I am obsessed with my hair

And I don’t even have that much of it! (anymore…)

Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows that I tend to twitpic a lot. And the two things I twitpic the most are food (whatever I happen to be eating and need to share the joy of my food with the world) and my bedhead. It’s not even to take a GOOD picture of myself — just my previously epic bedhead. Unfortunately, my hair seems to have grown JUST enough to not defy gravity quite so much anymore. I figured I’d condense all pictures into one post, just because it amuses me. And let’s see how many OMGI’mnotawakeyet faces I can make in one post.

Sometime in Nov

Sometime in Nov

NOT bedhead, but I love this wig so frickin much. This was me getting ready for Dir en Grey concert (went with Anya of From Russia with Food and her bf). It didn’t make it all the way through the concert. Headbanging is not wig friendly at all, unless you plan on supergluing it to your scalp — which i DO NOT RECOMMEND!

And for anyone curious, the lipcolor is Retrofuturist from Lime Crime Makeup (a post on that later) (probably later today).

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One little comment

Nothing like a comment from someone who actually follows your blog (Hi Kelly!) on a post for the first time in more than 2 months to make you feel good about finally posting (fluff) again.

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The difference

between blog posts and tweets is that you don’t need a title for your tweets. You just go, and there it is.

But, at least you have the license to ramble as long as you please in a post, and tweets limit you to 140 characters at a time. Blogging takes too much thought… but right now, I’m just trying to get the drive back.

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Overwhelmed with a whole lot of nothing

Glaringly obvious that I haven’t posted in more than 2 months.

Why is a very good question… it’s not like I haven’t been doing anything. I’ve gone out, seen shows, visited friends, seen movies, ate my way around NYC, tweeted and foursquared my way around the area, dabbled in talent management and background/extra work and modeling, street team marketing, invented recipes, celebrated birthdays (not my own), enjoyed the freedom of having my own place, …etc…

It’s not like I don’t have the site open on one of my various tabs  everyday (nerdily, I actually DO do this).

I’m not sure where my inspiration to write went? I attempted NaNoWriMo yet again this year, but came way under my usual 3k word wall. Is Twitter taking up all my time? Am I just so overwhelmed with everything and nothing that my desire to blog has just been snuffed out?

Oh, and another thing… I see on the news that okay, yeah November had the lowest record number of jobs lost in the last two years — but what does that do to the 15.4million (and growing) unemployed? Just makes them even more despondent that there aren’t any jobs to be had. Way to go mass news media. Why don’t you just up the number of depressed (and situationally depressed) people just in time for the holidays?

Maybe the key is to keep my posts short, like my tweets. I may be able to squeeze out daily (ok, I won’t put myself up to that standard… yet…) biweekly posts yet, by the end of this year.

And don’t even get me started on the love life. Blech.

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I picked up my guitar today.

As I write this, I’m listening to that newish single off of Jay-Z’s most recent album. the one he did with Alicia Keys at the VMAs. You know, the one where Lil Mama randomly jumped on stage at the end, and we were all thinking WTF is she doing? Empire State of Mind. The one that makes a NYer all proud to be a NYer, and makes other people wish they were NYers.

So I got inspired. Actually. I looked at my guitar sitting in the corner of my living room and realized it’s been sitting there for nearly a month and I still hadn’t picked it up yet. What was I afraid of? I opened the lesson book to the first part. About the first string. And I just put my left hand on the frets, my right hand on the strings, and just blazed through 3 sets of lessons. Three strings. Three weeks of guitar lessons. By the time I got to the 4th lesson — what would have been the 4th week, I realized why I hadn’t picked up my guitar in 8 months. (I know I said 9 on Twitter, but I was thinking the last time I picked it up was January, now it’s October, 10 minus 1 is 9…etc…) It’s been 8 months. I love music. I love my iPod. I love assigning memories and emotions to songs. And then I remembered why I hadn’t picked up the guitar in months.

Two nights before what would have been my 4th lesson on basic 3 note chords, I made the decision that 2009 would be the year I would move out and find a place of my own. By the way, I’m sitting in the living room of what is the endpoint of that decision. Anyway, the night I made that decision. January 22, 2009. Jack Johnson was my album of choice. The one that had Sitting, Waiting, Wishing and Better Together on it. 4 days before I made the decision to end my relationship of 2 years and 2 days. Yes, I was that girl who decided 2 days after the 2nd anniversary to end it. It was a good decision. A smart decision. I don’t regret it at all. I made the decision to move. I don’t regret that decision either. But it was an uprooting of sorts. I haven’t picked up the guitar since I left it at home. I decided to pick it up tonight. October 1, 2009. I officially moved August 3, 2009. Nearly 2 months ago.

I like dates. I like remembering exactly when things happen. I can usually remember quite vividly what I was thinking, what I was listening to, what sorts of things I was doing.

He bought me formal guitar lessons. I’ve had 8 years training as a classical pianist. I know how to sightread. My fingers have muscle memory. Everyone says that’s why I type really fast. I had a guitar teacher because of him. I broke up with him. I left the guitar behind. And I picked it up again tonight.

It was cathartic, even though all I know are notes on a few strings. I know a few 3 note chords. I cannot express myself the way I would love to if I could move my upright piano here. My gorgeous warm brown upright piano that I’ve had since I was 4 years old. And I’m 27 now. A piano isn’t easily portable like a guitar is. But I can still sit at the keyboard, take an hour to do scales and finger exercises. Love the emotion and intensity I could inject from a few rote exercises. I can pour my soul into those scales. A few measures of a long ago piece.

The thing I know by heart is a piece my last piano teacher made me play for 3 yrs straight, even though I had perfected it and gotten an O in NYSSMA the first year I played it. That piece killed my love of piano. I know that by heart. I can see myself playing it in my mind’s eye. I can play it on a table edge. I can play it on my computer keyboard. I can see the notes as they are played in my mind. I know it, intimately, inside and out. When I play it, there is no feeling. It killed my love to play piano.

The thing that I know the best, with my heart is the Fur Elise. My mom always told me that it was her mother’s favorite song to play (I never knew my maternal Lola. She passed when my mom was still a young girl). Therefore it was her favorite song to hear on piano. And by trickle down logic, I have a special connection to it myself. I don’t have my piano here. in my new apartment. It’s my ringtone on my phone. I can hear myself play it in my head. The last time I played it on the piano for real was a few months ago. I had the house to myself, before I moved, and I moved all the clutter off the piano bench and the piano. I dug out the battered copy of the Fur Elise. I adapted some fingering. And I played. And it was gorgeous. And I played the same three pages over and over. And I miss that feeling. Knowing that I can create something that moving and that beautiful, even if it’s only a few minutes long, and I know I don’t know the whole piece. That it’s just a few pages in a lesson book. But it reminds me that I can still play. And I can still feel it. I miss that process of creating.

When I listen to my iPod or iTunes, I don’t just listen to it. I can see the notes as they are played. I can imagine the exact motions to produce the noise. To produce the sound. I can see the different instruments. I can pick apart the notes, each individual sound, injected with a different intensity, a different feeling. I think they call it synaesthesia (spelling, anyone?). But I went to a psych study in college, and they claimed I didn’t have it. But every note is different. They have their own personalities. I listen to a song over and over again, separating the instruments from one another. Picking apart the notes, the beats. Picking apart the tracks.

This is what calms me.

So I picked up my guitar today. The notes aren’t perfect. I don’t know any songs. I don’t know any chords, I can play the piano better than I can play guitar.

But I picked up my guitar today.

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Gah. September!

And in a sort of delayed reaction way, I’m posting about it finally being September in NY. I find it difficult to swallow that not even 2 weeks ago, I was sweltering in a tank top and skirt, strolling around Manhattan. Today, I find myself cozying up in flannel pajama pants, a long sleeved tee and occasionally curled up in a comforter on the couch. The windows are closed, the fans are not on (my wallet is looking forward to my ConEd bill next month).

And yet, I find myself eating a lot more ice cream and italian ice (it doesn’t melt as quickly!).

Start my countdown to Summer 2010? Who’s with me?

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Definitions of ourselves

So it’s been a little bit over a month since I last wrote anything. It took two incendiary blog posts — obviously ones I’ve read, not that I’ve written — and a passionate comment from myself to inspire myself to write again.

Not to validate my self-imposed label of ‘blogger’ or ‘writer’ or ‘foodie’… but just to shed some thoughts on how we define ourselves. In this day and age, I’ve seen so many ‘create your profile’ pages where the form asks you to write a short blurb about yourself. Where do you start? Are we defined by our hobbies, our values, our moral code or our interests? More often than not, we define ourselves using our interests/hobbies/passions.

Myself, I consider myself a foodie (lover of all things food), a blogger (I have this site, don’t I?), a musician (lapsed, my guitar moved in last weekend and I’m still waiting on the piano), a Twitter/Facebook addict (if you follow my Twitter feed, I am far more active on there than I am on here)…etc… None of these things are my profession. I couldn’t be paid to be a food critic (but if anyone wants to pay me on a regular basis to be like Anthony Bourdain or Andrew Zimmern — I’m not opposed to that!) or a musician (I haven’t played in years). I do get paid to blog (sometimes, but I don’t make a living off of it). I don’t get paid to be on Twitter or on Facebook. Ah well.  Not the whole of my point.

I read a post on a friend’s blog, Taste As You Go — ‘Chronicles of a Food Enthusiast’ where she referenced a blog post made by Michael Ruhlman — ‘Julie & Julia, Foodie & Cook’. Michelle’s (TAYG) point was that foodie is NOT a derogatory term, as Ruhlman frequently insinuated.

From Ruhlman’s first post:

Foodies are the first to hit the newest restaurant, or to plan a trip based on restaurant destinations; they[...] are the first to order the coolest new ingredient and make sure you know it.  Foodies love to talk about food and cooking.  Foodies watch food television with their pants around their ankles and buy The French Laundry Cookbook for the pictures.  Foodie is a social distinction, not a judgement.

…’pants around their ankles’… Um. Just Um, because I have nothing else to say.

I call myself a foodie, and I love to talk about food and cooking. I love to eat. I love to savor flavors (at least the ones I like), and try new ones. Now that I finally have my own apartment with my very own kitchen, I enjoy creating new dishes with the same 5 ingredients in my fridge. I’m single, I don’t make a whole lot, I don’t have the deep pockets to purchase the coolest new ingredient. I make do with what I got, based on food memories and flavors I love. And that’s that (so I can’t really start an actual food blog, there wouldn’t be much variety).

And then…

This is probably why foodies emerged.  One of the effects among a certain segment of the population who recognized that we were losing something essential to our nature became foodies, those who turn food, chefs, food-entertainers, and cooking equipment into fetishes—that is, they accord them some kind of magical power.  Another segment of our culture who also recognized that we were losing something essential to our humanity learned to cook, out of books, from their moms or grandmothers, from other cooks.  And more and more are learning every day.

I don’t look at food, at Iron Chef, at chefs, at cooking equipment as a fetish. I cook because that’s the way I was raised. Cook your food from scratch, know what’s going into the pot, onto your plate, into your body — and you won’t have any of the obesity issues we see in American today. I don’t cook well. I don’t have Morimoto’s skills, I don’t have Florian Hugo’s skills. I cook better via practice. I think I’ve perfected my scrambled eggs and poached eggs, and I’m moving into omelets in the coming weeks.

I can’t believe one little phrase sparked so much anger. His definitions are elitist at best. We foodies are defined by our passions. There are many levels of ‘foodies’ and none of us (at least from what I’ve seen) discriminate.

In her comments, Michelle states:

Before reading the post, I considered a foodie to be someone who enjoyed food in multiple ways - from growing it and cooking it to eating it and sharing it with others; from learning about it and reading about it to writing about it. But Ruhlman’s post does illustrate that the term “foodie” is beginning to take on that negative connotation you mentioned. To me, that’s more “unfortunate” than the term itself.

I think I want to stick to that innocent definition… but then again, I don’t have a food blog, so I suppose there’s no harm in what terminology I use.

In Ruhlman’s second post: ‘”Foodie”, “Cook”, and “Home Cook”, he attempts to breakdown the label further (when there really doesn’t need to be such nitpicky definitions…)

Judging from those who commented to me, people were evenly divided between those who were proud to be called home cooks and those who felt, I don’t know, as if being a “home” cook were akin to being a pretend cook.  But I liked what Chef Pardus had to say—on my facebook page (I can’t keep track of all this stuff, facebook, twitter, email, blog, the center can’t hold!)—it was right on the money, and I’m glad I didn’t miss it: he says that he writes and he skis but he doesn’t call himself a writer or a skier.

Cook is a verb.  It’s what some of us do.  Not what we are. Unless we are, in which case we can pay our rent with the result of our cooking. I’m for abolishing the term “home cook.” Or at least not using it.

If you’re not allowed to call yourself a cook, then how to distinguish between those who are foodies and those who love to cook?  That as I mentioned in the earlier post, is an important distinction. What is a foodie? I like the Miriam Webster definition: a person having an avid interest in the latest food fads.

If you look up early in this post, I call myself a writer, a blogger, a musician and a foodie. We label because society and our environment demands us to label. I label because I am passionate about all of these things. Foodie, cook, and home cook. It’s all the same to me. Foodie is better. Foodie encompasses it all.

Don’t nitpick. Don’t be elitist. We are what we are. We love food. And that’s that.

Now, I will contemplate posting my sad little pictorial attempt at Ambrosia aka Fruit Salad, Filipino Style.

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From Russia with Food

For all you gastronomic hedonists, I am proud to present the more official launch of my best friend’s blog: From Russia With Food. Her first entry is a mouthwatering foray into New Jersey in the spring and the quest for the perfect blueberry muffin.

April in New York City this year was dreadful - rainy, cold and miserable.  Just the right month to exchange the woes of an unsuccessful spring for a delightful beachside vacation.  This is just what my friend John did - he went on a 4-day beach vacation in mid-April…to Avon-by-the-Sea, NJ.

Curious to read more? Click the blurb above to find out how you can get the ideal blueberry muffin. So yummy, I stole some for myself! (No, really)

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RIP President Aquino

Former President Corazon Aquino, dead at 76

She was so young. And ever so inspiring.

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Turning Point

Not to be confused with the tipping point (something I haven’t finished reading yet).

I’m moving. I’ve got my own place. I’m going to be out on my own. Finally. Certain things happened earlier this year, that were the catalyst for the life results now.

Probably to my best friend’s disappointment, I only realize some things after hours of overanalysis of decisions I’ve made, life directions I’ve decided to follow.

If I never started second guessing [a person], I wouldn’t have known that I could do better.
If I never wondered why [a person] had said the things they had, I would never have known to imagine possibilities without them.
If I didn’t seek to correct another’s mistake, I would not have spoken to someone about possibilities of another life.
If I denied myself the opportunity to make another friend, I wouldn’t have realized that I could have my own life before attaching it to someone else’s.
If I listened to my logical side (is it clear to see that I almost never function purely on logic?) instead of my heart, I might have locked myself into a life I would never wish upon myself. A life without love.
If I never challenged myself to do things on my own, by myself, I wouldn’t be in the position I am today.
If I never allowed my heart to love freely… maybe I wouldn’t…

Sorry, not going into that much detail.

The last 6 months have been tumultuous. But I think I finally see the calm waters ahead. I hope they’re calm, anyway. With a minimum of drama.

I wish some things about earlier this year had turned out slightly different. Maybe I would be happier, maybe I would feel more loved. But I can’t help but think that all these moments and events HAD to run their course the way they did.

Things aren’t completely disagreeable. But I do miss a lot of the happy that was.

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