I bought a real mug in order to stop using paper cups for my twice-daily Choice Organic English Breakfast tea at work. Think of how many paper cups I am saving! At one or two teas a day, that’s 20-40 cups in one month, which means about 200 in one semester. I also bought a very chic canvas grocery bag. Ok, so it’s not so chic, but it saves paper. I feel environmentally friendly.
And since we're talking about tea, may I recommend Trader Joe's Orange Rooibos tea? It's perfect for an afternoon break. It's even better if you pair it with a piece of orange flavored dark chocolate (but what isn't?) And before you throw the teabag away, squeeze the excess water from the bag into your cup for extra antioxidant goodness: a tip from one of my heroes, Dr. Perricone, who says that this can double the amount of antioxidants in your cuppa. And we all love antioxidants. And, oh! They're in dark chocolate too. Yet another justification of my 72% cacao habit.
But besides the health benefits, a nice cup of tea is just, well, nice. Especially if served in a nice teacup with appropriate garnishes: lemon, cream, sugar, delicate napkins, silver spoons, little bouquets of pansies, and the low murmur of a classical radio station. We had teatime every afternoon after school when I was little, with all the garnishes, and it remains a precious memory, one that can be relived every time I pour boiling water over a tea bag. I think the British have the right idea with their established afternoon teatime.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Home Edition
Ever watched "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition"? The one with the hunky carpenter and his band of equally good-looking, if loquacious, carpenter's assistants? The show always bothered me a little. Something besides the dizzying camerawork, I mean. I didn't think about it much, so I never got around to figuring out what actually bothers me about it, but Slate.com hit the nail on the head, so to speak:
As Newsweek has pointed out, an Extreme Makeover makeover could add thousands of dollars in new property taxes—which, in all likelihood, the owners couldn't afford. Last year, Ty led his troops on a mission to house on a depressed block in Watts, in South Central Los Angeles. The team performed its usual miracles, never bothering to consider the social consequences of erecting a fortress that towered over every other house on the block. And then there's the nagging feeling that building a 5,300-square-foot home, however magnanimous an act, may not be the most appropriate solution for a problem like sewage backup.
That being said, those surfer-type handymen ("handypeople?") do put forth a noble effort to give people better lives. And that's good.
As Newsweek has pointed out, an Extreme Makeover makeover could add thousands of dollars in new property taxes—which, in all likelihood, the owners couldn't afford. Last year, Ty led his troops on a mission to house on a depressed block in Watts, in South Central Los Angeles. The team performed its usual miracles, never bothering to consider the social consequences of erecting a fortress that towered over every other house on the block. And then there's the nagging feeling that building a 5,300-square-foot home, however magnanimous an act, may not be the most appropriate solution for a problem like sewage backup.
That being said, those surfer-type handymen ("handypeople?") do put forth a noble effort to give people better lives. And that's good.
Monday, March 21, 2005
In the Market
"Because if I'm in the yogurt aisle, my Prince Charming might just be over by the eggs." Supermarkets in Germany and France have begun hosting singles' nights. It's easy to strike up a conversation about, say, your feelings about trans fats, or goat cheese, or what to eat with kohlrabi, and you can be fairly sure your culinary soulmate lives close by. I wonder if the supermarkets could use this in their advertising after a few months, like eHarmony.com: "Monoprix! More marriages than any other supermarche!"
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Anthill
I feel like an absolute slug sitting all day, every day, even though I do love my internship. So I ambitiously went to Bally’s Total Fitness because I saw an ad for a membership deal. I figured it would help get me moving and active again, since that pretty much ended with the 9-5 job and winter on the East coast. So I went to the address and found the room number and punched B1 on the elevator.
The elevator doors opened to white, smudged walls, grey carpet, and the occasional cockroach, dead on its back. A sign next to one of the many handle-less grey doors said in messy handwriting, “UPS DON’T DELIVER HERE PLEASE CALL 2023317889” I followed the maze of asymmetrical hallways, dotted occasionally with locked grey doors, around the entire level, trying to find out where the throbbing aerobics music was coming from, only to end up where I started: in the elevator lobby with white walls, gray carpet, and dead cockroach. I almost gave up, punched the elevator button, and left, but then I saw a small call box next to one of the doors. So I punched the white button. Nothing happened. So I knocked on the door. It opened.
Have you ever kicked an anthill and watched the ants explode chaotically out of it? Or owned an Ant Farm and seen how sometimes the ants huddle in one particular corner and rarely venture out to the rest of the tunnels they’ve created? This was the impression I got when the door opened to a long room crowded with black exercise machines, colored lights, throbbing music, mirrors and an anthill of professionals in sleek outfits in various stages of their heavy-duty workouts. It reminded me of the scene in the first Matrix where Trinity meets Neo at the party. Quite a contrast to the muffled grey-and-white halls just beyond the door.
I decided not to join, and not only because the price seemed steep: I didn’t want to feel like, well, an ant. Something about being trapped in an unnamed basement behind handle-less grey doors with strangers focused on tightening their abs, however energizing the music and however well coiffed the patrons, felt…wrong. I love the treadmill, but I don’t want to be buried with it.
On an unrelated note, here's a good way to know when your marriage is on the rocks .
The elevator doors opened to white, smudged walls, grey carpet, and the occasional cockroach, dead on its back. A sign next to one of the many handle-less grey doors said in messy handwriting, “UPS DON’T DELIVER HERE PLEASE CALL 2023317889” I followed the maze of asymmetrical hallways, dotted occasionally with locked grey doors, around the entire level, trying to find out where the throbbing aerobics music was coming from, only to end up where I started: in the elevator lobby with white walls, gray carpet, and dead cockroach. I almost gave up, punched the elevator button, and left, but then I saw a small call box next to one of the doors. So I punched the white button. Nothing happened. So I knocked on the door. It opened.
Have you ever kicked an anthill and watched the ants explode chaotically out of it? Or owned an Ant Farm and seen how sometimes the ants huddle in one particular corner and rarely venture out to the rest of the tunnels they’ve created? This was the impression I got when the door opened to a long room crowded with black exercise machines, colored lights, throbbing music, mirrors and an anthill of professionals in sleek outfits in various stages of their heavy-duty workouts. It reminded me of the scene in the first Matrix where Trinity meets Neo at the party. Quite a contrast to the muffled grey-and-white halls just beyond the door.
I decided not to join, and not only because the price seemed steep: I didn’t want to feel like, well, an ant. Something about being trapped in an unnamed basement behind handle-less grey doors with strangers focused on tightening their abs, however energizing the music and however well coiffed the patrons, felt…wrong. I love the treadmill, but I don’t want to be buried with it.
On an unrelated note, here's a good way to know when your marriage is on the rocks .
Friday, March 11, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Mr. Speaker
If I were on a postage stamp (and I intend to be, when I get married) I would want a more flattering picture than this.
CSIS's favorite Iranian Australian is, sadly, leaving tomorrow at an ungodly hour and returning to sunny Australia. To mark his last week with us, a group of us went out to dinner last night: I found a place, Zagat-rated, with decent prices, ranked in the Washingtonian's 100 Best Restaurants List. We agreed to meet at the nearby metro at 7:30. The restaurant was right there on Pennsylvania Avenue, which is easy to find unless you're us and you don't read the street signs correctly and you walk an extra six blocks in the freezing cold. (I'm never ever leaving the house without gloves again. Ever.) Then, much to our dismay, the restaurant was closed, locked, and out of business. So we stopped in at Rami's place nearby, to thaw out, and then decided on a Chinese place around the corner. It wasn't cute, quaint, and Italian, but the tea and the asparagus crab soup thawed us. But here's the best part: just as we started our tea, the Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert came in, body guards and all, later to be joined by Dennis Kucinich. So Rami, the guts of the group, asked the bodyguard if we could get a picture with him, saying something like, "My friend over there is from Australia...can we get a picture with you?" And we did, and he was very friendly about it. Then after our five chinese dishes (I think the fifth one was ordered for us by our waitress. None of us actually said, "One General Tso's Chicken, please") Rami asked Kucinich, who looks better in real life than on TV, for a picture, and although he agreed, he was much less amiable than Mr. Speaker. Maybe he didn't care for his Szechuan beef?
We went out into the cold again, renewed our vows to never leave the house without gloves, and went home with plenty of leftovers. At least Poulad has some interesting memories from his last night out in Washington. We'll miss you, Poulad!
In other Aussie news, Russel Crowe claims that Al-Qaida wanted to kidnap him because he's an American symbol. But he's Australian. Maybe they just needed some star power to raise their television ratings?
CSIS's favorite Iranian Australian is, sadly, leaving tomorrow at an ungodly hour and returning to sunny Australia. To mark his last week with us, a group of us went out to dinner last night: I found a place, Zagat-rated, with decent prices, ranked in the Washingtonian's 100 Best Restaurants List. We agreed to meet at the nearby metro at 7:30. The restaurant was right there on Pennsylvania Avenue, which is easy to find unless you're us and you don't read the street signs correctly and you walk an extra six blocks in the freezing cold. (I'm never ever leaving the house without gloves again. Ever.) Then, much to our dismay, the restaurant was closed, locked, and out of business. So we stopped in at Rami's place nearby, to thaw out, and then decided on a Chinese place around the corner. It wasn't cute, quaint, and Italian, but the tea and the asparagus crab soup thawed us. But here's the best part: just as we started our tea, the Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert came in, body guards and all, later to be joined by Dennis Kucinich. So Rami, the guts of the group, asked the bodyguard if we could get a picture with him, saying something like, "My friend over there is from Australia...can we get a picture with you?" And we did, and he was very friendly about it. Then after our five chinese dishes (I think the fifth one was ordered for us by our waitress. None of us actually said, "One General Tso's Chicken, please") Rami asked Kucinich, who looks better in real life than on TV, for a picture, and although he agreed, he was much less amiable than Mr. Speaker. Maybe he didn't care for his Szechuan beef?
We went out into the cold again, renewed our vows to never leave the house without gloves, and went home with plenty of leftovers. At least Poulad has some interesting memories from his last night out in Washington. We'll miss you, Poulad!
In other Aussie news, Russel Crowe claims that Al-Qaida wanted to kidnap him because he's an American symbol. But he's Australian. Maybe they just needed some star power to raise their television ratings?
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