Sugar High

Now that I’m officially done with the worst part of my pregnancy (I only want to throw up twice a day instead of fifteen), we celebrated by running up and down the aisles of the world’s biggest sugar center, NYC.

To emphasize this point, we went to Economy Candy, where we could buy all the candy you used to love, in bulk. If you love black licorice there are about 20 different types. And every kind of chocolate covered item known to man. I bought a chocolate covered s’more and consumed it standing outside the store.

Circus peanuts, anyone?

Right after we went to the candy store, we got doughnuts. From The Doughnut Plant. Those geniuses created a crème brulee DOUGHNUT. And we didn’t shy away from the doughnuts, we really ate those doughnuts. All 8 of them. They have a PB & J doughnut, and they make their own jam. They even put their filling in the ring, rather than all lumped up in the middle, which just made me swoon, and bow down to NY eating geniuses for the 50th time this trip.

(The guy holding Minnie was manning the counter at The Doughnut Plant. He kept yelling to the guys in the back, “Stop giving me crap. Send up the good stuff.” And they would hand him trays of amazing Valrhona, coconut cream, and orange glazed doughnuts. I think I may need to change careers.)

Then we met the next geniuses at The Pickle Guys. They look like regular guys in there, but back behind their “we’re pretty chill” front side, they’ve got some major chemistry stuff going on in the back. They wouldn’t let us back there, but I’m pretty much positive that they must have put drugs in their pickles. That salty dill pickle after 8 doughnuts and 3 lbs of candy was heaven.

Most NY’ers are skinny. I really can’t figure it out. And no, I don’t buy the theory that it’s because they walk around all the time. Because I was walking around all the time, nay, running from food appointment to food appointment, and I was not getting skinnier. I think I may have been in a Hansel and Gretel story.

Just in case you thought we weren’t getting our nutrients, we went to pizza for dessert. Why someone doesn’t build a brick oven in Hawaii and sell NY pizza is crazy to me. Hopefully someone smart is reading this because you would make a billion dollars. Hear that, smart person? We need more Hawaii geniuses.

En Why See

The whole point of coming to NYC is to eat food.

So far I may have consumed more calories than 1 and a half people should eat in a week.

Jaw-dropping mouth-watering food at Perbacco on Monday night. Parmesan creme brulee (the brulee part was balsamic vinegar), fried stuffed olives, truffle sauce for fried polenta, some sort of sweet pickled onion that burst goodness in our mouths, fried PASTRY CREAM, and my main course? Kabocha ravioli in browned butter with savory sausage on one side, sweet amaretto foam on the other. I am bowing to their genius and we went to bed so, so happy, for many nights to come (because of the food-induced coma). Of course, I will never, ever, ever be able to eat Italian food again because now I have an expectation. And Olive Garden lovers, there is something wrong with you. That is not an offense I will be apologizing for later, so don’t even ask in the comments.

Iz, I was wishing the whole time that you had been there. You would have been figuring out how to make all that food, and we were only thinking of how we would never be able to make that food.

Brazilian Charrascuria yesterday for lunch where the fat crackled with perfect sweet garlic (did I take pictures? DID I? NO! We were too busy eating. Like dogs half-starved, except we were still stuffed from dinner the night before), and several half cupcakes from Crumbs after that.

Then we saw Snoop Dog walking out of the David Letterman building.

Whaaaaaat? We may have imagined it. Calories can play tricks on a person.

We didn’t stay for Kristie Alley, because we knew it was going to hit too close to home.

Air Pain

I boarded a plane this morning at 12:20 am Portland time, and sat down next to a woman (I say “woman” to describe a female of my own age) and her daughter.

The pregnancy nausea has not left the building, yet, people, and I was engulfed by a perfume not unlike body odor of 1 month unwashed skin and stale cigarette smoke. When I say, “not unlike” , I mean, EXACTLY alike. In those five seconds of breathing lightly, trying to convince myself that this was nothing like either of those ghastly smells, I considered hard whether I should ask to be moved to a different seat.

To be a jerk? Or Not To Be A Jerk?

I decided to stay in my seat. It was a full flight. People who bother flight attendants are headed for the lowest levels of helk.

Within the first 45 minutes of flight, this girl/woman/mother/smelly smelly rank of a person had to squeeze past me in my aisle seat approximately ten times. She used the call button twice to clarify answers to questions she had already asked. She forgot “important materials” in her suitcase in the overhead bin and felt compelled to release them.

Next she ordered some wine, I assume to add to the collection of smells I was experiencing, and feigned surprise when she was informed that the glass she had just gulped out of was $7.

“Oh! It’s not complimentary?”

When the flight attendant walked away with her money, she said excusingly to her daughter that it used to be free, and everything was so cheap these days. Ahem. There was no way this woman/stank monster was old enough to have gotten free booze in 80s booty plane movies.

I finally, finally, fell asleep, despite her detailed accounting to her daughter of relationship advice she was reading (her “favorite subject”) and thought I could keep it up until the captain announced our descent.

Into Helk.

But really, I was awoken by cold, cold liquid, spilling onto my side and running under my butt, and immediately soaking into my underwear.

I gasped and moved, fumbling to unbuckle my belt and stand up quickly. The woman/foul female of free liquor era, looks lazily up at me and says, “Oh, sorry. It just vibrated right off the table. I, like, caught it twice already from falling on you.”

I mumbled something like, “Uh, it’s okay”, and before I can find some help she’s pushing the call button for like the 5th time this flight, and asking for napkins. She apologizes slightly more sincerely now, and I mumble forgiveness, in the way that you mumble where you are clearly saying, “I will never forgive you for this.” I attempt to mop up my jeans with 4 napkins, which is like trying to mop up a pond with q-tips, and I finally sit down with my butt looking like I’ve freshly peed. Freshly because at least I don’t smell.

The woman has gone back to sleep, but now I can’t sleep, because I’m bothered, but also because THERE IS STILL A 1/4 CUP OF WATER ON THE EDGE OF HER TRAY. Jiggling in the turbulence. With my name on it. And now I have to watch it to make sure it doesn’t fall on me.

I wonder, if in some other life, I might have actually been friends with this person, who speaks nicely to her daughter and has a pink streak in her hair.

After a layover in Minneapolis, I boarded the flight to JFK, and as soon as I see him from a distance, I just KNOW that I’m seated next to the Hasidic Jew. I was worried. But he didn’t smell, try to get past me, drink any liquids, or even talk.

I really had to wonder if it had anything to do with his religion.

Tsunami

All I can say is, thank goodness I don’t live in:
American Samoa, Indonesia, New Orleans, Haiti, or Chile.
Or Hilo in 1960.
I’ve become quite accustomed to my island in its not-topsy-turvy state, and I was just fine with not having an 8 foot tidal surge sweep through my living room, thank you. I’m also quite accustomed to having floors that do not fall out from under me or grounds that shake.
What I’m not accustomed to is the whine of people who complain about the inconvenience that the evacuation caused. I have zero patience for that. I had perfect clarity in establishing what was important and I was completely able to leave 99.9% of my material possessions behind. We woke up at 4 am and finished putting together our emergency packs, rolled up the rugs, and got most stuff off the ground. I was personally fine with knowing that I would definitely survive a possible natural disaster because I was given 7 hours warning. This is my 3rd warning about natural disaster while living in Hawaii, and 1 of those did follow through with water.
The whole episode reminds me of that Jim Gaffigan routine where he’s explaining how people in an airplane should be screaming for joy every second of the ride because, people, you’re flying through the air at hundreds of miles an hour in a freaking PLANE! Instead they are complaining about not being able to access wireless internet at 20000 feet.
Please conk me over the head and drag me back to the mainland if I even once become jaded about tsunami warnings. Please.
The scariest part of my day was driving up past scrambling hills. I had no idea a CRV could do such a thing.
We spent a very pleasant few hours up at Needles campsite, and Amaya loved every moment of it. She ran wild with the other 3-year-old up there, and Jake and I parked ourselves in perfect view of the point. We ate leftover pizza, chatted with the other evacuees, listened to Perry and Price on the radio, and read our books without one mosquito in sight. The temperature was a perfect 72 degrees with a slight breeze.
Thank goodness for modern technologies like tsunami warning systems. Without it, I would have no reason to feel entitled to my life. Inconveniences and all.