The Road to Glory: Pumpkin Carving Party 2007

Tradition is something that’s very important to me. Unfortunately, carving out time to make traditions is often hard when you have a family as active as mine. There’s always a ton of things to do, which means we’re always busy, which means we’re always tired as a result of being busy doing the tons of things there are to do. So tradition is often tossed to the curb, not because it’s not valuable to everyone, but because we’re so beat by the effort it takes to make sure the mechanics of everyday life run smoothly that adding on anything else is daunting. For the most part, I am okay with this. I like to think that I’m a pretty “roll with the punches” kind of gal, and truthfully, I enjoy the chaos that comes with having a family like mine. But there are some things, some traditions that I can not and will not sacrifice no matter what, the most important of which is our annual Pumpkin Carving Party.

For as long as I can remember, my family has carved pumpkins for Halloween. Even when I was really little I was always way more psyched up for carving pumpkins than for getting to wear a costume or going trick-or-treating. It was always a huge production: Going to the pumpkin patch with my little red wagon in tow, looking over every pumpkin meticulously till I found just the right one, then going home and staring at my pick, waiting for inspiration (the perfect Jack O’Lantern face!) to hit me – wow. I get a buzz just thinking about it now. And all that excitement was nothing compared the actual carving. Scraping out the gooey insides was gross in the very best way, and getting to use an actual knife to give my pumpkin a funny/scary mug made me feel both creative and very, very grown up (though my parents were always close by, making sure the only thing getting carved was the pumpkin, not little fingers). I can remember my mom helping me put in candles and guiding my hand as I lit up my masterpiece. We’d go outside and set them all on our front porch, then step back and admire the bright, glowing faces shining back at our own.

As the years have gone on, we’ve modified our pumpkin carving tradition. We always have the same dinner on the night we carve (Sloppy Joe’s, tater tots and corn – a meal which would sound absolutely disgusting to us on any other night, but which we honestly look forward to when it’s paired with pumpkin carving), but in recent years we’ve added some gourmet elements to the meal, usually a snazzy dessert or cocktail for those of us old enough to imbibe. My grandparents have started participating in the past few years as well, and that’s something that gives me endless amounts of joy because my grandparents are awesome. But the biggest – and best – change has been that now, instead of carving just for fun, we’ve turned it into a competition, judged by our ten year old next door neighbor, Caitlin. This new aspect of the Pumpkin Carving Party makes me the happiest of all.

It’s widely known in our family (and on this blog) that I’m a total gamer, and that when there’s an opportunity to win anything, I’m all over it. All over it like a crazy person. In my wildest dreams, people would find this to be a cute, quirky part of my personality. In reality, I think it’s more something that people put up with. That would usually upset me, but not when I’m winning, because nothing – NOTHING – gets me down when I’m on top, and this insane need to be the best definitely extends to pumpkin carving. I would say that I’m a good loser, but I can’t really be sure about that, because for the last three years (that is, ever since we introduced the competition side of the Pumpkin Carving Party), I have been crowned the Pumpkin Carving Queen (Hehe! I’m not really keen on rubbing it in, but suck it, family! You’re all losers.). The first year I won, I went sort of cartoony on my pumpkin, turning out a cute, simple cat face. Last year, I brought home the gold with my Picasso inspired entry (that’s the best way to describe it; it had one triangular eye, one sunburst-looking eye, a wide open v-shaped mouth, and, strangely, all my hair and nail clippings from the last year). This year, like the Lakers before me, I achieved the three-peat with my classic but well executed design. Check it out:



That’s mine in the middle, flanked by a couple of underachieving also-rans. Notice the kind of commitment to excellence that’s a hallmark of my pumpkin carving style: The inside is spotless, with no leftover stringy innards or errant seeds, the uncomplicated design allows for a ton of light to come through, and each feature is back-cut, giving the face a clean, flawless look. Never underestimate the importance of good pumpkin carving technique, people. That attention to detail separates the men from the boys (or in my case, me from everyone else, though the shameless gloating might contribute to that separation as well.). And that’s why I’m the Pumpkin Carving Queen yet again. Congratulations to me. And to you, for having the honor of knowing me.

As an added bonus, here is a picture of my grandparents holding their adorable yet remarkably substandard entries. My grandma went freeform on us, and while she refused to name her inspiration, we think her pumpkin was a dead ringer for William Hung. My grandpa’s pumpkin…well, his design is the same one he’s been doing for exactly 50 years. Every year I try to impart some of my pumpkin carving wisdom, telling him to make the design bigger so it’s brighter and to spend more time cleaning it out, and every year he tells me his design is timeless and that the extra goop inside adds to the spookiness of it (and by “telling him” those things, I mean, of course, whispering them under my breath while secretly thinking, “One less fool to stomp all over in my quest for victory.”). To each his own, I guess.



I emailed this picture to my Aunt Lee after our party, and this was her response: “Hey, do those pumpkins look like them or what? Was this carving supposed to be a self portrait?” I love my aunt. I love Halloween. But most of all, I love winning making lasting memories with my family.

It's Like The Greeks vs. The Trojans All Over Again

I have tried to stay out of this discourse for as long as is humanly possible, but I know now that it would be the height of irresponsibility for me, holding the position that I do in this world, to withhold my influence any longer. I have decided that the time to speak is now, lest the situation become any direr as a result of my continued silence. Friends, esteemed colleagues, and Canadians who inexplicably subscribe to this blog, the time has come for me to jump headfirst into what future scholars will come to regard as the debate of the century. I am referring, of course, to “Kanye West vs. 50 Cent: Decision 2007”, and the consequences of the outcome now weigh heavily on my shoulders. I can only pray that I’m strong enough to see this conflict through to a peaceful and nonviolent end.



The question of which side to support was never an issue for me. I am a person who values loyalty above all else, and my feet have always been firmly planted on the side of 50. A hardworking man, committed to excellence and physical fitness, 50 has always piqued my interest. Without a doubt, his music is unfailingly fascinating, and he has proven himself to be a fascinating man as well. Born unto the rough streets of South Jamaica, Queens, 50 (nee Curtis Jackson) began selling drugs at the age of twelve. Twelve, ladies and gentlemen. This is nothing short of a tribute to Fiddy’s inherent, unrelenting, entrepreneurial spirit. Still, young Curtis dreamed of a better life for himself and, after a stint in prison for dealing (during which time he adopted the “50 Cent” moniker, which is metaphorical for “change” - man, that is so beautiful. It brings tears to my eyes.), he ended his career as a supplier to pursue a more suitable métier: Rapping.

But Fate did as she often does, and, on the brink of that life-altering decision, Fiddy was the victim of a drive by shooting, taking nine bullets in the arm, chest, hand, left cheek, hip, and both legs. By the grace of God, 50 survived the brutal attack. After spending 13 days in the hospital, followed by another six and a half months in recovery, 50 lives on as a testament to sheer willpower, dedication, and, again, physical fitness. He is a true manifestation of the American dream.

On the other side of this debate, we have Kanye “George Bush Hates Black People” West, who by all accounts lived a far more sheltered, pampered lifestyle than a young Curtis Jackson would ever have dared to dream of. Why should we root for you, Kanye, when the worst thing that happened to you in your formative years was that your parents got divorced? 50’s mom was straight up murdered, and he never even knew his father. You attended the frou frou American Academy of Art in Chicago during your high school years. Where was 50? In jail, getting his GED and trying to make a fresh start, that’s where. And while I would never seek to minimize anyone’s suffering, I feel compelled to point out that while 50 was off getting shot nine times (nine times!), the victim of savage, vicious thuggery, your only claim to physical pain was a broken jaw, a jaw that was broken in a car accident that only occurred because you fell asleep at the wheel. I doubt 50 even had a car! And where you selfishly exploited this bit of personal recklessness for your song “Through The Wire", 50 only briefly mentioned his plight in "In Da Club”, and I feel sure he did this as a courtesy to his fans, to let them know that even after the horrific shooting, he is fine – so fine that his swagger isn’t even marred by the slightest hint of limp. And even now, while you delight in Epicurean romps at various disgusting strip joints, 50 Cent toils away in his humble Manhattan office, taking multiple meetings a day – the consummate businessman. To choose between you two would be like choosing between a Cable Ace Award and an Oscar. I think you know which one you are, Kanye. And I think you know which one I’m choosing.

That being said, the reality of the situation is that the deck is currently stacked in the favor of Mr. West. However, in this epic struggle, I have my suspicions about who will come out the victor. While Kanye may currently be outselling 50 (and congratulations to him on that – his little tune, “Stronger”, is catchy in a way that only superbly processed and manipulated music can be), I feel that the man formerly known as Curtis Jackson will ultimately prevail. Kanye can carry on rapping about Kate Moss, calling himself “The Louis Vuitton Don,” railing against the “haters,” and wearing all the Lacoste polo shirts the world has to offer – I guess that's his "truth," and I hope that fulfills him. As for me, I will continue to delight in the man, the music, and, let's face it, the hero that is 50 Cent.

I Heart NY, Part 2 (With Pictures!)

Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? If you’ll remember, I was just being taxied into the city, and was starting to regain my lost optimism about my trip.

Once we got to our hotel, we hunkered down for a few hours of much needed sleep. We wanted to get an early start on our sightseeing, so we woke up at six the next morning (which is unthinkably early for me on any day, much less a vacation day. I don’t think I ever see the world properly till around…noon.). From what little pre-trip research we were able to do, we knew that we could pick up almost any subway line we needed from Grand Central Station, which just so happened to be about four blocks from our hotel. Grand Central Station is beautiful – when you walk in, you’re taken aback by the enormity of the marble concourse. It’s a seamless mix of bigness and delicacy, the latter coming in the form of several exquisite chandeliers and, of course, the famous painted ceiling, a loose depiction of an astrological map. What really struck me was the windows, these great arched portals with the most gorgeous light just streaming through them, and the huge American flag, which was hung just after September 11th. I think it’s easy to feel strangely reverent about New York, especially when you’re in a place like Grand Central Station. There’s something about it that feels important and necessary, and even in our rush to get out into the city, we spent a good fifteen minutes just absorbing our surroundings in the terminal.


From there, we really hit the ground running. We snagged a subway map (which quickly became our best friend) and headed down to Times Square, where we were all set to pick up one of those double decker bus tours. Now, I realize that this goes directly against our goal of living like true Manhattanites (Manhattonians?), but we had to find a way to get our bearings in the city, and for us, the best way to do that was to take a guided bus tour. We must have been on that bus for four solid hours, but we saw everything: the Fashion District, the Financial District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Central Park – everything. You name it, we saw it, all from the open-air upper level of a ridiculous-looking, gigantic double decker bus. It really helped us figure out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do for the rest of our time in NYC, though. So thank you much, New York Sight Seeing Gray Line.

Once we completed our bus tour, we grabbed a quick bite and made our way down to Battery Park, where we were going to hop on a ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a ferry ride and an outdoor audio tour of Lady Liberty. I initially wasn't too excited for Ellis Island, but I'm so glad we did it, simply because there’s no way I could have fully appreciated what the Statue of Liberty meant for so many people had we not. Visiting Ellis Island was extremely moving because their audio tour had interviews with people who actually came into the U.S. through Ellis Island. So many of them described difficult journeys filled with illness, crowded quarters and unsanitary conditions (not to mention all the reasons they had to leave their native countries in the first place), but what was so moving to me was their reaction upon seeing Lady Liberty’s shining golden torch ablaze across the sharp blue sky – it’s like they knew they were finally safe, that their grueling voyage was over, that they were home at last. They were so grateful, so full of hope, and hearing their stories made me feel the same way. Love that.


Our day of exploring was tiring, but knowing that we had very limited time in Manhattan (we’d have to spend at least a few days in New Jersey and its surrounding areas for my brother’s tournament), we wanted to make the most of every moment, so we decided to push through the exhaustion and hop on the subway to Little Italy for dinner. I remember this part very vividly: Getting off the subway and not knowing which way to go, I smelled and heard and saw the twinkling lights of Little Italy all at once, and it was like an instant shot of warm, tingly happiness. I think we spent maybe half an hour walking up and down the blocks that comprise Little Italy, checking out all the restaurants. We finally sat down to eat at a little café with outdoor seating so we could take in the whole scene. There was a lot to see: the streets were crowded with tons of people, some visitors like us, some vendors, others residents of apartments located over the restaurants and shops, and, to my great surprise and delight, many, many genuine Italians. The vibe was so homey and welcoming, and colorful in the best possible way. I think it’s one of those places where anyone could feel like they really belonged, which is definitely a beautiful thing. After dinner, we strolled some more and picked up the most delicious cannoli in the world (Four words: Chocolate covered cannoli shell. Fifth word: Wow.), and headed back to the hotel, full and happy and nothing short of enamored with the city. It was the perfect way to end our perfect first day in New York.



I Heart NY, Part 3 (the finale) - coming soon to a blog near you!

Why Andrea and I Are Friends

I know. I know, I know, I know. There's no "I Heart NY, Part 2" post today. It's not quite ready yet. In the meantime, I give you this little snippet from a recent iChat session. It's just one one of the many reasons why Andrea and I are best buds.

Preface: Andrea's parents are pressuring her to talk to some dude they want her to date. To say that she has lukewarm feelings for him would be...generous.
Andrea: My dad told me to say hi to him when he was sitting right there. It was like I was 8 years old.
Nicole: I still don't understand why you have to say anything to him at all.
Andrea: It's because of my parents. My dad wants me to "make myself available" to him.
Nicole: Ah, like a hooker.
Andrea: Yes. The red light is on.
Nicole: Poor Roxanne. :(
Andrea: I would woop Roxanne. I mean, she's like 50 years old now.
Nicole: I don't know. Hookers are notoriously brutal.
Andrea: But I have a shiv.
Andrea: It's home-made.
Nicole: ...from a spoon...
Nicole: ...from the prison mess hall.
Andrea: Yes. I swiped it during that stint I served for killing my pimp.
Nicole: Yeah, well, that bastard had it coming.
Andrea: Damn straight.

You see? That's just a beautiful thing.

Also, thank God Andrea and I found each other. Because really, who else would be friends with us? Yeah.

The Police - "Roxanne"

It's Funny...Because It's True

This makes me laugh:


I think I'd be in the "I would be writing right now, but...wait, do you hear that buzzing? No? Because I really hear like a loud, loud buzz happening. Ugh, I'm so tired. [At which point, I'd go watch some previously Tivo'd episodes of Tori and Dean: Inn Love and fall asleep on the couch.]" building. Because that's how I roll.

I Heart NY, Part 2 will be up tomorrow! Fo' realz.

I Heart NY, Part 1

I have a brother, AJ, who plays high school baseball and is an outstanding third baseman. As anyone who knows baseball will tell you, once you hit a certain age and show a fair amount of talent, you'll want to transition into playing on a travel team (we call it “travel ball”), which caters to a more upper echelon type of player. Travel ball is pretty intense and can get a little cutthroat at times, but the level of competition affords the players valuable game time experience and prepares them for the challenge of playing at the high school (and, hopefully, college) level, which is definitely a good thing. And, as the name suggests, you get to travel, and travel you do, mostly in the summer time, which means that the destination of many a family vacation is determined by the baseball gods. Nine times out of ten, you end up in some bizarre, BFE-type locale (Joplin, MO, anyone? My brother’s Joplin assessment: “Fireworks, sex shops, and boredom.” So sorry, Joplin.). But then there are those glorious moments when travel ball takes you somewhere fantastic, and a few weeks ago, we were finally dealt a winning hand when AJ’s team qualified to play in the Don Mattingly World Series, a prestigious tournament set to take place over seven days in…Flemington, New Jersey!

I know what you’re thinking: Flemington, New Jersey? Really? Sounds…awesome. To that end, I would say that your sarcasm was not only well placed but also very warranted. It’s completely correct to assume that no one would find the prospect of spending a week in Flemington thrilling. The thought that I would be forced to spend my vacation there was horrifying, especially since there are only two things worth noting about Flemington: 1) The Lindbergh trial was held there, oh, I don’t know, a million and a half years ago, which also happens to be about the time it stopped being interesting, and 2) There’s a bunch of pharmaceutical research facilities in the general vicinity (which is not at all riveting, but would explain the multitude of two-headed dear prancing along in that neck o’ the woods). I was all set to bring the serious hate to the Flem, until a little pre-trip research revealed that, miracle of miracles, Flemington was only an hour outside of Manhattan! What once sounded like yet another shaft out of a summer vacation at the hands of Mother Baseball instantly became our ticket to finally (FINALLY!) getting to explore NYC. Needless to say, I was very excited. It was like Harry Potter levels of excitement - times a thousand. Plus five. Squared.

Once New York came into the picture, the prospect of having to tough out a few days in Flemington seemed far less odious. My brother and his teammates were told they’d be flying separately from their families and that once they got there, they’d be staying with host families, which was the second piece of good news: Without having to cart him around to the gym and the batting cages and meetings all day long, our time was more our own than it had been on any baseball-related trip ever. With that in mind, we started planning our great New York adventure. The trouble with that, however, was that none of us really knew anything about New York City. Where do we want to stay? What do we want to do? How do we exist in Manhattan without looking like total rubes? Those are all legitimate questions. Because you don't mess around in New York. Or so we'd heard.

I wasn't overly stressed about the lack of info, though. Rolling out with a few maps and a suitcase full of light layers rarely freaks me out. That kind of vagabond vacationing just so happens to be my family's signature travel style, and I've been flying by the seat of my pants in new places for years as a result. Plus, I like to think that I'm a fairly openminded, adaptable gal, both of which are favorable attributes when exploring an unknown city. I was still slightly troubled by the last minute nature of the trip, though. Since we were all hesitant to sign on the dotted line when we thought the tournament would tie us down in Flemington, it was pretty late in the game when we started getting the essentials in place. I think we ended up booking our flight two days before we had to leave, and our hotel wasn't locked down till around eleven o’clock the night before we left. I don't like to be rushed, and you really can't be more rushed than that. I was still excited though. I mean, it’s New York City. It's the capital of the world. Fuhgeddaboutit.

We flew out of LAX on a Saturday morning. The first leg of the trip, from LAX to Las Vegas (where we’d pick up our connecting flight to JFK), was lovely. I had my traditional airplane beverage, ginger ale, and a purse full of tabloids – all was right in my world. Our connection was smooth, not too much of a layover. Well, enough of a layover for my mom to convince me to play $5 in an airport slot machine, which I promptly lost (Can someone tell me what’s fun about slot machines? I don't get it. Forgive me for being so limited.). Anyway, I would say the first half of the flight to New York was fine. They played “Shrek the Third.” There was minimal turbulence. I had another ginger ale and ate some pretzels. Life was good.

That's when things started to get hairy. Inexplicably, I began to feel…woozy, I guess is the right word. I got that cold, tight, fizzy feeling between my stomach and my throat. I started taking short, shallow breaths. I got sweaty and became unnaturally pale. I’d never felt like that, to that extreme, on a flight before, and that’s why it never occurred to me to take a Dramamine. Which obviously I should have. Because obviously, in my old age, I’ve become pretty weak in the motion sickness department. What made it even worse was the thought that my trip to New York was starting out so unfavorably. I get a little dramatic sometimes, especially when I’m feeling gross and panicked, and in my motion sickness-addled brain, it felt like horrid overshadowing of things to come. It didn’t help that once we landed, we taxied around the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity when what I wanted most in the world was to get as far away from the plane as possible. I was so out of it by the time we deboarded, got our luggage, and made our way to the taxi line that I couldn’t have cared less that we were in New York. I was miserable, and all I wanted to do was get to the hotel, take a shower and go to sleep.

But then, in the cab on the I-495, I saw it: The Manhattan skyline. It was peaceful and beautiful, and, in direct opposition to everything I'd ever heard about NYC, quiet. Not to cheese you out too much, but it really felt like the city was taking a breath with me, helping me calm down so I could drink it all in, and I instantly felt better about things. I always thought people were romanticizing when they waxed poetic on how "magical" New York is. But even then, even from the inside of a cab on the outskirts of the city, I started to understand what they were talking about. And I was ready to let myself be bewitched.

***

Tuesday, September 4th - I Heart NY, Part Two . Have a good weekend.

Where I've Been; Where I'm Going

So.

It’s been a while there, eh blog buddies? More than a month, in fact. That’s a really long time. Well, maybe not in the span of a lifetime. In the span of a lifetime, you’ll have many, many months. Depending on how long you live, you could have upwards of one thousand months under your belt by the time you die, and if you look at it that way, what’s one month or two or twelve to someone who has lived a thousand? It’s like a blip on the radar screen, not even a worthy side note. Conversely, if you look at months in relation to, say, the school year, one month is one long ass time. So depending on your perspective, we’ve either been apart for a moment or for a lifetime. Whatever your own personal verdict is, you should know that mine is this: It has been far too long since I’ve sent any transmissions out into the blogosphere, and I plan to never be so lax in my duties as your resident snarkster/sentimentalist/loon ever again.

You’re probably wondering what I’ve been doing during my little blog hiatus, and that is most definitely a good question. Not unlike Lucy Ricardo, I know I've got some 'splaining to do. But where to start? Well, for one thing, I’ve been enjoying what is left of my final summer before graduating from college. That’s summer in the most familiar sense of the word, by the way: Those glorious three months between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next. I’ve been relishing every moment spent engaging in my favorite summertime activity: Lounging in my grandparents’ pool for hours and getting out only to eat lunch (or, now that I’m of legal drinking age, to slurp down a fantastic, icy cold margarita made for me by my lovely grandfather, Tom, whom we call Papa). My parents have always worked full time, and as a result my brother and I have, for as long as I can remember, regarded my grandparents’ house as our second home, and we’ve spent many a happy school break there, floating around in the pool and relaxing. Admit it: If you had that, you’d be tempted to neglect your blog duties too, so don’t judge me too harshly for being absent for so long. Those were some really excellent margaritas.

Another thing grabbing my attention away from this here blog: Harry Potter. Not those bizarre leather fetish pictures of the kid who plays Harry Potter (those pretty much scarred me for life – I’d link to them, but that would mean me having to find them online, and that would mean me having to see them again, and even though I’d love to give you all the resources you need to really understand what I’m talking about, I just can’t do it. I don’t think my health care insurance covers temporary blindness caused by Daniel Radcliffe photos. But if you’re really into seeing them, just Google “Daniel+Radcliffe+leather+daddy” and I’m sure you’ll get more than a few hits. Good luck to you. Yikes.). Anyway, I plan to do a rather large post on this topic in the very near future (Andrea and I are going to double team it, and it promises to be a potpourri of mixed media deliciousness), so I’m understandably hesitant to give away too many details right now. I’ll just say that both the fifth movie and the seventh (and final) book came out within a week of each other, and in my world, that’s a tantalizing, all-consuming smorgasbord of overwhelmingly fantastic proportions. In this case, I think you were actually lucky I didn’t blog about it right as it happened. I can say with 100% certainty that it would have contained a load of fan girl giddiness, and now that I’ve had time to gain a little perspective on the situation, I know I can give a much better (read: less obnoxiously excited) account of the good times that were had during Harry Potter mania week and the couple of weeks after that, when the Harry aftermath was still strong-arming itself into every thought and every conversation. I guarantee it would have found its way onto the blog as well. Restraint, friends. It’s what differentiates us here at Destroy All Evidence from the animals. And also from lesser, crappy bloggers. It’s a good thing.

I’ve done a few other things in my time off as well, one in particular so wonderful that I won’t even begin to talk about it presently for fear that my effusive sentimentality might just melt you like hot molten lava. That one will be coming at you (or “atcha,” depending on just how “street” you’re feeling today) in two or three parts, the first installment of which will be published before the end of this week. So come back around on Thursday or Friday for that, and look for a return to your regularly scheduled programming (pessimism, dubiousness, stupidity, etc.) to follow shortly thereafter.

In the meantime, I hope you’re digging (and have been digging) Andrea's blog, which is fun and nearly always full of sonic goodness. And I hope you’ve enjoyed your summer as much as I have mine. If you haven’t, come back later this week and live vicariously through me. I encourage it. And thanks for continuing to read Destroy All Evidence.