Kitchen Redux

So I noticed a couple of weeks ago that Blogger is now allowing users to post video. I figured it was the perfect opportunity to share a project I worked on several months ago: The 5 Day Kitchen Video.

Some of you may recall the "Can't You Just Get Someone To Do That For You" Blog entry from last January. Here is the visual proof that Jeremy and I did, in fact, renovate our kitchen in 5 days!

A Scary Night in Southfield

I’ve seen my share of bad weather. A strong summer storm rolls in: thick black clouds obscure the sun. Flashes of lighting illuminate the sky. Thunder booms overhead. I’ve seen it.

At least I thought I’d seen it. Last Friday night, a strong line of thunderstorms moved in, and people, I have never seen weather like this. The sky turned GREEN. The clouds hung low and spun in concentric circles. At any moment I thought a tornado would drop on our heads.

It was another late night at work and we gathered under the flimsy metal overhang in the parking lot and watched lightning bolt after lightning bolt scorch the sky. While the thunder and lighting put on a good show, it was the clouds that were truly terrifying. I really thought a tornado was going to drop right in the parking lot. The clouds were low in the sky. They spun and dipped lower and lower. I’ve been through my share of hurricanes, nor’easters and other downright miserable weather scenarios including a 9 hour trek through a snow squall in the Poconos, but I’ve never been scared before. According to forecasters, the strongest tornado in a decade touched down in Southeastern Michigan Friday night. I’m just glad it didn’t land in our parking lot.

If You’re Boozing and Cruising Then You’re Losing

That’s what the electronic sign hoisted over the Woodward Avenue interchange on Interstate 696 flashed all last week. Normally the sign reads “Buckle up! It’s the Law” or “Delays though Southfield Road” but not on the third week in August. For everyone in the area knows that the third weekend in August is reserved for one thing, and one thing only: The Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise.

For all the non-Michiganders out there, Woodward Avenue is to Metro Detroit what Broadway is to NY. It stretches all the way from Downtown Detroit, through several miles of sheer scariness and emerges into the suburbs. It’s a wide boulevard, four lanes on each side, and if you’re turning left, you’re going to do it Michigan style.

Throughout the early summer, nascent signs of the Dream Cruise pop up on Woodward. In between the Jeep Cherokees and Ford trucks you’ll notice a purple hot rod with flames painted on the side. Perhaps the next week you’ll spot a Ford Fairlane. In the week preceding the Dream Cruise I actually followed a Model T Ford down Main Street, Royal Oak.

But nothing could prepare me for what the Dream Cruise beheld. I avoided the Cruise last year. I was too new to the city and felt I was entirely unprepared for that kind of face to face gear-head interaction. This year it was time.

The closest point to Woodward Avenue is roughly 2 miles from my house. I couldn't drive there because I had to pre-order a parking spot. (I’ll let you contemplate the irony of paying for a parking spot so you can watch people drive down a street you drive down everyday.) I packed up some water for me and the dog and we set out. The weather was cool and slightly overcast so it was the perfect day for walking.

We arrived on Woodward Avenue less than 2 hours later. We were confronted with a carnival like atmosphere. Tents filled with people lined the street. Souped up hot rods idled on the grass. Every block held a different band playing a different type of music. And the food was everywhere. It was… it was….

Ok, I can’t do this. I can’t spin my positive Michigan bull and declare the Dream Cruise was a new and exciting experience that I will treasure for years to come. Why? Because it wasn't. By the time Buddy and I strolled onto Woodward it was body to body people. All that food? Well it was hot dogs and ice cream. The bands – there was a different band on every block all right, but you couldn't hear the music because it all jumbled together to form an unintelligible song. The Cruise, the main attraction, is essentially cars driving really slow up Woodward. That’s it. Yeah, some of those cars are impressive, but some of those cars are mid-eighties IROCs. And the sidewalks are filled with people just STARING at the cars from the seats of their identical Home Depot purchased foldable lawn chairs.

We lasted ten minutes. It was right around the time my dog jumped on a 12 year old boy to snag his ice cream cone, I realized it was time to get the hell out of there. We hung a right and started walking home. The 2 miles stretched like an eternity. Walking in Michigan isn't like walking in NY. There’s no shopping to distract you nor is there an easy escape route. You can’t turn the corner and catch a train, bus or taxi. If you walked 2 miles west, you’re walking back 2 miles east.

We walked and walked and finally arrived home. I looked over at my pup, hoping the afternoon’s Dream Cruise odyssey had wiped him out. His tail wagged playfully from side to side, doggie grin planted firmly on face. My hopes for a quiet night complete with a happy dog asleep at my feet were dashed. The Dream Cruise not only failed to excite me, but it also failed to exhaust my dog. A total failure through and through. Although… had my dog managed to wrestle away that little boy’s ice cream cone, the walk back could have been salvaged.

just kidding...

This is Some Serious Up North

Chrissy, our bright and shining intern, uttered those words from the backseat, as we turned onto dusty East Opal Lake Road in Gaylord, MI. We bounced around, craning our necks for a street sign, house sign, ANY sign that could tell us we were headed in the right direction. We had already taken two wrong turns and accidentally returned to the highway on our four hour journey. It was time to get there already. I had to pee.

We stopped a man on a tractor for directions. He looked at us blankly. He would be no help. We pushed on. Two bumpy turns later and we arrived at our destination: A rustic wood cabin, perched on Lake Opal. We had traveled Up North for our office's Girls Outing. Virtually all of the women I work with were in attendance. A weekend of hard drinking, good eating and lake swimming was in our future.

Clarification for all of you non-Michiganders out there: “Up North” refers to all of Northern Michigan, from Traverse City to Cheboygan. I.e., when I attended the Renaissance wedding in Charlevoix, I was Up North. Gaylord, roughly 50 miles southeast of Charlevoix is also Up North. What’s interesting is how “Up North” has situated itself within the Michiganspeak vernacular not as a direction, but as a physical place much like Philadelphians go “Down the Shore” instead of to the Jersey Shore or New Yorkers go to “The Hamptons” even though they’re really just going to Quogue.

When people go Up North in the summertime, its assumed that certain activities will take place: Golfing, Fishing, Hunting, Tubing, etc… But mostly, people just drink. A lot. They drink in their cabins, on their boats, in the lake, around the campfire. Considering I’m the original Narcoleptic Alcoholic, (seriously, sometimes one beer knocks me out) I didn’t know if I could handle Up North.

I also didn’t know how 12 women, all of different ages and backgrounds, who’d previously never interacted socially in a small environment, would get along for the weekend. Would we make snarky comments to each other? Would we talk trash about the women who were unable to attend? Would we try and top the Boys’ Outings, where stories of drunken lake golfing, drunken fire log throwing, drunken rectum pictures and drunken ghost dumping (don’t ask) filtered back to the office?

Swap out the ass photos with a 6 foot tall blow up penis, and that was our weekend. Yes, we were catty bitches and talked smack. Yes, we got rip roaring drunk and took funny pictures of each other. But we also got to know each other. Stories, which normally would be cramped into small pockets of conversation over stolen minutes during the workday, were told at length. We heard tales of courtship, mother issues and two graphically different versions of childbirth. We played games, sang songs and drank ourselves silly. I also roasted my first wiener over a campfire. It was delicious.

While the concept of driving 250 miles to sit in a log cabin and swim in a tiny lake is foreign to me, as a New Yorker who spent many a summer in Montauk, I recognize the common theme: Up North is about escape. There is no work Up North. Its all about having fun with your friends and your family, catching a fish or two, drinking a beer or four, and roasting the perfect campfire wiener.

The Grass Is Always Greener

Growing up, you could safely call me an “indoor girl.” I had no interest in planting, gardening, flowers, etc… I happily traded all my outdoor chores with my sister. In other words, I spent many a summer day making beds, setting tables and washing dishes.

My general disdain for all things green continued as an adult. I relished apartment living. I didn’t even want a terrace, for that might require a potted plant. After a recent move, a new neighbor gave me several pots seeded with herbs. Yeah, they died.

When I arrived in Michigan (a year ago this week!) I noticed a huge flowerbed in front of our house. I eyed it warily. Jeremy insisted it was landscaped. He may have even used the words “lush foliage” to describe the garden. It looked like a whole bunch of weeds to me. And that made me nervous.

Last summer I was inundated with new experiences. I met new friends, began driving again and found a new job. The garden, and all its overgrown splendor, slipped my mind. It got to the point where I almost didn’t notice the giant weed that began to sprout tree branches.

Alas, such ignorant blindness was not going to cut it in ’07. I began weeding a month ago. Weeding is backbreaking work. You’re down on your hands and knees, pawing at dirt, while wrenching heavily rooted plants out of the ground. And that dirt is filled with worms, bugs, night crawlers, weird beetle things… ok, I’ll stop. I’m getting the shivers all over again.

The first round of weeding went well, despite the pain in my fingertips, back and legs. Beautiful tulips blossomed in the garden. They were a hold over from the previous owner’s landscaping which managed to survive my weed-happy apocalypse. Being the novice gardener I am, I had no idea tulips only bloom for five minutes. Driving rains came through the region, and thus ended the lives of my tulips.

When the last tulip flower fell, I realized all my hard work was for naught. My garden still looked like total crap. That’s when I knew it was time – time to go to Home Depot.

Living in the suburbs and owning a home means you go to Home Depot. A lot. While I had spent countless hours in Tiling, Cabinetry, Flooring, Lumber, etc… I had never stepped foot in the Nursery. I went into the Nursery with a game plan, namely, I was not doing this gardening thing again next year. I limited my search to perennials and winter-lovin’ shrubs. Four trips later (there’s just so many shrubs you can fit in a Camry) I had all the elements of a no-muss, no fuss garden. Now I just had to plant it.

The planting was fun, as compared to the weeding, which means, in actuality, it was no fun at all. My good friends the worms, bugs, night crawlers and weird beetle things were all back. They watched as I planted my Plantation Lilies, Asiatic Lilies and other assorted perennials. I moved over and planted my shrubs (which as I lack all knowledge of floral naming conventions, I refer to as “fluffy heads.”) After the last shrub was planted, I doused the whole flowerbed in cedar chips, cause there’s no way I’m weeding again this season.

After I finished, I stood back and admired my work. The garden is clean, neat, and requires minimal upkeep - my dream garden. While I appreciate how it looks and I’m proud of myself for stepping way outside of my comfort zone, I was thoroughly miserable the entire time I was planting.

I spent all winter cooped inside my house, waiting for the sun’s warmth to return. Now that its summer, the new season has brought with it new chores. Everyone here claims it’s so great to get outside, but every time I go outside I have to weed something, plant something, paint something or move something. It’s the warm weather that reminds you how exhausting it is to own a home.

While in NY, I owned no land. Sure, I had to walk 15 blocks north to get to Central Park, but when I got there, I didn’t need to weed it. I could just enjoy being outdoors.

I love my new garden. And I’m darn proud that I did it with my bare hands. And deep down, I know I'll appreciate it more than any perfectly landscaped NYC park because its my own. Now I just hope I can find some time to enjoy it.

P.S. In all fairness, the “Before” pic was taken mid-winter.
P.P.S. But, in all fairness, the garden didn’t look much better mid-summer.
P.P.P.S. I really need a manicure.

Don't Mock It Till You Try It

Last weekend I entered unchartered territory, and I don’t mean my first trip “up north” to Charlevoix, MI. On Saturday, I attended my first Renaissance wedding.

I can’t lie. Leading up to the wedding, I was all mock-y. I snickered as I imagined, lords, ladies, jesters, and large legs of mutton and grog. I pictured duels and jousting, elaborate line dances and fanciful music.

I was not disappointed. Except for the mutton and grog. Does anyone even know what grog is?

But, while I fully intended to snarkily highlight one faux pas after the next, I found myself beguiled by the charm of the wedding, and the bride and groom. The bride, a novice seamstress, made her dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the groomsmens’ tunics (yes, they wore tunics and carried swords…) AND her mother’s dress. Not one of the outfits looked costume-y (and that’s a hard feat when you’re a dude sporting a tunic.)

I asked the bride what inspired the wedding’s theme and she replied the desire for good times and celebrations. Perhaps the costumes added the merriment to the feasting, because everyone sporting a hair garland, chain mail, or (gulp) a ball sac, all appeared to be having an amazing time. The silliness of the costumes provided a giddy atmosphere to the wedding, which accurately captured the rush you first feel when you fall in love with the person you’re destined to marry.

While I had a great time this weekend, I’m not entirely sold on the idea of “theme weddings.” In other words, don’t rush into an ebay search for an authentic can-can dress for my Moulin Rouge! theme wedding. But what I did learn was humbling. I was too quick to judge. And perhaps we place too much emphasis on planning the perfect wedding, rather than one that feels fun and spontaneous - with or without the melon jousting.

The New American Dream

Generations ago our ancestors arrived in this country to pursue a better life. They came to America to live a life of prosperity, religious freedom, and if you believe the clients I work with, the right to drive a Chevrolet. They worked hard, hoping to earn enough money to provide their children with a better life.

Over the last decade the dream has changed. Complete with dramatic lighting, jazzy sound effects, ousted participants and an annoying D-list host, the American Dream is now… to win a million dollars on a game show.

So, last Saturday morning, I excitedly dressed to attend the Open Casting Call for Deal or No Deal, held at the Millennium Center in Southfield, Michigan. For those of you who have never seen Deal or No Deal, here’s a quick summation: An overly excited, borderline insane contestant is selected to participate in the challenge: Find the one briefcase out of 26 that holds $1,000,000. The drama is heightened by offers meant to sway you from your quest by the insidious Banker, who sits on high like a modern day Dr. Claw, sans cat. Models in sparkly dresses hold the briefcases in perfect formation and appear to cheer you on when you select their case, but are really just relieved because their 4-inch heels hurt their feet and they can finally sit down. And the ringleader of the madness is Howie Mandel, formally known for harassing strangers on the street with his hidden camera pyrotechnics. I freaking love this show.

Its probably the only show in the history of American television that offers contestants with no discernable skills, save for the ability to read a number on a briefcase and point, the chance to win a million dollars. Have I mentioned I love this show?

My friend Nikki first alerted me to the open call auditions. We decided that we had to go. The gates opened at 10am so we met at 9:30. Unfortunately, roughly 7,000 people got there before us. The first couple of hours on line were fun. We chatted, we made friends with the other would be contestants around us. The sun was shining and the temperature was cool. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my day. By 1pm we had moved far enough in the line and were convinced we were “half way there.” By 2pm we crested the turn in the parking lot and realized there were a helluva lot more people there than we originally thought. By 3pm the pain had settled in our feet. My shins hurt, my back hurt and the bag I carried on my shoulder weighed at least 100 pounds.

3pm was our breaking point. Nikki and I looked at each other. I could tell both of us wanted to go home. Nikki said, “I’ll go home if you want to.” I replied, “I won’t ask you to leave.” The problem is we couldn’t leave. We had already been there for five hours. To leave would be a waste, but to stay – well, that couldn’t be a waste, could it?

We persevered. We inched forward on the line. The sun settled low behind the trees and we realized we were sun burnt to a crisp. Dirt and debris began to blow on the ground. Not enough trashcans were provided and pizza boxes, water bottles and I swear I saw this, a whole fried chicken carcass, littered the ground. And we still inched closer. By 5pm, irony settled over us like the swirling cloud of parking lot dust that caked our skin; because so many people had become discouraged and left behind us, we were still only “half way there.” I think it was at this point I began to laugh like a hyena.

By 7pm we arrived at the door to the Millennium Center. Shaded from the sun, we began to shiver. We waited. At 7:45 we were allowed inside. We were led into an auditorium filled with even more people. We waited again. At least now we were seated and warm and not surrounded by filth.

At 8:30 a casting dude arrived on stage to inform us of what was to come next. We would be divided into groups of 10. We would approach a casting associate and have 20 seconds to reveal something about ourselves. I waited nervously. 20 seconds? What could I say in 20 seconds about myself that would be both interesting and unique enough to set me apart from all 7,000 people that came before me?

And then it was time. My waiting had finally come to an end. Nikki and I were shuttled into line and we ran up the steps. We entered the stage. As I waited in line for 11 hours I imagined what this moment would bring. I kept picturing the final scene in Flashdance. I would arrive in a sun-dappled room (forget that it was 9:30pm) and approach a table that separated me from several stern looking men in suits. I would smile and being my audition.

Instead, my group of ten ran onto stage and saw one, lone, 24 year old casting assistant who’s only claim to authenticity was the white cotton “Deal or No Deal” shirt she wore. One by one we went and one by one we choked. And then it was my turn. I racked my brain. I said: “Hello. My name is Rachel Sterling. I’m 30 years old and I’m from New York City. I used to live in Times Square over a porn shop next to a strip club with my sister and her girlfriend. I’ve lived in Detroit for a year. I work as a video editor and I cut Chevy spots all day.” Fin.

I looked at the casting assistant. I yearned for some recognition. Some sign that would tell me whether I’d made the cut. She smiled and then turned to Nikki. That was it. 11 hours and 30 minutes and all I got was a polite nod.

Nikki did well and she too received a non-response. In fact no one in my group yielded any sort of positive feedback, even the woman who claimed she would propose to her boyfriend on the show, or another woman who insisted that every time the Banker made her an offer she would shave a row of her hair off.

My band of ten left dejected. We were only slightly encouraged to learn that barely anyone had received a callback that day. Instead, they hold your information on file and can call you anytime between now and a year to cast you on the show.

You may think we were crazy to have waited out the day. Perhaps you’re right. But Nikki and I left the Millennium Center and we were filled with joy. We had done it. And who knows? Maybe one day in the not so distant future, I may get that phone call. I may get my shot at the New American Dream.

Unseasonably Depressed

I noticed it several months ago. I just couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Sure, it was dark out, and the bedroom was cold, but I mean I REALLY couldn’t get out of bed. I’m a notorious snoozer. I can hit that snooze button two… three times before I finally get up. But one morning, not too long ago, I went five times before finally extracting myself from bed.

Five incessant bursts of alarm clock buzzing is a whole lotta snoozin’, people.

I didn’t make the connection between my omnipresent lethargy and the weather until two weeks ago. We had a brief reprieve from winter. The sun returned, the temperature rose, and the damn snow finally stopped falling, blowing, sleeting, collecting and whatever else it does all winter in Michigan.

So on that bright sunny afternoon, we opened the office doors and pushed our ergonomically correct desk chairs into the scenic Southfield Commons parking lot. We poured tall glasses of Bloody Mary’s, left our fleeces, scarves, sweaters and gloves inside and turned our faces to the warm sky,

This being Michigan, spring’s stay of execution was short. Dark clouds rolled in, the wind picked up and the rain came down. We reluctantly moved our chairs back inside, drained the remainder of our drinks and went back to work.

It has come as quite a shock to me how much the weather here has affected my moods. New York isn’t exactly balmy mid February. The difference, however, is the sun. On the coldest days in NY, the sun burns bright, reflecting off the streets and the buildings. Even inside, rooms feel warmer when the sun is out.

Michigan is sandwiched between the Great Lakes, so while Detroit doesn’t see a great deal of lake effect snow (most of that is dumped on the west coasts of both Michigan and New York) we get all the cloudy, damp, generally miserable weather. Day after day passes without a break in the clouds.

People here handle it in different ways. Some go tanning, accepting the sun’s false substitute. , Others book vacations to southern destinations. And others just hunker down, buried under warm blankets, and wait it out.

Its early April now and each false start of spring gives me new hope that winter is almost behind us. Of course, it’s hard to be optimistic when the forecast calls for a chance of snow everyday through April 20. (Oh, how I wish I were kidding. Check it out. I dare ya.) So for now I’ll continue to stay inside, snuggled and warm, snooze button at the ready.

Where are you from?

That’s the first question we heard last week.

We had just arrived. We were in the lush tropical courtyard of the Key West Harbor Inn. It was happy hour. Several of our inn-mates had already taken up residence by the pool, drinks in hand. Jeremy and I looked at each other uneasily. For two New Yorkers living in the Midwest, this is a loaded question. I piped up. “We’re from Michigan.”

I caught Jeremy’s look of surprise. Its not everyday I admit I’m a Michigander. Normally I can’t wait to tell people I’m a New Yorker. I’ll even provide cross streets of my last known address if necessary. But this time I wasn’t having it. You see I’ve vacationed as a New Yorker before, and it's not fun.

On vacation you meet people from all over the country. Invariably the first question asked is “where are you from?” Responding “New York” yields one of two responses: absolute love or intense hatred. The person who loves New York asks a million questions. They want to know where you shop, eat, live. They gush about the one time they visited New York and saw Times Square or they bemoan the fact that they’ve never been there.

On the other end of the spectrum is the person who loathes New York. They mention the dirt, the crime, the pollution, the expense. Most of their information is accurate circa Summer of Sam, but they insist they know the truth, regardless of the fact they’ve never stepped foot on the island of Manhattan. I like to think most of those people are jealous

For a short time after 2001, we became 9/11 New Yorkers. Every question asked, while empathetic, was morbidly curious. No, I didn’t see the Towers collapse, No, I didn’t know anyone that died and No, I’m not afraid to continue living in New York.

The problem with all of these questions is they’re not personal. Once you tell someone you’re a New Yorker, you cease to become an individual. You become an ambassador for your city and are expected to provide restaurant and Broadway show recommendations on demand.

So on that sunny, humid day, mere steps from the Southernmost point in the United States, I grabbed a beer, smiled and said “I’m from Michigan.”

SHAME ON YOU!

You know who you are. You’re the people that bitterly complain that nothing’s happened all season on LOST. And now you don’t watch. You, the fair weather fan, are jeopardizing the one show that’s managed to fill the void in my heart left by the untimely death of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2003.

And now another show has bit the dust. Last night we saw the season finale of The OC. I hear you laughing. The OC? Are you serious? That show was lame. No it wasn’t. It was funny, irreverent and utterly ridiculous and I loved it.

To examine why The OC died is to study the evolutionary course of episodic drama. Many a comparison has been made between The OC and its predecessor, Beverly Hills 90210 (hence forth referred to simply as Niners.) Niners lasted for ten years while The OC burnt out in under four. Sure, those final three seasons of Niners were atrocious (Vanessa Marcil as Tori Spelling’s illegitimate half sister/competitive ice skater? Blech) but the story telling was [relatively] strong until the seventh season.

I recently caught several episodes of Niners on the Soap Network and the show doesn’t hold a candle to The OC. The writing is dismal, the outfits, even by early 90’s standards, are comical, and the soundtrack (cheesy guitar riffs, anyone?) is obnoxious. But what Niners had that The OC so tragically lacked was pacing. Those writers managed to drag out the Brenda-Dylan-Kelly love triangle for nearly three seasons. Dylan’s father’s mysterious death in Season 4 was revisited again in Seasons 5 and he was brought back to life in Season 10. On The OC, a love triangle arc could be resolved in under four episodes. Marriages, career changes, arrests, etc… never lasted more than half a season. New characters were introduced and then removed in record time. All of this made for exciting, albeit unrealistic programming, but it didn’t encourage the show’s longevity.

So, what does this have to do with LOST? Many people argue that the writers haven't resolved any of the mysteries central to the show's core. They are frustrated that none of the storylines have yielded new information. That’s called pacing, people. I’ll remind you of another Fox episodic drama, and personal fave of mine, The X-Files. Oh, poor, sweet X-Files. For six, blissful seasons we were teased with black goop, alien-human hybrids and the omnipresent but mysterious Cigarette Smoking Man. Then the movie came out and explained everything. Now all they had to do was prove it. But the magic was gone. We, the viewers, knew too much, and the only thing left to do was change the channel.

Its my belief that LOST’s success is based on its ability to keep the viewer guessing. When a mystery is resolved (i.e. the identity of The Others – Scruffy, Walt-stealing “Zeke” was way scarier than poor, bumbling, possibly gay “Tom”) the balance of power shifts from the writer to the viewer. We now have the information, and if we like the way the narrative is headed, we’ll continue watching. If this new development displeases us, perhaps we’ll stop. But not having any information at all, keeps us intrigued, and that keeps us tuned in on Wednesday nights.

Perhaps the demise of The OC, and the pacing backlash that’s assaulted LOST this season stems from the changing pace of today’s society. We’re no longer content to watch our dramas unfold slowly and thoughtfully. We’ve become fixated on resolution with little regard to how that resolution is achieved. So, my dear, sweet readers: Use those DVRs wisely. Slow down and savor the LOST magic. Because its not always about how the story ends – its about what happened along the way.

Long Time No Blog...

I originally started this blog to examine my observed differences between life in Michigan vs. New York City. For a couple of weeks, I was on a roll. Then I stopped writing. Why, you ask? My official answer is I became engaged and singularly obsessed with reception sites, calla lilies and tulle. But that’s not the truth. In actuality, it got too damn cold.

With the exception of traveling to and from work I have not left the house in weeks. WEEKS. The temperature hovers at 10 degrees. It’s icy, snowy, sleety, slippery. At night wind chills dip dangerously low. As I’ve struggled to come up with a topic to write about, I realized I haven’t done anything blogworthy since the Great Kitchen Reconstruction Project. And I’m certainly not going to blog about the pivotal decision of straps vs. strapless wedding dresses.

I did, however, manage a dinner date with a girlfriend last week. I bundled up in my big, fluffy, purple coat and headed out into the cold. We met at Outback Steakhouse (which, you snooty New Yorkers, is actually quite scrumptious – I recommend the coconut shrimp, but I digress.) We exchanged pleasantries, chatted about work, discussed the aforementioned strapped/strapless conundrum and then we got into the (pardon the Outback pun) meat of the conversation.

My friend went on a first date with a guy she really likes. He took her out to dinner on a Saturday night and they really hit it off. She continued to talk to me about their blooming relationship, but I couldn’t focus. First Date on a Saturday night? A whole dinner? What is he, crazy?

Back in my pre-betrothed dating days in NY, Saturday nights were precious. They were reserved for my good friends. We went to nice restaurants (not Outback), saw plays, had birthday parties, and generally had a grand old time. First Dates are random. They are in fact, not a guaranteed good time and no Saturday night would ever be granted for a first date.

First Dates occur on Tuesday, usually over one drink in a heavily populated bar, where escape from both physical harm or social atrocity is easily accessed. If things went well, a second or third date would occur on a Saturday night. The First Date thus became the pre-Saturday night screening process.

But what if the New Yorkers are the crazy ones? During the work week, we’re distracted and short on time. Are we really giving the nice, sweet man who’s paying for the martini a real chance if we squeeze him in on Wednesday in between the gym and LOST? And, as much as we don’t like to admit it, when us girls go out on Saturday night, looking our finest, aren’t we really looking for someone new and interesting? Wouldn’t that time be better served sitting across a dinner table from someone whose attention is focused wholly on us, rather than the scantily clad chick at the bar?

New Yorkers are risk averse daters. They return emails after a several hour delay regardless of the beeping Blackberry on their desk. They impose 2-day moratoriums on returned phone calls. They withhold Saturday nights from first time suitors. Some people might call this “playing games.” I call it dating protection. However the real risk for New Yorkers is not taking any risk at all. As someone who has taken the biggest risk of all – I left New York and followed my heart to Detroit – I know that the net only appears once you jump.

All The News That's Fit to Find

I’m a news junkie. The number of times I check cnn.com a day is downright obsessive. And I’m not particular. I’m intrigued by a political commentary just as much as a Paris Hilton expose. Local, Domestic, International – if its going on, I need to know about it.

New York City is home to all of the major news outlets in the country and news just seems to happen there first. There’s no escaping it. There are newspapers to purchase on every corner. Flashing billboards stream the news live in Times Square. Even if you wanted to avoid the news, you couldn’t, as street peddlers dispense free papers at the mouth of every subway station.

In New York, there’s actually time to absorb the news. Time can be found on a subway platform, in a cab stuck in traffic, on the Long Island Railroad or on a cross-town bus. For a city that moves as quickly as New York, there’s an awful lot of waiting going on, and that’s when the news comes in handy.

Here in Michigan, the news is filtered. We hear about the big stories: The President delivers the State of the Union tonight! Lindsay Lohan back in rehab! Redwings lose again! Great attention is paid to any structural or economic change by the Big Three (GM, Ford and Chrysler) and the networks nearly peed with glee when they reported on the man who fell asleep in a garbage can and awoke to find himself trapped in a city garbage truck. (I’m not making that up. He called on his cell phone from inside the truck, but he didn’t know which truck he was in, so all of the garbage trucks in the city had to pull over and go through their loads. But I digress…)

Smaller international and domestic stories seem to slip by without mention. The Detroit Free Press is a fine paper, but who has time to read it? Not me. I’m too busy scraping the ice and snow off my car every morning. I can’t wait till I get home, because at that point the news is cold.

Many people argue that they don’t like the news. Too much bad stuff going on in the world! Too depressing! They may be right, but in this day and age, its important to stay abreast of what’s happening.

Several months ago a small plane crashed into a residential building on the Upper East Side. I didn’t know about it for hours. Someone I worked with mentioned in passing: “Hey did you hear about the plane that crashed into the building in NY?” To say that I had fear stricken flashbacks would be an understatement. I ran to the TV and quickly learned the details. That’s when I realized I’m in a whole different world out here - one where the news doesn’t penetrate my daily routine. So I continue to check cnn.com obsessively. For me, not knowing what’s going on is scarier than anything I could ever read.

The Iceman Cometh

It only has a shelf life of 6 hours max, but snow in NY is beautiful. It blankets all the dirt and debris. It reflects sunlight causing buildings to sparkle brighter. It even hushes the omnipresent street noise. The beauty, however, is fleeting. First the corners start to melt, sending rivulets of slush and dirt streaming towards the drains. Garbage collects on top, marring the pristine white surface. The last insult: the yellow tinged snow that can only mean one thing – the dogs are out. By midday, people bustle by barely noticing the snow, save for the white ring of salt that tinges pant legs and boots alike.

While snow in NY barely registers as an occurrence, here in Michigan, snow is a way of life. People drive in it, shovel it, lose their power because of it, love it and absolutely hate it. Snow and ice define the Michigan winter.

With the exception of a cold snap back in November, this Michigan winter has been mild. Because of El Nino, temperatures have hovered in the 40’s or higher and we have yet to see substantial snowfall - until yesterday.

A huge storm cut an icy swath across the Plains and the Midwest this week. Monday dawned on a world completely encased in ice. Tree limbs, unable to support the weight of the icicles that clung to their branches, collapsed to the ground, hitting cars and power lines. As the day progressed, the temperature dropped and the snow began. Left in its wake were ice-encrusted houses, cars and people, all of whom were stuck in traffic. As Michiganders always say “no one knows how to drive in snow.”

This morning the sun came out, but with temperatures only in the high teens, the ice holds strong. It glistens from every surface. And it’s beautiful.

Draft Dodgin'

I recently went to dinner with several friends, including one who now lives in Germany and was in Detroit on business. As usual, when an American spends time overseas, talk turns to how our country is perceived on foreign soil. In a nutshell: not so good. Our topics of conversation meandered from the economic rise of the European Union to George W. Bush and the Iraq War. And that’s when we started talking about the draft.
With the democratic victory in the midterm elections, Representative Charles Rangel of NY will now head the House Committee of Ways and Means. This is the committee that determines whether to reinstate the draft. Rangel, a democrat from Washington Heights, represents a district that is demographically Latin American and working class. It is his constituents that fight our battles. By reinstating the draft, he hopes serving our country becomes less about the economics of opportunity and instead the responsibility of all Americans.

On one side of the debate, it seems plainly apparent that our military is stretched beyond its capacities. Most military strategists argue that Bush’s “surge” to quell the violence in Iraq is far too little too late. To achieve the surge, in addition to new soldiers, troops that are overtaxed will be asked to extend their tours of duty. This may address the issues in Iraq, but what about in Afghanistan? And the Sudan? And the burgeoning crisis in Somalia? While some Americans may balk at the idea of U.S. entanglement in foreign civil unrest, the Bush administration argues these areas, once unstable, become havens for terrorists and therefore, cannot be ignored.

Unfortunately, we don’t have the manpower to go in and stabilize these regions. So instead, we outsource. We allow the Israelis to handle Hezbollah, even though all intelligence suggests Iran was behind last summer’s war. We let the Ethiopians usurp the Islamists regime in Somalia, in spite of the risk to the stability of the Horn of Africa. We let hundreds of thousands of people die in Darfur and leave the Sudan in the hands of a government that has active ties with Al-Qaeda.

Could more troops help? Absolutely. But what if they’re the wrong types of troops? Currently the people who serve in our military are volunteers. They fight because it’s a calling, its generational or its money for college. In their eyes, the military creates opportunity.

If instated, the draft would put more men in harm’s way. Men who have no interest in serving or have not been mentally and physically prepared to serve. And what of the loss? Had Albert Einstein been drafted and then killed in WWI, would we understand quantum theory today?

Some argue that our poor shoulder the responsibility of protecting this nation. Reinstating the draft would even out the socio-economic divide that mars the armed forces. The draft would make it the responsibility of all Americans, both rich and poor, to protect this nation.

The draft could also promote congressional responsibility. While many congressmen would undoubtedly pull strings to keep their offspring from the draft, they can’t do the same for all of their constituents. If all of the lives of America’s sons were poised on the tip of the blade, perhaps pre-emptive war would be considered with greater caution.

At dinner, we wrestled with this subject for the better part of an hour. It led to a spirited debate that prompted this blog entry. No conclusions were drawn. Hopefully Charlie Rangel’s committee will consider all options before moving forward on this issue. Cause what we’re doing now just ain’t working.

Tomorrow talk of kitchen cabinets and Michigan ice storms resume: I promise.

Nightlife for the Masses

New York City: The city that never sleeps. The city that’s home to 10,000 restaurants, bars and clubs. The entertainment capital of the world. How could a city like Detroit compare to that? Well folks, it does and then some.

As it turns out, there is fun to be had in Detroit (and not just 8 Mile Strip Club fun, although there’s plenty of that to go around.) The elements are all here: low-key bars, swanky lounges, cheesy clubs, but it’s the vibe that makes the city standout. There’s no pretense on Saturday night. It’s all about having fun.

In the time I’ve lived in Detroit, I’ve never come across a velvet rope or a snide doorman. With the rare exception of the bar that caters to the underage drunken hook up (Woody’s anyone?), everyone is welcome at all places. Take Boogie Fever, for example. Sure the club, which plays an assortment of 70’s and 80’s music, is a bastion of pure cheese, but through the smoke clogged dance floor you find hipsters grooving side by side with bachelorettes, soccer moms and frat boys. Is it ironic? You bet. But it’s also a ton of fun.

And that’s what’s missing in NY: fun for the sake of fun. The venues are gorgeous and the drinks are delicious, but its certainly not fun standing in line for an hour just to have the high school dropout doorman deride you for wearing last season’s coat. Or, to confidently march past the line, arrive at the door and discover a $30 door charge and a minimum two-bottle limit to secure a table. It would seem that just “getting in” is what makes a Saturday night fun in NY.

Of course, I’ve limited my discussion to only the crème de la crème of NYC bars and clubs. On any block in any neighborhood you can find a hidden gem with nary a doorman in site. The type of bar that boasts a burlesque show in the backroom and a pool table in the front. A bar, that for all intents and purposes, is just about having fun. And that’s when you realize Detroit and NYC don’t seem so different after all.

Driving: A Rebuttal

Perhaps I was too hasty. Millions of Americans drive everyday and most of them get to their destinations alive and on time. Maybe I need to look at driving in a new light.

Back in NY I lived on the fourth floor of a walk up apartment. Every time I left my house I had to walk down four flights of stairs and return up those same stairs at the end of the day. This was especially distressing when I would arrive in the lobby only to discover an instant monsoon situation outside. Then I would have to trek all the way back upstairs to retrieve my wayward umbrella.

My building also lacked a laundry room. Once a week I lugged a 12 pound laundry bag down those four flights, dragged it down three blocks and deposited it at the nice laundry lady who charged me wholesale prices for washing and folding. The next day, I would repeat but this time I'd be climbing UP the stairs with clean laundry.

The same went for groceries. I would have to plan accordingly. The supermarket was four blocks away. Four long blocks. If I was buying a gallon of Tropicana Orange Juice, there's no way I could carry a 6 pack of Stella at the same time. One liquid per trip.

What if I wanted to go to the gym? Sure, one might argue that with all the stair stepping, laundry dragging and juice lugging, the gym was rendered irrelevant. But let's just SAY I wanted to go (and to be truthful, most times all I did was SAY I wanted to go.) I would also have to carry around my gym bag all day.

That's where Michigan has NY beat - stone cold. In the span of one day, I can go food shopping (buying both Orange Juice, Stella AND a 14lb turkey), pick up dry cleaning, buy a couple of 2x4's for the hell of it, and go to the gym. All of this is possible because of my car. My sweet, little, gas guzzling, death defying car.

Queen of the Left Lane

That's what my Dad used to call me. I spent most of senior year of high school zipping around Brooklyn's Belt Parkway at breakneck speed. Or at least as fast as the heavy traffic would allow. So you can imagine my surprise when I discovered upon moving to Detroit that I couldn't drive for sh*t. Sure, I had not driven regularly in four years, but driving is driving, right?

Driving, as it turns out, IS different in Detroit. The utter lack of public transportation forces you to drive everywhere. For a girl raised on the subways and buses of NY, that's been a difficult transition to make.

Highways out here aren't two or three lanes. They have four lanes excluding exit ramps and merging lanes. And the speed limit tops out at 70 miles per hour! While that speed might be a ceiling elsewhere, here in Detroit, home of the automobile, that limit is merely a guideline.

All of this would be manageable if drivers were responsible. Unfortunately, people treat 696 at rush hour like its their own personal NASCAR track. Cars weave and dart through traffic, recklessly ignoring poor, inexperienced drivers like myself. Its no wonder I see a horrific car accident on a daily basis.

And so, not only have I moved from NY to Michigan, but I have also moved from the left lane to the right. It is there that I stay, white knuckled and fearful, as an angry Ford F-150 truck rides up my ass.

Can't You Just Get Someone to Do That for You?

That was the uniform response I heard from my New York friends when I told them I was returning early to Michigan to renovate my kitchen.

You see, I'm a born and bred New Yorker and we're a species unto ourselves. We don't drive, we don't cook and we certainly don't renovate our own kitchens.

But I live in the Midwest now, and in Michigan there's "no one to call." This is the "Do It Yourself State."

Armed with nothing but an Ikea catalogue and a boyfriend who insisted "he could do this," we set out to renovate our kitchen. Our renovation plan was "pretty but cheap." We were interested in a superficial renovation - something that wouldn't cost thousands of dollars, take too long or be physically taxing. My boyfriend may live in the Midwest now, but he's a native New Yorker at heart.

That plan was shot to hell when we removed the microwave. This wasn't your average, modern day microwave. This was a behemoth from a forgotten age. This microwave was actually hardwired. (For those New Yorkers out there, hard wiring means no handy dandy plug and no outlet. Just wires connected to each other.) With one tug sparks flew, sheet rock collapsed and a built in cabinet was rendered useless. Our renovation had begun.

Two weeks later, we've installed new cabinets, a new (modern era) microwave (with a plug!), a butcher block counter top and a ceramic tile floor. And none of it was that hard. Sure, the work required a ton of different tools, daily trips to Home Depot, a brief mishap with oil based primer (thank you Mineral Spirits!) and a whole lot of time, but it was all manageable. That got me thinking, why did all of my New York friends (and my former New York mentality) think this was an impossible task?

I think some of it has to do with exposure. Had I grown up in an environment where do-it-yourself home improvement was prevalent, I would have instinctively known I could do this. Instead, I attributed a certain mysticism with home improvement. Pay a contractor, leave him alone for a week, a month, a year and look what he can build!

Not only did my boyfriend and I save a ton of money by doing the work ourselves, but we also spent time bonding over the experience. While I certainly enjoy snuggling on the couch watching TV more than I enjoy, let's say, grouting tile, this project will resonate with me for years to come. And the next time my boyfriend says "let's fix up the _____" I'll know we can do it. Of course, that won't stop me from asking "Can't we just get someone to do that for us?" After all, I'm a New Yorker at heart.