I personally don’t mind. I really am perfectly happy with the year-round lush foliage, bright sunshine from the months of November through May, and the ease of NOT having to wear 15 layers of coats before I walk out of my house. And as for the hurricanes… well, yeah… they are a pain. But you get plenty of warning. You can prepare, or just leave town if you want to.

There are three main indicators here in sunny South Florida that remind us that elsewhere in the world, the seasons are changing:

1. There is a slight decrease in rainfall as we move from Wet Season into Dry Season. There is, simply put, more sunshine.

2. The temperature drops from a sweltering, ultra-humid 105º to a comfortable, steady  84º  all around. This also brings the occasional “cold front” which will drop temperatures into the frigid 40-50º range (brrr!!!).

3. The assortment of produce on sale will vary. We’ll go from refreshing watermelons and berries to luscious figs, fragrant pears, and tart apples.

Ah, now we hit on my favorite subject.

While elsewhere, people are starting to put away their weber grills and patio furniture, as they start to think of the frost killing their plants and dusting off their vacuum-packed piles of sweaters, we are just getting started. The grill? NOW’s when it’s going to be put to good use. The sweaters? Won’t need’em for another 4 months. And the frost…. What the hell is a frost?!?! The best part? I will be baking apples. And roasting a turkey. And cooking a whole roasted pig in December. And I’ve been enjoying figs and pears with pungent Danish bleu cheese. All while wearing a summer dress, flip flops, and a damn sun hat. Yes, my dear, I am.

However! Having said that… there is something about baking apples while you are in fact, wearing one of those vacuum-packed sweaters, looking out your kitchen window and watching the leaves turn brown, and knowing you can probably start up the fireplace, and it will be perfect. Ahh….

Ok, I was just kiddin’ with that last part. It’s nice while you’re on vacationing up on some frigid mountainside and all you can do is ski and sip hot chocolate in the hopes that your bones won’t shatter from the cold. No thanks. I can bake them apples in my oven, while wearing a beach dress and flipflops, and overlooking the beautiful palm trees in my backyard. Ciao Bella!

Now, if I remember correctly, I believe that Facebook did in fact start off as a more “business-oriented” alternative to the more, um, colorful thing called MySpace. Clean white and blue pages replaced heavily-loaded, ultra-patterned, button-carrying, rash-music-playing personal websites (complete with compromising photos and unsavory posts). All this happened because there was a sort of global epiphany when people realized that your bosses could- and probably would at some point- check you out on the internet. Gasp! Horrors!

Well, it’s been a few years and people finally have seemed to forget, or simply not care anymore, that your boss and coworkers could see your status updates- going hand in hand with the “block” and “unfriend” feature. Now it’s a free-for-all. But hey… lookit what we have now… the OTHER thing called LinkedIn is here!!

It was a good intention at the time.

But… alas… the road to Hell is paved with Good Intentions. How demoralizing it is to know that people you really prefer never to see again, will have the freedom to look you up in LinkedIn and see exactly what you’re up to. Yes, you could technically keep a private profile, but that could spell a certain death if you’re a freelancer (or unemployed) in this age of ultra-invasive social networking. Now we are forced to virtually bump into people that we fired, helped to fire, worked to death, people you trashed, people who trashed you. How uncomfortable. And yet there they are, as suggested acquaintances and connections, tempting network invitations, and on the list of people who have looked you up in the last 90 days. Merde.

I am not one to shy away from change, but this social networking thing is a change I am not too fond of. It is just getting old. Guess what… not everyone needs to know what you’re up to. And after a while, it’s not like they even really care.

Here’s to the death of the Social Network. *cheers!*

There is a lot to be said about the emotional and psychological (isn’t that the same thing??) impact that losing a job has on a person. It really screws with your head. You could have been once a self-confident, stubborn, strong, secure person, well-versed in your strengths and aware of your weaknesses- but not hindered by them. Then you lose your job and you learn what it is to be humbled. You wonder: “What did I do wrong? How could I have let this happen?” And, if it was you who quit: “Why THE HELL did I do that for????”

A lot of us can relate to these feelings, having survived the last few years of this recession. I know I have. I actually survived the recession pretty well; I left jobs out of my own free will for really silly reasons like wanting to be there for my son when I thought he needed me (turns out, he didn’t). But recently, I did find myself in that predicament. I felt out of place at job- one really good job- or just plain tired of dealing with the office politics… so I found another job. Then THAT new job was just a really lousy fit, and so I left.

Being unemployed- or, working for yourself because you have to- is hard. It’s really easy to find you doubting yourself. Envying those who do have jobs, and wondering what the heck you’re going to do next. And everything seems so much worse than it is- in my case, I’m still making money, just a fraction of what I used to make. But some days I swear I’m going to be sleeping under the park bench by next week…

This state of self-loathing can be severely destructive. People identify themselves with their jobs, and having that taken away is a tough blow. People let themselves go. They enter a deep depression. They can’t see a way out. They stop going out. They stop trying. They stop caring.

Now, I’m not saying that RuPaul has the antidote to post-job-loss-depression, but I found this episode of his show DragU to be …. healing, in a way, to see someone tackle this head-on, and in such a humorous, light-hearted way, at that.

Enjoy, my friends. And ONWARD, always.

For instance: Did you know that the maximum amount of time you can keep leftovers in the fridge is seven days? Seven days. Well, you see, my grandmother keeps cooked black beans in the refrigerator for up to three weeks. THREE WEEKS!! That’s 3x the government-regulated allowance. What HER mother had taught her, was that the way to keep the beans from going bad over that extensive period of time, was to boil them once or twice a week (this is repeated reheating). This procedure, she said, would kill off the bacteria and allow the beans to last that much longer. It worked- especially for low-income families living in the outskirts of the big city. Makes sense to me.

However, according to modern-day regulations, this procedure is not only a gross violation of many health codes, but a great and potential danger for all kinds of horrible, fever-and-vomit-inducing diseases, some being so severe that they may even result in DEATH. DEATH, I tell you! How-ever did my grandmother’s generation survive this time/temperature abuse?? (Those of you who deal with food on a commercial level understand this terminology…). How did my mother, so young and frail at one time, survive such severe abuse of time and temperature control??? Because it’s not like the beans went into the refrigerator right away (which is a violation too, anyway), nor did they get cooled in a chilled pan for a quick 2 hours to bring them to the safe temperature for refrigeration. Noooo. These things would sit, at the nifty and scary room temperature zone, for hours. Any health inspectors out there?? I said ROOOOMMM TEMPERATURE!! Are you sweating yet?? BWAHAHAH!!!

And while we’re talking about room temperature. According to the CDC and FDA and FUKCU, eggs must be stored at 45 or below. I had an instant flashback of my granmother’s kitchen from just last week, where she was holding a cute little basket of brown eggs right on her kitchen counter. I live in Florida. Trust me, room temperature is NEVER 45 or below. GASP!!! ANOTHER VIOLATION!!!! Salmonellaaaaaa!!!!!

And this brings me to my last and most twisted – and recent, at least – story of time/temperature/oxygen/blah-blah-blah abuse. We’re talking full-on, no hold-barred, violations of at least 10 different kinds of food safety procedures. You see, we had an Independence Day party at our house recently, and our friend James made some smoked pork ribs. He started around 8am on Sunday, and cooked until about 4pm which is when the ribs were ready. By that point, everyone in the house was pretty much trashed. People were coming in and out of the house, people were singing/playing instruments/playing board games (yes, really), food was everywhere, and flies were having a field day. The ribs and the potato salads went on the table around 4pm , and sometime around midnite, the last of the guests left and we (my husband and I) just went to bed.

The next morning. I woke up, still in a state of intoxication, and went through the house assessing the damage. My house was destroyed. But where it really gets good is that, there in the back of the house, in the family room, near three large windows, sat two tables full of leftover food…. and this included two pans full of smoked ribs, still on display. Full, whole, delicious, marinated, smoked, meaty goodness, stacks of them, in aluminum trays. Dear Lord.

The ideal thing would have been to throw those ribs out. But… it was at least 4-5lbs of deliciously smoked meat. Enter my dear husband’s reasoning:
“Well, you know, that’s how they used to preserve food back in the day, when there were no refrigerators…”

Really? Okay! I forbid myself from further rationalizing why that statement may not really be accurate, in favor of blissfully ignoring all safety hazards because, after all, we’re talking about smoked ribs which were prepared truly, as a labor of love. SOLD!!! The ribs went in the refrigerator, and we happily ate these ribs for a whole WEEK before chucking the last two racks because we were sick of eating ribs.

We survived.

The motive for this post is simple: One living vicariously through someone else’s life, when one knows the door’s already been closed on our own expectations.

Everyone has regrets, whether they choose to admit it or not. Whether the regrets are too small to be considered worthwhile, or life-altering fuckups, everyone has regrets.

Whether it’s that one lost love who was THE ONE, the job you lost, the trip you turned down, the job you turned down, the move you made when you should have stayed where you were because the grass isn’t always greener, the opportunity you didn’t take… as much as I hate to say it, life is full of Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda’s.

Some people prefer to NOT look back thinking “Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda”, but rather Move On to the next thing. I am one of those people. But… sometimes… every once in a while…. it creeps up… even on me… what I should have done, what I could have done, what I would have done had I known better (except, for one of my biggest regrets, sadly I DID know better, but I fucked up anyway). When you’re stuck in that hole, in the consequence of that bad decision, it’s hard to pull yourself out and get back on “Move-On” mode. It really is.

Anyway the point of this post is to state that people who say they have No Regrets are simply choosing not to focus on their bad decisions, which is a totally different thing from saying you don’t regret anything. It’s a blissful state of denial. I, for one, don’t think that’s all that bad. If anything, it may be the one thing that saves you.

This drug is ultra-ingenious. It is not taken orally, intravenously, or by way of the nose. It goes in through the eyes, directly impacting the brain. Most of its effects are immediate.

Immediately following exposure to this drug, children will only show symptoms of extreme calm. What parent would complain that their children are being extraordinarily quiet?? Not many [one of the dangers of this powerful drug].

After about two weeks’ exposure to the drug, the children become the epitome of an addict: Their skin becomes pale, their eyes sink into their sockets, and they develop dark circles under their eyes. They become weak. Activities which they had enjoyed in the past – bicycle riding, roughhousing, hanging out with friends, reading, watching TV, going outside the house, eating- all become too much to bear. They complain that their eyes hurt. Their skin hurts. Their very souls hurt. The only time they feel well is when they are connected to The Drug.

Then, like most addicts, they will seek ways to fulfill their need and get new variations of The Drug. This may include some or all of the following: Begging, pleading, working until they get their fix (though they’re normally too tired from withdrawals to work), crying, and exhibiting a high level of disgruntlement to where the parents don’t know what else to do.

These children suffering from The Addiction to The Drug can be (and normally are) just beautiful children. I am not lying because I have seen this first-hand with my own children. The drug changes their personalities. It is up to US, the parents, to disconnect them from The Drug, and provide alternate activities. This isn’t always easy because The Drug seems so harmless, and it seems to make our children SOO happy. But we have to take all things into consideration and really change their habits. They will be so much better of for it. It may take 10 or even 15 years for them to realize it- but they WILL thank us. You and I know it for a fact.

More pleasant things are my kids’ laughter. More pleasant is the sound of Vivaldi or Mozart, Cradle of Filth or Hatebreed, Pendulum or The Prodigy, Celia Cruz or Norah Jones. More pleasant is the clicking of the charms on my dog’s collar or the humming sound of the kids’ fans when they go to sleep. More pleasant is the quiet clicks of my laptop’s keyboard.

The Black Box in my living room sometimes has people shooting guns at each other when my kids are watching. A lot of the time it just has imaginary people’s imaginary lives playing on it. Their dramas, their incredible stories to match my own and my husband’s, their banter – sometimes witty and sometimes mindless. Once in a while there’s something meaningful in the Black Box- something to connect us with our past and with what we might become in the future if we don’t watch it.

The Black Box steals my time. It steals my kids. It steals from me. I might watch 10 reruns of Bully Beatdown because watching bullies get the shit kicked out of them feels so much better to me than doing 2 loads of dishes myself. But the dishes are my family’s dishes. How can the Black Box be more important than that?

I do not understand anything other than selflessness, so I tolerate the Black Box in my living room. I might even forgive it. I’m not going to be the one to shut it down if I’m the only one out of four who views it as the enemy. I prefer not to be The One to Shut it Down. That’s not even the point. It’s just that in this existence in which we live, there’s so much more to do than watch the Black Box and its stories – its gunfights, its drama, its LIFE – that I can honestly say I would be so much better off without it. Actually quite perfectly happy without it. Even if it meant (which I know it does) pissing off some really awesome kids, and a great husband who wants to watch ONE episode of Top Gear a week. My darling, send me the links and I will rather buy you the “whoollle ppppphhhhhhokkinnn seeeehrieees” than let you waste your time on it regularly on a weekly basis. Can I get an Amen??? Aaaaaaa-phokken-men, please!!

The corridor opened up to a delightful little courtyard. There was a big tree in the middle of the courtyard, around which the terrace was built. There were tiny little tables for patrons who wished to sit outside. There were tiny lights intertwined in the tree’s trunk, lighting up the space.

Also lighting up the space were, naturally, the lights from the restaurant. The entrance was over to the left, if I remember correctly. It was tiny, but so exquisitely decorated. It felt like an old French house. A tiny, little French house with a tropical feel. The waiters were nice and it was just.. nice.

I don’t remember much of the food, other than it being very very good, but along the lines of a medium-upscale continental fare, without the fanfare of some of these post-modern presumptuous spots along Miami Beach or Boca. It was just … good.

The place closed down, reportedly because the landlord would not renew the lease. It just made me sad. And kinda angry at the landlords…

They say that everything changes, everything ends. That sucks.

P.S. Does anyone out there remember this restaurant?

http://miami.craigslist.org/brw/etc/2425368446.html

What this lady wants is a slave with a bachelor’s degree.