Fire Rooster


Happy Chinese New Year to all!

Remember last year when I was so super excited about the Year of the Monkey?

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Well 2016 lived up to all the hype. Like a monkey it was full of energy, erratic and sometimes scary and full of surprises.

But Rooster. I have high hopes for Rooster. I know I don’t have to capitalize the word Rooster – put your red pens away. But I’m just trying to give it the respect it deserves.


Last year I went to a flea market and found a little monkey holding a banana. I brough him home and put in my kitchen and prayed that he’d bring me luck. And he did.  The monkey may have caused havoc in the world but for my little world – it was a good year.

When I think of 2016 I’ll think of  Kera and all her friends graduating. I’ll think of all the beautiful weddings we were lucky enough to be a part of – Keith and Danielle, Herb and Larry, Marcello and Lorraine, Sweta and Wendall.

I’ll think of my friend Sarah who welcomed little Charlie. I’ll think of my baby boy becoming a teen and celebrating 20 years of marriage with my guy.

That’s what I’ll think about.

So Rooster – Fire Rooster. Sign of dawn and awakening. Sign of hard work and justice. Sign of logic and reason.

I’ve always loved roosters. I know you’re going to think I’m crazy – but I have them all over the house. In fact this past Christmas, my secret Santa even gave me a rooster cookie cutter (Thank you Ty!). I’m not sure I ever thought about why I loved them. But I’ll take some logic, reason and justice. I’ll take being more grounded.

So let’s go people. Time to wake up. Time to get to work. Fire Rooster is here.

 

 

 

Pee

So my new job is really great – I had forgotten what it was like to be the new toy in town. It’s fun. Really fun.
New people, new challenges, I’m even getting used to the commute – all in all a great way to start the year.
BUT! There is a but.
Not a great big but, just a little one. Here it is…
All I obsess about as soon as I get off my train is pee. Sorry. It’s gross. I’m disgusted just thinking about telling you about it. And please know, I am not that girl. I can’t deal with bathroom humor or bathroom anything. If I saw a shrink I’m sure we’d talk about all the bodily functions that I’m grossed out by. Even when I had my babies… When normal mothers readily stick their noses, fingers, etc in all kinds of places -I had issues. I did it. But I was tortured by it.
Anyway. Back to my point. All I smell when I step off the train is pee. I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t want to know. But it’s the scent that follows me up from the train and down one whole block. One long, stinky block. There’s a rush of relief when it ends at Pearl Street. Thank goodness for Pearl Street, it’s exactly like it sounds. Clean, cool, shiny and pretty. I try to hold my breath for that long block before Pearl but I can’t. Eventually I have to breath. I’ve developed a system where I bury half my face in a scarf. If I could wear one of those surgical masks without feeling like a freak, I would. Those overpopulated countries in Asia have all the luck. Everyone wears one there.
And what am I going to do in the summer when my scarf won’t be there to save me?? What shocks me as much as the smell is that I don’t think other people are bothered. They don’t wrap themselves up like a mummy – terrified of accidental inhalation. Some of the lunatics even have coffee and breakfast while walking on that block, the pee block. Wtf?? Could I walk down another block? I’ve tried. The side streets are just as bad.
Are you reading this and thinking, “what am I reading? what is wrong with this girl?”. Well let me tell you, there is a lot wrong with me. But in this particular case, the problem is that I have a supersonic sense of smell (and hearing, but that’s a different story). I have visceral reactions to smell. I can’t overcome a stinky place/people/things. It stays with me like a layer of dust or a cloud of that clings to me.
On a positive note, a good smell can change my whole day. It can make me happy, excited, or relaxed. I may not love diaper duty, but a baby’s head can make my day! I’m a weirdo. I know it. But I can’t help it. Like Lady Gaga said – I was born this way.

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Kosher Hibachi…not so much

I’m a vegetarian. I’ve always been one. My parents are both veggies too. My sister ventured to the dark side during her teen years, but we got her back eventually. It’s really no big deal. I’m well fed – over nourished actually. I’m pretty easy going about the whole thing. My kids both eat meat and fish and fowl – I’ve already explained their Irish/Ukrainian background which demands consumption of many different types of sausage. I have no problem cooking for all different folks, save the Vegans who I think are aliens (really, no cheese or yogurt, ever? A life without dairy? Madness. ) I’m off track, I’ve digressed … or as one my good friends would say, “the cheese is falling off the cracker.” See why I love her?

It’s pretty easy to be veg these days, there are plenty of choices – I can even get a Big Mac without the Mac. I’m just sayin’ it’s no big deal. The only thing that still freaks me out is when animal and non-animal are served together on the same plate, or are handled by the same utensil, or worse, cooked in the same pan! Then I’m a little grossed out (in a non-judgmental way). When I first learned what the word Kosher meant – I was thrilled. All my needs wrapped up in a bow. Yes, I know it means so much more – and it’s not exactly what I’m talking about – but it’s close enough. Would I love my food to be cooked in an entirely separate kitchen, oh yeah. Will it happen – no. But when I say the word Kosher… it explains all my separate but equal needs.

So this weekend we went to see my husband’s cousin and his ridiculously gorgeous family. We met at a great hibachi place near their town. First I was distracted by the light and love that are these beauties….

Those lashes…that little nose and mouth. Come on.

My biological clock is literally winding itself up again as I hold her.

Have you ever??

Her very handsome, very funny older brother.

In this scene the hibachi madness had just started…

Below…. She’s thinking what I’m thinking,” Where’s the veggie hibachi grill?”

Where was I? Sorry. Now this was not my first hibachi experience. We go all the time. I knew when the gal came over to explain the menu that all foods would be living in sin together on the grill in front of us. I also knew that the dude cooking would be using one knife for it all (and telling bad jokes). So he went at it – cutting zucchini, cutting shrimp, cutting steak, cutting my desire to ever go to Japan…not really…ok …yes.

Look at all that inter-food group mingling going on.

I realize I’m not normal. I’m not doing this for religion or animal rights – I just missed the boat on eating any other way. I blame my mother.

But this post is not a complaint – it’s an explanation. No other food eating experience can ever illustrate my issues more than hibachi.

That said – what do I get at hibachi every time we go? SUSHI!

Ofcourse I’m sure the sushi guy uses the same knife too – but a girl’s gotta eat right?