I was a Communication major. Not Communications, like phone, fax, internet, tv et al, but Communication. Human beings. Faces. Speeches. Managerial technique. Conflict resolution, that sort of thing. I would have probably made a lot more money had I gone to the latter as a career, but I like words and talking and listening and figuring out an idea and the message. I'm more interested in content and creation than a delivery system.
But that's just me.
And of course we're all familiar with the huge wave of social networking "sites" and texting and that goddamn iPhone which will be the downfall of modern man with all it's apps and bleeps and frames and tweets. And I think deep down, those of us who know that we're not 16 anymore, realize the futility of "communicating" with people you never see nor spend time with or frankly, even know or like. But we are dangerously close to the edge. Remember when video killed the radio show? This is worse. We simply do not know how to TALK to each other any more, and it saddens me.
While on a group vacation recently (never again, never again, never again) I saw 6 or so people in said group standing around (often) in a vague circle with the familiar stance of The Wired American. Left hand up about chest level, right hand poised to push a touch screen or text, watching a movie even, or checking the ole Facebook page. All of them were posting about what a GREAT time they were having on this AWESOME vackay! Whoooo HOOO! Uploading pictures to people who weren't there about the fun we hadn't even had yet. What I really wanted to do was pull back the camera and take a picture of all the twittering FBers to shoot a frame of what was really happening. A bunch of cows standing around looking at the light in the box. Hitting the crack pipe of Generation X. Whilst real, living, breathing, people stood around with them. Some of whom, aren't "speaking" anymore, because there was an argument or a breakdown in the face kind of communication. The rest is peppered with gossip, backstabbing, heresy and other things that we did in Jr. High.
And you people point the finger at me for dating the youngsters? Puhleeeze. Traveling with "hip" 40 somethings is like being a hostage on a Miley Cyrus tour but with crow's feet and Ambien.
After looking at the FB pictures posted from others upon return I realized that they seemed to be on a different trip than mine. All smiles and raised glasses and poses, and lots of exclamation points!!!!!!!! Where is THAT??? Cuz on my trip it rained to the point of flood, lots of people sat in their rooms and watched TV, the hosts were bitchy and yelled at any and all who contested a plan or a shoddy sleeping arrangement (and we were footing our own bill mind you) and I hadn't slept in 4 days. I was running out of dry clothes, and was covered with bug bites. I would not have posted any of that tripe to FB or anywhere else because well, I wasn't doing anything "fun" or "unique" unless you call flying for 4 hours and driving for 3 to a dirty boring overpriced destination with bad food to have a margarita with 10 other people "fun".
But that's just me.
See, I don't do it right. I think that honesty is a good thing and that's not what social networking is about. If I'm having a rotten time, I can spin it and say what an awesome time I'm having so I have something -ANYTHING to talk about. But hey, it might have been great for these other "posters". Maybe they have never gotten a dog sitter, cat sitter and chicken sitter and driven an hour to catch a plane to fly to some lame ass destination at their own expense to buy drinks for someone's birthday and sleep in a broom closet with no hot water and a rotten piece of foam as a bed. I mean who am I to be so cynical? But here's the thing. If I WAS having an awesome time? The last freakin' thing I'm going to be doing is logging on to my FB account to tell you about it. Seriously. I'm trying to think of the last great trip I had...I think it was a couple Oaxaca trips ago. I was alone, but meeting people, going to great meals, dancing, kissing boys in the Zocalo, hearing live music outside under the stars, learning about an ancient culture, having a giant chocolate of the gods every morning on my vine covered terrace, listening to birds and the cadence of Spanish dialects in Southern Mexico. Ahhhh.
Screeeeeech! Facebook?
I don't think so. And when I finally did email my friend Nicole, she wrote back, "I figured you were enjoying the hell out of yourself...I hadn't heard from you. "
The Internet is killing the human contact show. I think we don't really know when we are having a genuinely good time any more. We're just thinking about how we'll change our headlines, our status, our tweets. We're all having SUCH a great time that we can barely even TALK to each other anymore.
It is, in a word, bullshit. High and deep. We have finally reached the final frontier of Virtual Reality in its truest form. We're all just in a constant state of creating our own billboards.
I'm good looking! Shot from all the right angles! Have fun wherever I am, from the grocery line to the South of France! I have lots of friends and we're all totally neat! I'm funny! Clever! Sexy! Please love me!
...and it turns out they're little more than what they just uploaded about themselves. Alas, most people are boring. Shallow. And don't have an original thought in their heads. I hate the shared experience of media. From talking about TV to commiserating about travel delays. I mean, how can SO many people see SO many things the SAME way? We're so busy swallowing stupid drivel like "think outside of the box" that we, well, cannot. I love the din of drones when the first rubber hits the runway. A mad dash in the pocket like they're reaching for a pistol. "We just touched down. We just landed. I should be at baggage claim, um, like, I don't know. 45 minutes. Yea. I have to take the tram. And get my bag out of the overhead. And then stand in line. And then go through customs. yea. okay. see you soon."
The only thing worse than actually BEING at the airport is hearing 300 people recount the experience while it's happening. Shut up.
This morning, I discovered that I was "unfriended" by one of the people "hosting" this trip, the day after the return. I guess because I took a comfortable shuttle back to town and changed hotels on the last night. I thought flying to Central America to celebrate someone's birthday was proof of friendship enough, but apparently if I REALLY loved someone I'd sleep at a youth hostal and take cold showers for a week. Oh well. Next time I'll read the rules more closely. I always hated slumber parties when I was 13. I really hate them at 42. One word. Ingrate.
But being shut out of Facebook stung in that way that things do when you're 13. Wildly insecure and prone to taking things personally in a paranoid delusional kind of way. And frankly when you have nothing better to do. I'd been voted off the island. Not picked for the volleyball team. Not invited to prom. Gosh, what does this mean? What about Thanksgiving? What about dinner parties? Is it both of them? Are they going to turn the whole group against me? Will I have to hang out with the kids in band now???
Thankfully my grown up brain vetoed that emotion. I started thinking how painfully socially inept this person must be. And how rude. I fly to Central America to celebrate your freakin' bday and you unFRIEND me the day we get back? Gosh, wish I would have known that before I chipped in for the overpriced rental car we didn't need and before I sat through all those group meals. I would have just flipped you off at the airport and had a proper vacation in sunny Mexico with real friends. Instead you reached for the passive aggressive pacifier of our time. Facebook. How to say, "I don't like you anymore..." without ever having to do anything like, say, have a confrontation, or even eye contact.
And for those of you reading this who think that Facebook is a lifesaver I get it. You don't have to write me an email about how it helps you stay connected to family in Toronto or friends from the 4th grade or helps you get an invite to your gallery opening out to 500 people. I get it, I get it, I get it. What I AM saying for those who want to label me technophobe is that YOU CAN'T USE IT TO SUBSTITUTE REAL PEOPLE. YOU ARE LOSING YOUR SPEECH COMMUNICATION SKILLS. If you smile at me before getting in a cab at the airport and then delete my picture from your friend pile 5 minutes later? You're a coward. Oh, and if you have anything, ANYTHING in your hand at dinner besides a fork, you should consult the Emily Post manual.
I am pulling off the grid of social networking. I don't have 135 friends. Well, no, now it's 134, but I don't have 134 friends. I have like, 10, who I would share anything real or cook dinner for. I have maybe 5 who I'd travel with. And we can communicate without Facebook. From now on, if you want to talk to me you're gonna have to do it the old fashioned way. We'll have to sit on my porch and drink a beer. You'll have to call me. We may even have to go for a walk. I will accept the occasional email, but will push you to let me hear your voice soon. I suddenly have just freed up a lot of my time. So to my new unfriend, I thank you. And to the rest of you who don't like me anymore? Get the stones to tell me why to my face, not my Facebook.
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 9, 2009
Getting Tail/Turning Coat
I have a friend who has a high job as director of all the schools in all the state. She has a boss that she says, turns her into a feminista...his irritating way with women from the way he lists men first in the phone book, to calling her and treating like his secretary, "Hey, will you do me a favor?" and the other day regarded her as "well, I was just trying to explain that to Blondie, here..." Really? This woman has worked for 23 years in our educational system and risen to the very top. She's funny, smart, diligent, a great mom---allll kinds of things. Oh, and she's Blonde. Awesome. Let's talk about that. Kind of like I'm alllll kinds of things, but recently I've been referred to as She Who Won't Make the Baby for Me. But we won't go back into that hot mess. Suffice to say, that is reason #525 not to date guys my own age. I had a date on Friday that was #526 but I'll save that for another day.
So how do you handle this in the workplace in late 2009? Can you say to a coworker/immediate supervisor, 'NO, I won't do you a favor. I'm the director of this carnival. I'll take on an "assignment", but favors are for secretaries picking up your dry cleaning or maybe sending a fax to the State Board about what a jackass you are. If you can address me with the respect that I have earned in my tenure, I'd be happy to listen. And I ask you, if I were a man...or a brunette would you talk to me this way?'
That seems a little over the top. A little Lily Tomlin in Nine to Five. A little defensive. And gosh, aren't we past all that?
My workplace is admittedly a little different. There are office politics, but it's usually me wielding power over my roosters and having them chase me, and then finally the real boss, Juan Mowgli grabs one or both of us by the ankles and hangs someone upside down. Mr. Red Tail was hung up by his fightin' scratch feet and cooked Wednesday night so now Mr. Black is the kingpin. Just like any good mob or office, there's always someone ready to put on the big pants.
Juan discovered one of the hens sadly is getting more than her share of rooster time. Her back is bare from where they are mounting and holding her against her will and pulling out all the feathers and having their way with her. While we talked about this, examining her back, one of the red roosters came up and defiled poor Mrs. White just as she was scoring a tiny beetle beneath the hay. "Pobrecita..." said Juan. (Poor little girl...) and then he threw a rock at Mr. Red #2, who in his post coital bliss took a good one to the fanny. The ManCub then announced that it was time to eat another rooster. Comiendo otro gallo.
I found it interesting was that Juan Mowgli was so empathetic to Mrs. White with the balding back. Not the usual man bravado bullshit of YEA! Mr. Red gettin' him some!!! But the ManCub does masculine things like killing snakes in the pool and stabbing them on a stick in the yard for me to see, but he's not afraid to coo at roses in the yard or spend his lunch time smelling wild mint in the yard. Of course, he's not American.
Now, I don't know if you've seen chicken sex before but it's creepy. Out of the blue ambush. The rooster is twice the hen's size and he gets on her back and holds her down by the neck, if she fights, he bites her harder. It's all over in about 4 seconds. The hens always run when released and shake their feathers to regain composure. It's totally unnecessary unless you want to have more chicks...and I'm just in it for the eggs, so this act of violent pleasure seeking, nature or not, is unsettling. And makes me hate the brutish man posturing, nature or not. I find the protective masculinity to be more brave than the brute force of hey, I'm bigger and we have compatible body parts. So I shall take this liberty. Mr. Black in my eyes is more manly, as he's protecting the flock by chasing me and the others away. Mr. Red, is just a pig.
The smaller white Leghorns are starting to look like subway pigeons with their dirty feathers all askew and their combs bitten and tattered. I think they are losing self esteem. The Barred Rock black hen and Mrs. Red have not only uniqueness on their side, but I believe, a size advantage. Mrs. Red spends nearly all her time alone, whereas the white hens are always with Mr. Black, kind of like his groupies or maybe he's just their pimp and they can't leave. I'm starting to hate the roosters for acting like this, and it's making me feel funny about man behavior in general. I too, am feeling like a feminista. And not unlike the Queen of Hearts. Off With Their Heads!
I don't want this post nor this blog to come off as anti man. Nay, I even like men. Really! Some of them. In certain arenas. Just not all the time. And well, I like my men masculine but I don't like it when they are brutish. I think most of my women friends would agree (and I'm sure they'll let me know if they don't) that a certain level of male bravado makes us feel swoony. Loved. Sexy. Protected. Feminine even. (I say as dirt from my gardening hands falls into the cracks of this keypad and I rub them on my dirty dungarees whilst wearing a belt buckle the size of a bread plate and big ugly yard boots...yes, feminine) But there is a "manly" line that is crossed when we lose the love. It's when a man points OUT that YOU are a WOMAN. And unless he's a potential Latin lover shouting his admiration across the boulevard about how you make him weak in the knees to see you and break his heart with that skirt you wear...in Madrid---
So how do you handle this in the workplace in late 2009? Can you say to a coworker/immediate supervisor, 'NO, I won't do you a favor. I'm the director of this carnival. I'll take on an "assignment", but favors are for secretaries picking up your dry cleaning or maybe sending a fax to the State Board about what a jackass you are. If you can address me with the respect that I have earned in my tenure, I'd be happy to listen. And I ask you, if I were a man...or a brunette would you talk to me this way?'
That seems a little over the top. A little Lily Tomlin in Nine to Five. A little defensive. And gosh, aren't we past all that?
My workplace is admittedly a little different. There are office politics, but it's usually me wielding power over my roosters and having them chase me, and then finally the real boss, Juan Mowgli grabs one or both of us by the ankles and hangs someone upside down. Mr. Red Tail was hung up by his fightin' scratch feet and cooked Wednesday night so now Mr. Black is the kingpin. Just like any good mob or office, there's always someone ready to put on the big pants.
Juan discovered one of the hens sadly is getting more than her share of rooster time. Her back is bare from where they are mounting and holding her against her will and pulling out all the feathers and having their way with her. While we talked about this, examining her back, one of the red roosters came up and defiled poor Mrs. White just as she was scoring a tiny beetle beneath the hay. "Pobrecita..." said Juan. (Poor little girl...) and then he threw a rock at Mr. Red #2, who in his post coital bliss took a good one to the fanny. The ManCub then announced that it was time to eat another rooster. Comiendo otro gallo.
I found it interesting was that Juan Mowgli was so empathetic to Mrs. White with the balding back. Not the usual man bravado bullshit of YEA! Mr. Red gettin' him some!!! But the ManCub does masculine things like killing snakes in the pool and stabbing them on a stick in the yard for me to see, but he's not afraid to coo at roses in the yard or spend his lunch time smelling wild mint in the yard. Of course, he's not American.
Now, I don't know if you've seen chicken sex before but it's creepy. Out of the blue ambush. The rooster is twice the hen's size and he gets on her back and holds her down by the neck, if she fights, he bites her harder. It's all over in about 4 seconds. The hens always run when released and shake their feathers to regain composure. It's totally unnecessary unless you want to have more chicks...and I'm just in it for the eggs, so this act of violent pleasure seeking, nature or not, is unsettling. And makes me hate the brutish man posturing, nature or not. I find the protective masculinity to be more brave than the brute force of hey, I'm bigger and we have compatible body parts. So I shall take this liberty. Mr. Black in my eyes is more manly, as he's protecting the flock by chasing me and the others away. Mr. Red, is just a pig.
The smaller white Leghorns are starting to look like subway pigeons with their dirty feathers all askew and their combs bitten and tattered. I think they are losing self esteem. The Barred Rock black hen and Mrs. Red have not only uniqueness on their side, but I believe, a size advantage. Mrs. Red spends nearly all her time alone, whereas the white hens are always with Mr. Black, kind of like his groupies or maybe he's just their pimp and they can't leave. I'm starting to hate the roosters for acting like this, and it's making me feel funny about man behavior in general. I too, am feeling like a feminista. And not unlike the Queen of Hearts. Off With Their Heads!
I don't want this post nor this blog to come off as anti man. Nay, I even like men. Really! Some of them. In certain arenas. Just not all the time. And well, I like my men masculine but I don't like it when they are brutish. I think most of my women friends would agree (and I'm sure they'll let me know if they don't) that a certain level of male bravado makes us feel swoony. Loved. Sexy. Protected. Feminine even. (I say as dirt from my gardening hands falls into the cracks of this keypad and I rub them on my dirty dungarees whilst wearing a belt buckle the size of a bread plate and big ugly yard boots...yes, feminine) But there is a "manly" line that is crossed when we lose the love. It's when a man points OUT that YOU are a WOMAN. And unless he's a potential Latin lover shouting his admiration across the boulevard about how you make him weak in the knees to see you and break his heart with that skirt you wear...in Madrid---
Everything else says: Second Class. We can overlook the occasional cave man behavior of leaving the seat up, endless sports watching and even the blank stares we get when we talk about emotive behavior. But trying to keep a woman in place by condescending chatter in the dating arena and the office? Kind of makes me think about the ambush of false power that's executed by the red rooster. And you know what's gonna happen to him...
Nov 4, 2009
Is it a ticking clock or a time bomb?
I saw an old boyfriend the other day for lunch. He wanted me to know that if I had agreed to have kids with him, we'd still be together. He'd always love me, he said, that was the only deal breaker. Not knowing how to respond to this, I ordered another beer.
I told a new guy this story the other night and he said, "Well, yea. That's a deal breaker for me, too..." I'm not sure if he was talking about me in particular or just any woman who was not down for baby birthin'. He's single, cute and has that urge to merge air that many men get in their mid 30s. I haven't ascertained exactly what it is that we're doing together, we were introduced by mutual acquaintance, but I like him fine. We have lots in common and laugh a bunch. He is an AAWM (Age Appropriate White Man) which is weird for me, but I think we could be good friends. I'm not looking at him any closer as he said that I was out of the running...and truthfully I'd have to admit that his WANTING to have kids made him a deal breaker to me. Not that he asked. He said that it didn't make sense that I was ignoring my basic evolutionary calling. All human animals have the innate pull to procreate, he said. I told him that maybe I had evolved beyond that biology. I asked why he wanted to have kids. He thought it would be "fun". I didn't know how to respond to this either, so I ordered another beer.
So then I'm watching a real estate show and the buyer was looking at a variety of Craftsman bungalows. One she particularly fell in love with had a great slate hearth on the fireplace, heart of pine floors, a stately front porch and a sunny studio for her to paint in. State of the art appliances in the kitchen and a great location in her price range. They round the corner and find a guest bath with a wonky shower redo. The ceiling sloped and led to a door that wasn't standard width nor height. The shower doors were not squared and she hated the vanity. She said, "That's really too bad, I love this house, but that's a deal breaker...", at this point I totally knew how to respond to this so I just tapped the keg and poured myself another beer.
I'm starting to see my choice to remain child free has turned into this personal inventory achilles heel in the eyes of men. It's a deal breaker like a shoddy bath reno in a bungalow. I don't pass inspection with the underwriters. Clearly there are things left off of my Sellers Disclosure page:
Let's see--- Financially savvy? Check. Funny? Usually. Marginally attractive and can match pant to shoe? Check. Flawless Victoria's Secret Body with everything high tight, brown and buff? Um, not even close. Even in her 20s, but I've seen worse. That's out of your price range anyway. Next. Real estate? Check. Mental Health? at times. Physical health? top form even given lack of athleticism. Does applicant have too many cats, dogs, rabbits, hummel collections, cow art in the kitchen, silly sayings, irritating laugh, phobias (besides her dislike of movie theaters), sexual dysfunction (except for aversion to AAWM) drug addiction, food addiction, pre-existing condition, over spending habits, xenophobia, tone deafness, hammer toe, laziness, lack of motivation, shortness of ideas, allergies, food intolerances, bad taste in music or a glittered and/or bedazzled sweatshirt of any kind depicting holiday fare?
Well, no actually. This applicant is relatively sane, down to earth and undemanding. She's underwhelmed by a lot of American culture and sports as a whole, but that's not unheard of. Prefers to cook dinner and not go out because restaurants disappoint, but that's an affliction of her career we think. It says here on page 3B that she can even pay her own bills and hold her liquor. Something about being snippy for about 4 days a month but that can be controlled by upping the Vitamin B5 from item 31c. Good traveler, astute, luxuriously frugal, old school progressive Democrat. Grows vegetables and raises organic chickens. Likes Italian shoes and bamboo sheets. Distrustful of big business and media but otherwise not prone to paranoid delusion. Likes to swim in the ocean, bake bread and listen to Salsa music. No criminal record.
**But uh oh. Down here at item 87f. Chooses not to procreate. Oh well, another for the old circular file. So promising, but that's a deal breaker. Next.
Wha??? No one ever told me that all the other stuff was moot if I wasn't gonna have a litter of kids. I kind of feel shut out of stuff because some of these guys don't want to take the time to know how incredibly AWESOME (or relatively average...) I could BE, because I have decided that parenthood isn't for me, I'm taken out of the running. It's so, um, arranged marriage-ish. So practical. Creepy even. Remember the hand maid's tale? I don't really like being looked at like such an object. Yea, yea, keep your ideals and accomplishments to yourself babe, let's see those ovaries.
I have zero incentive to birth babies. Zero. Take the obvious "no father candidate" out of the picture, there have been plenty...just not, like recently. But if it were really my thing, I could rock the turkey baster, or have one of those really urban modern conversations with one of my better looking gay boyfriends and ask for a donation, should I not want to take my chances with genetic weirdness at the Spermatorium, or say, have a love child with the gardener.
Here's the thing: it looks like it hurts, there are too many people on the planet, it seems expensive to maintain and no one is paying me to do it. And it doesn't look like fun. Not even a little bit. Snorkeling is fun. Kids are work. Kids might say the darndest things but I don't need to have a 20 year commitment to hear any of that. It looks like a huge responsibility. HUGE. And I have a lot of other responsibility. And since I don't have the "evolutionary pull" of regular humans, I have no inexplicable urge to do this. And yes, even when I was in love, and even when I wasn't 42. I've pretty much spent most of my time wondering how to get into bed with someone without having any consequence. Me and Trojan? Thick as thieves.
And I respect the role of parenthood. I respect those who feel compelled to do it. Like bungee jumping, go for it! But no thanks. And if you can afford, train, love, teach and nurture a child from cradle to beyond, my hats off to you. BUT I'm insulted by being dismissed by this personal choice of mine. Is this okay to talk about over chicken tacos? All this scrambling around looking for someone to mate with is so weird to me. It's not 2012 yet, guys. The odd thing is that I have WAY more girlfriends who have chosen NOT to have kids than guys who are open to the idea. And well, I guess since they don't have the tools to do it alone unless they adopt (which is always met with, "yea, but it's not the same...") I guess it's okay to toss aside a perfectly nice ranch house with good structure in good repair, for the crappy condo in a bad neighborhood because it has a jacuzzi. So I've gone ahead and made up a list of items that I would need to lend out my bread basket. Since LOVE has apparently taken a back seat, I've decided that I'm going to ask for what I need too:
Deal breakers for all men of dateable status who aren't Dermot Mulroney, Jamie Oliver, Ashton Kutcher or Ira Glass:
**Must be taller than 5'11 and not have a gamer body. By that I mean your shoulders and pecs are wider than your midsection, not the inverse. You know, like Mario Lopez or something.
** earn seven figures (six figures is so 80s), love to dance Salsa, make me laugh ALL the time with your clever dry wit and make me breakfast every day including a surprise "Benedict", scone or hand cured bacon and deliver it to my room (you have your own room, I like to sleep alone on Mon, Wed, Sunday and alternate Tuesdays)
**have job that takes you away for chunks of time that nurtures a healthy longing but not so much that it affects my sleep schedule. See above.
**have stock shares in couture shoe company allowing for prodigious discounts and pre-season viewings
** have penchant for pre Colombian jewelry and good eye to find such souvenirs
**find delight in saying things like, "Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy..." and "Don't worry about it, I've already planned dinner, you relax, I'll uncork the wine, your bath is getting cold..." or, "skinny girls? nah, nothing to hold on to, " and finally "I can't believe how lucky I am to have found you..."
**Family money. Not like, oh, my dad was in real estate in the 90s money, but 5th generation, vineyards in Argentina, flats in Paris, we own all the salt in the world and a few million gold bricks rich. We got out of the stock market just in time in 1928 rich. New money can buy stuff and tacky cars, but mismanaged it can leave you like MC Hammer in a decade. Old money gives privilege, islands, inside connections, yachts, and a staff of nannies, which I'm going to demand. Oh, and a personal trainer to help me learn the baby weight.
**Singing voice like Michael Buble. Or Harry Connick, Jr., I'm flexible!
We look forward to reading your applications, good luck!!
I told a new guy this story the other night and he said, "Well, yea. That's a deal breaker for me, too..." I'm not sure if he was talking about me in particular or just any woman who was not down for baby birthin'. He's single, cute and has that urge to merge air that many men get in their mid 30s. I haven't ascertained exactly what it is that we're doing together, we were introduced by mutual acquaintance, but I like him fine. We have lots in common and laugh a bunch. He is an AAWM (Age Appropriate White Man) which is weird for me, but I think we could be good friends. I'm not looking at him any closer as he said that I was out of the running...and truthfully I'd have to admit that his WANTING to have kids made him a deal breaker to me. Not that he asked. He said that it didn't make sense that I was ignoring my basic evolutionary calling. All human animals have the innate pull to procreate, he said. I told him that maybe I had evolved beyond that biology. I asked why he wanted to have kids. He thought it would be "fun". I didn't know how to respond to this either, so I ordered another beer.
So then I'm watching a real estate show and the buyer was looking at a variety of Craftsman bungalows. One she particularly fell in love with had a great slate hearth on the fireplace, heart of pine floors, a stately front porch and a sunny studio for her to paint in. State of the art appliances in the kitchen and a great location in her price range. They round the corner and find a guest bath with a wonky shower redo. The ceiling sloped and led to a door that wasn't standard width nor height. The shower doors were not squared and she hated the vanity. She said, "That's really too bad, I love this house, but that's a deal breaker...", at this point I totally knew how to respond to this so I just tapped the keg and poured myself another beer.
I'm starting to see my choice to remain child free has turned into this personal inventory achilles heel in the eyes of men. It's a deal breaker like a shoddy bath reno in a bungalow. I don't pass inspection with the underwriters. Clearly there are things left off of my Sellers Disclosure page:
Let's see--- Financially savvy? Check. Funny? Usually. Marginally attractive and can match pant to shoe? Check. Flawless Victoria's Secret Body with everything high tight, brown and buff? Um, not even close. Even in her 20s, but I've seen worse. That's out of your price range anyway. Next. Real estate? Check. Mental Health? at times. Physical health? top form even given lack of athleticism. Does applicant have too many cats, dogs, rabbits, hummel collections, cow art in the kitchen, silly sayings, irritating laugh, phobias (besides her dislike of movie theaters), sexual dysfunction (except for aversion to AAWM) drug addiction, food addiction, pre-existing condition, over spending habits, xenophobia, tone deafness, hammer toe, laziness, lack of motivation, shortness of ideas, allergies, food intolerances, bad taste in music or a glittered and/or bedazzled sweatshirt of any kind depicting holiday fare?
Well, no actually. This applicant is relatively sane, down to earth and undemanding. She's underwhelmed by a lot of American culture and sports as a whole, but that's not unheard of. Prefers to cook dinner and not go out because restaurants disappoint, but that's an affliction of her career we think. It says here on page 3B that she can even pay her own bills and hold her liquor. Something about being snippy for about 4 days a month but that can be controlled by upping the Vitamin B5 from item 31c. Good traveler, astute, luxuriously frugal, old school progressive Democrat. Grows vegetables and raises organic chickens. Likes Italian shoes and bamboo sheets. Distrustful of big business and media but otherwise not prone to paranoid delusion. Likes to swim in the ocean, bake bread and listen to Salsa music. No criminal record.
**But uh oh. Down here at item 87f. Chooses not to procreate. Oh well, another for the old circular file. So promising, but that's a deal breaker. Next.
Wha??? No one ever told me that all the other stuff was moot if I wasn't gonna have a litter of kids. I kind of feel shut out of stuff because some of these guys don't want to take the time to know how incredibly AWESOME (or relatively average...) I could BE, because I have decided that parenthood isn't for me, I'm taken out of the running. It's so, um, arranged marriage-ish. So practical. Creepy even. Remember the hand maid's tale? I don't really like being looked at like such an object. Yea, yea, keep your ideals and accomplishments to yourself babe, let's see those ovaries.
I have zero incentive to birth babies. Zero. Take the obvious "no father candidate" out of the picture, there have been plenty...just not, like recently. But if it were really my thing, I could rock the turkey baster, or have one of those really urban modern conversations with one of my better looking gay boyfriends and ask for a donation, should I not want to take my chances with genetic weirdness at the Spermatorium, or say, have a love child with the gardener.
Here's the thing: it looks like it hurts, there are too many people on the planet, it seems expensive to maintain and no one is paying me to do it. And it doesn't look like fun. Not even a little bit. Snorkeling is fun. Kids are work. Kids might say the darndest things but I don't need to have a 20 year commitment to hear any of that. It looks like a huge responsibility. HUGE. And I have a lot of other responsibility. And since I don't have the "evolutionary pull" of regular humans, I have no inexplicable urge to do this. And yes, even when I was in love, and even when I wasn't 42. I've pretty much spent most of my time wondering how to get into bed with someone without having any consequence. Me and Trojan? Thick as thieves.
And I respect the role of parenthood. I respect those who feel compelled to do it. Like bungee jumping, go for it! But no thanks. And if you can afford, train, love, teach and nurture a child from cradle to beyond, my hats off to you. BUT I'm insulted by being dismissed by this personal choice of mine. Is this okay to talk about over chicken tacos? All this scrambling around looking for someone to mate with is so weird to me. It's not 2012 yet, guys. The odd thing is that I have WAY more girlfriends who have chosen NOT to have kids than guys who are open to the idea. And well, I guess since they don't have the tools to do it alone unless they adopt (which is always met with, "yea, but it's not the same...") I guess it's okay to toss aside a perfectly nice ranch house with good structure in good repair, for the crappy condo in a bad neighborhood because it has a jacuzzi. So I've gone ahead and made up a list of items that I would need to lend out my bread basket. Since LOVE has apparently taken a back seat, I've decided that I'm going to ask for what I need too:
Deal breakers for all men of dateable status who aren't Dermot Mulroney, Jamie Oliver, Ashton Kutcher or Ira Glass:
**Must be taller than 5'11 and not have a gamer body. By that I mean your shoulders and pecs are wider than your midsection, not the inverse. You know, like Mario Lopez or something.
** earn seven figures (six figures is so 80s), love to dance Salsa, make me laugh ALL the time with your clever dry wit and make me breakfast every day including a surprise "Benedict", scone or hand cured bacon and deliver it to my room (you have your own room, I like to sleep alone on Mon, Wed, Sunday and alternate Tuesdays)
**have job that takes you away for chunks of time that nurtures a healthy longing but not so much that it affects my sleep schedule. See above.
**have stock shares in couture shoe company allowing for prodigious discounts and pre-season viewings
** have penchant for pre Colombian jewelry and good eye to find such souvenirs
**find delight in saying things like, "Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy..." and "Don't worry about it, I've already planned dinner, you relax, I'll uncork the wine, your bath is getting cold..." or, "skinny girls? nah, nothing to hold on to, " and finally "I can't believe how lucky I am to have found you..."
**Family money. Not like, oh, my dad was in real estate in the 90s money, but 5th generation, vineyards in Argentina, flats in Paris, we own all the salt in the world and a few million gold bricks rich. We got out of the stock market just in time in 1928 rich. New money can buy stuff and tacky cars, but mismanaged it can leave you like MC Hammer in a decade. Old money gives privilege, islands, inside connections, yachts, and a staff of nannies, which I'm going to demand. Oh, and a personal trainer to help me learn the baby weight.
**Singing voice like Michael Buble. Or Harry Connick, Jr., I'm flexible!
We look forward to reading your applications, good luck!!
Nov 3, 2009
A teaser appetizer...
From my new work in progress...How To Save 89cents, (Me, Mowgli and the Chickens) which you can read in its entirety in New Southerner magazine next month...where it has won the 2009 Literary Contest for non fiction, I'm really honored to say.
Here, an excerpt:
Here, an excerpt:
•I go to a local Mexican joint
where I sit alone and chat in Spanish and booze and talk to the Mexican busboys.
This is not seen in these parts. Any of it. The dinner alone at the bar part.
The Spanish speaking White lady part. The talking to the help part. I am fresh
from a trip to Oaxaca City, Mexico and enjoy keeping my language skills in
tact, and maybe I’ve had a wee bit too much tequila. I feel social. Like a
tourist. It was too complicated to explain to them that I am nostalgic. I had
sold my restaurant and I missed Francisco, Lucino, Santos…I was romantic about
the culture south of the border, and empathic to the poverty and realities that
pervaded the land they fled. Somehow, my light Scandinavian eyes recognize the
faces of these people as my own. I was fond of one face in particular, like I
had known him before. Hola! He was particularly enamored with my story as he
leaned on his broom and I went on and on about the Mole Rojo I just had and how
this restaurant has a really authentic rendition! Is your cook from Oaxaca? Do
you like working here? How long have you lived here? Here’s my number if you want
to practice English or help me at my property! I’m starting a farm if you need
another job! Nice meeing you! Con mucho gusto!
--“He don speek Spainish or
Anglish, he’s a Indian. I dunno wha you guys talk about. He don’t unnerstand
nada”, said the chubby cashier.
Huh. Well I thought we were really getting each other. He kept saying, Si! at the right pauses.
Si…Maybe I was a little taken by his Aztec features or was he Mayan? Definitely
an ancient culture, with a chiseled nose right off the slope of his chestnut
forehead. Giant nutmeg cow eyes, high cheekbones, giant teeth, bee stung lips,
angular jaw. Shiny black hair. I could almost see him in a headdress. He was an
Indian alright. From a Guatemalan jungle. Maybe he’d end up being my Tonto. But
for now I’d call him Mowgli the ManCub.
“Hello?”
“Cuanto”…
“What?”
“Cuanto…!”
“Who is this…?”
“I’m calling for Juan. He has your
number. He wants to know cuanto…”
“How much for WHAT!?”
“Amor…”
As a rhetorical question I would
have to give it some thought. How much does
love cost? As a matter of practicality however, I was defensive and dismissive.
“Senor, I don’t have to pay for sex!”
(Sure, I’m 40, in the middle of
nowhere and the last three people under 80 are in jail, but still. I’m used to the frank and forward ways
of Latin men, but this was new. I must have really looked like a desperada at
the bar. )
No, senora, para TU amor…
There was a time in my life when
this would have insulted me. Gotten my feathers ruffled, my collar red hot.
Maybe it was getting through the last decade in the hospitality business
without killing anyone that made me more accepting of inappropriate commentary,
or maybe it was after hitting a certain age and a certain girth, I had fallen
off the radar. Gone were the leers, the sideways glances. This oddly, was
flattering. If not a little absurd. I mean how much was a busboy from Guatemala
prepared to pay for that sort of thing anyway. Before I let my economic
curiosity get a hold of me (and to avoid any insult like, “about $10…”) I just
left it to the imagination. I laughed and told the gentleman that I don’t
charge for sex. It was free. This is the plight of second language speakers.
Stating a fact, albeit in the wrong context.
Oct 30, 2009
Get your high brow off my dinner table
I have a dear friend who's a food lover and this friend sent me an email---about dinner last night that she had in a new Atlanta restaurant.
"I need you to blog tomorrow--please--about why Mexican food should not be precious. I'm no food expert but I think Mexican food should be simple and hearty and fresh and spicy. The cheese dip should not taste like chalk or a roux not mixed well. The salsa should not taste like syrup and the ceviche should not be pasty. And when someone orders a margarita with no sweetener and with fresh squeezed lime, it doesn't mean with simple syrup and lime JUICE. Pretty, colorful glasses cannot mask a bad drink. If you also could mention that when the server approaches the table it is best for her NOT to have food in her mouth, I'll appreciate it."
I could just stop there. It's almost like I wrote that anyway. But she wants me to explain the why behind her disappointment. And you KNOW I want to. I wanted to reprint her email here without said friend's permission because I want you all to know that the following (and previous) grievances with lame ass restaurants, style over substance, bad service, shady hospitality and of course food that makes you cringe---is not just a personal beef. Nooo, it's not just because I'm 'difficult' or a 'critic' (names I've been called by the brigade of folks that I no longer dine with btw) or that I'm a food snob. Nope. I'm starting to get complaints from a bunch of you. You're all sick of plunking down a ton of money in a shite economy and coming out with well, shite for dinner. Another friend told me recently that a restaurant "was so bad it sucked in the negative..." You're mad as hell! Good for you! Take it back inside! Hire me to teach you how to cook! Sorry. Shameless plug.
My friend's request was for me to tell people to get over themselves with the precious Mexican. Not to be confused with fusion Latin or Pan Latin or Cuisine de Espana...that all works. Usually. A trip to Miami can show you how. Ferran Adria's El Bulli can make you worship at the temple of the Mother of Cuisines and the most inventive restaurant on the planet, in Spain. I'm not even dissing hybrid 90s trendoid silliness. As long as you make it work. You want to spike my sushi with cumin? Give it a shot. You want to make me a taquito with lemongrass rubbed duck? Bring it. But don't tell me that you're going to make my Mexican Gourmet. First of all it's an insult to one of the world's oldest and richest cuisines. The people who brought us chocolate and chiles don't need you to make their food "gourmet" by putting your silly fingerprint on it so go stir your risotto and leave my people out of it.
I smelled a rat some 14 years ago when I lived in NYC and was always on the lookout for Mexican food. What the hell? A city with 12 million people can't do Mexican? I used to go to this window joint in Brooklyn called Nacho Mama run by these two Chinese dudes and there was some Midtown 'happy hour boite' that had yellow cheese dip and Paki guys running around in panchos. Bad. Finally, someone with money took me uptown to Zarela. And $100 and a few pomegranate margaritas later, I wasn't exactly sated but at least there seemed to be some soul in there. But that ilk of Rosa Mexicana and haute Zarela needs to stay where it is. Upper east side, yuppies and mommy bloggers who went to Cancun on their honeymoon and took a tour through Oaxaca with the Canadian ladies. They like their hibiscus mojitos and chicarrones taquitos--and they'll pay for it. In Mexico that would be fried pork skin tacos and jamaica water and a shot of rum. About $5. It was the high brow nature of Zarela that turned me off. Not the lack of culinary prowess. I had already been rummaging through kitchens in Yucatan and Central Mexico and Baja as early as 15, and I had never seen this kind of presentation and high handedness. Maybe at the Ensenada hotel where my sister and her husband used to go and spend all their SoCal dinero...but that was an hour from San Diego in the 80s. It all looked like the set of Blow.
But real Mexican food, as diverse as it is from state to state, is full of history and pride. It's what I tried to duplicate at Billy Goat's Cantina, my second restaurant. I never put a 'twist' on anything. Who the hell am I (La Guera, white chick) to put my spin on a 2000 year old tradition. If I could master it and then spin it, fine. But I prefer to just pay homage to it. It's hard enough to educate people about foreign cuisine without muddying the message with my ideas.
Now, we're all familiar with TexMex in the U.S. and I'm not going to get on that wagon. It can be heavy, fried, cheese riddled and creamed, but that's OUR fault. We buy that. That business model of fat, salt, grease and syrupy margaritas grabbed hold in the late 70s (especially from Texas thoughout the Southeast) and why change it? There are over 500 stores in Georgia alone owned by some sanction of the El Toro family. Seriously. It works. Or they're laundering money...but whatever. They are fun! I've whiled away hours, nay years at some of these crappy formula dives. I don't get the combo plate---I'm usually sitting down with the cooks and asking them to hook me up with some of the real salsa ranchera and make the carnitas the way I like them...un pokito mas doritas (crispier)---I don't eat all that shredded lettuce pile and lardy beans and crap. Just meat and cilantro and onions and lime. Like they do in Mexico. On the street. For $1. They're poor but they eat better than us. What gives? Here's the secret. They grow stuff and...They cook.
Okay so what the hell is Mexican and WHY in a country with a zillion Mexicans immigrants can we not seem to get it right? White people. There I said it. We are so sure that we are going to take something and make it BETTER, we're always adjusting the quality of life for everyone from the Middle East to Zimbabwe, we just can't resist putting our signature on it. And this, 9 times out of 10 with politics and food screws it up. And well, we are pretty insular to have such big pants about everyone's influence on our borders. I mean what, we're gonna take it all CANADIAN on the plate? No. And so many are mad at the Mexicans for taking all the "good jobs" like tarring roofs, plucking chickens and diapering babies, they don't go into their neighborhoods. So, we are stuck with McEpcot de Culinaree Factorie. And an Authentic Gourmet Experience of peasant food. Spare me.
MexiLite. Weird Brazilian steak houses that are little else than stuff yourself buffets with "gauchos" in those silly pants, and frozen sushi joints with 'safe' rolls and Chinese Korean American girls dressed like "geishas" killing you softly with synthy harp music and soy sauce. Oy vey. Don't even get me started on what passes for Jewish delis or mama mia! Italian around here. (And I'm talking about Atlanta as a specific, it is the model for all that is wrong with the American dining experience, but any large sprawling metro area commits the same crimes).
But this hipper than thou wink of "real" Mexican is just a cut on the low end "hot plate" places with the #23 and the Speedy Gonzales lunch. Which I hate to tell ya, is a lot closer to "real" Mexican than the blueberry frappucino taco and the $10 'rita. But we are hopeful creatures, and we trudge in the front door anyway. Hoping for the limey perfection of freshly squeezed limes, over cracked ice with a hint of triple sec and two good shots of quality tequila. Salt on the rim. Shaken. A bartender who doesn't need a freaking class to make such a thing. Fresh carne adobo that's been cooking for hours with rich and diverse chiles, arbol to ancho--sitting in grilled white corn tortillas fresh from the comal with just a squeeze of lime and some cilantro. Firm and citrusy fish and shrimp ceviche that takes you right to the seaside. Ahh.
But instead, at the "authentic" restaurant run by the egomaniac you're eating over marinated squid and rubbery fish, mealy under seasoned meats and some clumsy ass drinks out of fancy glassware. It makes my eye twitch just thinking about it. There's pomegranate sweetener in the "signature" margarita. They had to "tweak" the guacamole with mint, and the 'fresh fish' tacos are frozen breaded tilapia with tartar sauce. And dinner for two will set you back $60. It will pain you to add gratuity to that.
So why does this make us so mad? If there was pineapple in the ceviche last night and it was GOOD I don't think I'd be on this soap box. If the food was made with care, and there were some changes, I think we'd be okay with it. We're talking about purity. Integrity. Spirit. And doing it right. Mexico, has that in spades and the cuisine can be hard to master at times because it doesn't do well with short cuts fancy glossy ingredients tossed in. I think in 2009 we feel like we've been tricked enough. Don't tell me peasant fare is "gourmet" because you say it is and doubled the price. Don't give me your untrained petulant wait staff who will roll their eyes if I leave them a penny less than 20% for a tip. Don't make me pay $5 for a taco because you pay too much for your real estate. We want accountability and honor these days and by God we can't get it at the bank, so we're gonna demand it through our dinner purveyors.
So my suggestion if you really want authentic, go to the source. Hit the barrio. Learn some Spanish. It won't kill ya.
"I need you to blog tomorrow--please--about why Mexican food should not be precious. I'm no food expert but I think Mexican food should be simple and hearty and fresh and spicy. The cheese dip should not taste like chalk or a roux not mixed well. The salsa should not taste like syrup and the ceviche should not be pasty. And when someone orders a margarita with no sweetener and with fresh squeezed lime, it doesn't mean with simple syrup and lime JUICE. Pretty, colorful glasses cannot mask a bad drink. If you also could mention that when the server approaches the table it is best for her NOT to have food in her mouth, I'll appreciate it."
I could just stop there. It's almost like I wrote that anyway. But she wants me to explain the why behind her disappointment. And you KNOW I want to. I wanted to reprint her email here without said friend's permission because I want you all to know that the following (and previous) grievances with lame ass restaurants, style over substance, bad service, shady hospitality and of course food that makes you cringe---is not just a personal beef. Nooo, it's not just because I'm 'difficult' or a 'critic' (names I've been called by the brigade of folks that I no longer dine with btw) or that I'm a food snob. Nope. I'm starting to get complaints from a bunch of you. You're all sick of plunking down a ton of money in a shite economy and coming out with well, shite for dinner. Another friend told me recently that a restaurant "was so bad it sucked in the negative..." You're mad as hell! Good for you! Take it back inside! Hire me to teach you how to cook! Sorry. Shameless plug.
My friend's request was for me to tell people to get over themselves with the precious Mexican. Not to be confused with fusion Latin or Pan Latin or Cuisine de Espana...that all works. Usually. A trip to Miami can show you how. Ferran Adria's El Bulli can make you worship at the temple of the Mother of Cuisines and the most inventive restaurant on the planet, in Spain. I'm not even dissing hybrid 90s trendoid silliness. As long as you make it work. You want to spike my sushi with cumin? Give it a shot. You want to make me a taquito with lemongrass rubbed duck? Bring it. But don't tell me that you're going to make my Mexican Gourmet. First of all it's an insult to one of the world's oldest and richest cuisines. The people who brought us chocolate and chiles don't need you to make their food "gourmet" by putting your silly fingerprint on it so go stir your risotto and leave my people out of it.
I smelled a rat some 14 years ago when I lived in NYC and was always on the lookout for Mexican food. What the hell? A city with 12 million people can't do Mexican? I used to go to this window joint in Brooklyn called Nacho Mama run by these two Chinese dudes and there was some Midtown 'happy hour boite' that had yellow cheese dip and Paki guys running around in panchos. Bad. Finally, someone with money took me uptown to Zarela. And $100 and a few pomegranate margaritas later, I wasn't exactly sated but at least there seemed to be some soul in there. But that ilk of Rosa Mexicana and haute Zarela needs to stay where it is. Upper east side, yuppies and mommy bloggers who went to Cancun on their honeymoon and took a tour through Oaxaca with the Canadian ladies. They like their hibiscus mojitos and chicarrones taquitos--and they'll pay for it. In Mexico that would be fried pork skin tacos and jamaica water and a shot of rum. About $5. It was the high brow nature of Zarela that turned me off. Not the lack of culinary prowess. I had already been rummaging through kitchens in Yucatan and Central Mexico and Baja as early as 15, and I had never seen this kind of presentation and high handedness. Maybe at the Ensenada hotel where my sister and her husband used to go and spend all their SoCal dinero...but that was an hour from San Diego in the 80s. It all looked like the set of Blow.
But real Mexican food, as diverse as it is from state to state, is full of history and pride. It's what I tried to duplicate at Billy Goat's Cantina, my second restaurant. I never put a 'twist' on anything. Who the hell am I (La Guera, white chick) to put my spin on a 2000 year old tradition. If I could master it and then spin it, fine. But I prefer to just pay homage to it. It's hard enough to educate people about foreign cuisine without muddying the message with my ideas.
Now, we're all familiar with TexMex in the U.S. and I'm not going to get on that wagon. It can be heavy, fried, cheese riddled and creamed, but that's OUR fault. We buy that. That business model of fat, salt, grease and syrupy margaritas grabbed hold in the late 70s (especially from Texas thoughout the Southeast) and why change it? There are over 500 stores in Georgia alone owned by some sanction of the El Toro family. Seriously. It works. Or they're laundering money...but whatever. They are fun! I've whiled away hours, nay years at some of these crappy formula dives. I don't get the combo plate---I'm usually sitting down with the cooks and asking them to hook me up with some of the real salsa ranchera and make the carnitas the way I like them...un pokito mas doritas (crispier)---I don't eat all that shredded lettuce pile and lardy beans and crap. Just meat and cilantro and onions and lime. Like they do in Mexico. On the street. For $1. They're poor but they eat better than us. What gives? Here's the secret. They grow stuff and...They cook.
Okay so what the hell is Mexican and WHY in a country with a zillion Mexicans immigrants can we not seem to get it right? White people. There I said it. We are so sure that we are going to take something and make it BETTER, we're always adjusting the quality of life for everyone from the Middle East to Zimbabwe, we just can't resist putting our signature on it. And this, 9 times out of 10 with politics and food screws it up. And well, we are pretty insular to have such big pants about everyone's influence on our borders. I mean what, we're gonna take it all CANADIAN on the plate? No. And so many are mad at the Mexicans for taking all the "good jobs" like tarring roofs, plucking chickens and diapering babies, they don't go into their neighborhoods. So, we are stuck with McEpcot de Culinaree Factorie. And an Authentic Gourmet Experience of peasant food. Spare me.
MexiLite. Weird Brazilian steak houses that are little else than stuff yourself buffets with "gauchos" in those silly pants, and frozen sushi joints with 'safe' rolls and Chinese Korean American girls dressed like "geishas" killing you softly with synthy harp music and soy sauce. Oy vey. Don't even get me started on what passes for Jewish delis or mama mia! Italian around here. (And I'm talking about Atlanta as a specific, it is the model for all that is wrong with the American dining experience, but any large sprawling metro area commits the same crimes).
But this hipper than thou wink of "real" Mexican is just a cut on the low end "hot plate" places with the #23 and the Speedy Gonzales lunch. Which I hate to tell ya, is a lot closer to "real" Mexican than the blueberry frappucino taco and the $10 'rita. But we are hopeful creatures, and we trudge in the front door anyway. Hoping for the limey perfection of freshly squeezed limes, over cracked ice with a hint of triple sec and two good shots of quality tequila. Salt on the rim. Shaken. A bartender who doesn't need a freaking class to make such a thing. Fresh carne adobo that's been cooking for hours with rich and diverse chiles, arbol to ancho--sitting in grilled white corn tortillas fresh from the comal with just a squeeze of lime and some cilantro. Firm and citrusy fish and shrimp ceviche that takes you right to the seaside. Ahh.
But instead, at the "authentic" restaurant run by the egomaniac you're eating over marinated squid and rubbery fish, mealy under seasoned meats and some clumsy ass drinks out of fancy glassware. It makes my eye twitch just thinking about it. There's pomegranate sweetener in the "signature" margarita. They had to "tweak" the guacamole with mint, and the 'fresh fish' tacos are frozen breaded tilapia with tartar sauce. And dinner for two will set you back $60. It will pain you to add gratuity to that.
So why does this make us so mad? If there was pineapple in the ceviche last night and it was GOOD I don't think I'd be on this soap box. If the food was made with care, and there were some changes, I think we'd be okay with it. We're talking about purity. Integrity. Spirit. And doing it right. Mexico, has that in spades and the cuisine can be hard to master at times because it doesn't do well with short cuts fancy glossy ingredients tossed in. I think in 2009 we feel like we've been tricked enough. Don't tell me peasant fare is "gourmet" because you say it is and doubled the price. Don't give me your untrained petulant wait staff who will roll their eyes if I leave them a penny less than 20% for a tip. Don't make me pay $5 for a taco because you pay too much for your real estate. We want accountability and honor these days and by God we can't get it at the bank, so we're gonna demand it through our dinner purveyors.
So my suggestion if you really want authentic, go to the source. Hit the barrio. Learn some Spanish. It won't kill ya.
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