I remember the day Kurt Cobain died. I was about to head to drama practice, wearing green sailor shorts, a black shirt (which still resides in my closet, despite being waaaay too small. I can’t bear to throw it away), and a little green vest. Kurt Loder broke the news on MTv. I distinctly remember thinking: Christine is going to be bummed.

The other girls would show up to rehearsal later, wearing all black. One carried a huge sunflower. They explained that they were in mourning (What? They were drama geeks. How could they not be melodramatic?) The director spent some time talking to us about depression or suicide. I don’t really remember what she said.

Recently, a friend of mine told me that she, too, remembered Kurt Cobain’s death, because it was the day she first arrived in Seattle. Everywhere, candlelight vigils were held, and she had no idea what the hell was going on.

People of my mother’s generation remember where they were when Kennedy was assasinated. She was on her way back from school. When she found out the news, she sat down by the side of the road and cried.

For us? It was Kurt Cobain. I realize that perhaps his suicide probably shouldn’t be on par with the assasination of a president. But it’s what we had, and what we embraced. It’s why I keep the black shirt that’s way to small.

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If there’s one thing I understand, it’s being in a funk.

Recently, several of my friends have found themselves in funks, for varying and legitimate reasons. And consequently, it put me in a bit of a funk (did you know that funks are contagious? Bet they didn’t teach you that in sex ed. Stupid middle school health teacher).

One of my friends is moving to Baltimore for graduate school (I’m resisting the temptation to watch The Wire, which I’ve never seen, because I know that after doing so I will want to lock her in my bathroom for fear that something bad will happen to her). I hate it when people leave Seattle. It’s silly – I’m hardly ever in this town, but I strive to keep a high concentration of people I love in just a few places. I like to tuck them safely away, and then, like so many other things in my life, I start to take them for granted.

Until one day, they tell me they’re leaving.

And suddenly I think of all the hours spent in front of my computer instead of in their company (ahem). I think about the birthdays I missed, the parties at which I didn’t show up, the phone calls I forgot to return.

And I feel like a heel. Hence, the funk.

It seems that the times I see a person the most are just when they’re about to leave town. Suddenly I rush to make up for lost time, to squeeze every ounce of life out of our interactions. (more…)

Please, Please do not read this post at work. Or around children. Or your mom. The photos included are most certainly Not Safe For Work, and don’t want to receive an email lecturing me about not having warned you. Because I just did.

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Dear Friends;

Despite my incredibly foul mouth, my godless behavior, and my penchance for desserts with the word “sex” in their title, I am a bit of a prude.

No, seriously. My mother and I once had a brief talk about sex. It started with her asking me a question, and me responding with, “We are so not having that conversation.”

And that was the end of that.

I mean, I was raised Catholic. And as Stephen Colbert notes, Catholic girls either come out really repressed, or really crazy. And I fall firmly in that first category. I mean, when my doctor asks if I’m sexually active, I kind of want to tell her, “No. No I am not.” Even though I’ve been with my husband for 9 years. Because having someone think I’m in some weird sexless marriage is actually preferable them knowing I have sex (which I totally don’t, by the way).

Welcome to my neuroses, folks. There’s plenty to go to around.

You might wonder why, then, neurotic as I am, I would decide to visit something as racy as New York City’s Museum of Sex. And really, the reaons are two-fold. The first is that I’m actually able to talk and write and think about sex, in the context of something as culturally enriching and wholesome as a museum! And the second is that I think it’s good to confront the things in life that make you uncomfortable. And, boy, is there stuff in the Museum of Sex that would make anyone uncomfortable, prude or no.

I will tell you now that, after the jump, the photos get … racy, to say the least.

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Note: Photography is not allowed inside the Tenement Museum. All of the pictures of the interior of the building are property of the Tenement Museum and can be seen on their Flickr photostream. Most of the exterior photos are mine, unless otherwise noted.

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The challenge I’ve presented to myself before writing this blog post was as follows: tell you about the Tenement Museum. Try, to some degree, to incorporate exactly how much it meant to me. Make some reference to the current situation that immigrants now face in Arizona.

And do everything without getting too emotional.

I seriously doubt I can do that. Because here’s the thing: my family is right off the boat. As in, there was an effing boat.

This is my father, at left, with his brother. And the boat they came in on. Circa 1950.

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Convinced I haven’t alienated all of my god-fearing readers with this post, I’ve decided to run the rest off by writing about my visit to The Cathedral of St. John the Divine on New York’s Upper West Side.

Prior to visiting the cathedral, my only familiarity with St. John the Divine was as the preferred name of a flamboyant gay man I once met.

But it might have been Karl.

Whatever.

The truth is, despite being an accused heathen and confirmed heretic, I quite enjoy churches. I think they are often pretty and serene, and if I’m able to ignore the unpleasantries that come to mind upon hearing the term “organized religion”, I tend to have a good time. Our visit to St. John’s Cathedral was no exception.

It helped that it was a beautiful day. I suppose I have god to thank for that, but really, who’s keeping track?
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Note to readers: The original title of this post was “Holy cats, my blog proves useful for once!” I found that title apt, but figured this would be easier for me to find when doing a search. Sigh … practicality and what have you.

Last month, I took a few jabs at the expense of the city of Rye Brook, NY. I know, I know – shocking, right? That I would take the piss out of a town? Absolutely unbelievable.

But it indeed happen. I blame demonic possession. As a result, I might have mentioned that Rye Brook’s food scene is the culinary equivalent of a trying to find a date for prom: there’s no real viable options, and if you end up with anything, it’s just because you wanted to dress up and go out.

Reader Raf C took issue with my position, and maintained that there were some viable options in Rye Brook. He recommended a few spots, including Polla a la Brasa, a Peruvian restaurant in nearby Port Chester. Since it ended up being ridiculously close to the hotel, we decided to stop by.

We ordered according to the New York Times’ suggestion: their eponymous rotisserie chicken dish, lomo saltado (beef stir-fry over french fries), a slice of tres leches cake, and an alfajor cookie.

There are many words that I could use to describe the meal at hand, but the best one that comes to mind is this: ZOMG.

Yes, ZOMG, indeed.

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A few weeks ago, we headed to New York for the weekend for a friend’s wedding. Eytan Seidman (of Oyster.com fame) was getting hitched, and we couldn’t miss it. Besides, the wedding was in New Rochelle, NY. And I had never been to New Rochelle. In fact, I’ve never been anywhere outside of Manhattan.

And believe me: we were far, far outside of Manhattan. Sure, it might have been only 20 minutes away, but the Hilton in Rye Brook, where we stayed, could arguably have been on another planet. Or another decade: just stepping inside makes you feel as though you’ve gone through a decorating time warp (Landing you in circa 1963. Seriously, the producers of Mad Men have got to shoot some scenes here).

And just in case that wasn’t enough weird, the hotel was hosting a girls’ dance competition.

Let me tell you: the sight of underage little girls dolled up like prostitutes, set against a backdrop of polyester and unfulfilled dreams is not one I will soon forget. In Eytan’s defense, the hotel we chose was not actually on his list of recommend ones. After all, why listen TO A GUY WHO FRIGGIN FOUNDED A SITE THAT PROVIDES REAL HOTEL REVIEWS? Why listen, when instead you can stay at the Hannah Montana House of Ill-Repute? HUH, RAND?

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Okay, New Orleans. You win.

I just might love you.

So much, in fact, that the hubby and I comforted ourselves when something was closed or we didn’t have time to see it, by saying, “Don’t worry. It’s not like we won’t be back.”

We used Rand’s business trip to San Diego as a jumping off point for the NOLA wedding we were heading to (as did, coincidentally, the Gastrognome. The world is a small place). We arrived late in the evening, and booked it off our American Airlines flight, as the gentleman sitting across from us (who proceeded to down 4 Bud Lights each during the flight) were giving me the look  of death. As in, they were trying to pick a fight with one or both of us. It was weird and scary, and I’ve never left a plane faster in my life.

Our cab driver from the airport to the hotel was an interesting little fellow. Speaking with a thick-accent of undetermined origin (it was not anything regional, I’m sure) he noted points-of-interest, the plastic beads hanging from his rear-view mirror swinging as he drove. As we crossed over a causeway, he explained that it was one of the highest roads in the city, and news footage had been shown of people swimming to it for safety.

Holy crap.

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Sometimes things don’t always go as smoothly as I would like in my family. Things become exponentially more complicated by the fact that I’m so close with my cousins that it’s like I have scores of older brothers. And while that can occasionally be fun, it also has its downside: that there are that many more people to fight with, viciously and angrily. The way that only siblings can.

This isn’t really a post about that. It’s more a post about swallowing your pride, accepting that things change, and realizing that while it may suck a little, sometimes a great breakfast is all it takes to fix things.

That, and some kissing seals.

We used San Diego as a jumping-off point for a trip to New Orleans for Rachel and Chris’ wedding. On Saturday morning, before we were scheduled to leave for Louisiana (a trip which was an adventure unto itself), my cousin and his fiancee invited us out to La Jolla for breakfast.

Mending fences and all that jazz.

La Jolla has a sort of opulence I’m not really used to. We have a bit of that in Seattle, but we don’t have streets and streets full of untouchable homes built into cliffsides above a beaches. Houses that rarely go on sale, and if they do, it’s handled by Sotheby’s. In a way, such decadent surroundings make Brockton Villa Restaurant even more refreshing.

It’s the sort of place that couldn’t be built today – the building has been around for over 100 years, so it’s protected by the city from new construction and development, and it’s grandfathered in, making it exempt from a lot of zoning rules and regulations. I’m fairly sure that now you couldn’t have a restaurant on that spot, but the Brockton Villa has been there forever.

Behind and all around are ridiculously expensive homes, condos, and hotels.

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I’m not still writing about Scotland, am I? Have three days in a country ever been stretched into so many blog posts? Hemingway rambled less about Spain, I’m sure.

I hope you aren’t getting bored. Because Scotland really is a magical land. Even though my husband had to remind me repeatedly that Leprechauns are not, in fact, from Scotland, it’s still a fairly amazing place. But I’ve been blathering on about it for quite a while now, so consider this my last Scotland post. Really, I promise. My blog is currently three trips behind my travel schedule, so I really will make good on this.

Besides, what better way to close on Scotland than to tell you about William Wallace?

The Scots go ape-shit over Wallace, and it’s easy to see why: both a hero and a hottie, he reminds us of a simpler time when Mel Gibson wasn’t just some crazy anti-Semitic douche, but a dude with talent and a killer smile. Wallace Monument, erected in 1869 (tee-hee!), was built to honor him, and to torment visitors who already aren’t feeling top-notch. (more…)