Gracias Readers

Readers, Quito's favorite holiday is fast approaching. It is almost Thanksgiving time. Now, I have never understood why Thanksgiving, out of ALL of the holidays, is Q's favorite. I mean, you have the present bearing holidays, always good. You have St. Patrick's Day, also awesome. Easter has Cadbury Creme Eggs, who could not love that?! But no, Quito loves her some Thanksgiving action, so today, or rather, tonight, I dedicate this post to her beloved holiday.

First, I'm going to share my own thoughts on Thanksgiving, because, well, it is my blog, so, yeah. Anyway, in my hazy, fogged memory I can remember the construction paper Pilgrim hats, the glued on feather headpieces, the cranberry sauce with the firmly defined can ridges. I have an absolute plethora of happy Thanksgiving memories, most of them including a fattened, overstuffed dachshund snoring laboriously underneath the table, groaning in a specific type of glorious agony. I can remember comparing the various leftover turkey sandwiches that turned up in my lunches with those of my friends, seeing if anyone's mother came up with something new.

After The Carpenter moved out to California we became one of those families that goes out to a restaurant for Thanksgiving, since our numbers were reduced and the idea of cooking a big dinner at home seemed a bit much, and by then poor Moot went up to the big Dachshund lounge area in the sky (RIP MOOT!). Man, I miss that dog. Anyway, we had a good run with the restaurant Thanksgiving dinner, no mess, no fuss, just turkey and wine and talking about how much we miss Moot.

But then, it changed again. The Chef BAILED on the East Coast and La Nina joined me at the family Thanksgiving gatherings up in Speck You Later. The Thanksgivings up there are quite enjoyable, lots of food, lots of laughs, lots of wine, lots of contentious Trivial Pursuit games usually initiated not so subtly by me.

This year though, La Nina and I are going to volunteer at Shelters of Saratoga, it is our latest incarnation of celebrating Thanksgiving. Don't get me wrong, I haven't gone off the Speck You Later Thanksgivings, not at all. The things is, I don't eat turkey (I'm back to the total dark side of veganism now folks), and I don't watch football. I really come into the Thanksgiving equation strongly at the desert/wine/Trivial Pursuit/logey stage. And really, it is better for everyone, because if I was at dinner, in front of the turkey, I just might bust out a variation of this speech, and no one wants that at Thanksgiving dinner, right? Yeah, so it's a good thing. But, readers, share with me, especially you Quito. What is your favorite part of Thanksgiving? What is your favorite Thanksgiving food? Do you eat the traditional fare, or do you mix it up? Are you a restaurant family or a stay at home group? Share with Tito, readers. And, FYI, I'm thankful for you reading my blog, I really am. Happy Thanksgiving readers!

Down with the Sickness

Dear readers, I haven't posted in a few days, and this time my excuse is not laziness. No, my pets, I was ill. ILL! It was horrible. I'm not going to lie. It wasn't horrible in the sense that I was anywhere near grave danger, or was even at Urgent Care being freaked out by the people in the waiting room wearing face masks. No, readers, what made it horrible is that I am the Worst Sick Person Ever. The reason I'm so unbearable is that I like to insist I am in fact NOT sick while trying to perform the same everyday tasks that I would normally execute. You see, I think that by doing this I will somehow trick my mind and body into thinking that I'm not sick, and will bypass the whole lying in bed thinking about everything that I am missing out on part.

I like to trace this weird condition to when I was growing up, having La Nina as a mother. La Nina, as I might have mentioned before, is a nurse, and is also as tough as Chuck Norris, so trying to pull a fast one on a big test day at school did NOT FLY WITH LA NINA. No folks, it did not. I tried though. The Chef and I spent many an hour mixing up fake vomit, usually using some canned soup and for some reason cottage cheese. Never worked. I even tried the old thermometer on the light bulb trick, a trick I think I learned from reading the Ramona series by Beverly Cleary. Never worked. I moaned, I groaned, I licked palms (Ferris Bueller's Day Off), I tried it all to no avail. The woman would not budge, she just could not be fooled. But, sometimes, I was just a little sick. Maybe just a cough, a sniffle, a touch of something, but the fact that I got up, got out of bed and got going made it all seem to disappear by the end of the day.

By the time I reached college I had manifested this into my own personal Echinacea. If I felt a cold coming on that was my cue to amp up my normal behavior. Go to rugby practice in the rain? OF COURSE. Go have a few (eleven) beers afterward? Why not? I wasn't sick! It 'twas only a scratch in the throat! I sailed along for most of my freshman year doing this, until I found myself in the emergency room, having been forced there by my roommates when I confessed I could no longer hear out of my left ear. It turned out my own personal cure to the common cold had earned me bronchitis and an inner ear infection. The doctor, who, like the other two doctors I had to see at that hospital while in college, reminded me of Dr. Nick from The Simpsons. When I asked him when I would be able to hear again he responded glibly "Maybe tomorrow, maybe next month, or maybe never!". That was a fun night.

Yet, Dr. Nick was partially right, and my hearing did come back a week later. And, you would think, my attitude towards being sick would change. Not so. I know this is true because I found myself in the middle of the Hot Yoga Saratoga studio yesterday morning after spending the majority of the weekend very sick in bed. This was because of two reasons, the first being that I am totally and completely addicted to Bikram yoga now, and also because in the back of my sick, twisted mind I thought that going to an hour and a half yoga class in a room that can reach temperatures of 115 degrees would get rid of my cold. Well, it may shock you to learn this, but I was wrong. VERY WRONG. Instead of happily sweating my way through the class, which I was extra excited to do on this particular day because there was a Post Star reporter there for the first time, I had to wimp out halfway through and just barely made it to the end. I then wimped my way home and crawled into bed and spent the majority of yesterday asleep.

So, I have come to realize that I need a new way to deal with being sick. Maybe I need to meet myself halfway rather than try to outrun it. I did take one step in the right direction recently, I did actually get the H1N1 vaccination, something I wouldn't have normally done before, because to me that would have been like admitting defeat. Yes, readers, I realize how strange that sounds. SUCH IS TITO. Anyway, that brings us to my favorite time. Sharing time! Tell me how you deal with getting sick, readers. Do you give up immediately and start bossing loved ones around demanding them to return to Walgreens to get the right flavor of TheraFlu? Do you have a special concoction passed down from generations of doting, wisdom filled grandmothers? Or do you pretend, like me, that you can outsmart the common cold by continuing on your way, infecting innocent bystanders with your germs? Share with Tito...

p.s. The picture in this post is of me at that Bikram class, about four minutes before I did the ancient yoga pose known as "Limp Rag Quietly Whimpering on Floor". It's a challenging pose, I assure you.

Home, Where My Thought's Escaping

A few years ago, before the smalls came on the scene, I was lucky enough to spend a couple months in Prague, all by myself. The part of me being all by myself was a big deal, since I had never lived alone in my entire life. I have had no less than fifteen roommates, and that is only from when I moved out for college when I was seventeen. So I was pretty excited and nervous about the prospect of being all on my own for the first time.

After a number of amusing language barrier related mishaps I thought I had Prague cracked. I knew the best route to walk to the metro, I knew which cigarette kiosk sold purple Silk Cuts, I knew where the H&M was, and most importantly, I knew where to rent American DVDs which I played on my computer. My incredibly adorable flat, which was top to bottom outfitted entirely in IKEA products, did come with a television, but it didn't take long for me to grow tired of watching Pimp My Ride in German. Actually, it took way longer than it probably should have, but I digress. I was about midway through my stay there when the homesickness set in. Because of the time difference it was difficult to get through to talk to anyone back home on the phone very often, and although I did strike up quite the chummy friendship with the New Yorker that ran the Subway restaurant that was on my walk home, it could be exhausting trying to make my way around a city where I couldn't communicate with anyone.

So I found myself home, alone, of course, after a particularly isolated day. I needed to get my picture taken in order to get a metro pass, and it took me two hours to get my picture taken in a photo booth, most of that time trying to find someone who would give me change for the machine. At first I had practically skipped home, I had accomplished my goal of getting my metro pass! But as I trudged up Nerudova Street, lugging my bag full of books, wine, and Newman's Own pasta sauce, my light mood darkened. I missed my family and friends back home, I missed my dog, I missed not having to pay twenty dollars for the Sunday NY Times. I missed vegan hot wings and Jeopardy and being able to ask people where the bathroom was without having to do embarrassing hand gestures. I just missed home. But, I bucked up, I opened my bottle of wine (which I literally had to do by holding the bottle between my feet and pulling up on the old fashioned corkscrew I found because I couldn't figure out where in Tesco corkscrews were and no one there seemed to understand my corkscrew charades) and I put in the DVD I had rented from the American DVD place. Love Actually. Now, I'm a big Hugh Grant fan. I buy into his whole bumbling floppy haired lovable British guy thing. I buy into it big time, people. I loves me some Hugh Grant. Um. Anyway, yes, so I was very excited to watch this movie, it seemed so uplifting. It was about Christmas! And families! Or something. So after my luscious dinner of buttered rolls dipped in marinara sauce and a couple glasses of wine I settled in to watch. I don't know if any of you dear readers have seen this movie, but let me tell you, if you are a slightly drunk homesick twenty five year old alone in a city where you don't speak the language, DO NOT RENT THIS.

The movie opens with families greeting each other at airports, all happy to be seeing one another, their arms wrapped around each others shoulders, crying tears of joy at being reunited. Not good for my mental health that night as I sat there, refilling my wine glass and my buttered roll supply, cradling my little collection of family pictures in buttery fingers. I contemplated calling and waking up any number of people, but decided that getting a tearful phone call from me in the middle of the night might make them worry unnecessarily. And after that scene passed I pulled it together, and by pulled it together I mean I drank more wine. But the movie did get better, Hugh Grant danced! It was all so nice and lighthearted and fun, and my mood was so uplifted that I forgot about the airport reuniting scene. Until it came back on. At the END OF THE MOVIE. There I was, my psyche barely holding itself together, and I was subjected to a repeat of the same scene. Families running out, arms outstretched, as one of their own returns. Hugs and tears, hugs and smiles, everyone all nice and back together. I lost it, and it is fair to say I cried myself to sleep that night and cursed the day I got the random idea that I should hop on a plane and go stay by myself in a country where the only phrase I had perfected was "Can I have a beer please?".

I went back the next day and slammed that DVD back on the desk at the store, puzzling the hippie guy that ran the place. I'm sure he had some thoughts in his head about this crazy rude American who got angry because of Hugh Grant Christmas movies. When La Nina arrived for the tail end of my stay in Prague she brought me peanut butter, US Magazines, Pantene conditioner, and, most importantly, herself.

Earlier this week I was talking to someone about things I miss from New Jersey, things that I am still homesick for, even though I haven't lived there in over ten years. I miss Celebrity Bagel, I miss the Commons, I miss Chez Madeleine. La Nina was my only remaining link in New Jersey, and since she moved up here eighteen months ago I haven't been back, and I don't know when the next time will be. I'm lucky to have a new amazing place to live though, and I wouldn't trade Uncommon Grounds for Celebrity Bagel any day.

So, it's share time again readers. What are you homesick for? Are you homesick for your hometown, or a place you once visited? Is there something that you miss from where you live now when you go away? Share with Tito, and take care if you watch Hugh Grant movies in a delicate emotional state, it may push you over the edge.

p.s. The picture is of the door to my lovely little flat in Prague. I miss it terribly.

Jigsaw Puzzle

Dear readers, I must admit I have a somewhat dichotomous personality. On the one hand, I have what Mr. McGovern likes to call my "Hippie Side". This alleged hippie side includes, among other things, the fact that I have a food composter in my garage, a Sink Positive in my bathroom (they are awesome, I highly recommend) and my love for vegan Twinkies. Further examples of my hippie status could be the fact that I love being barefoot all the time, I have a tenuous relationship with PETA, I saw Jerry Garcia's last concert with the Grateful Dead at Giants Stadium before he died, and I named my daughter after the Dutch word for "life". So, I guess I don't protest too much over his calling me a "hippie". The only thing is that I have another side, a contradictory side actually. Some might even say a hypocritical side, but I make no apologies. NEVER! Um, anyway, my other side is the side that drives a Jeep, the side that loves vintage fur and leather bags, the side that has a part of her closet dedicated to Lily Pulitzer clothes. This is the side that likes to stay at the Ritz with Quito when we go on our debaucherous weekends away to see Kings of Leon, the side that will take a taxi three blocks because my heels are too high to walk that far. It seems that I can't really commit fully to one lifestyle or the other because I'm really straddling the two of them. I could never part with my Hermes Collier de Chien bracelet, just as I would be devastated if I lost the handmade skirt I got while on a volunteer vacation digging ditches in Guatemala.

I'm lucky, however, to live in a town that is so accomodating to my split personality. I can walk downtown in Saratoga and buy vegan peanut butter cups from Four Seasons Natural Foods and then cross the street and buy a pair of Dubarry boots from Saratoga Saddlery. I can go take a Bikram yoga class at Hot Yoga Saratoga (more on them coming up soon actually so stay tuned readers) and then go watch a polo match at Saratoga Polo. I can do all my food shopping for dinner at the farmer's market and then buy a fantastic bottle of champagne at Putnam Wine to go with it. So really, I don't have to commit, which is a good thing, because my hair would never dread anyway.

Coincidentally readers, I remember what I wore to that final Grateful Dead show. I had on a pair of tan corduroy overalls. OVERALLS. I SHIT YOU NOT. Overalls. And a tan and white striped camisole underneath that had the tiniest lace edging on the neckline. It's possible I was also wearing Birkenstocks, which scares me readers, it really does.

Anyway, in an effort to erase from my memory the idea that sixteen year old me was wearing Birkenstocks AND overalls, (at least my hair wasn't braided or had beads in it or something equally terrifying) share with me your personality dichotomies. Are you torn between two selves? Do you wear pearls to work and ride BMX bikes on the weekend? That would be awesome if you did actually. Do you do something terribly intellectual for work and like to unwind by watching Rock of Love and reading US Weekly? Because we could be friends then. But, whatever your two halves might be, share them with Tito.

*I know what you're thinking readers, "Did you really use a yin yang image Tito?" and my answer is yes. Yes I did. I am half hippie after all. Peace.

It'll Cure What Ails Ya!

What a fun Halloween weekend dear readers! On Saturday we partook of the many activities downtown for the Fall Festival, Small 1 rode a pony, decorated a pumpkin and a cupcake, and forced a volunteer to come into the jumpy castle after him when he and a small band of other children refused to vacate. The volunteer also happened to be his regular babysitter, so it was slightly less mortifying than if it had been a stranger. Early Saturday evening while Mr. McGovern braved the elements with Smalls 1 AND 2 I braved the inside of my bedroom with a book and a glass of wine before getting ready to go to a few parties downtown. Sunday was spent having brunch and walking in the Costume Parade, which was truly adorable, even if some creepy guy tried again (AGAIN! The Nina and I ran into him once at the track randomly this summer) to "invite" me to his timeshare in the Berkshires. Readers, if you see this dude and he tries to hand you a little paper clipping about the timeshare he owns just back away slowly. He is a nut. Anyway, moving on, this brings us to today.

Monday dawned sort of bright and a little chilly here at Casa Tito, and unfortunately, as the morning unfolded, I realized it was not going to be a great one. Both of the Smalls are ill. Like vomiting ill. Which, of course, is always bad, but when your children aren't old enough to get the idea of vomiting into a bucket or pot or what have you, it turns into a whole different sort of debacle. But, I have persevered thus far, and things seem to be looking up already.

Now, the absolute first thing I wanted to do was to collect sick day items, and this made me think of sick day comfort foods. Everyone has them, and everyone has memories of what their mothers or fathers made them when they were feeling under the weather. Oddly enough one of my fondest memories of childhood was when I had the chicken pox. I had an especially nasty case, and steps were taken to prevent me from scratching the pox, specifically, pot holders were taped onto my hands. It was so bad that when I did return to school my teacher made me stand in front of the room and said "Okay everyone, take a good look at her once, see! Yes, she had the chicken pox, now let's get over it and move on". Sensitivity was not high on that teacher's list of attributes. Anyway, I was out of school with these potholders on my hands like an animal. Degraded. Dejected. It was awful. My poor mother took pity on me and ran me one of those oatmeal baths that were supposed to help with the itching. As I soaked in the milky water I heard a little ruckus in our den, and then watched as my mother carried the television into the bathroom, set it down, plugged it in and tuned to the channel so I could watch my favorite show, Punky Brewster, while I soaked. To this day I can remember feeling so uplifted by that little gesture, and I felt so special to be able to watch Punky Brewster while in the bathtub that it made the pox almost feel gone. Maybe it also had to do with the fact that she warned me not to take the television into the tub with me, which would be impossible given my puny arms and the fact that I had potholders taped onto my hands, but the image of me attempting it made me laugh.

Nowadays I am lucky enough to not get sick very often, but there is a plague that still strikes once in a while that requires it's own set of comfort foods and comfort items, namely, the hangover. Now, I am WAY more responsible than I was back in college, but every so often I do like to indulge in a glass or five of wine, and that creates an uncomfortable situation the next day. In college my hangover remedy was three Advil and a ham egg and cheese sandwich from the gas station convenience store. I have NO idea why we used to actually eat at the gas station convenience store beyond the fact that it was around the corner from my apartment, it was a ghastly place, with horrible food, and the sixty or so cents I saved on breakfast sandwiches couldn't have made that much of a difference. Ugh. Moving on, that was my cure back then. Now my tastes are a little more refined, and my cure of choice (that is, if the option of a Bloody Mary at brunch is out of the question) is coconut water, two Berocca tablets in a giant glass of water, and the three Advil, again. Some sort of bread is also required, but how it is prepared is a variable.

The Chef used to work for this brilliant and equally crazy French chef who had his own hangover sandwich that included sliced beets and raw eggs. I still haven't figured out how you can eat a sandwich with raw eggs on it without them sliding out, but he swore by it. That sandwich and about five Heinekens and he was ready to go. So readers, share with me your own hangover and or/illness comfort foods and cures. And if your comment says anything like "I wouldn't know because I don't drink" then please, don't comment at all. Cheers!

Tito Exclusive

Look readers, in the spirit of sharing a reader has pointed out to me that there is a glaring omission in all of my posts, well, two glaring omissions, those being my two little ones. Now, I in no way want to disguise the fact that I am a parent, I just am extremely loathe to include them in blog posts. I attribute this feeling to the sense that, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that about 98% of the time stories about other people's children just aren't as adorable or interesting as the parents think they are. Maybe they are interesting to relatives, close friends, what have you, but I just really find it trying when I am subjected to someone's facebook status telling me how their toddler dumped his Legos in the toilet. By the way, what the hell is the plural of Legos? Legoes? Anyway, I don't want to get bogged down by confusing toy pluralities, my point is that although I keep the stories of my two smalls under wraps, it is solely for your benefit. And I guess also maybe I don't want my son's preschool teachers to think I'm a total weirdo, but hey, who am I kidding, Quito isn't his preschool teacher! So we're safe there, right Q? Yeah...I only have one reader. Anyway, allow me to elaborate on more hidden Tito tidbits here, a little Getting to Know Tito session, shall we?

First off, my favorite food is smoked salmon. I could eat it every day, at any time of day, with all sorts of different foods or just plain. I fully believe I was a bear in a past life because I feel just like a big wet hairy animal happy with a wriggling fish between my paws when I eat it. That being said, I'm also a half-reformed vegan. About five years ago I went completely vegan, fell off the wagon twice when I was pregnant, and then resettled into a weird fish, eggs, and the rest totally vegan space. Oh wait, goat cheese. So if it weren't for goat cheese, fish and eggs I would still be vegan, but their siren song is just too strong, and that combination does actually work, ooh, those three together. Yes. With salt. Salt is key.

I love documentaries, especially really personal ones that look inside people's homes. I love seeing the minutiae of other people's daily lives, their coffee stained mugs, their closets, the condiments they put on the table for dinner. I don't know why, I just love seeing those intimate details, and not just the strange people, just anyone really. Maybe that's why I love estate sales, someone's house is opened up to people just tramping in, seeing their kitchen cupboards full of chipped bowls, their linen closets, their messy basements.

Sometimes I think I'm addicted to reading. I need to have a barely manageable stack of books piled high next to my nightstand or else I start to get panicky. I start to think of what I could possibly read next, if they'll have something at the library or if I'm going to have to go on an Amazon binge again. Usually I can stay somewhat highbrow with my reading, but I have a secret dark side where I like to read trashy novels once in a while, this past summer it was Jilly Cooper and I thoroughly enjoyed every page. I tend to become really emotionally involved with my books, I remember years ago I read The Talented Mr. Ripley and for the week or so it took me to read it I felt all nervous and scared, and had dreams of running away from people, and had tremendous unexplained guilt. It was only after I finished it and the feelings went away that I realized it was because of the story. And I use novels to alter my mood, if I'm having a shitty day I'll read anything by PG Wodehouse, it never fails to cheer me up, and I challenge anyone to say something different. If I'm feeling nostalgic for high school I read F. Scott Fitzgerald, if I want to cry I read The Lover by Marguerite Duras. At least once a year I reread Franny and Zooey, my favorite novel of all time. I love how the mother is described with that bathrobe with pockets, where she keeps her cigarettes. If it's been too long since I've read it I don't feel like myself.

So, reader(s), there are some things I won't share. I won't share the twee (see, Q-it is a word!) little stories that are better left to the weekly phone call to great grandmothers. Hell, I'm not saying that everything I write is just SO incredibly scintillating, but I just know that if I started writing about my struggles with potty training my two year old (not that I had any, I'm a pro, I assure you) this blog may start on a slippery slope towards Mommy-Blog status, and that is something I do not want. DO NOT WANT. But, nonetheless, you can add that little fact to the melange that is Tito. So instead of baby talk I'm going to share my fascinating thoughts, like what kinds of animals I was in a past life. So that's good then, right? Right?

Oh wait, while I was half-assedly proofreading this I just came up with another question. Zooey-how do you pronounce it? Zoo-ee or Zoe? See! Scintillating.

Share with Tito

So, readers, I had a fun filled weekend here in beautiful Saratoga. I shocked even myself by taking an early morning Bikram class at Hot Yoga Saratoga on Saturday, which I then rushed home from in order to make it to the American Heart Association Start! Heart Walk with Quito. Conditions were not well for this walk readers. It poured an icy rain on us for nearly the entire three mile walk. And while it pained me to walk around the closed up racetrack, all dark and gloomy and horseless, we did manage to raise $875, so we were very happy about that. We warmed up at The Local, where the bartender makes delicious spicy Bloody Marys using my favorite, Sriracha. That wasn't enough though, so we once again braved the elements to go over to Max London's for a couple mimosas, then we were finally sated enough to go watch a couple episodes of garbage television before I got ready for the Pink Ball at the Saratoga City Center. The Pink Ball was fantastic, very adorably festooned with pink Chinese paper lanterns with a surprisingly decent band and a fun crowd that filled the dance floor. There were two tables heavy with tantalizing silent auction items, and although I passed on the beef for dinner, everything else was great. Sunday we went to the Head of the Fish Regatta and then I bookended my weekend with another trip to the torture chamber over at Hot Yoga Saratoga. Sunday night after taking a seriously long shower and wringing my yoga clothes out I was sitting (lying like a limp rag on the couch) with La Nina discussing how much fun I had over the weekend, and how excited I was to be living in Saratoga now, but I got to thinking. In my almost eighteen months of living here there are still a ton of little areas I have yet to explore, so I open this post up to you readers. Share your favorite Saratoga Springs restaurants, bars, shops, events, etc. Share your favorite things about Saratoga Springs here, with yours truly. Also, I'm specifically looking for the best place (besides Four Seasons) for vegetarian food. Although I dip into the meat on special occasions, wait, that sounds really bad, but I'm going to leave it I think, I am largely a non-meat eater, and if there are any hidden vegetarian gems out there I need to know about them people. I also want to hear about winter activities, I mean, everyone (or, almost everyone, I guess) loves the track in the summer, and there are of course a ton of fun summer goings on to choose from, but what is there to do in the winter? So share with me, dearest reader(s), tell me your favorite local places, or what your perfect Saratoga weekend includes. And for you out of town/area readers (The Carpenter), maybe this will entice you to move closer, after all, San Diego doesn't have decent bagels, let alone awesome ones like the ones they have at Uncommon Grounds...