LOLsiblings

Determined Seesterperson is determined.

I can has pink frosting?

Seesterperson! Happy birthday! It is weird to me that you're [redacted] years old, because somehow my sense of our relative ages has me around 12 and you at something like 8 to 10, but that just means that I get to cheer that much more at how great you are as an adult. Aw, now I'm all verklempt. Comfort me with birthday cookies!

The streets are paved with diamonds

Honestly, if it weren't for (a) the reek in the summer, (b) the frigid winters, and (c) the incredible expense, New York would be the perfect city. I love it here when the weather is perfect and I'm not having to scramble for my daily bread. Infinite numbers of places to eat, random things to overhear ("I am the tai chi paper hander-outer, whoooosh!"), and stores to visit. I still can't figure out how exactly I found my way to the only all-Irish bar in Koreatown, but at least now I am up on the British position in the rankings of the rugby world championships. My next stop was a comic books store encountered a few storefronts down: I walked in, nearly keeled over from the boy energy, and grabbed a staffer to guide me to the Whedon section, after which it was easier to get my bearings. The hard part, as always, is getting out without deciding that you must have the Terry and the Pirates book or the 15 editions of Stardust ("Look, this one has Neil and Maddy in!") or a stack of Bunny Suicides postcards. I managed.

Seesterperson's bout last night drew a huge crowd, most of them noisy Bridge and Pummel supporters. The score was against them, so I hope that they were consoled somewhat by the WOWHOT New York Shock Exchange demo bout. Tall athletic lanky guys smacking into one another at high speeds, oh for teh win. We had a great time even before we spent 45 minutes in the Newark-Penn Station's tiny dark bar.

Off to hunt the wily dim sum brunch. Did I mention loving New York?

For the win

Derby update: by two points in the last jam, the Fire Foxes took the title. The fire crews that showed up during the last 15 minutes were in ecstasies, shrieking, "Pull her hair! Take the bitch down! Yeah!" and generally yowling with glee as it came down to the wire. Some of their enthusiasm was due to the inherent fun of derby, but Jenna Von Fury's decision to wear a pair of plaid knickers rather than a skirt or shorts probably played the tiniest bit of a role. Oddly enough, some of the guys who had been so vocal during the bout got shy afterward, when it came time to pose en masse with the winners, and had to be gently shoved into the frame. Rushing into a burning building is apparently less frightening than getting close to sweaty rollerbabes (maybe they just need some practice, use making master and all that). Seesterperson did an even better job this time around, skating for most of the bout, often as the FF pivot. We took her out to a diner afterward and quizzed her on how pivots set the pace and other derbiana details, and she sent Teal home with her "I heart firefighters" shirt.

I love the town where Seesterperson lives (quoth Jeff, "Do you know what this town is? It's charming"), and I'm getting fond of the larger area, jokes about dead mobsters notwithstanding. We had a smashing meal in Secaucus, where the restaurant's owner divulged secrets about making the perfect Sicilian meatballs, and I remembered why it sucks that DC has no decent Italian restaurants. Fettucine bolognese trailing a haze of fennel from the sweet sausage crumbled up in the sauce? Mwah. Equally wonderful, though in a different way, was parking next to the infamous black Lincoln Continental with new plates, joking about posing next to its trunk, and shutting right the hell up when we saw it driven away by a guy who looked like he came from central casting (Mafia, subsp. Senior Made Guy).

Much as I love the roller derby and food porn and Sopranos jokes and undeniable architectural loveliness, though, one of my favorite things to do in that area is still to visit the local used bookstore. For one thing, and I cannot stress this enough, it is organized. Staff can actually find out whether they've got something in stock, and they'll even go and fetch it. For another, oh MAN is it stocked. There's a huge section of New Jersey history, a basement full of rare books (the complete Bobbsey Twins saga, some of which I read as a moppet), aisle after aisle of double-shelved trade books, all the theater and history books a reasonable person could ask, and generous lashings of books of the weird. The shelves of the main floor rise toward the pressed-tin ceiling like canyons, all sedimentary layers of spines, and the occasional soft "ook" is heard from the more distant stacks. Last time I scuttled out cackling over getting a first edition of "The Lady's Not for Burning," complete with dust jacket; this time, after a good 45 minutes, I staggered toward Teal, arms laden, and admitted that I needed to leave before I did real damage. Total haul: a book of horse stories, ideal for sampling; Death in Yellowstone (main gruesome lesson: hot springs? called that for a reason); A Fine and Private Place, which I read years ago and have forgotten; Goodbye to All That, to feed my perverse WWI fascination; 1421: The Year the Chinese Discovered America, because at $8 why not; a new copy of The Good Fairies of New York (thank you, Weebat, for the reminder); and, oh joy, a new copy of the abridged London Labour, London Poor, which I have been wanting badly. Really I want the full version, but for $300 I restrain the desire.

Tonight, back to spending time with El Doctor. He proved that it is possible, though unwise, to trot and eat simultaneously, and that a bareback pad makes a huge difference for a rider who does not want to slide precipitously backward on uphill slopes. We did a little ring work, but after a minor tiff over the wisdom of aiming for the jumps I called it a night. I will do a lot with Doc without a saddle, but landing on his razor-edged withers after a two-foot jump is not on the list of approved activities if I want to walk the next day. The women of the barn often wonder aloud how men ever managed before stirrups were invented.

Everything looks beautiful

I sing the open market electric today, because my ticket to New York cost $20. Competition from the mysterious Chinatown bus system (where do they pick you up? where do they stop? will you be allowed to pay only once? answers hazy and variable) has evidently forced Greyhound/Peter Pan to match rates, and that's a good thing. Also excellent, and almost balancing out the DC bus station's inexcusable lack of coffee, was that the bus VCR rebelled at the thought of having to show a Robin Williams family comedy, so I was spared the bowdlerized "RV" and was able to catch some sleep on the way up.

The reason for the trip, of course, was to see Seesterperson in her team's first official bout. She was understandably nervous but said that she was focusing on her two goals: not puking, and not being obviously the worst person on the team. Everyone in her cheering section was pleased to see that she managed both of those, and the fact that the team won was icing on the cake. I was with one of her college friends and one of his acting friends, both of whom were good company and who cheered mightily for Seesterperson and the teams (we golf-clapped for the opposition, except that at the end we whooped for them too, because they skated their asses off even though they were severely short of players). College friend was completely thrilled with the event, swearing that it was like NASCAR except understandable and performed by tough chicks in miniskirts and/or short shorts, developments he favored. He's got a pretty good write-up of it, too.

Saturday morning I crassly abandoned Seesterperson and took the bus into the city to meet up with Serial Karma, who trekked allll the way in from Brooklyn just so that we could have brunch and I could realize that I forgot the picture of the hot tangoing guys I bought her in Buenos Aires. D'oh. We wandered around Chelsea/Hell's Kitchen for a bit and found a street table at Marseille, a French-Moroccan place that provided (a) excellent strange cocktails, (b) a phenomenal merguez-egg scramble with creme fraiche, and (c) a view of someone who might or might not have been Larry David across the street. I am surprisingly good at spotting people I know in New York and usually bad at spotting the famous, so kudos to her for being a sharp eye. She's also looking awesome and had gotten some catcalls on the way in. She gave high marks to the guy who simply said, "You're beautiful," because simple and sincere is best when you're complimenting a stranger. Take note, y'all.

Aaand in a little less than a week Doc and I are supposed to do a reining demo for the barn's amateur show. This will not be rodeo quality by any stretch of the imagination, because we can't do sliding stops, the boy is a little too old to be perfectly supple, and I'm not much of a trainer, but we should get to show off rollbacks and spins and, most fun of all, flying lead changes, which Doc seems to adore showing off. I will not be nervous. I won't. I...shit.

My sister is a nightmare

Alernate Realities
Originally uploaded by Hannahchan.

Well, technically, she's a Nightmare. Of the Northern Nightmares, darling, didn't Edith Wharton ever mention them? And I think she's Skarzilicious.

Tis the season to get crafty

The last few years, I've found myself slipping further and further into the habit of busting out the kistka and beeswax during Great Lent. Ukies will know whereof I speak: the dreaded pysanka, once a pagan symbol of spring, now an indication that the giver may be a wee bit OCD. When my father taught me the basics, when I was a kid, I remember finding it intensely frustrating: getting the kistka to produce an even flow of wax seemed impossible, and drawing a straight line on a curved surface was more than I could manage. The box of supplies--block of beeswax, cluster of copper-funneled styluses, baggie full of dye packets--ended up gathering dust in the basement workshop.

But a few years ago, a friend from church gave me a pysanka that she had made. It wasn't too elaborate, and it wasn't perfect, but it was beautiful, and that gave me the confidence to try what I had given up on as an eleven-year-old. The basics are easy enough: apply wax design, dip egg in dye, apply further design, dip egg in darker dye, n + 1 until stop, and then melt off the wax, revealing the colors that had been covered by the wax.

The first year's crop were not a tremendous success, not least because I believed the books that said that you could leave the innards of the egg intact. Now, DC is a long way from Ukaine, geography- and climate-wise, and maybe that's the reason, but every single one of that year's pysanky cracked and oozed about three months past their maximum use date. We're not even talking the standard rotten egg smell of sulfur; we're talking closer to putrescine a la squirrel mort. Not promising.

But the next year, my friend gave me an egg pump and some other supplies, and now I make pysanky every year. I'm not a purist, by any means: I use aniline dyes and MinWax laquer, I do empty the eggs (according to the books, an empty egg portends infertility, but anecdotal data suggest that vacant pysanky are no substitute for birth control), and the ancient Ukies probably didn't include sushi or kiwi birds in their original designs. Mother goddesses, yes; spicy tuna rolls, no. Let's file that one under "living tradition" and say no more about it.

The real problem is that the damn things are addictive. Last year I hit a low point, having decided not to watch TV during the fast, and made waaaay too many eggs. The goal this year is not to have so many that I'm embarrassed by it. So far, so good.

In completely other news, best of luck to La Seester at her first roller derby bout tomorrow! Let's hope that the roads are clear and that Marzipain is no match for Scarzipan. Go Nightmares!