Train Tantrums

I’m a bonafide commuter and take the train to work, and (so far) I love it.  I love unwinding, listening to music, staring out the window, dog-earing my book, and thinking about dinnertime and Penny and Matthew and all those precious little things.  I’m on my daily migration to what’s important.

But there’s a dark underbelly to the train, too; one that centers on a pervasive lack of manners and general etiquette.  I do enjoy myself some Miss Manners, I must say.  You will receive a thank you note from me, and niceties will be met with a “my pleasure”.  So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’m going to write about the train douches (yes, I said it) on the R5 line.  Really – they need to be exposed.  So hitch a ride, darlin’, because here we go!:

Septa (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority) regional rail trains are invariably set up in the following format: a set of two seats on one side, and three on the other.  Meaning, if there is a full train, someone will have to sit in the middle.  I often take a train called “The Great Valley Flyer”.  Doesn’t that just scream turn-of-the-century railroad romanticism to you?  The Great Valley Flyer stops at all the outermost stops on the line, and then continues into Center City Philadelphia non-stop.  I live a good 2/3 out on the line, so I pick-up the train on its last stop before it choo-choos into the city for a 7:51 am arrival.  Because of this, the train is always very crowded with tired commuters and there are almost always only middle seats left.  Do not, I repeat, DO NOT pretend to be asleep so a new passenger will forgo asking you to slide over.  These dufuses are almost always male, because, and this is very scientific, here: I believe males have a bigger allotment of asshole-y genes.  I can SEE YOU peaking out at me through your half-closed eyes, sir!  And spreading your legs in the biggest, most obnoxious and grotesque “V” isn’t going to stop me.  And YES, my big booty will take a seat.  Also, putting your briefcase, laptop bag, and newspaper all in a row to take up the middle seat will not deter me.  I see others look at your seat, look at the crowded train, then look back at the seat in that sad, timid way my dog looks at leftover food on my plate: they would rather stand the whole trip than bother with the likes of you.  Well, they’re obviously nicer than me, so scoot over!

On most trains there is an overhead rack, number one, and number two, why don’t you try a little consolidation?  Women are particularly guilty of this: oftentimes a woman will carry 1) a purse of smallish stature, 2) a tote bag of largish stature, and 3) a lunch in a thermal container.  Sometimes a laptop bag is thrown in there, too.  I’m particularly baffled at these gals: whatever happened to one large work bag?  I carry a large leather tote a la L.L.Bean (stylin’, I know): it can fit a laptop, a pair of shoes (and these are some pretty damn big size 11’s), my wallet and mp3 player, and a lunch.  However, I’m not mad at them because they aren’t spreading their baggage all around like a petulant fifth grader. 

Now let’s touch on the cattle call that is the train station during the evening commute.  When our train pulls in I have never witnessed such base behavior.  This is no Titanic, folks, with women and children first.  I’ve seen feeble old ladies cut off by a Main Line douche.  This is a good time to say I find people who live on the Main Line particularly loathsome, and it’s really my problem.  I’m sure most are hard-working good people who aren’t on their second marriage to someone half their age, and they all don’t drive Mercedes convertibles and have live-in help.  But I don’t care: that’s how I see them all (I know, I know: I’m awful).  For non-locals, the Main Line is a supremely tony area of suburban Philadelphia.  My train runs through this area as Matt and I live about 15-20 minutes north of this tax bracket (and thus three tax brackets south).  Now don’t get me wrong: I’d love to be rich and not work, but I’m not, so my only option is to seethe at them and be a jealous ol’ curmudgeon.  And write pithy blog posts.

My distaste for this suburban breed began when I was cut off again, and again, and again by clueless moms in Land Rovers chirping away on their Blackberries.  This happens daily.  She’s often pulling into Whole Foods with three children in the back and wearing Lululemon yoga pants.  Now that I take the train with their husbands, I’m even more incensed because (and I swear to you on this) they are always the ones who would rather give up their nanny than move over a seat or let you slide in.  If you are dressed in something from Target or Macy’s, or, jeez, even Banana Republic, you’re downright jolly in the morning.  Brooks Brothers and reading the WSJ?  Keep a’walkin’. 

But even I am shocked when I see good ol’ elderly folks trampled in the commuting rush.  I have literally put my arm out to stop the masses as the woman in question gathered herself and slowly boarded the train.  I am also known to give dirty looks at these offenders, and I swear I can be all sorts of intimidating given by 5’10” stature (5’11” in the orthopedic flip-flops my mom insists I wear).  They’re probably scared I’ll key their X Series. 

Finally, there are the individuals (read: men) who insist on getting up and positioning themselves in the aisle a good stop before their designated stop.  The other day a MLD (Mainline Douche), who occupied the window seat, said to me, who occupied the aisle seat, “The next stop is mine.”  I replied it was also mine, thinking we were good to go, when he said, “Well then can you please move?”  We were still at

30^th Street

Station, which is a few minutes before our Suburban Station stop.  The train was idling.  I got up and MLD took his position in the aisle.  Now this is the kicker: I finished my book chapter and got up when the train actually pulled into Suburban Station and LO AND BEHOLD, stepping into the aisle directly behind me.  I figure he saved two seconds off his commuting time by doing this, so good going MLD!  You win!

I know I sound like a bitter Betty, but I can assure you I love the train!  I love feeling like a part of the masses – there’s just something so intrinsically welcoming about it.  Like, we’re all doing this less-than-ideal commute together.  We’re all waiting for this delayed train, together.  And sometimes I’m even tickled by my well-off seatmates (my JC Penney-clad self often guesses if their cuff-links are real gold, or, god forbid, platinum). 

So, there you have it: scoot in or let your fellow passenger take that middle seat without grunting, quit the farm animal shoving, calm the heck down, and I swear, I’ll quit bitching. 

Probably.

Cletus Carries On

So many people have told me I look happier and I have a glow. Now, I think this is what you're supposed to tell a pregnant woman, but I eat it up anyway. I'm in my 18th week and because of my height and build am not particularly showing, although my sister saw me in a bathing suit a few weeks ago and said, "Woah, preggars!!!" I had to correct her and tell her that was my everyday fat - doi. My stomach has always stuck out; now I just monitor how much further it sticks past my boobs. I'm thinking it may be a good idea to get a push-up bra to even out the heft on the top and the bottom.

I see women on the train platform or the grocery store and I desperately to want saddle up to them and spout, "I'm pregnant too! I'm part of the club! Let's compare notes!" even though they're obviously much further along than me, and could really give a damn about this half-baked floozy. The strange thing is that I have no notes: I would not know I was pregnant. Only on two occasions early on did I experience any stomach upset, and it was simply, "I need to eat that bagel because I'm feeling a bit woozy." That's it. I was tired, but home at the time, so it was tolerable (and nicely filled the gap between the end of The View at Noon and the beginning of Ellen at three). I eat things and then realize maybe I shouldn't have (a turkey sandwich - god, it was good: grilled pear, cheddar, turkey on a baguette - two days ago, a big, sugary Coke yesterday). Even when you tell me I'm pregnant I'm skeptical. At my monthly doctor's appointment this week the ob/gyn put the doppler to my belly and said, "There's the heartbeat! 156 beats per minute!" I didn't hear a thing except some watery swooshing.

That's not to say I don't worry incessantly that something is wrong. I told my work last Friday only because my team brings up babies often. Our manager is currently out on maternity leave and we're all approaching 30, and I guess that's just what barely-30-year-old girls talk about in their cubicles. After a few days of feeling duplicitous ("Babies?! Eh. I dunno." was a memorable quote of mine after they mentioned they were nowhere near ready to rear a child) I came clean. They were phenomenal, but ever since then, however morose this sounds, I thought, "What is something happens?! I should have kept my trap shut!" Yesterday's heartbeat "confirmation" has made me feel more relaxed.

The good thing about being pregnant is that I can get away with almost anything since I can just blame it on Cletus the Fetus. This has included taking the dog out, making my own dinner, or, allowing myself to huge second portions. "Cletus is hungry! Cletus is tired!" when really Kathryn just wants to watch The Bachelorette (which isn't to say I don't do my fair share of housework, but this little trick has really come in handy of late).

A friend told me that dogs know when a woman is pregnant, but Penny has been ignoring me just as much lately, so who knows. At least I still have her to keep me grounded.

Workin' 9 to 5

This is the story of how Kathryn – sorta – got her groove back.  I’ve never worked for a company that had much more than 1,000 employees, so imagine my cultural shock working at an organization that has just shy of 30,000.  There is a cafeteria!  Omlettes and pancakes to order after the morning commute!  A gym!  (With laundry service no less!)  I work in a skyscraper!  (Well – a Philly skyscraper so let’s not get too excited.)  My cube has tons of space and even a visitor’s chair and a coat closet.  A coat closet in a cubicle, I say!  I have a window view (never mind my view is directly into another skyscraper and I have to turn around to see it, but I get to control the window blinds!)

 

Look, I went to school in Manhattan, had internships in Manhattan, and am not some Podunk hillbilly (well - not fully), but this girl has been living the suburban life a little too long.  There is nothing more exhilarating than the crush of the morning commute as I get off the train with headphones on: warm bodies rushing every which way, coffee in hand, street lights to be abided.  Now, I know the novelty of my commute will wear off.  Like, probably by tomorrow.  But right now, when I shut down for the night, turn up my music, and hop on that elevator, I am elated.  I am buoyant.  There is no better feeling to know I am making my way in the world – I am earning a living and standing on my own two feet – and I don’t need anyone’s support (unless it’s killing spiders).

 

And it’s not about being a bigwig with a bloated salary (both of which I am exceedingly far from), but it’s about buying the aged cheese, or the fancy lipstick (or at least having the option to).  It’s about saying, hey, I can afford to increase my 401(k) contribution and maybe we can pay this mortgage off in fifteen years in lieu of thirty.

 

Perhaps with a child my priorities will change, and we’ll decide on cutbacks so I can stay home or work closer to home.  A commute into the city with a job that requires extended travel is a lot, but it’s not worth thinking about now.  So this past week – as overwhelmed as I am – I just turn my headphones up as I push through the building’s revolving doors, face up, sun shining.

Prelude to Work

I don't know if it's pregnancy hormones, or Lady O herself, but my golly did I cry during Oprah's final bow yesterday. Over the years her "aha moments" did sometimes grate on me, and her admiration for Babs or Tommy Cruise, but her last goodbye was beautiful. The last time I regularly watched her show was in high school: me on the recliner, my childhood best friend on the couch, and I've only revisited her during these dog days of unemployment, but boy if she'd didn't grab me in again.

After almost three months of yearning for nothing but work, I'm suddenly - to my befuddlement - kinda scared! I start on Tuesday and I have not started a new job in five years. I am a creature of habit: I have my spot on the couch, my side of the bed, and (I did have) my mindless commute. I've glad to have the opportunity to use my brain and get my mind off another anxiety: the baby. When you don't particularly feel pregnant, nor do you particularly look pregnant, you start to wonder: that thing still in there?!

Last week my ob/gyn took several minutes to find the baby's heartbeat with her doppler. Last time it was instantaneous. She assured me this was normal, the baby moves, and that perhaps I should get an ultrasound to confirm all is alright, when, bam, there it was: tha-ump, tha-ump - so quick and rhythmic and beautiful.

I hope everyone has a spectacular Memorial Day weekend. Matt and I are going to the beach for a few days (the calm before the storm, I suppose); photos to follow (but of course)!

New Beginnings

I've wanted to write this post for quite a while, and I've thought about the tone in which I'd write it, or the language I'd use and all of those writer's flourishes that dance on so many of the blogs and pieces I adore. But now that pen is to paper (or, in my case, fingers to keyboard) no fabulous cheekiness is coming to me. No play on words or goofy sentiments, either. So, with that, I will say this, plainly but full of love, hope, and giddiness: I am pregnant (I have to say it again: I am pregnant!!!) and Matt and I couldn't be more happily terrified.

We have entered our second trimester and are due mid-November. We learned of the pregnancy the second week of March, with very little pomp and circumstance. I went for my blood test on a Friday morning (a week after I was laid off), and Matt planned to come home around 2 pm to take the results call with me. They always call after 2 pm, but that Friday the phone rang at 12:30 pm and the nurse said - I remember so clearly - "So, ya ever have a positive pregnancy test?".

We didn't celebrate that night, or the following few weeks. We tempered our expectations - my progesterone and estrogen levels were woefully low and I was being propped up on several supplements. But, my beta numbers (hCG - the pregnancy hormone) kept rising, and then we had an ultrasound and saw the yolk sac. Our next ultrasound we saw a smudge in the yolk sac. On our next ultrasound the smudge was now a shrimp, and was larger and had a heartbeat, and now, many weeks later, our smudge is a baby the size of a lemon who kicks, punches, and makes us hold our breath every time we see him or her on the ultrasound monitor.

As the weeks progressed, I felt more free to believe everything would be okay. I visited baby forums, read no less than 200 reviews of strollers on Babies R Us and Target.com and last week, as we entered our second trimester, Matt turned to me and said, "We have so much to do before the baby comes; we have to make a list!" There is always risk, and it is still early, but we've finally exhaled, and we have never been more happy.

Matt, being Matt, has named the baby "Cletus the Fetus". "How's Cletus today, K?!" Me, being me, usually snottily retorts with, "Well, our CHILD weighs an ounce, so it's not like I feel him wiggling around in there." Matt wants a boy, but only because he doesn't know what to do with a girl. He is scared of them and their pink and lace and temper tantrums. I have no gender expectations, but I do hope he or she has Matt's kindness, patience, joie de vivre, and perfect health, and what I'd like to think of as my strong sense of self and sardonic humor. I'd also like them to not inherent Matt's hairiness - well, that goes more so if the baby is a girl.

When it rains, it pours. I'm starting a new job in Philadelphia after Memorial Day (yes; it take a lot for that to be second-rate news!), and although nervous and a bit overwhelmed, I think I'm really kickin' ass these days. Of course, there are some hiccups: today my ob/gyn told me I really need to to control my rocketing weight (oops - I finally looked at the number on the scale after many appointments of eyes squeezed shut and, sadly, I have to admit, a few tears were shed), and then there's the whole thing of the world ending tomorrow on the 21st. Just when things were really starting to look up...

In my "real" life I am still keeping this news to close friends and family and there will be no Facebook announcement (now or later), but a few readers have reached out individually, and I'm so glad I can now share the news with everyone on the blog. I owe you a world of gratitude: however cheesy this sounds, your support and comments were rays of sunshine in my inbox, and I can only hope I can return the same happiness you have given me.

Thai Cucumber Salad

Today I told Matt I was going to eat healthier. Then we got a Cadbury Fruit and Nut chocolate bar at the grocery store and I just made cookies with chocolate, raisins, and oatmeal and my god were they full of gooey deliciousness. Oh well - tomorrow is always another day!

In honor of eating healthier (but not actually doing so), I'm going to do the next best thing: post a reasonably healthy recipe. I say that's good enough for today. As promised, here is a titillating (well, if cucumbers can be titillating) Thai cucumber salad I had with the previous curry recipe. It's fresh and simple, and like any good starlet or, um, cucumber salad, healthy and attractive. Great side dish for your Asian fare, and the coolness provides an excellent juxtaposition to the heat of the main dish. Enjoy!

Thai Cucumber Salad

• 3 cucumber (peeled, halved lengthwise, and seeded)
• 1 Tb. salt
• 1/3 to 1/2 cup white sugar
• 1/2 cup rice wine vinegar (if you get the seasoned rice wine vinegar with sugar, then the additional sugar is not necessary or you will only need a couple Tbs.)
• 2 jalapeño peppers, seeded and chopped
• 5-6 radishes, thinly sliced
• OPTIONAL: 1/2 to 1 cup slaw mixture (we used broccoli slaw)
• 1/4 to 1/3 cup chopped cilantro
• 1/2 cup chopped peanuts

After prepping cucumbers, toss with salt and leave in a colander for half an hour. Rinse with cold water and pat dry. Then whisk together sugar and vinegar. Add rest of ingredients to this (except for peanuts). Toss and top with chopped peanuts.

Simple Thai Coconut Curry

Strawberry season is here! Matt's been making smoothies galore, and I had them atop some french toast this morning. Later, some plain yogurt with bananas and strawberries and a (ok - hearty) drizzle of honey, and I'm already thinkin' up excuses to make my simple and delicious strawberry peach pie. It's a summer slice of heaven.

But this recipe isn't about strawberries, but don't be sad. It's still meets all the criteria: delicious, simple, and...well, that's all the criteria, really. It's an adaptation of an ol' Betty Crocker recipe, and old Betty girl sure knows how to cook. I served with basmati rice, pot stickers, and a Thai cucumber salad (recipe coming!).

Simple Thai Coconut Curry

• 1 lb. skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-size pieces
• 1 tsp. lime zest, plus juice of lime
• 1-2 tsp. minced ginger
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 serrano chillies, seeded and chopped
• 1/2 cup chopped cilantro (reserve some for topping before serving)
• 1 can (14 oz.) coconut milk
• 1 tsp. brown sugar
• 1 cup sugar snap peas
• 1 Tb. soy sauce
• 1 large bell pepper (any color will do)
• 2 ripe tomatoes, chopped
• salt to taste
• Thai basil for topping, if available (cilantro will also do)

Stir-fry chicken in a large skillet with oil. When chicken is no longer pink in the center, add garlic, lime zest, ginger, chillies, and cilantro and stir-fry for another minute or so. Add coconut milk, brown sugar, sugar snap peas, the pepper, soy sauce, and salt to taste (about 1/2 tsp). Simmer up to five minutes until the veggies are starting to get tender but still retain some crispness, and then stir in tomato. Serve with rice and top with Thai basil or cilantro.

2 Months Unemployed - Whaaa??!!??!!!

This will be me...soon enough!

You know you reached a whole new level of "total lazy ass" when you complain about having to run errands two days in a row and thus have to put on normal clothes (sans holes, stains...or most likely both), brush your hair, and put a lick of mascara and balm on. Because that, my friends, is just too much damn effort. At this point Matt is lucky if I dust the crumbs off my sweatshirt. Scratch that: he's lucky if I'm wearing a different sweatshirt than I wore the day before. And the day before that. And yes, I'm gonna say it: the day before that. Weep for him.

I'm not doing well with unemployment. As much as a clock-watcher I was while working, my house has become an insufferable prison. I have long conversations with Penny. (I swear, I am not being cutesy.) I argue with her about totally humanoid topics while she wearily chews her bone. Today we had a frank discussion about the Bin Laden death photos, which I was against releasing. Penny, as misguided as she is, disagreed. When you're having fake conversations with your dog you know you need to get out more.

Today, like an adult, I attended to my previous 401(k) and moved it into an IRA. I spoke to real humans at Vanguard and went to the bank for a change-of-name guarantor signature. I felt good about this. It was a very adult thing to do (more adult than talking to your dog, at least). Matt has been pestering me for the last two months to call our insurance company to inquire about life insurance. I figure one adult thing a day is enough and - if he's lucky - I'll tackle this tomorrow.

This Friday I'm having friends over for a potluck, which I couldn't be happier about. Another week and I would have ended up all Nell-like in this vacant house. Then Saturday Matt and I are volunteering at the annual Crohn's walk. I'm sure there will be a lot of humans there, which will be good for me. One friend said I should volunteer somewhere, and another said to take a class at the local community college. I keep putting all of this off because I'm under the delusion I'm going to get a job. Really, really soon. I swear!

Until then, excuse me, as Penny and I need to have a heart-to-heart regarding the amounts of dog fur she's leaving all over the house. I tell ya, someone's not earning their keep!

Dog gone goodness

I love dogs. Their desire to serve is humbling and heartwarming and whenever there is a dog store anywhere (even our local 11 o'clock news which often warrants an eye roll) I cry. A lot. I turn to Matt, who is often unmoved, and stammer, "Don't you...don't you see what they DO for us?! They are AMAZING!" I make quite the scene.

I don't understand people who don't like dogs with all they do for us: seeing eye dogs, dogs who serve individuals with epilepsy, rescue dogs, bomb-sniffing dogs, sled dogs, police dogs, parachuting dogs used in war (!) - the list is endless. Of course, then there's the ubiquitous pet dog who enjoys sniffing unmentionables and whining for kitchen scraps. They're pretty good too. Check out these amazing pooches!



UPDATE!: Wonderful, eye-opening photo essay on war dogs.

These dogs work with the Navy SEALS! Look at them strapped outside of that helicopter!

Three dogs who risked their lives and saved 50 military personnel from a suicide bomber (video).

I can't get enough of parachuting dogs!

Here's another parachuting dog in Norway!

Look at this amazing mutt!

Okay; the last one was Penny. Fine. You got me!

But regardless, show me a cat who can do any of this. Meeeeoooowwww!

Greek Orzo Salad

I hope everyone had a nice Easter. Or Passover. Or, if neither of those are apropos, a good weekend! We spent the weekend with Matt's parents. Penny loves it there because she can roam the property and take hourly dips in the pond. Every night, after exploring, she curls up in her dog bed and snoozes through the night so she's ready to go at 6 am the next morning. Promptly at 6, she comes to my bedside, sits down so her face is no more than a foot from mine, and commences her staring. She's got it down pat, and I gotta say, it's unnerving.

For the festivities I brought a simple-as-pie Greek orzo salad. I make a lot of stuff like this that require no recipe and virtually no thinking: take a grain (couscous, quinoa, some sort of pasta) and mix with a simple vinaigrette and summertime vegetables. Easy on the eyes and the stomach. (It also travels well and you really can't botch it up.)

My go-to vinaigrette is this, and it's a classic: 2/3 cup of good olive oil to 1/3 cup vinegar (this time I used red wine). Whisk in a heaping tablespoon of Dijon mustard, a diced shallot, 1 teaspoon of dried thyme (this is patented by yours truly) and salt and pepper to taste. If I have cooking sherry I add a splash of that, but you know, that's when I'm feeling particularly opulent.

All my salads have a Mediterranean flare given the warm-weather vegetables, and this one focused on Greece given my very eye-brow raising amounts of feta involved. My favorite cheese is feta cheese. Actually, every cheese is my favorite cheese. Duh.


Greek Orzo Salad

• One package orzo (16 oz.), boil to al dente
• One jar marinated artichoke hearts, drained and diced
• One jar sun-dried tomatoes, drained and diced
• One large red onion, diced
• 2 bell peppers (orange, red, or yellow will do), diced or cut into think 1/4" strips
• 1 package baby spinach
• 1-2 pints grape tomatoes, halved
• 1/2 cup packed and chopped fresh Italian flat parsley
• feta cheese to taste (about one Athenos package)
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Vinaigrette, recipe above - makes 1 cup
• Optional: toasted pine nuts

Directions: Mix all ingredients to a large bowel (except pine nuts and feta). Add vinaigrette and mix. Fold in crumbled feta, and garnish with pine nuts and additional parsley, if desired.