BipolarLawyerCook

Uncyclopedia is to wikipedia as The Onion or The Daily Show is to the news.  I found it totally by accident– I had a term wrong and googled it, and the uncyclopedia entry popped up.

We do love us some Bishop Allen chez BLC. But with an 8 o’clock door and two bands playing beforehand? Well, I’ll be ordering coffee, not beer, at the bar, especially since I have to be two hours from here in another state by 10 am tomorrow, for a deposition in an asbestos lawsuit. But the BH and I are raring to go, regardless. I have my loafers, turtleneck sweater and Vera Bradley wristlet. The BH has his slip-on Clarks, khakis, and merino wool zip up cardigan.

Yeah. That’s how we afford our Rock n’ Roll Lifestyle, suckas. And, past our bedtime.

Update: OK, we’re old. We get to the door, and the sign says the band we want to see won’t even go ON until 11:30. WTF? I mean, yes, I’m a hopeful assh*le who should know better, but still. They could post the time on the band or the venue website, right? I mean, don’t they figure out lineups in advance? Crank, crank, crank.

Thank goodness I have a yuppie organic chocolate bar and some yuppie alcoholic grape juice to console myself. I may not have a rock band fix, but boy, have I got antioxidants out the wazoo. Grr.

Yesterday was the guiltiest day of the year– the first freezing & below, bitterly cold, windy day of the winter.  My guilt started early, and kept going.  First, the coffee shop around the corner, where I stopped for my morning coffee and breakfast sandwich to eat in my safe, warm car as I drove across the state to a safe, warm, conference room to argue about money with people who already had it. The coffee shop was full at 8 in the morning with the local transients– it will be all winter, weekday and weekend.  There won’t be room for me to work at my laptop in there if I want to, and even if I get there early enough to snag a table, it will soon be too loud as the homeless with their lack of inside voices rejoice in the warmth.  The servers and owners only throw them out rarely.  It will be the same at the local library branch, the heat from the radiators exacerbating the odor of people with no place to wash except public sinks in public bathrooms.

Second, when I returned to the parking garage near my office, then walked by the VA Center walk in clinic, a half-dozen guys standing outside smoking cigarrettes, huddled in the doorway, gloves and hats and thin leather jackets their shield against the wind howling out of the cold blue sky.

Third, when I passed the next three clusters of homeless, less well-clad than even the veterans relying on the free care clinic.  I did see the food truck.  They did have some blankets.

Fourth, that same cluster on the way back to the car, after dark now, the wind dropping off, but the temperature, too.

Fifth, the cluster of four of them under the overpass, the acute angle making a shelter from the wind, and a tangle of blankets, plastic bags, a mattress or two making a nest.

I give money to the food bank.  Give clothes to the local charities.  Give money to local homeless shelters.  Give the change from my morning coffee to the guy standing outside with a cup.  And feel guilty for not giving more, and for feeling annoyed when I can’t enjoy my bourgeois gathering places without loud encroachers.  They’re invisible the rest of the year.  I feel less guilty that way.

At 11:00 am on November 12, 2000, I married my Better Half.  Since then, we’ve run the gamut of the traditional wedding vows: job layoffs, quitting abusive employers, stressed and angry, misunderstood, and just plain crazy (well, me at least on the last one).  But for all the parts that were worse, sicker, and poorer, the parts that were better, richer, and healthier have outweighed them in the end.

I hope we have eight times eight more anniversaries, dear V.  May every silly thing that’s ever made us laugh like idiots continue to amuse us both: hot chicken, it comes in pints, looks like meat’s back on the menu boys, which it’s supper, he vas my BOYFRIEND, there’s something wrong with this cheese, baconbaconbacon (I can’t read!), and every bad Monty Python joke known to man.  Even the dachshund joke and the ones about hot dogs and cheese.  Yes, even those.

We both get bummed out, both lose track of taking care of ourselves so we can take care of the other, but we’ve made it so far.  It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.  And that you’ve put up with me on my roller coaster?  Well, Better Half says it all.  No one makes me laugh like you do.  And it’s very clear… our love is here to stay.  You’re the love of my life, monkey bear.  Happy anniversary.

This week’s post, “Better Living Through Chemistry,” is up at Real Mental.

The NYT’s Dining section had an article about Simon Hopkinson, the British chef and cookbook author who wrote “Roast Chicken and Other Stories,”  “Second Helpings of Roast Chicken,” and “Week In, Week Out,” (a collection of newspaper essays only available in Britain, but which can be sent here from the British Amazon arm).

The recipes are fairly straightforward and delicious, and organized by ingredients, such as “Cream,” or “Chocolate,” or “Mussels.”  It’s a whimsical organization, a sort of “these are a few of my favorite things,” but it’s charming.  The best thing about it isn’t the recipes, though.  It’s Hopkinson’s frankly opinionated, humorous voice– he makes fun of himself as much as he does foodies and fancy restauranteurs, and also tells lovely tales about British inns and cooking establishments of yore, when hospitality meant something.  They’re in the Elizabeth David and M.F.K. Fisher school of personal and informational essays to accompany recipes, and while his style is lighter than theirs, the cookbooks are a good non-fiction read even if you’ve no intention of cooking from the books.  The writing’s worth it, alone.  If you liked “Eat, Pray, Love” for her descriptions of eating and food, you’ll probably like this one, too.

Yes, we did.

We bloggers have bloggy friends (i.e., friends who we make through blogs), non-bloggy friends (i.e., people we know from “real life”) and now, friends who blog.  Real life friends, now new and improved, with blogs.  My section mate and good friend from law school has begun his blog, Senor Sinister’s Low Key Plan for World Domination, and writes about music, reading (comics included), politics, his lovely wife and his truly gorgeous, well-behaved children.  He’s a man after my own heart, a lawyer, a bleeding-heart liberal, and he compliments my cooking.  That, and good writing?  Well, he’s not the Better Half, but he’s close.

The BH’s colleague, Amy, who I’ve written about before, makes beautiful mosaic mirrors, boxes, and other crafty things under the name Riverview Crafters, is hosting a craft show at her home November 15, 2-8 pm.  There will also be woven, leather, ceramic, and other textile and printed crafts.  The Better Half, because he is a superior male, paid attention to my indication of interest in this here piece below, and has not only given me exactly what I want for my birthday, but has also supported a local artist.  Amy has mirrors, clocks (We got a preview of some ones not on her website yet, and they’re really lovely and clever), picture frames, and large and small boxes– a range of things from small to large.

The article, in the end, is about quicker-cooking old-fashioned things like homemade chicken soup, but Alex Whitchel’s article from last week in the NYT has a beautiful prologue about the sounds of cooking that is just a wonderful description of the anticipation that the sounds of cooking brings.