As Long As This Ice Doesn’t Melt / I Know I’ll Stay Alive

It is soul-crushingly hot in NYC.  Even in the shade, it’s unbearable.  I have never enjoyed summer weather (or any weather that is not snow), but days like this underscore exactly why heat is so commonly used as a metaphor for anger.  Best of all, at night when it “cools down” to the mid-80s (with 50% relative humidity), it’s still hot enough to merit a local heat advisory and keep me from my favorite anger outlet: a three-mile run through my neighborhood.  I cannot WAIT until this wave passes and I can start training again.

In the meantime, this is how I am coping:

1. Grande half-caff iced coffee, taken black. 
   Con: It will vaporize within 4 blocks unless you suck it down really, really fast.
   Pro: That momentary brain freeze will feel euphoric.
2. Aveeno Continuous Protection Sunblock Spray, 70 SPF.
   Pro: Honestly the best sunscreen I’ve come across in a while; very light, easy to apply, not greasy or irritating, and odorless.
   Con: Since I can’t see or feel it on my skin, I’m not sure how to confirm my suspicion that it just melts off my skin as soon as I step into direct sunlight.

I Am, Like, So Totally California

Disclaimer: I STILL have never been to California.  (This may be remedied as soon as July or August, when I am tentatively planning a trip out to the Left Coast.  In my dreams, I fly out to Seattle to visit Jess #1, and then spend an awesome week on a rented motorcycle, driving down the coast towards LA–via Portland and the Northern California redwood forests and the San Francisco Zoo–to visit Jess #2.)  In any case, though, you came here for a quality story based on actual real-life events, not a list of my vague summer plans.  So, onward.

I first read about the existence of date shakes in National Geographic.  They had an illustrated sidebar about regional American food specialties, and I noticed that in addition to a variety of foodstuffs I was intimately familiar with (Beef on Weck, Coffeemilk, Kringle), there were some peculiar delights I had not tried.  One of those was a California treat, the date shake.

I’m not really sure what else besides sitting in front of this pinned-up article for more than eight hours a day inspired me to actually make my own date shake this week, but I decided I had a craving for one.  In fact, I’d never actually eaten a date prior to this week.  Mom would occasionally bake date bread for Grandpa on Father’s Day or his birthday, but I am pretty sure I never ate any of that.*

Based on some half-hearted Googling and a quick search on Seamless Web, I determined that there were really no reliable date shake vendors in NYC (kind of surprising, actually, given how many other California trends seem to get imported).  Instead, the minute I finished up at work, I booked it to Whole Foods to pick up vanilla protein powder (thick and frothy without the saturated fat of ice cream) and dates, which were not available fresh, to my chagrin.  (Not that I would really appreciate the difference at this point… I just heard the fresh ones were good.)  I settled for the dried, pitted variety, billed on the plastic container as “Nature’s Candy.”  This was a promising slogan.

After Red-Belt-With-Black-Stripe Comes The Coffee Belt

I am (finally) taking my brown belt test this evening, after postponing it three times.  I’ve been running through Taegeuk 8 in my head since I got up this morning (no, really, I was half-practicing it during my commute).  However, still operating on a sleep deficit since my flight back from Madison on Monday, I could not resist the strong lure of Starbucks when I went out for a walk this afternoon, and sucked down a Venti-sized beverage during the post-lunch lull.

My mistake?  Not opting for decaf.  Now I have a serious case of the shakes.  I am WIRED beyond control, and my hands are very obviously vibrating.  If anyone has a secret (besides a blood transfusion) that will get my caffeine level down to a reasonable place in the next 3 hours, I would love to know it.  Otherwise, let’s just say I’ll be shaking things up at this test.

Ironically, they like to remind us that the color of our belt (they get progressively darker as you advance in rank) represents all that we’ve put into our training and ourselves.  Indeed.

If You Make Fun Of My Plastic Trophy, I Will Kick Your Ass, Too

As of last week, I’ve been doing taekwondo for two years. I really like my school because we’ve had great instructors who push us hard, but in a friendly and often less-structured way. Generally, I have a lot of fun at practice, even when we’re working through brutal drills. Some of the other chains are a lot stricter, with more military-style classes, and very firm start and end times. I realize that’s probably a better system, especially when you’re learning dangerous techniques, but since taekwondo is more “hobby” than “life” for me, I think my dojang is the perfect fit.

During these past 730 days, as I worked my way up from horrifically out-of-shape white belt (seriously, for my trial lesson, I was unable to do one sit-up) to red-belt-with-stripe-and-promotion tape (my brown belt test is this Friday), I refused all invitations to attend tournament events. A tournament represented a wildly unpredictable day of fighting overly-committed people who were more than willing to sacrifice their body (and mine) for a prefab plastic trophy. I knew that I’d be putting myself at risk for serious ankle injuries (or, more devastating to me, a broken wrist), so I stayed far, far away.

However, it was announced about a week and a half ago that if we expected to get our black belts, we HAD to attend at least one tournament. As the days wore on that week, “one” became “two to three” and, by Friday, “three to five.” I made the mistake of mentioning that I wasn’t planning on going to the upcoming event, at which point I was promptly recommended, and handed a registration form. I saw no way out, so I decided to give it a shot.

Marathon Training Officially Starts Now

I (finally) joined the NYC Road Runners club!  Unfortunately, I didn’t become a member in time to guarantee entry into the 2009 NYC marathon.  Had I read the webpage more thoroughly last November (when I first decided that I wanted to run the NYC marathon), I would’ve signed up by the end of January, and would’ve been eligible to run next year.  Ah, well.  We’ll see how training goes, and if I feel like I’m ready in 2009, I can run a marathon in a different city, and then do NYC in 2010.  I would take my chances with the lottery, but we all know what kind of luck I have.

In the meantime, I’m going to check out some of the NYRR running clinics, so I can perfect my form and learn to run without getting these damn shin splints.  Being a member also means that I can participate in a variety of shorter races throughout the year.  I hope they have something in mid-July… being able to run a 5K would be a great birthday present to myself!

*Excited!*

Si Jeunesse Savait, Si Vieillesse Pouvait

Eight years ago, I climbed all 1,710 stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower.  I’m not really sure how I did it.  More appallingly, I remember running up quite a few of those flights (until I realized, halfway to the apex, that the metal stairs were backless, and I was just a quick trip away from freefall in le plein air).

I am reminded of this climb as I sit here, legs elevated, after my latest post-dinner run/walk.  Overly ambitious in my new Nike training outfit, plugged into my most motivational mp3s, I attempted a three-mile run to Woodside and back, and even though it ended up being at least 50% walking, my knees and ankles hurt like whoa.

Too bad, though, because I plan to keep running.  If I can’t run a marathon in my 20s, it’s not going to be any easier to do it in my 30s or 40s. 

I’m hoping this whole running thing will be like learning French.  I’ll suck at it for about three weeks and then suddenly bam! I’ll be quasi-fluent.

Now Hiring Editors: The United Sates Treasury Department

Best thing about getting my federal tax return this year?  Learning, via the back of the envelope, about the availability of “United Sates” $1 coins.  This fine currency is part of the new, limited-edition Great Puns of America Series (satisfaction guaranteed).

I Know What Those So-Called “Early Adopters” Are Really Doing With Their Sidekicks

On the train back to Queens tonight, I found a seat next to a young man thoroughly engrossed in entering text into his RAZR.  When I stealthily glanced over at the text message he was composing, I saw that it was not actually a message… it was a few lines of awful slam poetry (or, worse, hipster rap).  God, it was bad.  I wish I remembered one of the rhymes.  What’s more troubling to me, however, is that this isn’t the first time I’ve seen people in the 18-24 set composing (abysmally bad) lyrics/poems on their cell phone on the subway.  If this is what the next generation has to offer, the future of hip-hop and poetry is dim indeed.

This Blog Is Quickly Devolving Into A Sad Knockoff Version Of “Midtown Lunch”

When I Googled “Rocky Mountain Cobb” to see if anyone else on the great wide Internet has publicly sung the praises of my favorite Chop’t specialty salad, no relevant results turned up. I remedy that today, with the first known post about this tasty lunchtime delight.

Chop’t is a relatively new NYC-based chain, and their key point of differentiation is that they will hack your custom salad to bits with a mezzaluna, and not just once, but as much as you direct them to hack it.  (I haven’t asked for extra hackage yet, though; stay tuned to see if I can make the staff reduce my salad to discrete atoms.)

Several weeks ago, I went for the first time, and finding the wall-sized list of potential salad toppings (er, “choppings”) too daunting, I ordered the Rocky Mountain Cobb off the menu.  I’ve been back many times since then, but I have yet to order a different salad.  I fucking love this damn Cobb salad.  It’s just Romaine lettuce, bleu cheese, cranberries, walnuts, and roasted chicken, with their slightly-sweet “secret recipe” House dressing, but I’m already getting regular cravings for the specific taste combination.

So yeah.  Rocky Mountain Cobb.  Delicious pile of chopped goodness.

All This And It’s Not Even Sunset

Following my long tradition of not observing federal or religious holidays in the least, I spent today tying up various loose ends and being generally productive.

I made whole-grain waffles with red raspberry compote for breakfast, and then got started on the mostaccioli recipe from this month’s issue of Gourmet, in anticipation of tomorrow’s Green & Black’s inter-agency bake-off.  Making those little cookies was more of a task than it needed to be, since I neglected to get the Frangelico yesterday, and had to dart out to buy it.  Appropriately, the end result tastes a lot like the Green & Black’s Maya Gold bar.

I properly installed last.fm on my computer, which is something I wanted to tinker with years ago, but never got around to, especially after I couldn’t get it to work on my Mac.  Now I can share my esoteric music interests with the whole internet.  As well as the fact that yes, repeated playback of “Valerie” by Amy Winehouse accounts for a solid 40% of this week’s iTunes activity.

I also swept, scrubbed, and dusted the entire apartment, filed a drawerful of paperwork, and washed massive amounts of dishes.  Certain pots/pans/containers were used and washed up to three times over the course of the day.  (My desire for a dishwasher only grows.)