Work was, I'm sad to say, quite the string of problems today. Knowing how to make your words kind, gentle and tasteful doesn't come as second nature to a great many folks, so I spent my afternoon banging my head into the keyboard, my desk and after having that last shred of patience be tried and worn thin, a partially drank, small plastic bottle of Dr. Pepper found itself flying across the room in anger.
I think I've finally found one of the root causes as to why I am the way I am. I'm a girl who lives day in and day out with a pretty high set of standards. Yeah, my kitchen might not be the world's cleanest right now and my laundry is laying in piles just waiting to be done, but we all can go the one simple fact, that when I do something, I do it right. I go all the way or I don't do it at all.
Friday night was a real treat, dinner at Parma (click on the link to check the menu) and margaritas afterwards at a beautiful little place called Agave. You have to admit, I pick some nice little spots. Parma, for it's outwardly "hole-in-the-wall" appearance, has inside it's doors a very quaint and welcoming atmosphere. Put succinctly, it's got the appearance of a "hole-in-the-wall" outside but it has Spago-esque high-end cuisine inside. I had a Filet Mignon that melted in my mouth, but not before I had a wonderful appetizer of mozzarella and tomatoes with full leaves of basil drizzled with balsamic vinegar. It was wonderful. The ambiance was simple yet refined and the food was delicious. In all, another triumph of an evening dining on Chef Marc's cuisine.
I have to say though, I need to think more thoroughly about my selections as to outdoor venues to relax and have a drink. In Las Vegas, being outdoors at night in July is the same as sitting in a blast furnace, and along with the fact that we're having lots of humidity right around now, it made sitting outside to enjoy a drink into a sauna-type environment. So, it wasn't the greatest idea in the world to try to take in some patio margaritas. Oh well, we live and we learn.
Saturday wasn't the most banner of days. My meetings all went well during the day, but let's just say that my evening dining experience wasn't what I had on Friday. I obeyed my internal directive to always try something new every day. Instead of the previous evening's crafted cuisine, well, I ended up at an Asian buffet that had all of the ambiance of a greasy spoon, which we all know that in comparison to the dining experience the night before, it made the evening inevitably fall a little flat. I tried to embrace it, I really did, but my whole person sat there absolutely repulsed. I couldn't help it.
Yes, I'm getting out and trying new things, and while Nan would tell me I can't be prideful about the things I'm presented with, I do have to say that well, we all have things that we enjoy and are accustomed to. As we all know all too well, I've lived the last 10 years merely surviving. I don't find "survival" acceptable anymore and after 10 years, I don't know many people who would. I have things that I like to do, I have places I'd like to see, but the one overarching fact is that under my own power and dictates, I live well. When combined with another person, it doesn't go so well. I've found that some people are "ok" with just surviving while I'm doing everything in my power to not only survive but thrive. "Just surviving" isn't an option for me anymore. If I can give myself the wonderful things I do, I would fully expect someone trying to co-exist with me to live their life the same way.
Let's look at my ex for a moment. We can all agree that he was pretty weak. The phrase "weak-ass sh*t" from the film Bull Durham would be most applicable to him because whereas he's always had some kind of problem and did his damnedest to try to take me down with him, away from him I not only do well, but extremely well. If I choose, I can go to the spa, I can eat at the restaurants I like to eat at, and I can do whatever my heart desires with all of my bills paid and no worries. I never have to quibble anymore over my choice of cuisine nor the ambiance I enjoy it in. Admittedly, it is good to be an empowered woman.
Ever since my ex hit the door, I kind of feel like Crash Davis (Kevin Costner's character in Bull Durham) stepping up to the plate. You know, the part where he's got the bat in hand and he's getting ready to hit a home run and he looks at the pitcher and thinks: "Throw that sh*t again, Meat. Throw that weak-ass sh*t again," and there I stand just waiting for the pitch that I'll hit sending the next poor soul over the fence and out of the game. As horrible as that may sound, and as prideful as I may seem, part of me says that maybe I don't gear shift that fast, or maybe I'm just the world's biggest snob and that I am so spoiled being by myself that I'm not fit for human consumption anymore. Either way, the gear shift from Friday to Saturday was not only unhinging but told me one simple fact, not everyone lives the same way I do, not everyone has what I have and although I may be generous and so forth, it's tough to pitch in a foreign league against rough hitters, and admittedly I'm as rough as they come.
But let's take the ballpark analogy a bit further. There is a vast difference between hitting in "the show" and hitting in minor league ball. Look at it, the ballparks in the majors are vast green fields, painstakingly kept, the baseballs are always brand-new, clean and white. In the minor leagues and below you see that everything isn't quite as kept up the same way, the baseballs in the buckets are not always straight out of the wrappers and the crowds aren't always as thick in the bleachers. On top of that, there's something about a hot dog at a minor league baseball game that is just not the same as it is in the majors. Call them hot dogs all the same, but there's a big difference when you consider the ballpark you're eating it in because it's rather exhilarating to be sitting on the third base line right above the dugout in a vast major league stadium and sitting behind home plate in a small, modest minor league one.
Call me snobby if you must, but simple facts are, I like major league baseball. I love the painstaking attention that is paid to the field, the pampered and often over-priced players and so on. Ok, let's say it plain! I like quality things. Tell me if you can't see the difference between sitting in Fenway Park and some little minor league field, it's all about discerning the differences, just like having nosebleed seats in Centre Bell to see the Canadiens or sitting in the VIP boxes or four rows up from the ice, you definitely know the difference. But then again, I'm the girl who sang "Kill the Wabbit" while sitting through a performance of "Ride of the Valkyries" by the Montreal Symphony Orchestra inside Place Des Arts in Salle Wilfrid Pelltier. (See the box seats, left side bottom row, second up? That's where our season-long seats were.)
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And believe me in those 10 years, I did a lot like Bugs looking at the man next to me, eye rolling with the thumb motion pointing at my ex going, "Yeah right, magic helmet..." LOL!
But in all of my joking around, and my disdain of the symphony, mountaineering, and overall pushing back from anything that would require me to get dirty, you have to admit, I like nice things. I tried an Asian buffet this week, effectively trying something new, but I won't be doing one of those again anytime soon, I promise you that.
On Friday I have on the bill of fare a trip to Spago for Weinerschnizel and Reisling with my regular dinner partner of the last two years, a book. I definitely think I deserve it. Peace, Love and Spago, just how life should be.
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