La La La Lanterna

I can't stress enough that the beauty of New York is that around each corner is a gem of a place (or a man peeing on the street).  

I love the popularity of back gardens in New York - not so much gardens as glass enclosures - but gardens nonetheless.  *There are some restaurants that have actual gardens without a roof, this is a story about not one of those.

The theatre school alum that live here in NYC convened in one such garden the other night and I think you all should go.  It's called La Lanterna and it is located in the West Village on MacDougal at 3rd Street.  

This is why:

I got there first and sheltered myself from the rain. I was instantly welcomed into the cozy dark interior with tiny wooden tables and a tree lit with fairy lights.  The owner, a lovely old Italian gentlemen (who later I saw reading the 'Big Butt' page of an Italian newspaper - or at least I think it was a newspaper) scurried to the garden to see if there was a table available.  No.  So I sat at a little table and waited.

By the time all my friends arrived, a table big enough had become available and we went to the back (this is incredible for NYC - you usually have to wait hours!).  The garden is basically like a greenhouse with tables.  And flickering candles.  And fairy lights.  And a fountain.  So not like my grandma's greenhouse at all.

We sat for hours, as the rain tapped on the glass ceiling and the sky grew darker.  The food is good, not over-the-top amazing but tasty and enjoyable.  They specialize in thin-crust pizzas and panini's.  I had the pesto pizza which was flavourful and lovely, especially with the creamy goat cheese.  I also had the most delicious cappuccino AND a mind-blowing tiramisu.  Like crazy mind blowing.  I love love love tiramisu!  And La Lanterna's was creamy, light, and flavoured perfectly with marscapone, cocoa and coffee liqueur.  I clapped.

The waitress let us sit there and catch up for FOUR hours.  How nice is that? I realize sometimes you want to bill, but I appreciated the 'sit and relax' atmosphere.  In the dark, the glow of the candles, the sound of the rain, and good friends gave me that warm, cozy feeling I miss sometimes in this big city.

I loved La Lanterna so much that I met my friend the very next day for cappuccino's in the garden by day.  As you can see in the pictures I highly enjoyed myself.  

It's the perfect spot to sit and write for hours without evil daggers from the servers trying to get you to leave.  You almost have to ask them if you can leave.

Conclusion?  When in New York and in need of shelter from the rain, a corner to talk to a friend, or a sanctuary from busy Manhattan streets, make La Lanterna your destination.

I am making the Engineer go right now for some damn tiramisu.  I am actually drooling. . . 

Hero Hero, Tasty Treat

I am a fairly well-traveled individual, but I must admit that at times I am fairly clueless.  It surprises me that sometimes I can be completely clueless in a city that is a) English Speaking and b) North American.  But I am and that is all there is to it.  It's as if I have to do these 'new york' things (usually with food) and sometimes get them wrong with my indecisive nature.  That is why I ended up with the bagel with lox AND grape jelly that one time.

The cluelessness I am referring to happened last week when I discovered that a corner deli near our Brooklyn home is famous for its sandwiches.  I LOVE sandwiches. Like really really love them.  So my excitement was at an all time high as I set out to Jesse's Deli for a cup of joe (look at my lingo ladies!) and a hero sandwich.  Problem is?  I don't really know what a hero is.

I go into the deli that is also a corner store - the common thing here right?  And I promptly look for a menu behind the glass case of meat.  There is none.  Uh oh.  Maybe they don't serve sandwiches anymore.  I dully look around for another patron to see if someone else is ordering a sandwich.  Nope.  

I look at the Adam's family look-alike behind the cash register and ask if they serve sandwiches. She looks at me as if I am some sort of reject. Of course they do.

Oh right. Okay.  Ummm, do you have a menu?

Now she talks to me like I am slow, but in a nice way at least.  No.  I just pick what I want.

What?  No!  I may love food but putting it together is not my strong point!  I can only follow recipes!  I have no ability to create a dish blending flavours together that will sing in your mouth!  Same goes for sandwich construction.  It's an art!  An art of blending the right cheese with the right meat, adding some things like olives or capers to give it a certain 'je ne sais qua' with the right amount of mustard.  And now she wants me to make up my own?  With her watching?  There was like a bazillion meats behind the counter.

Anything?  Oh dear.

Now the girl is joined by her dad, who I suspect is Jesse, and her mother, and then what I can only assume to be the brother (family owned joint right?) all watching me in amusement. I smile at them all and say:  meat.  That's right.  I just said 'meat' and that was it.  

What sort of meat?

I glance at the case and rack my brain.  Ham!  and Salami!

Great.  What kind of ham?  What kind of salami?  

Urgh.  

Honey ham?  Spicy salami?

Cheese?

Yes.

What kind?

Oh.  Uh.  What kind do you have?

Anything.  Cheddar, muenster, provolone . . 

Provolone!

Bread?

Bread.

What kind?

What kind do you have?  THIS IS WHERE A MENU WOULD BE HANDY!!

Roll, white, multi, bagel, hero . . 

Hero?  Hero?  What's that?  I've heard of the New York hero.

They all look at me in shock. Have I never had a New York Hero (insert thick Brooklyn accent here)?

No.  I say and smile.  I'm from Canada.  They all nod and smile then coddle me.  It's here that they all start helping build my hero sandwich so that it is the best tasting sandwich ever.  It's been such an ordeal but finally the brother passes me over a wax-paper wrapped sandwich and I turn to leave the shop.  Just in time for a new customer to say he wants a liverwurst hero with  extra cheese. Oh god, I think, that sounds good.  Ooooh, I am learning the fun things I can have!  Pate hero?  HELLO?  Delicious!

Anyhoo, I head home with my hero in hand.  Proud that I have accomplished yet another New York food fame thing.  I get home, sip some coffee and open my sandwich.

I realize I have had a hero.  It's a subway.  But don't let Brooklyn-ites hear me say it.  I am pretty sure the Subway chain is banned in this borough.  I can see why.  This hero far surpassed anything I've ever eaten there.  Still.  It was just a sub sandwich.

note: this is not a picture of my hero - but another Jesse sandwich. It will give you an idea of how much stuff they put on them!

Bollywood Bridesmaid

It's been quite some time since I actually talked about the life of a bridesmaid.  Which, I must admit, is now over.  How odd.  For what seemed like forever, I was the go-to bridesmaid with at least 2 weddings a year.  

I retired the taffeta and uncomfortable shoes last September, in a dear old friend's wedding.  And what a wedding to go out on.  It was a four-day Bollywood wedding that had its fair share of drama, colour, and Bhangra dancing.  So I am sure this is going to be at least a four-parter friends.

Let's start with ensemble number one.  Miss Indian Bride had them made for us in India.  They are what she referred to as 'suits' - leggings and a tunic top.  Mine was a lovely peacock green colour.  And although I gave MIB my exact measurements, the little Indian ladies must have assumed they were in metric, or in imperial, or in some magical measurement that they thought there was no possibility of someone being as big as me.  Either way, the leggings didn't go past my ankles and the tunic got stuck on my breasts.  

Needless to say, the outfit needed tailoring.  But one can't exactly take an Indian suit to any old tailor.  One must go to the Indian tailor in Little India.  That means I had to find it.  And I was with my father. . . .

We traipsed to 49th and Main, searched out the address which was at the top of a tiny flight of stairs above a Bollywood movie store, down a long hallway and into a tiny apartment that doubles as a store front. The little lady pointed me to the change room so I could show her what needed letting out.  

Do you see a problem here?  Like the fact that the tunic didn't fit the first time?

So I peeled it on again, sans the leggings which I told her to let ALL the way out, stepped out of the change room only to have her shake her head and shoo me back in.  

Yeah.  I know.  I told her it was tight.  

Then it happened.  I got stuck.  Stuck pulling it off my body in such a way that my arms were sticking up and I could not get the tunic up or down.  

There are things in life that should never happen.

1.  You should never pass gas in a library.  

2.  You should never pee you pants laughing (in public anyways).  

3.  And you should Never Ever have your father with you when trying on bridesmaid outfits that are too small.  Because inevitably, he will have to come into the change room (which is too small, so you BOTH have to go out in front of the tailor and the grandmother who stares at you with horror), close his eyes (because you yelled at him to do so) and rip a tunic off of your body that will also take your bra halfway up your shoulders.  

A moment that we would both like to forget.  

The leggings were let out ALL the way only for me to discover that the damn material stretches and is supposed to be gathered around your ankles.  Because I let mine out, they stretched so much so, that hem fell past my toes giving me the look of Kermit the frog.  So when I forgot, yes forgot, the groom's wedding ring in the car and had to dash out of the temple to get it, a foot of green material extended past my toes and almost hit the bride's aunt in the face.

Bibimbop Me Home

New York is the city that never sleeps right?

Lies!  On Sunday nights people go home early and close their restaurants.

While enjoying the music at Carnegie Hall, my tummy growled and gurgled embarrassingly and my thoughts drifted to hot ramen soup at Ippudo . . . . 

So we hightailed it to Union Square only to find that our only regular haunt had closed 8 minutes earlier!  GAH!  I was in the hangry mood, the mood that mixes hunger and anger.  I wanted nothing more than my ramen damn it!!

But around the corner sat Sura, a Korean restaurant that was open until 11!  We clamoured inside, to find the most gracious hosts (I would not be so nice if two new diners came it 10 minute before closing).  The room is comfortable and cozy, with subtle Asian accouterments dangling from the walls and ceilings all melding together to be a comforting and classy place to grab some rice.

If you visit NYC and love Korean, I recommend this find.  I am not a Korean connoisseur at all, but I do know fresh and tasty food when I get it.  And even though I desperately wanted my bowl of ramen, the hot stone bowl of beef bibimbop did the trick.

It came fast and steaming with lean ground beef and brown rice, only 500 calories!  And full of green veggies!  Plus really lovely and flavourful.

The bar was well stocked with jars of home-infused soju:  traditional Korean alcohol infused with fruits and herbs.  They were a beautiful sight with all the colour of the fruit/herb of which was being infused.

I will go back any day for some comfort Korean and a shot of super nice service - which will be quickly opposed the minute you walk out the door and find some idiot urinating on the street yelling at cabs.  

All in a night in New York right?

www.suranyc.com

The Symphony Epiphany

The Engineer and I sauntered down to Carnegie Hall to delight in the classical stylings of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.  It is our second Carnegie Hall symphony of the year, and my first symphony experience since my parents dragged me to the Winnipeg Symphony when I was a kid (then led by Bramwell Tovey - who then moved to Vancouver and is spending the summer in NYC - is this guy being in every city I am in, a sign I should go see him or something?)

NYU Stern students were given free tickets from the Creative Director, Clive Gillinson, after his talk in the 'Leaders of New York' series.  Except our seats were very front row, in front of the cellos.  We couldn't see a thing.  

My view was literally the ass of some cellist.  And I know this is horribly uncouth of me, but my first thought was that I hope she doesn't pass gas during the overtures.  I probably would after all.  I sometimes pass gas doing lunges.  

Due to the fact I could not really see the musicians, my experience was to simply experience the music.

That I did.  

I sat there, letting my mind drift to summer fields in Alberta and good books and scones (random I know).  I also started thinking about my own career choice and the path I am walking down.  

I am an actress.  And although I love the actual craft, it has come to my attention over the years, that I don't necessarily like all the crappy baggage that comes with it.  Unfortunately, I still can't simply walk away.  

I have been in a pretty serious funk recently.  It's lasted a fairly long time.  What exactly is it in this business that gives my stomach a sinking feeling? And for some reason, the rushing notes from the violins made me realize that I hate permanently watching my weight.

That's it.  Not the auditions, or the rejection, or the crappy scripts.  It's the sheer amount of time I spend focusing on body issues.  In any other profession, I am slim with an athletic frame.  In the world of Hollywood, I am 'Bridget Jones-esque'.  I kid you not.  One breakdown actually used this description.

Lately I have been especially playing into the assumption that there is a game to be played and I have to be willing to play in it.  That means working out EVERY SINGLE day (which I do) and laying off all things good, like sugar, carbs, and citrus (damn you South Beach).  I agreed to play the game because even my most favorite of the curvy actresses have caved in.  Literally.  They all lost weight.  Kate Winslet is skinnier, Scarlett Johannson is no longer her pretty curvy self, and even Nia Vardalos was surprisingly skinny.

But for some reason, listening to the music, I realized it was a shitty shitty game to be playing.  I certainly don't begrudge working out.  I love sweating.  I feel deep satisfaction in getting strong and having sweat drip into my eyes.  

It's the food thing.

Not to say I can give it all up and eat McDonald's.  No no no. I love healthy food.  Nutritious food that tastes fresh and flavourful is great.  But do I have to give up eating dim sum with the Engineer, or fresh butter on hot french bread, or steaming bowls of Thai curry?  

I think that the game Hollywood starlets play is a deeply sad one.  How could anyone possibly be fulfilled on a life devoted to eating raw food?  RAW?  That one makes me shake my head in complete wonderment.  I mean sure, Demi looks great for her age, but give that woman a chocolate cake already!  Sure she is married to a much younger, hot male, but she still looks like she has a pole stuck up her ass.  It's the freak-ass raw food!  Or refusing to eat fruit?  No sugar?  None? Like not one cookie here and there or a cup of sweet tea?

All of a sudden, when I realized that I would rather indulge in the amazing delicacies this world has to offer than spend the rest of my life handcuffed to eating only to stay alive, I thought 'nah' it's not worth it.  

Hmmm, now what?  Maybe I could make a happy career out of being the slightly overweight best friend?  I think that is a good theme.  Even in the scripts I write, the character I imagine myself playing always is associated with food and is of the round variety (my sneaky way of getting cast).  The quirky best friend always has more fun anyways . . . .  and you know why?  Because she is ALLOWED to eat craft services!!!

An example of how life is NOT the movies

Yesterday I met my friend on the Upper West for tea at the lovely 'Alice's Tea Cup' which serves big pots of steaming tea along with fresh scones complete with cream and jam.  I'm just telling you because you should go if ever in New York.  Just like its name, the tea shop is whimsical.  Full of mismatched tea cups and cozy surroundings to shelter you from the spring rain.

After tea, I headed back down to Soho to see Nia Vardalos (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and Donald Petrie (How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days) do a talk about their upcoming film, My Life in Ruins.  Unfortunately, the foreboding clouds decided to release their cargo on the streets of New York in the form of a torrential downpour.

I have to admit, it was sort of fun.   Coming up from the subway station, putting up my umbrella, and dashing around the puddles on a warm New York night.  I love walking through the village and Soho mostly because it is the New York you think it is going to be - cobble streets, yellow cabs, tiny restaurants and bars full of happy people sheltering the storm.

Even though I had my umbrella, I still got pretty wet.  But I felt like I was in a movie.  Walking the dark shiny streets, dodging cabs, being on a mission to find my friends in Sex and the City.  I imagined myself to be like Carrie or Charlotte or any movie star really, gleaming cheeks from the moisture, hair sexily stuck to my neck in curls, looking for a break in the clouds.  

I arrived early, got a front row seat, and promptly went to the bathroom to add some gloss and tousle my now curly and rain-sexy hair.  Then I looked in the mirror.  UGH.  I look like a drowned rat!!!!!  Not some uber-glamorous movie star in a Brad Pitt movie!  My hair was curly AND frizzy AND flat against my skull.  My mascara dripped on my cheeks that were NOT gleaming with moisture but red from exhaustion.  I was just about to see an actress I admire and a director who could maybe cast me one day, and I looked like a wilted/water-dredged homeless girl.

Thank goodness for emergency bobby-pins, SMASHBOX O-Glow blush, and a dab of lip gloss. I might not have looked like a movie-star but I was at least presentable.  And glad too, because I talked to Nia.  Like an idiot I am sure, and it will be cast on iTunes for the world to see, but at least I looked sort of normal.

Sheesh.  What else do movies lie about?

The Cello

My parents are shocked at our Facebook/Twitter/Blog generation who tell the world all that is private and no longer keep anything sacred.  I say, meh, things in life are funny and ridiculous and if I can make my friends laugh behind their desks on Monday mornings than so be it.  

This will be one of those TMI entries. 

Before I was ever in a long-term relationship, I used to worry, actually worry about the day in which I would be in a long-term relationship, sharing close quarters with a man, and have gas.

THAT is what I worried about!  Not meeting him, or getting along, or believing in fundamental issues. No.  I actually worried about what happened on those days that I had bad gas.

Before the Engineer I never spoke about breaking wind, or doing a number two (aaack - the shame!) or any bodily function.  The idea of ever doing these things in the vicinity of a BF was beyond me.  I would run down to the gym in my building, or make the guy go get me a Starbucks, or hold it all in for a week (this is what led to my hospitalization in 1998).

So you can imagine that getting comfy with Engineer may have taken a while. Ummm, nope. On our second date, I got the flu. Like really really bad.  So bad that the Engineer finally had to take me to the doctor for a shot of penicillin.  It was a late-night clinic near a drug store and they had run out of the shot.  The doctor asked the Engineer to run to the drug store, and get the shot she would call in. As he was leaving the clinic she yelled, actually yelled, after him to also pick up some Imodium to stop my diarrhea.  I think that was the end of my 'delicate flower no bodily functions' charade.

It's sort of gone downhill ever since.  It's been very liberating actually.  No longer do I feel the horror of bloating, I can let it pass and not worry that the Engineer is going to judge me.  

Not that he likes it.  But he does put up with it.  And it makes him laugh.  He has a sort of annoying habit of imitating the noise after the incident.  But I suppose me letting one go is also annoying.  I think he takes a secret thrill in getting the pitch just right.

We were at friends the other day for a BBQ, and they have a cello.  The Engineer thought it would be funny to play me a song on the cello.  A song of my farts.  And that is when he proceeded to play different notes to the hysterical laughter of my friends as he described the unfortunate noises I can produce.  

That's when I thought, 'the romance is officially dead'.  My question?  How do I go back to a level of secrecy and demure feminine behaviour after my boyfriend has played the songs of my toots for a BBQ audience?

The Tailoring Nazi/Russian Man

On nearly every New York corner there is a laundromat that advertises alterations.  So one would think that prices are fairly competitive in the tailoring business.  

I have some pants that needed hemming.  Due to the fact I have short legs I always need my pants hemming, and seeing as my mum lives a province (and right now an entire country) away from me, I am fairly adept at getting my pants hemmed.

So today I decided to run errands AND walk the dogs - which is always a bad thing to do.  Especially when it is 31 degrees Celsius with an unrelenting sun pelting down on your head.

I walked the three blocks (the long kind) to Court Street in order to drop the massive box I have for UPS off, as well as carry three pairs of pants in a bag and pull my slumping dogs who are not doing so great in the heat.  Needless to say by the time I got to Court Street I was a sweating mess.

UPS box?  Done.

Mr. Mop poop?  Done.

Brooklyn chase a pigeon and get his leash caught up in my legs so that I trip over?  Done.

Now for the pants.  

I chose a nice looking place (mistake 1), tied the dogs outside (mistake 2) and trundled in to the fitting room before asking for rates (mistake 3).

The tailor was a super sweet man with an incredibly thick accent that I assumed to be Russian.  But who knows, it would be any Eastern European accent, they all end up sounding the same when they yell at you.  Wait, I am getting ahead of myself.

So on went the three pants, and with each pant I got even more hot, more unable to whip in and out of the trousers because my skin was sticking to them.  The dogs were starting to cry woefully outside and the Russian/indiscernible man was telling jokes I could not understand.

Finally, all three on and off, time to drop off when he tells me it will be $64.  $64!!!!! WHAT?  WHAT?  In all my hemming life I have NEVER paid more than $12 for any one item, including a very complicated dress.  Suddenly I missed my little lady on 4th and McDonald.

I couldn't hide my shock, and the tailor, with his assistant, offered to do all the pants for $58.  Firstly, all those pants were bought on a sale last summer and aren't worth more that $20 each, so to pay $20 each to hem them seemed retarded.  Secondly, $64??  GAH!  The old me would have shrugged and slumped out of the shop, feeling horrible spending remorse but would rather that than saying 'no' and taking back pants.

But the new me would not do that.  The new me lied and said I would have to go home and check my Canadian bank account, wash them and then bring them back because I wouldn't want to hem them and then wash them only to find they would shrink.

Then all hell broke loose.  The tailor and his assistant started to freak out, saying I would not find better or cheaper (of which I said I think at least $12 per pair was what I pay for at home).  Then he started ripping out the pins so they flew in all directions (I had to duck out of the way) and screaming at me for wasting his time and not to bother coming back.  If I were to walk down to the other guy I would not find a better deal.  I was a stupid, silly cheapskate (or I think that is what he said).  And all this time, my dogs are FREAKING out outside because it is really hot and they can hear me.

The assistant crams my pants back into my bag, throws it at me and the tailor sweeps me away with his hand.  I race outside trying to flee the scene as fast as possible only to find Mr. Mop going ballistic, even as I scurry to untie him.  He is crying at the top of his screechy voice, Brooklyn starts his high-pitch barking, my sweat is dripping in my eyes, and the tailor is cursing me inside.

All in all, an unpleasant experience.  

On the way home, closer to the projects and unfinished townhouses that is my street, I darted into a tiny Chinese laundromat that does alterations.  I have learned to (a) ask how much first and (b) bring my dogs in.  Here?  $8 each!  That is a $40 difference!  

So I left two of them.  The only bad thing is, the woman barely spoke English so I hope my pants don't come back cut in half.  

I feel proud that I didn't spend $64 on tailoring but sad the Russian man swore at me in whatever language he spoke.  I also feel sort of sad that my pants are being hemmed by some Chinese and/or African-American lady who lives in the project and is only getting paid $5 an hour.  

New York Nights

The best thing about New York is that there are things to do around every corner that are something out of the ordinary.  Or maybe they are ordinary but being in New York makes them feel special?

Well whatever holds true, my Friday night was quite fun and here is a 'how-to' guide so you can have your own New York night.

When warm weather rolls around, it's time for drinking those icy cold drinks that we have shelved for the winter.  White/Rose wine, mojitos, Pimms, and my personal favorite:  sangria.

 Our first stop was for this particular beverage at the 'Olive Tree Cafe' in which the tables are chalkboards so you can play tic-tac-toe and the sangria comes cold and boozy.  Perfect.  We polished off a few pitchers, okay I polished off a few pitchers with some help.  I couldn't help it!  

The sangria here is delicious and is filled with cherries - a nice twist.  Plus it has substance, no watering down here.  The Olive Tree serves Mediterranean fare as well as melted cheese and a few nachos (I always run out of cheese before nachos, but not this plate, this plate was all cheese).  The Olive Tree is also home to a great comedy club - so you can have your sangria and laugh the night away. Nice combo right?  http://www.comedycellar.com/

Then it was off for Peking duck.  As we were with two German girls who don't have everyday access to this particular dish, we cabbed over to Chinatown and found ourselves under fluorescent lighting in a hospital green restaurant called:  Nice Green Bo Restaurant.  The fare was cheap, the duck crispy, and the noodles contained unknown meat products that I started to suspect might be old chicken or Mr. Mop's cousin.  But, avoiding that, the rest was delicious.  

Check it out at Mott and Bayard. 

Don't go too late though, when it's time to close the staff sees no problem in putting the chairs on the tables surrounding you, grabbing plates out of hands from people eating their noodles (this happened at the table next to us), and sitting next to you and staring at you with exasperated expressions. Take a hint already and LEAVE.

Finally, we capped the night off at the coolest lounge in the LES:  The Back Room.  Which is literally, down the stairs and in a back room.  It was once a hopping speakeasy that did a roaring trade during the Prohibition era.  To live up to their history, TBR serves cocktails in tea cups, beer covered in paper bags, and one exit is through a bookshelf!  Great atmosphere and DELICIOUS cocktails - mine was called 'Bees Knees' and it was made with honey vodka!  YUM-O!!!  

It's located at 102 Norfolk but is not really visible from the sidewalk.  It is nestled between two small bars and behind a white gate with a bouncer who will let you in, if you ask nicely.

This is why I love New York:  you can start your evening off in an establishment that started the careers of Dave Chapelle and Darrell Hammond and end up at a piece of history that used to house flapper dancers and the mob.  

Go Pogo!

If you read my blog, you are aware that I will try almost anything in the name of fitness.  Even jogging (which I bailed on after one session, because let's face it:  jogging sucks).  

I have tried African dance (which didn't go so well), aqua size (a paddle pool full of old biddies), pole dancing, boxing, cycling, yoga, and hot pilates just to name a few.  I have tried everything.  And then yesterday, I tried the mother of all kooky workouts set out to make the worker-outer have fun and not notice they are sweating like a pig:  POGO. 

That's right, pogo.  As in the stick we all bounced on as kids.  You should be getting warning signs in your head right about now.  If you know me at all, you know that attempting pogo was the last thing I should have done.

I am a klutz. I don't fall snowboarding, no, I fall when I am standing still in the chairlift line. Just the other day, I took a nasty fall while walking the Engineer and dogs, tripping on . . . NOTHING.  I mean this is the girl who looked like a hyena with Tourettes at African dance.  I should have listened to my own warning bells.

Except the most amazing thing happened.  I rocked.

It was so unexpected.  I mean I had dropped my pogo stick as I was digging it out of the supply room.  I banged my knee when we were doing 'toe taps' on it.  So it was a complete shock that I could actually pogo. When I got both feet on, something miraculous happened.  Something deep within the nature of my being nudged that kid in me that used to hop around the neighborhood, and I could bounce.

I must say, it is the funnest workout EVER.  You just jump around the gym on a pogo stick.  The teacher was impressed by my pogo dexterity, citing the fact it took her 45 minutes to get the hang of it.  None of the other girls could bounce for more than one jump.  I ruled class.

Our teacher set up an 'obstacle course' involving running back and forth to get boxes, push ups, sit ups and pogo bouncing.  She said the first person to tap the wall was the winner.  And that other inner kid in me, the one who loved competition, made its ugly appearance.  I raced with every fibre of my being to be the winner.  To do those push ups faster than the other women in the class.  To bounce in a straight line.  To tap the wall and be declared a winner.  Because I AM A WINNER.  

The sweet victory was mine and I bounced around in circles to celebrate. I blew everyone else out of the water and it felt good.  Just like those races at those gym things in school, I beat everyone with my sheer focus and will.  I AM A WINNER.

There were three of us in class.  But still, I beat the other two so I am still the overall champion.

Have Dogs, Will Travel

I've once again made the bi-coastal hop to spend time with the Engineer for an undetermined amount of time.  And seeing as I can no longer leave my dogs with anyone (let's face it, who would want them?) I packed them up and brought them to New York with me.

You want to travel with pets?

Here is my step-by-step guide:

1.  Purchase kennel and then bribe your dogs into it with various treats and toys.  Get them used to the comfort of it at least a week prior to your departure.  The key is baiting tiny biscuits in the blanket so it seems like a scavenger hunt.

2.  When one dog is happily sleeping in their 'house', shove the other one in and close the door.  Continue to give them treats through the holes until they stop growling.

3.  Take the dogs for a long walk before flight.

4.  Give your dogs gravol in cheese so they are drowsy.

5.  Clean up dog vomit that contains whole gravol pills from kitchen floor making yourself late for the airport.

6.  Race to airport.

7.  Put sweaters on dogs, then wrap the little one in the brown blanket so he blends in with background, and place warmed up heat packs in kennel so dogs don't get cold.  Shove a quivering Mr. Mop in on top of blanket and Brooklyn.

8.  Tilt kennel away from Air Canada lady so she only sees one dog, as the little one has uncovered himself from the blanket (skip step if you are on West Jet).

9. Pay $110 for ONE dog flying to New York

10.  Sweat from lying

11.  Go through customs, drop your bag as you look for doggie passports and slide cheese through holes of crate so dogs stop crying.

12.  Pass through customs without the guy even asking for doggie passports that you get especially.  He will confiscate your apple however.

13.  Remove dogs from crate as security runs a drug swab thing through empty crate.

14.  Hold on to dogs for dear life as they feel the urge to run down conveyor belt carrying luggage.

15.  Still try to pretend there is only one dog when Air Canada man comes to take them away

16.  Shove dogs back into crate (now they are putting up fight as not drowsy because they vomited gravol).

17.  Cry a bit as dogs are wheeled away.

18.  Yell after them, "They won't die of a heart attack right?  Or freeze?" as the Air Canada man sends you a 'you are a freak' look

19.  Listen to the dogs yelps of fear die away as rest of the security line looks at you and shakes their heads.

20.  Glue yourself to window in order to watch grounds crew put kennel in appropriate plane.

21.  Get on plane.  Ask flight attendants if dogs will be okay.  Blush when flight attendant tells you to take a seat.

22.  Drink vodka.

23.  Get off plane, shoving the old man walking slowly in front of you out of way.  Say a quick 'hi' to the Engineer and then feverishly wait at the special baggage department.  

24.  Race to lady pushing cart with crate.  

25.  Let dogs out and give them kisses and treats.

26.  Clean up pee from Engineer's shoe that Mop has let go in his excitement.  

27.  Never fly with pets again.

Oh, I forgot the step that tells the lady in line to shut up when she looks into kennel and exclaims there are two dogs in a loud voice.  Again, skip if you are flying West Jet.

Back to Two

I have always known that I was a bit of an idiot when I got two dogs.  I got them both at the same time, which is totally overwhelming and trust me, I got lots of criticism.  

I'm sort of used to it now, and I admit, it's lots of work.  One is a breeze compared to two. People will tell you that two is the same as one, but that's just not true.  There are pros and cons - and one of the biggest pros, I believe, is that my two dogs always have each other.

This past Easter weekend, Brooklyn got really sick.  I kept waiting for it to go away, but it didn't and we inevitably went to see the vet. I was so lucky I had a friend with me, because when the vet informed me that Brooklyn would need to stay in the 'hospital' for three days, I promptly burst into tears.

I went home with just his leash and settled into a routine with just one dog.  Mop handled the absence of Brooklyn really well.  In fact, I suspect that he was quite pleased that I came home without the runt that Mop likes to use as a chew toy.  

It surprised me how much I not only worried about my little man, but also how the house seemed emptier.  Quieter.  Well, that's obvious I guess.

For the past few days, Mop has been good as gold.  Quiet, well-behaved, I could even take him into stores!  Clearly, this dog who I always say is 'part-asshole' is maybe only a little jerk because of his little brother, not because of his breed.  

After the first night, Brooklyn's absence was horrible.  I think that even Mop was upset because he moped from room to room with his tail down.  Or maybe it was because he was feeling a bit of what Brooklyn has.  I had a lovely surprise on my kitchen floor.

Because I believed the former, I thought Mop would be pleased as punch to see my little guy.  Nope.  Mop took one look at the conehead Brooklyn and immediately hid under the bed in a temper.  Poor sweet Brooklyn was so happy to see Mop, and tried to play with him.  But all he got was a growl and a baring of teeth.  

Mop actually seemed afraid of Brooklyn.  I mean he usually doesn't hide under the bed for anything short of a thunder storm.  It must be the cone.  Or the fact that Brooklyn smells weird.

Anyways, the moral of the story is that I no longer feel like an idiot for getting two dogs.  They make my house a home now, and without eight little pitter patter paws near me, it just doesn't feel right.  We are a furry little family.  Even Mop came around to the arrival of Brooklyn.  He just finished giving him his nightly gay-lover bath.

The other moral?  Get pet insurance.

PS.  Conehead Brooklyn is all sorts of amusement.  He's already got himself stuck on the carpet, once into a corner and is currently bumping into objects in my office which in turn make him jump, and bump into something else.  FYI - my office has three pieces of furniture in it