One Year and Counting...

First off, apologies. I've been remiss (again) in my blog postings. I've had another busy week at work. And, as those who read my husband's blog regularly know, we've been pretty busy outside of work too.
On Friday, Victor and I rustled some friends together for a belated Midsummer Night's Celebration at a favorite neighborhood bar, Spuyten Duyvil. We were also celebrating a few specific accomplishments: the onset of our friend Marty's 36th birthday (at midnight); the publication of our friend Nicole's book ("The Running of the Bulls: Inside the Cutthroat Race from Wharton to Wall Street"--Buy it now!); and our one-year anniversary (which took place officially yesterday--more on that in a moment). We finally left the bar around 1 a.m., our stomachs full of Belgian beer, bread, Bresaula and bloomy rind cheeses. My husband and I got home and stayed up talking another hour or so, but made up for it the next morning--sleeping in till nearly noon. It took us another hour to get out of the apartment. Victor went to pick up our new Vonage VoIP phone adapter (the switch will, hopefully, mean a $100/month cut in our phone bill!) and some bagels and egg salad, and to deposit his paycheck. I picked up my dry cleaning and came home to a phone message from our PR department asking if I would appear on MSNBC Sunday morning to talk about a story I'd helped report (I said yes). I spent the next hour tracking down my notes and the final version of the story to prep for the interview. Then we were off to the gym (me) and karate fight class (him), back home for a quick shower and change of clothes, and off again to meet Marty and his girlfriend and some other friends at a sushi restaurant called Sakura Hana in the West Village. Two friends of theirs, who live across the street, are regulars there so the chef sent out three boatloads (literally) of sushi and sashimi along with at least eight bottles of cold sake (the waitress informed us that the owner had ordered a case of sake for the occasion!). Needless to say, everyone--except Marty's girlfriend, Carolyn, who ironically, since she organized the sushi dinner, doesn't drink sake--was pretty sloshed by the time dinner was over. I tried to limit myself to three small shot-glass sized cups of sake and to drink lots of water, so I wouldn't risk oversleeping or struggling with a splitting hangover headache on Sunday morning (the station was sending a car to get me at 8:45 a.m.). After dinner, we bought a couple bottles of white wine for Carolyn, who'd kindly picked up the sushi/sake tab, and headed to their friends' place. I lasted till 11 before calling it a night.
The next morning, I was up before the alarm. The round trip to the studio took a lot longer than my actual TV appearance, which lasted about 6 minutes. But it went well (according to my husband--I haven't seen the tape). And I was back home by 10:15--just in time to kiss my husband goodbye as he left for two karate classes.
I took advantage of the time alone to pick up a couple shirts for his anniversary gift (a white Cuban-style embroidered shirt and a funky, diagonal weave navy/silver shirt). We didn't want to wait till midnight to start celebrating, so we walked over to Planet Thailand, a popular restaurant off Bedford Avenue that predates both of our moves to Williamsburg and has since grown to encompass two neighboring spaces (and is still filled nearly to capacity every night!). We split a small sake and an excellent "Crispy Long Island Duck" salad special and two Thai entrees.
I'd initially hoped to take Monday off to spend the day together. But we decided to go to work then to an early dinner. The work day dragged by slowly, as I counted down the hours to our anniversary dinner at Molyvos, which we'd chosen as a nod to the honeymoon we'd spent in Greece (Athens, Mykonos, and Santorini). And walking through the rustic, rose-colored dining room, past shelves of Greek ceramic pottery and framed photographs of the Cyclades islands, I forgot for a moment that we were still in the middle of Manhattan on a steamy, rain-soaked afternoon. We were seated in a cozy corner booth in the back, beside a photograph of Mykonos large enough that we were actually able to identify some of the seaside restauarants and tavernas we'd visited, and we spent a few minutes reminescing about our time there. The table of twang-y tourists across from us and the severe shortage of Greeks--even among the staff--brought us back to New York. But we decided to adapt Hellenic dining habits, nonetheless, stretching our three-course meal over as many hours. Victor started with a Greek lager called Alfa and I had an Aphrodite cocktail, which was made with Vodka and pomegranate juice (delicious). We split a grilled baby octopus salad appetizer, which appeared so quickly after we'd ordered it--even before the wine--that Victor was suspicious. But it tasted like it was fresh off the grill. The wine--a Hatzimihalis Cabernet from Athens--arrived shortly afterwards. We'd had the same wine in Greece and it complemented the entrees nicely. Victor had the lamb moussaka, an incredibly rich dish, but delicious. I opted for the halibut, which arrived in two flaky fillets over a saffron corn broth with baby shrimp and freshly peeled peas. I finished the fish and then dipped slices of Pita bread into the broth (it was that good). We still had a year-old slice of thawing wedding cake waiting for us at home. But we had to sample some of the Greek sweets at the restaurant. We ended up splitting a three-dessert sampler of baklava, ravani (a spongy almond cake), and bougatsa (a phyllo pastry filled with semolina custard). The baklava was as good as we remembered, and I quickly finished off the bougatsa too. The almond cake was less flavorful, especially after I ate all the whipped cream off the top. But we finished it nonetheless. Victor had a brandy too, then kindly took care fo the check (part of my anniversary gift). Then we stumbled to the subway and were back home within 45 minutes. We exchanged cards and Victor opened his gifts (the two shirts and a new wallet) and we shared the last remaining slice of wedding cake. I tumbled into bed soon after, too full and too woozy to keep my eyes open through The Daily Show, and dreamt of white-walled tavernas overgrown with bougainvillea, sun-dappled streets and langorous afternoons lying on deck chairs on the sandy beaches of the Greek Islands beside my new husband. It's hard to believe we've already been married a year. I look forward to many, many more.

Smirnoff Scores

It was a shock to many vodka snobs when Smirnoff beat out 21 rival vodkas in a January blind tasting arranged by The New York Times. The panel, which included "New York’s leading cocktail experts," judged the vodkas on "interest, elegance, neutrality and balance" and Smirnoff, surprisingly, came out on top. This was big news among budget-conscious boozehounds like my husband since Smirnoff (once known as the Budweiser of vodkas) costs about $13 for a 750-ml bottle, less than three times the price of competitors it beat out in the taste test.
Last week, Victor and I got to see for ourselves, when we were invited to a blind taste test, hosted by Smirnoff at Pravda in SoHo.
This time the Smirnoff, which is the world's best selling vodka,
was up against only two competitors.
We were instructed to sniff each of the three glasses and then write down our descriptions of the aroma. Then we picked up each glass, sloshed it around and sipped it, then wrote down our observations.
During the process, we were continuously reminded that voka, by definition, is colorless, and nearly tasteless and odorless. So that was what we were looking for in our ratings.
I noted that the liquid in the glass on my far left was sweet and smooth, with a slight odor. The vodka in the glass on my far right was more pungent and had an almost medicinal taste initially, but then settled nicely. The vodka in the middle glass barely registered. It was smooth too but, in my opinion, somewhat unremarkable.
When the woman who was leading the tasting asked what we thought of the first vodka (on the left), I noted its sweetness. It was like caramel in my mouth (well, compared to the others at least). But, of course, I knew, as the other 20 or so guests did, that Smirnoff must be the vodka in the center. And, if we were grading vodkas on the traditional defintion--odorless, colorless, tasteless--then it would be the winner. So it was no surprise that when the woman took a show of hands as to which vodka met the criteria, the middle choice won. Nor was it a surprise that the middle glass contained Smirnoff. My neighbor and I correctly guessed that the vodka on the right was Grey Goose. But I was surprised to learn that the one of the left was Absolut.
The verdict: I would rate Smirnoff highest as a mixer. But if I was to order a vodka and soda (or one on the rocks), I'd probably go with Absolut.
Hey, I am not a purist. I like a little flavor in my vodka. I actually order Stoli O or Ciroc (a French vodka made from grapes) most of the time when I'm out.
For pursists, though, I'd highly recommend Smirnoff which, as we were reminded many times, is distilled three times (the maximum needed, according to Smirnoff sources--any more and the effect is negligable). But, more importantly, it is filtered through silver birch charcoal. Each drop of Smirnoff, according to the markerting reps, passes through 12 tons of charcoal, a prohibitively expensive process (one Smirnoff can only afford because it produces and sells so much vodka) that is reportedly more effective than any other means of filtration. And it is a damn good vodka, especially for the price.
Of course, after the tasting, Victor ordered an extra dry Smirnoff vodka martini straight up, with olives. While I ordered a glass of the new black cherry flavored vodka. Very flavorful.

Field Trip

My mom and stepdad helped celebrate my mom's birthday on Sunday by taking my husband and I out to dinner and a movie ("Mr & Mrs. Smith"), and serving us tea and slices of cake (cheese and carrot) then sending us home with the leftovers.
You'd think it was my birthday! All we had to do was get ourselves and the gifts we'd purchased across the river (the other river) to New Jersey. Not a bad deal.
Victor was feeling adventurous (and parsimonious), so he suggested we try to catch a bus from Penn Station in midtown Manhattan to Edgewater, which is located-you guessed it-on the eastern edge of New Jersey. For the bargain price of $2.60 apiece, we rode from Penn to one of 2 stops in Edgewater, which, unfortunately, was about 2.5 blocks from the movie theater where we were meeting my parents. Though we are New Yorkers, and I probably walk at least four times that distance every day at a minimum, it felt suddenly strange to stroll with my husband along a winding, weed-strewn sidewalk in my heels while Beamers and Benz's whizzed by us. Not to mention it was really, perspiration-provoking hot. And I was wearing a thin jacket (well, for about the first 10 seconds till I decided to carry it instead) in anticipation of the air-conditioned theater where we'd be spending the next 2 hours.
But it was a quick walk. And the A/C in that theater felt good. While we waited for my parents, I hit the candy bins, filling up a bag with Swedish fish and Skittles (my favorites--and lunch!). My parents showed up soon after. They'd already bought the tickets online and they ushered us into the theater "to get good seats." There were 5 people in the theater. The movie (or the pre-movie commercials) weren't scheduled to start for another 20 minutes. So we settled in. Then my mom opened the straw shoulder bag she'd brought along and pulled out baggies filled with dried cherries (tart and crispy) and bottled water. They like to come prepared. We all spent the next 15 minutes munching on our snacks, discussing Doubt (a play about priests and pedophilia that they had seen the day before and highly recommended--it just won the Pulitzer and a handful of Tonys), and debating the merits of anonymous sources in journalism (I'll just say I am a proponent in general, with some notable exceptions).
Then, just as we got to the mind-boggling phenomenom that is Paris Hilton, the ads kicked in. "Mr & Mrs Smith" was sort of like one long ad too--for homeowner's insurance. Not that most of us would have to worry about the problems that plagued the Smiths: The "houswife" and "high-level contractor" are actually highly skilled (and highly paid, judging from their suburban Mcmansion) assassins who have been ordered to kill each other. When they're not trying to kill each other, they're trying to elude pesky teams of highly trained assassins (with remarkably bad aim) and to reignite the spark that brought them together "five or six years ago" in Bogota.
[Spoiler alert!] Needless to say, both of them--and their marriage--survive, while their house and their would-be killers do not. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie share some amazing chemistry and even some witty banter. But their most impressive accomplishment is that they manage to survive being shot and stabbed, having their home blown up, and their getaway car (aka the minivan they stole from their neighbor) shot up, and still look beautiful throughout.
My mom, stepdad, Victor and I concluded after the film that there is no other actress today that has the same sexual appeal and screen presence as Angelina Jolie. ("If I was Jennifer Aniston, I never would have let me husband do this movie!" my mom announced). The only other star we could come up with that might hold her own against Angelina was Sophia Loren (or maybe Brigitte Bardot?)--30 years ago.
Next, we went for an early dinner at a nearby restaurant where smoking was still permitted (in the bar), my stepdad talked the manager into lifting (at least temporarily) the policy of charging for iced tea refills and I sucked down some savory scallops in a rich cream sauce (all I'd eaten that day was candy and some dried cherries--I was starving). Then it was back to my parents' place for cake and tea. And Victor and I were off. This time we took the ferry back across the river. The sun was just setting and it was still warm enough to stand on the top deck. The wind felt good in my hair. The New York skyline sparkled with thousands of twinkling lights. It felt magical.
Then we were on a bus and a subway (back under the other river) and home by 9, ready for a second slice of cake.

Summer in the City

Yeah, I know that summer doesn't officially start for another 9 days. But it sure feels like it's here already. For the past two weeks, the temps have topped out in the upper 80s and, occasionally, the low 90s. It's too hot to wear a jacket (even if it's thin cotton, as I discovered last Monday). Even a three-block walk in the city, wearing flip flops and a tank top and a loose-fitting skirt, will leave your newly exposed skin pink and covered in perspiration and grime. And if you're unlucky enough to find yourself on a subway car without A/C, as I did yesterday, you'll not only have to endure the stifling heat, but the complaints--and the B.O.--of dozens of other straphangers squeezed up against you. It's enough to make you want to splurge on a $20 cab ride. Even if the cab has no A/C, at least you'll be alone in the back seat and you can open the windows to allow a cross-breeze.
This is what I was thinking when, for the fifth time yesterday afternoon, I got on the A train, which did not have A/C--at least in my car--and was making all local stops because the local train was out of service for repairs (making my train ride nearly twice as long as normal). I was also thinking that normally I wouldn't even be on this [expletive] train anyway because the [expletive] L train would be working. But, due to "necessary track work," the L train was only operating to Union Square, two stops--and three and a half long blocks--from where I needed to be. I was also thinking that if I hadn't left my [expletive] make-up bag at the hair salon in Brooklyn Heights and forgotten about it until I got off the [expletive] A train in Chelsea and stopped by my gym for a quick workout, I could have spared myself two unanticipated rides on the A train (not to mention, an hour of my afternoon).
It's a good thing that I have an unlimited metro card.
When I finally got home at 7:45 Saturday night, I figured I'd spent about two hours and 45 minutes riding on eight different subways (or waiting for them on the platform). Calculations like that make me a little nostalgic for my car. Though, with the weekend traffic, I assured myself, I might not have saved much time in transit (though the ride definitely would have smelled better).
Victor and I had left the apartment at 9:45 that morning to attend a Jewish naming ceremony for Mike and Stacie's baby girl, Rachel. We'd never been to one before and didn't know what to expect. Stacie had written "9:30" on the emailed invite, but told me later that the actual baby naming part of the service would probably not begin before 10:30, and it was all right if we showed up then. Apparently, not everyone got that memo. When we arrived at 10:35, the inner doors to the temple were wide open and at least a third of the pews (the synagogue had formerly been a church) were filled with members of the couple's extended families and friends: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, a half-sister, and two other girl friends of Stacie's who eventually moved back to sit with Victor and me. The service was long and almost entirely in Hebrew, with the notable exception of a tribute Stacie made to her grandfather in explaining how she chose her baby's middle name (Morgan). Once the couple's baby had received her Jewish names and been blessed by the rabbi, the three of them proceeded out into the lobby--and almost their entire contingent followed. It was about 11:40 a.m. The two other friends who'd attended made their apologies and left after the ceremony, but Victor and I decided to stick around for the reception, which we'd assumed (wrongly) would immediately follow the ceremony. Turns out the service was still going on, and would be for another 55 minutes. But in the meantime, we moved along with the family to the reception hall, where attendants were laying out piles of bagels alongside plates of egg salad, whitefish spread, cream cheese, fruit, and cookies on a long table.
By now it was after noon, and Victor and I had nothing in our stomachs but coffee and seltzer. We were starving. But we'd heard that no one could touch a morsel of the food that had been spread out on the table before us until the rabbi had blessed it. That didn't end up happening until 12:45. And, of course, just as the plastic cups were being raised to toast the food, my cell phone started vibrating. It was someone from the copy desk calling with a question about the story that had kept me in the office until almost midnight the night before. I had to sneak outside quickly since cell phone use was strictly prohibited (it was the sabbath after all) in the temple or reception hall. By the time I'd returned, the whitefish spread and the egg salad were gone and there were only "everything" bagels left. I smeared some cream cheese on one and grabbed a bunch of grapes, and Victor and I stood by the wall to eat (we'd given up our seats for the elderly and pregnant, both of which were well represented). We split soon after, giving Stacie and Mike big hugs and a gift bag with a ruffly cotton dress, a towel, and a couple sea creature finger puppets for the baby (who was upstairs with the nurse, per the pediatrician's orders to keep her away from the masses till her immune system had a chance to build itself up).
Then Victor went home and I went to the hair salon. And, well, you know the rest. Except that the make-up bag was not all I forgot. I'd left my umbrella at home too. It had been bright and sunny when we left that morning. But, you guessed it, almost as soon as I stepped out of the salon, the rain started falling and I had to run to the subway station--in heels (the ceremony was also formal). Did I mention that I was wearing a black, long-sleeved, though lacy cardigan over a matching sleeveless shirt and black pants (on Stacie's recommendation that I dress conservatively and cover my shoulders for the service)? And carrying 35 pages of notes, and a print-out of my story (on my editor's instructions, should someone have a question on the story while I was out that day)--along with a magazine, gym clothes, toiletries, daybook, and sunglasses?
This was the kind of day that tests your patience and endurance as a New Yorker. By the time I got home, I had blisters on my feet. My clothes were wet with rain and perspiration. My hair was frizzy. And my stomach was grumbling.
But it was good to be home. Victor greeted me with a kiss and a cold beer. And the A/C was on. And after I ate a burrito and showered, I slipped my feet into my padded J Crew slippers with no plans of taking them off again until I went to bed. And vowed that Sunday would be a day of rest.

In Case You Were Wondering...

where I've been all week, this should give you a pretty good idea.
It's 11:27 pm on Friday night. And I am sitting at my desk at work, where I've already logged more than 52 hours this week--11.5 of them (and counting!) today--literally, sitting at this desk.
I'd love to update you on the only two events, besides the one detailed below, that I was able to escape my office long enough to attend this week. But my head feels like it's about to explode. And the story I'm actually being paid to write has gone through so many revisions tonight that I'm beginning to question whether I am able to even put a complete sentence together anymore--much less an entire blog entry.
But once I have regained my confidence and composure, or at least had a few hours of sleep, I promise to give you a proper update.

Whack-a-Mole

For the past week, I have not had a drop of alcohol. No, I'm not expecting--though that was the immediate conclusion my friends drew last week when I passed up a martini for a club soda at a dinner party. I'm not pregnant, I told them, I'm pre-op.
I was finally scheduled to have my `abnormal' mole removed today, and I'd been advised to abstain for a week before. I thought that seemed a bit harsh, but I wasn't about to do anything that would give my dermatologist a reason to postpone the surgery yet again.
Instead, Victor and I decided to stock up on a couple six-packs of my favorite beers--Brooklyn Brewery's Monster Ale, an English Barleywine brew available only for six months a year; and Ommegang, a Belgian strong dark ale--so we could toast the successful surgical removal of my mole tonight.
Alas, as I learned today, the alcohol ban extends for 24 hours post-surgery as well. So writing about the beer is about all I'll be able to do with them tonight. Otherwise, we might be toasting prematurely, since alcohol apparently thins the blood (increasing the risk of post-operative bleeding and a return visit for more sutures), slows healing, and increases bruising. I was also instructed not to make any sudden moves, lift any heavy objects, or engage in any physical activity that might increase my heart rate too much or strain the stitches (located on my right side, midway between my waist and my chest)--all three of which I managed to do within minutes of leaving his office.
When I walked out the door, looked at my cell phone, and realized I had already been away from my office for nearly two hours, I instinctively picked up the pace en route to the subway station four blocks away. Before I realized it, my heart was pounding, and I had to force myself to slow to a stroll. Then, of course, I was lugging my Coach bag with me, which contained gym clothes, make-up bag, a galley of a book I had to review, an umbrella and sunglasses (both of which I'd end up using today--welcome to NY in June), among other things. I'm not sure what the weight minimum is to qualify for "heavy," but I can tell you my bag was not light. As for the `no sudden movements' rule...obviously, my dermatologist does not take the subway very often. The seats were filled when I got on the D train, so I had to hold onto a pole. And immediately, as we lurched away from the station, I was yanked back so forcefully that I nearly lost my grip on the pole. So much for stationary.
But I did take some of his advice. I've been taking it easy, and I'm on Day 8 of sobriety. With my editor's blessing, I left the office a half hour early. And I have kept my movements to a minimum since I got home, lifting my arm only to stick a burrito in the toaster oven and to type this long overdue blog entry.
The procedure itself was pretty painless. A nurse administered local anesthesia with a needle then left me alone in the room for 10 minutes with orders to relax and stay still (I nearly fell asleep). Then the surgeon came in and tried to distract me with questions about my job and my tattoo (or, rather, the remains of my tattoo) as he cut a 3/4-inch incision around the mole. I looked the other way. But I did catch a glimpse of the dissolvable 'thread' he was using to stitch my skin together after the surgery. And I felt a lump in my throat as I realized that the thread he was holding up was being sewn into my skin. Then he wove in a second set of stitches (as you probably guessed from the alcohol ban and long, detailed list of post-operative instructions, this dermatologist doesn't like to take any chances).
The entire procedure took less than 10 minutes--less time than it took the nurse to run through the post-op instructions. And, now, in just 16 and a half hours, I'll be able to toast the complete annihilation of my potentially cancerous mole. Not that I'm counting...

Babies and Busy-ness

It's been a busy week again and I haven't had as much time to blog as I'd hoped to have.
But I know at least one person (and I'm sure there are thousands more who can relate) who has even less time these days to devote to her interests. Stacie has ceded control of her days to a pint-sized girl with a powerful set of lungs (and a penchant for projectile vomiting, apparently). Her nurse's tenure ended a few days ago, and it was a tearful goodbye. After the 10-day respite (a very generous gift from her family) Stacie and her husband have taken on round-the-clock child-rearing responsibilities. Though Stacie did manage to take a break long enough to email a photo of her daughter at one week old. I have a feeling such breaks will come less often once her husband goes back to work. Amazing how such a tiny little human being can have such a big impact on your life.