as I stumbled onto my 3 hour delayed flight, juggling my jumbo canvas tote, overflowing with a variety of goodies including but not limited to, my shredded airplane ticket, the worst book ever written, the best book ever written, an assortment of food related periodicals, and an assortment of concealed non explosive liquids, as grubby handed babies tugged on my jean legs while simultaneously screeching in my ears, and flight attendants proved to be even more ignorant in terms of in flight happenings than said infants, it occurred to me that I was most likely in the most foul mood since the departure of Breaker High from early morning cable.

The day had started off famously. Streaming sunlight gently nuzzled me awake. I enjoyed a leisurely cup of java on the porch while perusing the Sunday paper after which I indulged in the pleasures of Maple Smoked Bacon. After a scintillating out door shower, I received an invitation to accompany our family friends in a morning of champagne and foie gras. This morning was the cherry (actually there were cherries as well) adorning the top of the perfect week. It was the week anyone would imagine if coming to New England.

It was truly picturesque. It began with early morning clamming and ended with Champagne. Not much was needed in the middle to make for the ultimate New England adventure. There were Lily Pulitzer speckled affairs in Coastal Maine, cool nights warmed by hot creamy chowder, quahogs, Beach Bonfires, Fireworks, Kite Flying, Baby Ogling, Whale Watching, Lobster, and further extravagance. It was essentially a week long J Crew ad without the requisite puppy. For one week I hadn’t a worry in the world, not a decision to make other than Red or White. And in one fell swoop all of my joy and bliss was extinguished with by the long road home.

I left behind my sun doused lazy Sunday for knuckle clenching traffic, filth covered security check points, and unsavory feelings for innocent flight attendants. I was lied to, delayed, swindled, and swarmed by other dissatisfied travelers and weary children. After 12 hours of exhausting and nerve abusing travel I arrived home. It is incomprehensible that people actually pay for this kind of abuse. Fortunately my travels were fabulous enough to compensate for the unacceptable travel accommodations, however not many people are as lucky as I am. I have sampled from the good life and I no longer want to be herded around like common cattle. If I am paying any amount of money for ANYTHING, it shouldn’t make me want to gauge my eyes out. It shouldn’t take me to a level of grumpiness that even a passing baby can’t subside. Furthermore, I am over it. Before I submitted to glum silence for the extent of my flight, my seatmates and I determined that commercial travel was no longer an option and we would in fact need to purchase a jet. I think they may have been joking, but I was not. I will continue to peruse Craigslist until this resourceful website begins to list jets, but until then I suppose with the masses I will be. Hopefully, strategically placed nearest to the beverage cart.

A possible Hiatus

Dear Loyal Readers (Hi Mom!),

It has become apparent by my dwindling posts and sub-par subject material that my life is no longer active enough to sustain or warrant a blog. I have been trying to translate my overactive mind onto these pages, but at this point even those discombobulated thoughts are hardly blog-worthy. But put away your tissue boxes and wipe those tears away this is not the end of Marissa Brady. My life may be boring, but my love for the pen has not yet passed. Therefore, it is only natural that I move to fiction! I have decided to focus my literary efforts towards a full length novel. I will include you on the progress of this endeavor, thus this is not “Good Bye”, but more closely “See you Soon”.

Warmest Regards,

Marissa Brady

Oh the Places You’ll Go

I am an avid people watcher and while most people desire a night of dancing on bar tops or canoodling with sexy coeds in order to consider their night successful, I could be perfectly content to watch the world coalesce around me like an intricately choreographed ballet. However, either I am some sort of potent magnet for a pastiche of aberrant characters or 90% of this fine Nation’s population is of this sort. At first I blamed Florida (which I might add is burning down as we speak… maybe I actually am in hell??), but due to the aforementioned blaze I will cite my increased awareness as the cause of excessive saltiness.

The first encounter that led me to begin my assessment of the population was my trip to an establishment called Blue Martini where scantily uniformed cocktail waitress butler out miniscule portions of the namesake for the entirety of the night. While I was reaping the benefits of said feature, I noticed an elderly gentleman occupying the stool next to my own. “How adorable”, I thought to myself “A little couple is exploring the Southern Florida nightlife after a night filled with Bingo, Bridge, and Parcheesi.” But soon this gentleman began to appear less and less wholesome and more and more seedy after repeatedly chanting “Legs are for dancing” while putting a less than Grandfatherly hand on my knee. Then there are my seemingly straight-laced neighbors one of whom accosted my non-smoking father for hours one night begging for a smoke while drunkenly shouting obscenities at neighbors passing by and the other who told me she doesn’t like “eating”, and was last seen garishly wandering around our common gym barefoot consuming potato chips as if we were meeting in her own living room rather than a less than sanitized public gym. I would also think chips might be considered food, but I let that one slide.

There was the woman in the supermarket spilling her recent hospital troubles involving a catheter and her back to the checkout worker. HELLO! Does anyone other than me understand what “Too Much Information” means??? There is Scowling Helen, seen daily walking with her battered suitcase soon to be filled with groceries. (As a side note, I think all of Helen’s problem’s may be solved by a bigger suitcase, which I may provide as a parting gift so that she doesn’t harass any other residents for rides filled with her brackish mumblings.) There was the bird-like Aussie that labeled me a Tribal African, despite my freckled ivory mug, and informed me of my need to feel the rhythm of the universe in order to be a successful dancer. Why does everyone enjoy peer pressuring me to dance? I will boogy down when I damn well please!

I’ve dealt with thong bathing suits on wrinkly men, people with countless birds and snakes gracing their shoulders, being cut off, cursed at, flashed by a male while on I-95 (fortunately my car companion began dialing 9-1-1, which was enough to scare off the perpetrator), and generally been made to feel like I need some sort of passport in order to extend my trip further. And although I previously stated I would not attribute the lunacy I encounter to my state of residence, I do often compare the population with that of the sediment in wine. It’s as if all of the nut jobs merely sink to the bottom of this fine country to intermingle with the likes of me. The sediment isn’t really bad or harmful, but if the quality of the wine could improve with the use of a decanter, then by all means decant!

Can I Get an Amen?

I said in a previous post that I had attended a church service in order to obtain a spiritual connection and a deeper understanding of my inner meaning. Although this may very well be true I realized today that I really just enjoy singing hymns. I am a full time slave to the man and at the end of each week I enjoy the slight release I get within the pages of a hymnal. I enjoy a few verses of the Lord of the Dance or perhaps a few bars of Eagle’s Wings. I like to let loose and sway a bit in my pew as well and if I am particularly feisty I might even close my eyes to truly feel the connection with the music. I may not be a great singer, but what Catholic is? I have many memories growing up attending a variety of Catholic churches and there was nary a strong soloist in sight. But people would sing and it didn’t matter how you sounded.

You see it wasn’t how the song was delivered, but what it was about that mattered. The past few times I have attended mass in Florida, however I have been conflicted and muddled. I am not truly sure what the hymns are about anymore. First of all, half of them are in Spanish, which is nice, but I have a hard time anticipating how each word flows as I can barely say my name in Spanish, never mind bust out in tune with it. The other problem is that there is too much of a focus on the speaking portion of mass and too little of a focus on the singing portion, with exception to the part when the “Our Father” is sung to no apparent tune while hand holding. There I think there could be no focus on singing and more of a focus on independent mumbling.

I mean everyone gets the mass; as it is fairly consistent. The main variables are the Sermon and the Hymns. But recently all we have been singing is a few rounds of Alleluia and this poorly written and inevitably equivalently delivered song entitled “Muerte”. I don’t know if the choir is tight on rehearsal time or if perhaps a few members left them high and dry, but I desire a bit more variety in my hymnal line-up and I am pretty sure I am not alone. A week or so ago I saw two children singing and clapping their tiny hands at the airport and they were singing with brio “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, AMEN”. It was inspiring. These kids were jazzed up! Wherever they had been that Sunday morning had been so zestful that the word of the Lord inspired two 5 or 6 year olds to re-enact their experience hours later in the confines of a dismal airport terminal. We need that kind of inspiration instilled within our own house of worship. Perhaps we can employ some sort of church consultant to explore our organizational structure and determine an appropriate playlist for future masses because if something doesn’t change I am ready to move to a land where the hymns are louder, more inspiring, and varied.

The short story of my life

As I was relaying a short tale from a recent trip to a friend I realized that it was much more than what I initially thought, as snugly nestled within its “edge of your seat” kernels was my entire life story. Since my departure from College I have become somewhat of a jetsetter, and as such I decided to take a long weekend to visit a friend in Napa (where the aforementioned six course meal took place). I travel rather frequently of late and on each trip I hold on to that fantasy of meeting my future husband on this flight. The concept is well developed in theory as most of my business flights are predominantly well employed men and, after a ring check, seemingly single. Of course however, either the ring check fails or I am always seated next to a baby or an aged couple. Which is perfectly fine, I have no prejudices against either group (as that would be ageist and cruel) but clearly said fantasy cannot take place.

Yet each time I enter a plane and begin the quest to find my seat my mind is filled with wonder of who will occupy the seat next to mine. “Oh how glorious it will be” I dream. Our flight will be filled with carefree banter, shared cocktails, and then the exchanging of vows and rings. As I hum Pachelbel’s Canon down the aisle I am inevitably met with disappointment. This time was different. As I struggled with my blatantly over the weight limit carry on I turned to notice a rather charming lad one seat to my left. Between us was the empty middle seat. I was sure that this adorable little seat partner would soon be my husband as we locked eyes and gazed at the only empty seat on the plane that happened to be keeping us apart. I could hardly wait to begin discussing our lives and then the naming of our children when all of the sudden an out of breath, flushed, rotund man gallivants onto the aircraft and stares down our seat. No sooner than I could say “I do” he was he wedged between me and my husband.

At first I was slightly devastated. “Why me?” I cried (thankfully on the inside). But then I offered to switch seats with the oversized man as it is cruel to have a man of such girth packed into the middle seat like a trapped anchovy and it is also cruel for me not to finally fulfill my dreams of an in-flight romance. It was when he declined that I knew that although romance was out of the question we would soon be best friends. As we began chatting it up I learned he was from France, in a land unbeknownst to a geographically ignorant American such as me. He had studied in New York and loved to sun himself on the beaches of Florida, which was quite clear as he was the color of a leather handbag and it became increasingly clear that he was a charming homosexual in a committed relationship to a man named Miguel. We chatted about in-flight cuisines, New York City and Europe (he slightly dominated that portion of the tête-à-tête). At the end of our brief flight to Atlanta he presented me with two free drink vouchers for use on my next leg of the journey, which I eagerly snatched from his plump hand. That is when it hit me. Will my life forever consist of the promise of romance from a distance, only to be taken over by my penchant for homosexual men and free drinks?

I then proceeded to have a slight panic attack that was somewhat Wizard of Oz-esque involving me in a cyclone swirling around with images of bags, cats, hags, and (fittingly) Judy Garland. However, after I utilized my drink coupons and I allowed my blood pressure to decrease to normal levels, my panic attack subsided. I determined the odds are in my favor that I will at least not end up as a cat lady and that I have made some pretty tangible progress. I no longer volunteer at the Humane Society due to overexposure to the fuzzy little beasts. In addition to feeling unnecessary and bored I felt slightly repulsed on a daily basis by the thought of so many cats in such a small proximity. I am actually breaking out into a sweat just thinking about it, or I may just be having a hot flash, but either way it’s not good for the little fur balls. In the name of love if I can beat cats I can beat this! I will just take my life one flight at a time and someday soon I will find my first class fiancé.

You are what you eat!

I was cursed at birth with the adoration of food. As a wee little lass I remember being crushed night after night when I was not allowed third helpings of dinner. Indeed my favorite time always seemed to be mealtime and in addition to being envious that my brother would in fact get the third helpings I desired he also seemed to remain string bean width. But as usual, I digress. As a child I associated special occasions and Holidays with specific items of food. My family would sit round our table eyes ablaze with desire as my mother would slice thick chunks of her famous cherry cake on each of our birthdays. We would dance with joy and glee as she pulled out a cast iron skillet encompassing our Christmas morning treat of pillows of dough weaving in and out of buttery cinnamon dusted apples. Thanksgiving to me is not about turkey, but my mom’s “stop your heart” stuffing.

To me it has always been a joy to enjoy food and use it as a focal point in reuniting with friends and family as well as an introduction to new friends and family. It serves to bind us together and connect us with the past as well as the present. I was reminded of my feelings on this matter recently when I asked for a recommendation for an Indian restaurant from a neighbor. Instead of answering that there were not any she replied that she did not know because she does not like food. This was uncomfortable for me on many levels. The first being that I had just made us dinner, also because I really wanted a recommendation, but mostly because I don’t understand how one can function without an undying love for food!

I am not saying I commend gluttony or I preach food snobbery, but how can you not hunger for a scalding bowl of chowder on a snowy day or citrus drenched shrimp after a day of hot summer sun? I then reassessed all of my close friends and family and realized they too shared my gastronomic affection. Some of the most passionate and caring souls I have met are fueled by this desire. Chefs traveling the world trying to share and convey their obsession with the finest and best, preparing pieces of their culture and upbringing in nuggets of desirable convections, pastry connoisseurs who can’t sleep unless their butter cream is perfectly piped atop culinary delights.

It is people like these, the ones that truly marvel at the power of food and want to share it that I admire. This past weekend I was blessed to share feast with true foodies. After six courses of what only can be described as bliss, paired with the appropriate wines and accompaniments, I entered into a food coma where I immediately dreamt each course was taking place once again. One of our co-diners however was so excited by the dinner that night that he claimed he could not sleep after its consumption. Isn’t that the power food should posses? The power to ignite the passion inside your soul and get your blood pumping? Of course food is nutrition, it is meant to keep one living, but shouldn’t it also make you feel alive? I think it should and though I may not be the kind of artist that can create the kind of joy I receive from food, I do intend to keep on enjoying and I hope you will join me.