Starting Over Again

Baking has taught me many valuable lessons. Preheat the oven. Give yourself plenty of time. Avoid high altitudes. And sometimes you just need to scrap the whole goddamned thing and start over. While I am currently not doing much baking (or getting baked for that matter), I am making a whole lot of big changes in my life and starting 2012 with a bang. After a raucous family cruise filled with more eating and boozing than even I am used to, I am giving sobriety a chance, albeit just for a brief stint. Looking ahead to the New Year, I find myself looking for a new job and a new roommate. After flirting with graduate school for years, I am finally, seriously investigating the next step in my education. Though if this 2+ year stint in NYC has been anything, an education is certainly a valid description. I have read, watched, tasted, and seen more than I can imagine; the depth of my experience has been the highest of highs (literally) and the lowest of lows. I have acquired skills and tasted big city flair. Through everything, I have dug deeper into myself, knowing myself better, attempting to love myself more. While it would seem I have set childish dreams aside, those dreams have simply evolved with me, the path veering to the left and becoming clearer. Now, this isn't to say that I have all the answers or any more of a clue where I will be in a year than I did last year at this time, but instead my priorities have been realigned, my passions reinvigorated. All my life, I have been really different. Why should not my life be an exception? I have often told people that it takes a lot to wake up in the morning, look this in the mirror, and choose to accept it. Most laugh and dismiss my ridiculousness, but I believe that the path of an unconventional person is not always the easiest to walk down. Much of the secret of life lies in the ability to love one's self, not out of conceit or narcissism, but to look within oneself, knowing and accepting that person within. Out of one's true self springs all creativity, love, passion, the spiritual blood and guts that make human life the most fascinating occurrence on this planet. Surely at times I have longed for the comfort a traditional trek. The high school sports, the college girlfriend, the established career path, the steady job, the mortgage and the marriage and the children. Though I suspect I would fail miserably at most of these things if I tried. The most difficult thing about being a square peg is finally realizing that you will never fit into that circular hole. A few times I have borne the bruises of all that ill-fitting thrusting (conceptually speaking, of course). I don't know what this year will hold for me exactly, but I am betting on good things, progress towards my ultimate goals and dreams.

What I'm Reading: Barrel Fever, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

What I'm Listening to: Aretha Franklin: Greatest Hits, "Mine" Taylor Swift (don't judge!)

What I'm Watching: The View, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Get Him to the Greek, Rebecca

This Day

This day has come again. The air is crisp and cold; the sun is out, shining brightly in a sky peppered with wisps ofclouds. I wake up and go about my day, drunk with dreamy sleep. For weeks now I have been preparing myself for today. Small batches of grief well up and release. Memories flash back to me in an instant. This day is somehow always on my mind, yet mostly silent, a wallflower at the back of my pscyhe. I find myself sitting at the same kitchen table that I sat at two years ago, desperately trying to get back to Indiana, the same tears running down my face. Snatches of text messages and phone calls flicker for an instant in my mind. Images so seared in my memory play on repeat. I remember the vodka filled orange juice I chugged on my 6 a.m. flight, my sobs causing alarm among my fellow passengers and the crew (darkly, I think this was my chance to finally get upgraded to first class). I remember the dark sunglasses, the way my breath floated past me in the frozen air. Did her last breath float away like a little cloud as well? I remember the elevator doors opening, revealing nearly every important person from my life, anxiously awaiting my arrival. I remember the sardonic mask I wore, attempting to deflect grief with wit and vulgarity. I remember good friends and cigarettes and that hollow, empty look that has just recently my parents' faces. I hear the clack of my leather shoes against the cool hospital tile, pacing back and forth, keeping guard to my sister's quarters. That hard clack still follows me around in airports, cruise ship hallways, and city streets. This day plays on repeat constantly in my head, but especially today. I date my deposit at the bank today and grimace, thinking why can't it just be tomorrow? I go from small talk with new friends to sadly facing my reality, begging courage to speak the truth. I have repeated this story enough for a whole lifetime. In the middle of the ocean, thinking I am a stranger in a distant land, the sea and island sounds surround me with her essence. The pain subsides but lingers. No longer suffocated by grief, I am all too aware of the astringent power of loss. This day will never go away; it will come every year just like all the good days. Today I will be blue and humble and quiet. Today I will remember. Tomorrow will come, and I will wake up and live and laugh. But I will never forget.

My Boil, My Self

The wound is now almost healed. What was once a seething, angry, pus-filled mine of misery is nothing more than a small scabbed patch of tenderness. I now understand why a boil is a misfortune of Biblical proportions. How could this happen to me? I am a clean, young American. I exercise and take my vitamins. I show up to work on time and smile at old ladies on the street. I even recycle . . . somewhat. But no, here I am, in the prime of my life recovering from an infection deep within the skin. Oh, the shame. My very own literally dirty secret. I pass people on the street and wonder if they can tell I am secretly oozing puss and blood under my shirt. Someone invites me up to their apartment, and I have to decline, scared they may discover my secrets buried deep within. I call sick into work, my private frailties invading my professional life. Do I have a fever? Am I nauseous? Fatigued? Dizzy? Fizzy? No, no, nothing actually keeping me from working, other than I am a open wound, spewing DNA. I settle into my bed and begin the draining. My bed becomes my fortress, my home. Food is delivered, bandages are changed, and Hulu and I begin a fast and intense courtship. Resigned to a state of sloth, I go on autopilot, putting all calls of ambition on hold, watching the clock for my next round of antibiotics. I settle into this new slow-paced pattern, exchanging my harried, frenetic routine for quiet . . . And then one day your boil is nearly gone, and it is time to return to life.

I have not written in this blog in a long, long time. Not long enough that it or I have been forgotten, but long enough to lose one's immediacy, one's flow. The past few months have seen my whole life jumbled, new job, new apartment, relationships tested, some surviving, some dying, slowly. I have been busy, or keeping myself busy, trying to hide from myself, my thoughts and worries, my sadness. Little stories about trips to the supermarket, the show I just watched, the visitor I just had in town are not what lies on the tip of my tongue. Mostly I have been awash in anger and sadness. What were once waves, coming up from the deep, at times unannounced and unprovoked, now are in the forefront of my psyche, staring me in the face each day, daring confrontation. I suppose my general state could be described as "Surfacing."

Grief is a funny thing. It twists your words and alters your mood. It gives you license to act like a perfect asshole at times, given the circumstances. You can be at once overly sentimental and the next minute cold as ice. It hangs in the background, following you around, a shadow on the sidewalk. It can make simple questions about your family, your home, your faith seem like assaulting and creeping monsters. When it takes over, you can find yourself acting the monster.

I have decided to end my battle with grief. Yes, I will always miss my sister. I will probably relive those awful days in the hospital a thousand times in my head. But I have decided to choose life, to continue living my life, to seek out the good things that are yet to come. While Jessica's life may be over, mine is not. There will be good days ahead, as well as some bad. There will be new people, new family, new love. I am just now returning to myself. I feel like I have been away on a long, long trip. Or perhaps I have been in deep, deep slumber, having the most bizarre dream. The star fell ill, and it has been my understudy you have seen on the stage these past two years. The star has returned.

What I'm Listening to: Drake Take Care, Feist Metals, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Bangles

What I'm Watching: Modern Family, Parks and Recreation, American Horror Story, Once Upon a Time, Up All Night, Mary Martha Mae Marlene, The Fisher King

What I'm Reading: When You Are Engulfed in Flames

Please Don't Take Grandma to Dinner

Please don't take Grandma to dinner. Please don't take Grandma to drinks. Please, please don't invite Grandma for a cup of coffee. Leave Grandma at home. Leave her there. Leave. She'll be fine. She's ready for bed anyway.

We really aren't prepared for Grandma's visit. We don't really have Early Bird Specials. No, we don't really have a place to stow her walker. Yes, I do believe everyone noticed Grandma's entrance when her electric scooter dismantled the entire dining room. Welcome. Welcome. I said "Welcome." Yes, I do speak English. No, I am not from Queens. A glass of White Zinfandel? I'm sorry ma'am, we don't serve that at this restaurant. You shouldn't even be drinking with your medication? That's probably true. Just water then? Great. You're having trouble chewing your well done steak? Your chicken is overcooked? You're allergic to seafood? You thought it was bland and oversalted? We do apologize ma'am. No, we don't serve Eggplant Parmesan. No, you can't get a side of the mashed sweet potatoes from the duck special. Yes, yes it is loud in here. Yes, we know. Repeat the specials? Again? All seven of them? My pleasure . . . Yes, yes it is dark. Well, some people actually like that way. It's kind of romantic. No ma'am, I did not mean to be inappropriate. You can't see the menu? You burned your hand while holding the candle? You blew the candle out. Ma'am, can you please stop shining that flashlight in my eyes? Yes, how very handy of you to have that in your pocketbook. Decaf coffee? At 10pm? Yes, we'll have to brew a fresh pot. No, we don't carry Sweet 'N' Lo. We do apologize. This is more of a cocktail than a coffee place, haha. No, I was not being snide ma'am. I realize you are a paying customer. Yes, I remember, your medication. Anything else tonight? Here is that at your leisure. Do you need change? Of course. Thank you so much, it has been a pleasure. Get home safe.

***

My grandmother is a notorious diner. Her diet mostly consists of meats, potatoes, bread, and sweets. And ice cream. Ice cream is a major food group in her world, sufficient to cover at least one meal a day. She does not eat vegetables, fruits, seafood, or any manner of ethnic or spicy cuisine. The closest she gets to fresh fruit is Lemon Meringue pie. Pie is another important part of her diet. She has been known on many occasions, even weddings, to order off the children's menu. At the local Mexican restaurant, she receives a crispy, very well done plain chicken quesadilla with cheese and no sauce. Allegedly, they "use the veggies from my order to make Jerry a salad!" "They know my order when I walk in!" she giddily tells me. I'm sure they do.

***

Nothing Better To Do On a Tuesday

Fill one large pitcher with ice. Add equal parts Tequila Blanco, Grapefruit Juice, and Tropicana™ Orange-Peach-Mango Juice and half part Triple Sec. Squeeze the juice of two limes and stir. Pour into a rocks glass and top with Club Soda. Garnish with orange and cherry, or however you wish.

My Name is not Brandon

My name is not Brandon. This is a shocking revelation to most of the world. My name is Bradley. B-R-A-D-L-E-Y. For some reason or another, people ask me my name, and all they hear is, "Brandon." There are several possible sources for this confusion. For one, I find Brandon a much more common name (common being a word I use in the most literal terms), while we Bradleys are a rare few. How many Bradleys do you know? Me and someone else, and that's probably it. Around the time of my birth, I think Brandon was having a big moment. Everyone was naming their kid Brandon. It was the equivalent of today's Tate or Landon or Trent. And don't get me started on those Jims, Michaels, and Matthews who have never had a problem. Pity be to those whose name begins with two consonants. We have given people so much information in one syllable, that they oftentimes cannot finish our names. Pity the Whitley and the Whineys, the Bretts, Brents, Brandts, and Brads (also not my name, but that is another point altogether). Once or twice I had class with another gentleman named Brett, and once I actually had class with another Bradley. Ensue total chaos.

My name is especially confusing for the Mexican gentlemen I work with. They ask me my name, I tell them, and they vaguely sputter, "Brandon?" I repeat. They stare. I don't know which part of my name does it for them, but without fail, they struggle along. At times, I have given them my "Spanish" name, a name someone told me stands for my own name's equivalent in Spanish. Brario. I never have never met someone from a Spanish speaking country with this name. So, I will give this substitute, hope for the best thinking, Pedro = Peter, Miguel = Michael, Juan = John, but more often than not, no dice. More than once, I have settled for chico (or as Inez and Josephina at my college food court liked to call me, "chico hermoso" - beautiful boy). In fact, there is much confusion passing between me and those of a Latin descent at any time of day. I speak a decent amount of Spanish, but I don't think I am fooling anyone as to where my country of origin is or what my first language was. Throughout work we share confused stares at each other, neither of us knowing what the fuck the other just said. This is especially prevalent when my amigos will decide to change the subject to whatever is on their minds. They mention the hurricane in Japan, the falling economy, my dating life, what happened yesterday, and I am totally lost. I prefer to stick to familiar, simple topics. The weather. I hate my job. Good afternoon. Ask me to explain a childhood story, and I will stumble for a half hour. But commands I do great with. Pon la mesa. Lava los platos. Lleva el pan. Chingame mucho. I'm at my best being bossy.

And then there is the problem of my last name. This is an annoyance that has been plaguing my family for years. My last name is Wantz. Pronounced like "pants" (people have been loving that analogy for years). We are from the Midwest. The more twang, the more nasal, the more "ehnhh" you can make a word, the better. Our surname is no exception. I'll answer the phone, and someone is looking for Mr. Wants or Wontz or sometimes even Wence. There is no one here by that name. All too often the cheesy-minded coach or teacher or neighbor will come up with the genius line "Bradley wantz _____." Genius. How original. You really got me there. You really butchered. Now, it's not like I have an especially confounding last name. It is not so ethnically transribed as to be a mystery to Middle America. It's only five letters after all. So why is it so hard to say?

Something must be done about this situation. Clearly, it is my destiny to become famous, so people will learn to say my name. All my family will thank me. The years of patient repeats will be over. At the slightest suggestion of "Brandon" or any word that doesn't rhyme with pants, I will simply reply, "Do you know who I am?!?" Fifth grade students will be embarrassed when they mispronounce my notorious name during current events. Children will scoff at their parents for stumbling over a name as simple and brilliant. I will be hip. I will be famous. And beautiful. And pronounced.

What I'm Watching: Valentino, The Last Emperor, The Private Lives of Pippa Lee, Red Riding Hood

What I'm Reading: A Room of One's Own

Blog and Blogger Reunited

I miss my blog. My writing has been infrequent and inconsistent. My keyboard has grown cold, hungry to be touched and typed on again. That's not to say I haven't thought about writing. On many of my ubiquitous to-do- lists "Blog" has appeared more than once. I'll be at work, thinking, "I should really write in my blog." I'm on the train, "You know, I really should write something." A friend tells me, "You write so well," and I think, "Not lately." In fact, many times I have sat down and attempted to write. An idea will come to me, and pass. I'll have a great first sentence, which apparently cannot find an appropriate blurb to follow it. I'll draft something in my mind, usually while I am work, and by the time I reach my computer, all I want to do is check my email (perhaps stardom has arrived without me knowing it) and pass out. And alas, there have been the attempts. I meant to blog about the weather. To write a love letter to my rain boots. I considered an Oscar recap, but then after the awards have finally aired, who really wants to talk about them for at least another nine months! I've listed the movies I've watched, books I've read, music I'm listening to. Upon watching the Joan Rivers documentary, I set about to describe my regimen as a celebrity in training. I even attempted to write about my sister's death. It went, "A year has passed since my sister's tragic death," and that's where it ended. I've yet to garner any real comprehension or compensation from this event; I have no sagely advice to give. I have no further comment at this time.

And so I have decided to no longer attempt wisdom or cerebral grapplings. If you want to read something really smart read Harold Pinter or Harold Bloom or Toni Morrison or someone else who really Knows. Inspired by recent reading of I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron, I have decided to stick to what I know best: gossip, sex, and recipes. Anecdotes. Stories. Chats. Lists. Of course, if you are looking for a really good example of any of these, you should check out David Sedaris, Chelsea Handler, or Ms. Ephron herself. Just for starters.

I recently moved. Nothing major, nothing exciting. I am currently residing in India or England or El Salvador. I have not left New York, not even Astoria. For the next few months, I am subletting from a very nice gay couple and their cat until I can move in with my soul mate Katrina. The move was not for the faint of heart. Wedged in the midst of work and a visiting troupe of IU-ers, I really didn't have time for this move. Couldn't someone just do it for me? Why do we have to move? And after swearing against it, why do I find myself moving yet again? And planning another move in a few short months? What kind of a sadistic prick am I? Peeling myself out of bed after a Post-Oscar brawl, the move began with me assembling a few of my wares and trekking them across Astoria. I quickly learned that my new place of residence was not nearly as close as I'd imagined. This would indeed prove a challenge. After watching this year's showcase, I ventured back to Astoria to get a few more loads before we went out that evening. The task daunting, I quickly decided a nap was the much more appropriate action. the next morning, again peeling myself out of bed, I set off to move in earnest. From sun-up to sun-down, I carried load after load up and over and around, cursing myself for accumulating such a vast amount of crap during my time on Earth. I immediately set a goal to reduce in the coming three months. And beyond. The next morning, the movers arrived. There were men with tools in my house, and I was supposed to be telling them what to do. This my friends, is acting. At one point, they even asked me for a wrench. Me! Silly mover boys. After several trips up and down the stairs and some creative maneuvering of my bed, we had transported the majority of my stuff into its cramped new home. Here it sits and festers for the next few months.

Today, I finished the moving process by finally closing my account with Time Warner. This is a trickier process than one would imagine. Anticipating my move and the end of Time Warner and I's relationship, I called them up to say goodbye. Unfortunately, as in real life, the ending of such relationships cannot be done over the phone, but rather in person. Ultimately, there is a the returning of their stuff (the flashing box that gave me Internet), the signing of papers, the ending on "good terms." Informed an attendant could not make it to my apartment until the 7th, I decided I would deliver the goods in person. Informed there was an office at 2554 Broadway, I thought how close and convenient, only steps from the house. Following my move last week, I set about the streets of Astoria to meet up with Time Warner. Tracing Broadway like a tech-savvy bloodhound, I discovered there to be no Time Warner at 2554 Broadway, nor any 2554 to speak of. Ahh, this woman must have assumed I would realize the office in Manhattan. I assumed there was an office near my home, as if Time Warner office were sprinkled through the boroughs like branches of Chase or Dunkin' Donuts. This is not the case. So, this morning I bundled up and set off to finally return my box of Internet. Checking their website this morning, I discovered there was an office just off my train on 23rd St. I was in luck. It also became clear I would never reach the office at 2554 Broadway. Stepping off the train, I walked the few steps to the door of their offices. Outfitted with flashing screens and better lighting than most theaters, I received my computerized number and was told to sit and wait. It seems I was not the only one caught up in a relationship with Time Warner. You should have seen the line for payments. I quietly waited and watched the flashing screens for my number. I finished my library book, which is good a thing because it is due back on Thursday. Unfortunately, the library was closed today for emergency construction. The library and I continue our tumultuous relationship. A white woman, the only other white person in the office, approaches me, asking how she will know when her number is called. I refer to the flashing screens. On cue, a voice-over announces the next number. It is neither mine nor hers. She appears distraught about this possible wait and returns to the front to accost the kind man giving out numbers. Apparently she is not used to waiting. White women in general are not very good at waiting. It seems her relationship with Time Warner has grown especially thin. I am relieved by the fact that not only do Time and I have a more amicable relationship, but that I also have brought my book. I even have a magazine and iPod as backup. I can outwait anyone else here. A number is called, mine, and not the disgruntled white woman. She will have to wait and reconsider her attitude. I approach the attendant, tell her I want to close my account and hand her my equipment and an old bill. She says nothing, but quickly goes about severing our relationship. Before I know it, she is finished and smiling, asking me to please sign. No tears, no yelling, no hurt feelings. I give her my new address and am out the door. I am finally free of that box full of Internet and can feel relief that I have accomplished my one major errand for the day. The impatient white woman approaches the counter, and I fear her meeting will not go so well.

What I'm Reading: I Remember Nothing, The Hours, Swine Not? (don't ask)

What I'm Watching: Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, Body Heat, Requiem for a Dream, The Crazies, Secretary, The Kids Are Alright

What I'm Listening to: Feist

100 Things I am Putting in My Body Make Me Look and Feel Good in 2011

As I have been keeping very busy of late, I have been working a lot but not necessarily concentrating on writing. One thing I have been focusing on is getting myself in shape feeling healthy. Instead of focus on a list of "NO's!" here is a big list of yeses and solutions.

1. Apples 2. Oranges. 3. Bananas 4. Berries 5. Avocado 6. Skim Milk 7. Greek-Style Non-Fat Yogurt 8. Honey 9. Coffee 10. Black Tea 11. Green Tea 12. Chicken Breast 13. Shrimp 14. Scallops 15. Mussels 16. Turkey Breast 17. Egg Whites 18. Spinach 19. Broccoli 20. Kale 21. Collard Greens 22. Brown Rice 23. Tomatoes 24. Bell Pepper 25. Mushrooms 26. Garlic 27. Onions 28. Parsley 29. Hot Sauce 30. Vinegar 31. Mustard 32. Dark Chocolate 33. Sea Salt 34. Sweet Potatoes 35. Celery 36. Carrots 37. Beets 38. Grapefruit 39. Kombucha 40. Whole Wheat Bread 41. Dry, Red Wine (in moderation) 42. Sparkling Water 43. Olive Oil 44. Olives 45. Herbs and Spices 46. Quinoa 47. Walnuts 48. Almonds 49. Pistachios 50. Pecans 51. All Natural Peanut Butter 52. Oatmeal 53. Granola 54. Dried Cranberries 55. Oysters 56. Crab 57. Arugula 58. Artichoke Hearts 59. Capers 60. Peaches 61. Eggplant 62. Zucchini 63. Yellow Squash 64. Pumpkin 65. Chickpeas 66. Black Beans 67. Hummus 68. Salmon 69. Tuna 70. Corn 71. Green Beans 72. Asparagus 73. Parsnips 74. Goat Cheese 75. Feta Cheese 76. Part-Skim Mozzarella Cheese 77. Naked Juice 78. Sushi 79. Grits 80. Melon 81. Pineapple 82. Edamame 83. Lemon 84. Salsa 85. High Fiber Cereals 86. Tilapia 87. Ginger 88. Mint 89. Lentils 90. Endive 91. Cauliflower 92. Multi-Vitamins 93. Peas 94. Cucumber 95. Radishes 96. Broth Based Soups 97. Pesto 98. Dry, White Wine (in moderation) 99. Cabbage 100. Emergen-C

Notice I am not finding usual splurges Chinese, McDonald's, Pizza, or bagels with cream cheese. The struggle continues!