Kitchen Redux

So I noticed a couple of weeks ago that Blogger is now allowing users to post video. I figured it was the perfect opportunity to share a project I worked on several months ago: The 5 Day Kitchen Video.

Some of you may recall the "Can't You Just Get Someone To Do That For You" Blog entry from last January. Here is the visual proof that Jeremy and I did, in fact, renovate our kitchen in 5 days!

A Scary Night in Southfield

I’ve seen my share of bad weather. A strong summer storm rolls in: thick black clouds obscure the sun. Flashes of lighting illuminate the sky. Thunder booms overhead. I’ve seen it.

At least I thought I’d seen it. Last Friday night, a strong line of thunderstorms moved in, and people, I have never seen weather like this. The sky turned GREEN. The clouds hung low and spun in concentric circles. At any moment I thought a tornado would drop on our heads.

It was another late night at work and we gathered under the flimsy metal overhang in the parking lot and watched lightning bolt after lightning bolt scorch the sky. While the thunder and lighting put on a good show, it was the clouds that were truly terrifying. I really thought a tornado was going to drop right in the parking lot. The clouds were low in the sky. They spun and dipped lower and lower. I’ve been through my share of hurricanes, nor’easters and other downright miserable weather scenarios including a 9 hour trek through a snow squall in the Poconos, but I’ve never been scared before. According to forecasters, the strongest tornado in a decade touched down in Southeastern Michigan Friday night. I’m just glad it didn’t land in our parking lot.

If You’re Boozing and Cruising Then You’re Losing

That’s what the electronic sign hoisted over the Woodward Avenue interchange on Interstate 696 flashed all last week. Normally the sign reads “Buckle up! It’s the Law” or “Delays though Southfield Road” but not on the third week in August. For everyone in the area knows that the third weekend in August is reserved for one thing, and one thing only: The Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise.

For all the non-Michiganders out there, Woodward Avenue is to Metro Detroit what Broadway is to NY. It stretches all the way from Downtown Detroit, through several miles of sheer scariness and emerges into the suburbs. It’s a wide boulevard, four lanes on each side, and if you’re turning left, you’re going to do it Michigan style.

Throughout the early summer, nascent signs of the Dream Cruise pop up on Woodward. In between the Jeep Cherokees and Ford trucks you’ll notice a purple hot rod with flames painted on the side. Perhaps the next week you’ll spot a Ford Fairlane. In the week preceding the Dream Cruise I actually followed a Model T Ford down Main Street, Royal Oak.

But nothing could prepare me for what the Dream Cruise beheld. I avoided the Cruise last year. I was too new to the city and felt I was entirely unprepared for that kind of face to face gear-head interaction. This year it was time.

The closest point to Woodward Avenue is roughly 2 miles from my house. I couldn't drive there because I had to pre-order a parking spot. (I’ll let you contemplate the irony of paying for a parking spot so you can watch people drive down a street you drive down everyday.) I packed up some water for me and the dog and we set out. The weather was cool and slightly overcast so it was the perfect day for walking.

We arrived on Woodward Avenue less than 2 hours later. We were confronted with a carnival like atmosphere. Tents filled with people lined the street. Souped up hot rods idled on the grass. Every block held a different band playing a different type of music. And the food was everywhere. It was… it was….

Ok, I can’t do this. I can’t spin my positive Michigan bull and declare the Dream Cruise was a new and exciting experience that I will treasure for years to come. Why? Because it wasn't. By the time Buddy and I strolled onto Woodward it was body to body people. All that food? Well it was hot dogs and ice cream. The bands – there was a different band on every block all right, but you couldn't hear the music because it all jumbled together to form an unintelligible song. The Cruise, the main attraction, is essentially cars driving really slow up Woodward. That’s it. Yeah, some of those cars are impressive, but some of those cars are mid-eighties IROCs. And the sidewalks are filled with people just STARING at the cars from the seats of their identical Home Depot purchased foldable lawn chairs.

We lasted ten minutes. It was right around the time my dog jumped on a 12 year old boy to snag his ice cream cone, I realized it was time to get the hell out of there. We hung a right and started walking home. The 2 miles stretched like an eternity. Walking in Michigan isn't like walking in NY. There’s no shopping to distract you nor is there an easy escape route. You can’t turn the corner and catch a train, bus or taxi. If you walked 2 miles west, you’re walking back 2 miles east.

We walked and walked and finally arrived home. I looked over at my pup, hoping the afternoon’s Dream Cruise odyssey had wiped him out. His tail wagged playfully from side to side, doggie grin planted firmly on face. My hopes for a quiet night complete with a happy dog asleep at my feet were dashed. The Dream Cruise not only failed to excite me, but it also failed to exhaust my dog. A total failure through and through. Although… had my dog managed to wrestle away that little boy’s ice cream cone, the walk back could have been salvaged.

just kidding...

This is Some Serious Up North

Chrissy, our bright and shining intern, uttered those words from the backseat, as we turned onto dusty East Opal Lake Road in Gaylord, MI. We bounced around, craning our necks for a street sign, house sign, ANY sign that could tell us we were headed in the right direction. We had already taken two wrong turns and accidentally returned to the highway on our four hour journey. It was time to get there already. I had to pee.

We stopped a man on a tractor for directions. He looked at us blankly. He would be no help. We pushed on. Two bumpy turns later and we arrived at our destination: A rustic wood cabin, perched on Lake Opal. We had traveled Up North for our office's Girls Outing. Virtually all of the women I work with were in attendance. A weekend of hard drinking, good eating and lake swimming was in our future.

Clarification for all of you non-Michiganders out there: “Up North” refers to all of Northern Michigan, from Traverse City to Cheboygan. I.e., when I attended the Renaissance wedding in Charlevoix, I was Up North. Gaylord, roughly 50 miles southeast of Charlevoix is also Up North. What’s interesting is how “Up North” has situated itself within the Michiganspeak vernacular not as a direction, but as a physical place much like Philadelphians go “Down the Shore” instead of to the Jersey Shore or New Yorkers go to “The Hamptons” even though they’re really just going to Quogue.

When people go Up North in the summertime, its assumed that certain activities will take place: Golfing, Fishing, Hunting, Tubing, etc… But mostly, people just drink. A lot. They drink in their cabins, on their boats, in the lake, around the campfire. Considering I’m the original Narcoleptic Alcoholic, (seriously, sometimes one beer knocks me out) I didn’t know if I could handle Up North.

I also didn’t know how 12 women, all of different ages and backgrounds, who’d previously never interacted socially in a small environment, would get along for the weekend. Would we make snarky comments to each other? Would we talk trash about the women who were unable to attend? Would we try and top the Boys’ Outings, where stories of drunken lake golfing, drunken fire log throwing, drunken rectum pictures and drunken ghost dumping (don’t ask) filtered back to the office?

Swap out the ass photos with a 6 foot tall blow up penis, and that was our weekend. Yes, we were catty bitches and talked smack. Yes, we got rip roaring drunk and took funny pictures of each other. But we also got to know each other. Stories, which normally would be cramped into small pockets of conversation over stolen minutes during the workday, were told at length. We heard tales of courtship, mother issues and two graphically different versions of childbirth. We played games, sang songs and drank ourselves silly. I also roasted my first wiener over a campfire. It was delicious.

While the concept of driving 250 miles to sit in a log cabin and swim in a tiny lake is foreign to me, as a New Yorker who spent many a summer in Montauk, I recognize the common theme: Up North is about escape. There is no work Up North. Its all about having fun with your friends and your family, catching a fish or two, drinking a beer or four, and roasting the perfect campfire wiener.

The Grass Is Always Greener

Growing up, you could safely call me an “indoor girl.” I had no interest in planting, gardening, flowers, etc… I happily traded all my outdoor chores with my sister. In other words, I spent many a summer day making beds, setting tables and washing dishes.

My general disdain for all things green continued as an adult. I relished apartment living. I didn’t even want a terrace, for that might require a potted plant. After a recent move, a new neighbor gave me several pots seeded with herbs. Yeah, they died.

When I arrived in Michigan (a year ago this week!) I noticed a huge flowerbed in front of our house. I eyed it warily. Jeremy insisted it was landscaped. He may have even used the words “lush foliage” to describe the garden. It looked like a whole bunch of weeds to me. And that made me nervous.

Last summer I was inundated with new experiences. I met new friends, began driving again and found a new job. The garden, and all its overgrown splendor, slipped my mind. It got to the point where I almost didn’t notice the giant weed that began to sprout tree branches.

Alas, such ignorant blindness was not going to cut it in ’07. I began weeding a month ago. Weeding is backbreaking work. You’re down on your hands and knees, pawing at dirt, while wrenching heavily rooted plants out of the ground. And that dirt is filled with worms, bugs, night crawlers, weird beetle things… ok, I’ll stop. I’m getting the shivers all over again.

The first round of weeding went well, despite the pain in my fingertips, back and legs. Beautiful tulips blossomed in the garden. They were a hold over from the previous owner’s landscaping which managed to survive my weed-happy apocalypse. Being the novice gardener I am, I had no idea tulips only bloom for five minutes. Driving rains came through the region, and thus ended the lives of my tulips.

When the last tulip flower fell, I realized all my hard work was for naught. My garden still looked like total crap. That’s when I knew it was time – time to go to Home Depot.

Living in the suburbs and owning a home means you go to Home Depot. A lot. While I had spent countless hours in Tiling, Cabinetry, Flooring, Lumber, etc… I had never stepped foot in the Nursery. I went into the Nursery with a game plan, namely, I was not doing this gardening thing again next year. I limited my search to perennials and winter-lovin’ shrubs. Four trips later (there’s just so many shrubs you can fit in a Camry) I had all the elements of a no-muss, no fuss garden. Now I just had to plant it.

The planting was fun, as compared to the weeding, which means, in actuality, it was no fun at all. My good friends the worms, bugs, night crawlers and weird beetle things were all back. They watched as I planted my Plantation Lilies, Asiatic Lilies and other assorted perennials. I moved over and planted my shrubs (which as I lack all knowledge of floral naming conventions, I refer to as “fluffy heads.”) After the last shrub was planted, I doused the whole flowerbed in cedar chips, cause there’s no way I’m weeding again this season.

After I finished, I stood back and admired my work. The garden is clean, neat, and requires minimal upkeep - my dream garden. While I appreciate how it looks and I’m proud of myself for stepping way outside of my comfort zone, I was thoroughly miserable the entire time I was planting.

I spent all winter cooped inside my house, waiting for the sun’s warmth to return. Now that its summer, the new season has brought with it new chores. Everyone here claims it’s so great to get outside, but every time I go outside I have to weed something, plant something, paint something or move something. It’s the warm weather that reminds you how exhausting it is to own a home.

While in NY, I owned no land. Sure, I had to walk 15 blocks north to get to Central Park, but when I got there, I didn’t need to weed it. I could just enjoy being outdoors.

I love my new garden. And I’m darn proud that I did it with my bare hands. And deep down, I know I'll appreciate it more than any perfectly landscaped NYC park because its my own. Now I just hope I can find some time to enjoy it.

P.S. In all fairness, the “Before” pic was taken mid-winter.
P.P.S. But, in all fairness, the garden didn’t look much better mid-summer.
P.P.P.S. I really need a manicure.

Don't Mock It Till You Try It

Last weekend I entered unchartered territory, and I don’t mean my first trip “up north” to Charlevoix, MI. On Saturday, I attended my first Renaissance wedding.

I can’t lie. Leading up to the wedding, I was all mock-y. I snickered as I imagined, lords, ladies, jesters, and large legs of mutton and grog. I pictured duels and jousting, elaborate line dances and fanciful music.

I was not disappointed. Except for the mutton and grog. Does anyone even know what grog is?

But, while I fully intended to snarkily highlight one faux pas after the next, I found myself beguiled by the charm of the wedding, and the bride and groom. The bride, a novice seamstress, made her dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the groomsmens’ tunics (yes, they wore tunics and carried swords…) AND her mother’s dress. Not one of the outfits looked costume-y (and that’s a hard feat when you’re a dude sporting a tunic.)

I asked the bride what inspired the wedding’s theme and she replied the desire for good times and celebrations. Perhaps the costumes added the merriment to the feasting, because everyone sporting a hair garland, chain mail, or (gulp) a ball sac, all appeared to be having an amazing time. The silliness of the costumes provided a giddy atmosphere to the wedding, which accurately captured the rush you first feel when you fall in love with the person you’re destined to marry.

While I had a great time this weekend, I’m not entirely sold on the idea of “theme weddings.” In other words, don’t rush into an ebay search for an authentic can-can dress for my Moulin Rouge! theme wedding. But what I did learn was humbling. I was too quick to judge. And perhaps we place too much emphasis on planning the perfect wedding, rather than one that feels fun and spontaneous - with or without the melon jousting.

The New American Dream

Generations ago our ancestors arrived in this country to pursue a better life. They came to America to live a life of prosperity, religious freedom, and if you believe the clients I work with, the right to drive a Chevrolet. They worked hard, hoping to earn enough money to provide their children with a better life.

Over the last decade the dream has changed. Complete with dramatic lighting, jazzy sound effects, ousted participants and an annoying D-list host, the American Dream is now… to win a million dollars on a game show.

So, last Saturday morning, I excitedly dressed to attend the Open Casting Call for Deal or No Deal, held at the Millennium Center in Southfield, Michigan. For those of you who have never seen Deal or No Deal, here’s a quick summation: An overly excited, borderline insane contestant is selected to participate in the challenge: Find the one briefcase out of 26 that holds $1,000,000. The drama is heightened by offers meant to sway you from your quest by the insidious Banker, who sits on high like a modern day Dr. Claw, sans cat. Models in sparkly dresses hold the briefcases in perfect formation and appear to cheer you on when you select their case, but are really just relieved because their 4-inch heels hurt their feet and they can finally sit down. And the ringleader of the madness is Howie Mandel, formally known for harassing strangers on the street with his hidden camera pyrotechnics. I freaking love this show.

Its probably the only show in the history of American television that offers contestants with no discernable skills, save for the ability to read a number on a briefcase and point, the chance to win a million dollars. Have I mentioned I love this show?

My friend Nikki first alerted me to the open call auditions. We decided that we had to go. The gates opened at 10am so we met at 9:30. Unfortunately, roughly 7,000 people got there before us. The first couple of hours on line were fun. We chatted, we made friends with the other would be contestants around us. The sun was shining and the temperature was cool. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my day. By 1pm we had moved far enough in the line and were convinced we were “half way there.” By 2pm we crested the turn in the parking lot and realized there were a helluva lot more people there than we originally thought. By 3pm the pain had settled in our feet. My shins hurt, my back hurt and the bag I carried on my shoulder weighed at least 100 pounds.

3pm was our breaking point. Nikki and I looked at each other. I could tell both of us wanted to go home. Nikki said, “I’ll go home if you want to.” I replied, “I won’t ask you to leave.” The problem is we couldn’t leave. We had already been there for five hours. To leave would be a waste, but to stay – well, that couldn’t be a waste, could it?

We persevered. We inched forward on the line. The sun settled low behind the trees and we realized we were sun burnt to a crisp. Dirt and debris began to blow on the ground. Not enough trashcans were provided and pizza boxes, water bottles and I swear I saw this, a whole fried chicken carcass, littered the ground. And we still inched closer. By 5pm, irony settled over us like the swirling cloud of parking lot dust that caked our skin; because so many people had become discouraged and left behind us, we were still only “half way there.” I think it was at this point I began to laugh like a hyena.

By 7pm we arrived at the door to the Millennium Center. Shaded from the sun, we began to shiver. We waited. At 7:45 we were allowed inside. We were led into an auditorium filled with even more people. We waited again. At least now we were seated and warm and not surrounded by filth.

At 8:30 a casting dude arrived on stage to inform us of what was to come next. We would be divided into groups of 10. We would approach a casting associate and have 20 seconds to reveal something about ourselves. I waited nervously. 20 seconds? What could I say in 20 seconds about myself that would be both interesting and unique enough to set me apart from all 7,000 people that came before me?

And then it was time. My waiting had finally come to an end. Nikki and I were shuttled into line and we ran up the steps. We entered the stage. As I waited in line for 11 hours I imagined what this moment would bring. I kept picturing the final scene in Flashdance. I would arrive in a sun-dappled room (forget that it was 9:30pm) and approach a table that separated me from several stern looking men in suits. I would smile and being my audition.

Instead, my group of ten ran onto stage and saw one, lone, 24 year old casting assistant who’s only claim to authenticity was the white cotton “Deal or No Deal” shirt she wore. One by one we went and one by one we choked. And then it was my turn. I racked my brain. I said: “Hello. My name is Rachel Sterling. I’m 30 years old and I’m from New York City. I used to live in Times Square over a porn shop next to a strip club with my sister and her girlfriend. I’ve lived in Detroit for a year. I work as a video editor and I cut Chevy spots all day.” Fin.

I looked at the casting assistant. I yearned for some recognition. Some sign that would tell me whether I’d made the cut. She smiled and then turned to Nikki. That was it. 11 hours and 30 minutes and all I got was a polite nod.

Nikki did well and she too received a non-response. In fact no one in my group yielded any sort of positive feedback, even the woman who claimed she would propose to her boyfriend on the show, or another woman who insisted that every time the Banker made her an offer she would shave a row of her hair off.

My band of ten left dejected. We were only slightly encouraged to learn that barely anyone had received a callback that day. Instead, they hold your information on file and can call you anytime between now and a year to cast you on the show.

You may think we were crazy to have waited out the day. Perhaps you’re right. But Nikki and I left the Millennium Center and we were filled with joy. We had done it. And who knows? Maybe one day in the not so distant future, I may get that phone call. I may get my shot at the New American Dream.