The ROC outsider

I won't win any love from Man About Town of the Roch-a-Cha Rant blog for this, but I'm a professed Wegman's lover.

I'm also one of those people that the Rochester bar man hates, pushing around a huge shopping cart with the plastic car on the front in order to keep Exhausto-Boy happy during our foray through the store. (Perhaps he just hates the carts, not the people pushing them. I always thought they were kinda crazy, too, pre-kids, but life changes and you change with it).

However, I am becoming dissilusioned with the whole shopping experience. Not the Wegmans experience, just the rolling around a grocery store putting food in the cart, paying for it and hauling it home experience as a whole. I don't think there's any store in the world that could make it better.

Except for one that delivers.

Rochester needs grocery delivery. Safeway delivers (not to Rochester, you're only in luck in Arizona, California, Maryland, Oregon, Virginia, Washington and Washington, D.C.). Ever since I stepped foot in a Wegmans I've said I won't move anywhere that doesn't have one. But grocery delivery might trump that. How about it, Wegmans?

It's good to know your limitations. It's also good to know when to call the professionals.

Our attic-finishing project continues with the splitting of a circuit breaker in the basement in order to install wiring, lights and outlets in the attic. And ends with the entire house being without power.

We had a friend come over to replace the breaker - someone who knows what she's doing better than we do - and to run the wire up to the 3rd floor from the basement. It was going OK until they realized they had the wrong circuit breaker (I wasn't even in the house, so I'm a little fuzzy on the details). Then Kevin went to get another one. It still didn't work. They tried to put it all back together again like it was. And the power wouldn't come back on.

What happened - we found out after calling in an emergency licensed professional electrician - was that our main breaker died. When they turned it off, it just gave up and died and wouldn't go back on again. So a hundred or so bucks later and a quick visit from Shayne Remito at Magee Electric (227-5471) and we have power again. And a circuit breaker wired to the attic wiring.

Disaster #2 of the day occurred when Kevin realized that the 1/2-an-attic worth of insulation he's already put up is installed wrong. Apparently, we need these things called baffle vents to keep the insulation from touching the inside of the roof and keep the air moving. Something about preventing ice dams, mildew, yada yada.

Who knew? Apparently not us.

Actually, I'll give my home-remodeling hero credit - he kept trying to tell me we were missing something, but I thought for something that important there'd be a big sign in Home Depot next to the batts of insulation or something. Isn't their motto: You can do it. We can help? Where was the help for the DIY-ers that day? ;)

So now the new insulation needs to be removed to the baffle vent thingys can be installed and then the insulation can be put back up. Doesn't that sound like a good, itchy time?

Perhaps I should just stay within Monroe County limits. Or at least take a map if I venture beyond its borders.

If I have a map, and some clue of where I am, I can get anywhere else. Without a map, written directions and unknown territory are recipe for disaster.

On Friday we went to a wedding at Bristol Harbor Resort. We had written directions. We followed them. And got totally lost. Instead of Rte 21, we somehow ended up at the intersection of Routes 32 and 64. We stopped at a bar to ask for clarity (we probably should have stopped for a drink). We stopped at a gas station -- and the lady behind the counter drew me a map. Suddenly it all made sense and we were on our way.

We got to the wedding so embarrassingly late I would not be able to testify whether the bride and groom actually tied the knot or not. But we snuck in and mingled with the crowd enjoying the open bar and no one was the wiser. It was great to catch up with friends, bask in the view of the lake and marvel at how Dave actually, finally got married and how Sarah is totally perfect for him.

Unfortunately, an incident with a severe food allergy at dinner necessitated calling an ambulance and meant another trip down unknown roads (this time in the dark) while the driver (me) was in a slight state of shock. But, thanks largely to Tim in the golf shop (Thanks Tim!) who was a rock through the whole thing and who I then followed in my car to the hospital and also to those life-saving paramedics, everything turned out OK.

That did, however, leave us at some hospital somewhere (I'm not sure which one, actually, and they made us pay our co-pay before we left, so I won't get a bill to find out), late at night, in the dark. Surprisingly, finding Rte. 21 again was easy and we got home safely and without further adventure.

All is well now. But maybe I'll just stick around town for a bit.

In April this year, I became a U.S. Citizen (before that I was considered a resident alien - allowed to live here, but certainly not from anywhere near here).

The first thing I did after my naturalization ceremony was register to vote. I was all eager to get going on that partcipatory democracy thing. But now I'm a little bummed.

First, the slogan "You're Right to Vote" sucks. I get the pun. But it's bad grammar. It's just wrong. I know, I'm right to vote. Whatever. People have enough trouble with the whole your-you're thing and the their-there-they're thing as it is. We don't need a cute little slogan to confuse us more.

Second, they got my name wrong. I am now registered to vote as Suandra J. Bartlett-Gustina. I clearly did not put Suandra on my voter registration form. WTF? How do you get Suandra from Silandara. It's not even close, save for an S, a couple of as, a d and an n. I didn't give my name over the phone on a bad answering machine tape. I wrote it down clearly on a form. One. Letter. At. A. Time.

Third, there's something else I have to do to complete my voter registration - make a photocopy of my driver's license or give them the last 4 digits of my social security number or go downtown and show them my driver's license in person.

Should it really be this hard? Is it any wonder that people don't bother? That we've lost sight of what it means to even be able to participate at all?

Of course, I do have the option of just showing up to my polling place on election day, showing them my driver's license (which just has my initials on it as my whole name won't fit) and living a lie as Suandra. Now who are we even electing this year?

It's probably going to sound silly, but here goes anyway. Little stuff that people do really makes a difference.

Smiling at people, being friendly, being helpful -- it can change a person's day.

I went to Time Warner on Mt. Hope this afternoon to exhance our Digital Video Recorder for one that actually works. Our old one acted goofy sporadically - not recording some of Kevin's Formula 1 races, erasing the wrong programs, getting programs mixed up that it was supposed to be recording. Just weird goofiness.

So I tote Exhausto-Boy with me, using his stroller basket as my handy DVR carrier while he's slung under one arm giving me sweet cuddles. And someone opens the doors for us. I was all prepared to do it myself - grab the door with one hand, swing it open, hold it with a foot or an elbow as I maneuver the stroller past it, etc. But no, someone else going in the building patiently held them open for us as we squeezed by.

We get inside and there's no line. The customer service person was very friendly, asked a couple of questions about the DVR's goofiness and was totally amenable to my request for brand-spankin'-new DVR that can hold up to 80 hours worth of programming (because I really need 2 full work weeks of recorded shows). She even seemed a little apologetic with her explanation of needing to go back into the warehouse to go and get it for me.

She comes back, hands me the new cool shiny grey box that will soon fill up with Charmed, Sesame Street and Bob the Builder, and we head out. Again, I'm prepared to back through the door, opening it with my butt as I roll the stroller and it's toddler passenger through the opening. But no, a lovely Time Warner employee (not originally planning on going outside, mind you) opens the doors.

Then some guy smiles at us in the parking lot as I'm making silly noises trying to convince Duncan that getting strapped into yet another seat (the car seat) is going to be a great time.

Up until that point, I'd been kinda bitchy. A few nice people later and my day was turned around. It doesn't take much sometimes.

Our neighbors just moved out. We're very sad. They were awesome neighbors, the best you could ask for. The kind of neighbors that inspire you to be a better neighbor yourself.

Mr. and Mrs. O'dea (we can't seem to bring ourselves to use their given names and I'm not a Mr.-Mrs.-Sir kind of person) lived next door for 50-something years. They raised 4 kids in a 3-bedroom house and kept a beautiful yard full of perennial flowers that Mr. O'dea is a fanatic about. I think last January was their 50th wedding anniversary.

They're direct from Ireland, moving to Rochester in their early 20s and keeping a fantastic accent through the decades.

When we first moved in next door, they probably wondered about "that young couple" who were busy ripping up the front lawn and planting a bed of wildflowers. But they still invited us over to the front porch for a glass of red wine and some Irish soda bread.

As our garden grew, so did our respect for them. Kevin actually digs up all the dandelions in the yard because he knows they upset Mr. O'dea. And because Mr. O'dea "offered" to come over and do it for us. There's nothing like your 70-something-year-old neighbor shaming you into keeping your yard neat and sweeping your driveway. Sometimes one of their sons would mow our swale when we let it get a bit neglected. In return, we'd shovel their driveway and sidewalk in the winter. It was a good give-and-take and I hope that our new neighbors (who we haven't yet met) are half as cool.

I wanted to get the Creme Brulee. Yeah, I like dessert and sweet things. I get it from Nany, my mom's mom. It's a genetic trait and a family heritage, so I have no choice but to embrace it fondly.

But I didn't get the Creme Brulee. I settled for a cup of tea and a chocolate chip cookie. The Peach Crisp looked good, too. And I know the Dutch Apple Pie is yummy because I had that for my birthday.

Where are these delectable desserts hiding? Round the corner at Patrik's Culinary Kreations (845 S. Goodman St., 271-0830). The Web site says they're closed at the moment - don't believe it, I was there and they were very open.

I love local restaurants. What I love even more are local restaurants that serve good food with good service and have a nice atmosphere. So Patrik's works for me. If the bathroom wasn't a squeeze through the tiny kitchen, that'd be a bonus, but I guess it adds to the charm.

We like to go there for breakfast. At least I do. Kevin complains that there isn't enough food. Let me say this - there is plenty of food for one adult human with a normal-sized stomach. Perhaps not enough to fill a hollow leg, but enough for a stomach. He also complains that it gives him heartburn, but I think that has more to do with his menu choice (usually Corned Beef Hash) than anything else. I just leave happy, satiated and happy. My vegetarian mother leaves with a belly full of Eggs Benedict (with the ham - it's apparently good enough to sway her from vegetarianism). For a real review of the place, the D&C ran a review in April 2006.

Exhausto-Boy and I stopped in during our afternoon walk yesterday. I needed a break. And a cup of tea to wake up. The chocolate chip cookie just snuck in there, devilishly making it's way onto my expectant tastebuds. Mmmm....cookies... (I've been watching way too much Sesame Street lately). I was going to get ice cream, but somehow just didn't fancy it.

The service was as friendly and down-to-earth as usual. I always feel like I'm hanging out with a group of people that are friends when I'm in there -- even though they may not be my friends (if that makes sense). There's a definite sense of camaraderie among the staff. And I get to eavesdrop on whatever their gossiping about, which is always fun.

For months now I've been meaning to check out the secret screening room at the Cinema Theatre (957 S Clinton Ave, 585-271-1785).

Finally, we did it. They call it the "baby room" although the sign on the door says "screening room." It was described to me as a 5' x 12' air-conditioned room with a couch, a speaker and a window. I think it's actually a bit wider than 5', and it has 3 armchairs in it as well as the couch, but other than that, it was an apt description.

We went to see Cars. With Duncan. As part of our 3rd wedding anniversary date. We were going to go out to a dinner and a movie by ourselves, but couldn't find a sitter. So we thought bringing the kiddo along to an animated movie would work out fine. It was a great idea in theory. As is the "baby room."

The things that went wrong:

• The couch is too low so you can't sit with a baby/kid on your lap and have him be able to see the movie screen through the window.
• Duncan wouldn't sit still anyway.
• It's completely dark in the room if you turn off the light so you can't keep track of a wiggly kid.
• If you turn the light on, you see your reflection in the window (and I suspect other people could see in, voyeuristically viewing my shaky butt dance in an attempt to keep my child entertained)
• It's not baby-proof. Whether the light is on or off, its dangling cord is a tempting accident about to happen.
  
• It's probably not sound-proof either. Between the mysterious screaming outburst at one point and the banging on the air ducts at another, we probably got a few irritated looks (which I didn't see as I was probably doing the shaky butt dance at the time).
• When I was standing up to chase/dance with/calm/find/hold Duncan, I couldn't see the screen (I guess the window is just too small overall).
  

Other than that, it was fun. We liked the movie - it was quite entertaining if you a) like cartoons or b) like racing. Between the three of us, we were all covered there. And my curiosity about the mysterious "baby room" has been satiated.

Here's the informational part: if you want to try it out yourselves (it'd be a great movie makeout room or party room), call the Cinema Theatre, leave a message on their voicemail with your info and when you want to reserve it, and someone will call you back at some point and let you know if the room is yours or not. It's worth a try, right?

It's good to get out of town. See some new sights. Hang out with friends. Yeah. Good stuff.

It's better when you're not going because you have to, say, take an exam. But I'll take what I can get.

Yesterday, Duncan and I climbed into a mini-van with 5 friends from church and pulled out of the parking lot (before 7 am!) and onto the highway to go to Lily Dale in Fredonia, NY.

What test was this that I was taking, you ask? Oh, that would be part 3 of a mediumship exam to become a certified medium through my national church organization, the National Association of Spiritualist Churches. I had been warned the exam would be hard. Um, no kidding. I hadn't been warned of the fun of taking the exam in an office environment while hoping my baby would nap in his pack-n-play in a nearby room while I desperately tried to remember who all the freakin' pioneers were and what books they wrote 150 years ago.

Fun fun. At least someone up there got the memo to make the phones stop ringing. Two hours later, my brain was purged and I was as done as I was going to get, plus it was just about time for lunch. All in all, it was a good day and I love going to Lily Dale. There's something about the combined energy of the place, weather and location (it's on a lake, how can you go wrong?) that always turns it into a lovely time. Even hanging out with Duncan for an entire day with no Daddy backup worked out.

However, I will say that we don't call him Exhausto-Boy for nothing. A couple of pictures to illustrate... 1. his independent I-Don't-Need-To-Hold-Your-Hand self and 2. his love of puddles (apparently a genetic trait). Good thing I brought a few changes of clothes and lots of baby wipes.

I managed to get all the icky insulation down in the attic. Now it sits in big plastic bags, waiting for Kevin to throw it out the window and onto our driveway so we can put it by the curb for garbage day.

I also managed to get insulation in my left eye. Under my contact lens. And ignore it for several days until it got bad enough that other people started commenting on it.

Usually people just stare at your oddities -- that huge zit on the forehead, the smear of chocolate on your cheek -- but don't say anything. People were asking about the eye (people I knew, not strangers in Wegmans).

So I took the contacts out at lunchtime yesterday and put on the dreaded glasses. I hate wearing my glasses. When I first got them (a much older, uglier pair of course) when I was 10, I refused to wear them unless I needed to read the blackboard at school. I would walk around without them on, deciphering who people were by the way they moved and the color of their hair.

Our relationship has not changed in the years since. I wear them at night -- for the 12 steps from the bathroom vanity to my bedside table where I deposit them, and back again in the morning.

I hoped the eye boo-boo would magically disappear overnight. It didn't. I had Kevin peer at it this morning as I said hopefully, "It looks better than yesterday....?" Marginally, at best. So I broke down and called my eye doctor - who I've been avoiding for 3 years as it turns out - described the red swollenness of my cornea and they told me to come right in. I steeled myself for a finger-wagging. I presented myself shamefaced at my inability to take out and throw away uncomfortable contact lenses that I knew were making my eye red. (Hello? Where is my brain?) And he was so nice. I mean, I got The Look, the You Haven't Been Taking Care Of Your Eyes look. (It's similar to the look I get when I confess to my dentist I'm still not flossing very much). I was sent home with eye drops and a ban on putting my contacts back in.

I thought for sure I'd be looking like a pirate with an eye-patch. A friend dared me to post a picture with a parrot on my shoulder. She was going to give me $2. I would have done it. So now I'm stuck with glasses and eye drops until Monday when I go back to get the all clear and we "have a conversation about going back to contact lenses."

I didn't ask, but I also presume that I shouldn't be wearing masacara or other eye makeup until then. Great. Glasses and no makeup. The man knows how to make my day. Which also happens to be my 3rd wedding anniversary.

Perhaps I should have said upfront that this post has nothing in particular to do with why Rochester is a cool place to call home. It's all been a ploy to ellicit sympathy for my sorry self. Did it work?

Since I became determined to Still Have A Life, I went back to attending a meditation circle with a group of friends from my church. We used to have it every Monday -- now it's every other Monday, which works out great as it's less of a committment and easier to find a babysitter.

Generally, we gossip...er...chat and catch-up for a little bit, then do a meditation and work on developing our mediumship skills (we've been working on table-tipping...ooooooh...nothing phenomenal yet, but I'll report back when we have success). Ocassionally, we take field trips - to the Unitarian Universalist Church for a special program or to check out Psychic's Thyme or a similar store.

Last night I thought we were all going to a Satsang with Ramana at the University of Rochester Interfaith Chapel. I was wrong. Apparently only I was going as I got the weeks wrong (it happens when there's 5 Mondays in a month). There are a few more Satsangs coming up over the next week or two.

So I got there late and alone, after driving over the curb at the bank ATM and having people laugh at me as I pulled out and then scraping the front of my car on the parking lot curb. (Have I suddenly forgotten how to drive?) I paid my $10 and found a seat near the door (I knew I had to leave early due to that babysitting thing). And we began. Then 10 people arrived later than me.

I don't know how to explain what we did. Or what Ramana did. I'm afraid it'll either come out too "deep" or sounding lame.

We closed our eyes. He rang an ancient-sounding bell and we followed the sound with our minds out into the space that it travelled through. Then we sat there, letting our awareness expand until we realized -- or remembered -- that we are part of everything and the life force that exists in everything is also part of us.

The purpose was to stop "looking through the empty toilet paper tube" and see the world from a broader perspective. To open to it and each other through love. To realize that our feelings of separateness are only an illusion.

At least that's what I took from it. And I hope that doesn't sound lame.

Ramana said, at the begining of it, that direct experience is what teaches us - not someone else's words. What I can say is that when I left, my experience of the world felt different. I felt connected to the cool breeze that was rustling the tree leaves, like I was part of it. I felt the subtle shift of the world rotating on its axis as the evening grew darker into dusk. And I was in a better place then when I walked in.

The scene: 10 women out for dinner

The location: Phillip's European Restaurant (272-9910)

The food: Mmmm....food. Good food....

The idea stemmed from a tradition a few friends of mine have of going out to dinner together when one of them has a birthday. For some reason, they chose to invite all the women in this circle of friends. And we all thought it was a great idea! Party of 10 - right this way.

The food at Phillip's is fabulous. It's expensive, but there's a lot of it. My shrimp and scallops primavera lasted me 3 meals. (Sorry, forgot to take a picture.)

But the reason I really like Phillip's is the desserts. There's one in particular - a creamy meringue concoction that I kept calling the Alaskan Meringue Torte. It's actually the Viennese Meringue Torte, "A delicious fluffy center of real whipped cream and sliced fresh strawberries layered between light yellow genoise sponge cake and 'melt-in-your-mouth' almond meringue."

It was there when we got to restaurant. I saw them cut a piece of its deliciousness and bring it to someone for dessert. But by the time we got through yakking and eating our main course, they'd run out! I was crushed. I was apologized to almost to the point of profusion (including on the way out). But apologies don't produce Viennese Meringue Torte out of thin air. And I've been a bit crabby lately.

So I whined and pouted and eventually forced myself to choke down some White Cholocate Carrot Cake instead. It was bearable. Actually, it was quite good - and somehow better the next day with a morning cup of tea.

What was worth the trip more than the scallops in alfredo sauce and the cake was getting out with a bunch of women friends. Sure, we couldn't help talking about babies -- all but two of us either have children or are pregnant. I'm not sure how the non-parents survived. I think the wine helped; Sarah was on her second glass before dinner was served.

But more than repeatedly forcing ourselves to stop comparing notes and talking about kiddie stuff, we got to dress up a bit, leave the babes and menfolk at home, and have some sisterhood bonding time.

As for that Viennese Meringue thingy? I guess I'll just have to go back.

One of the joys of being a homeowner is the mistaken idea that you need to fix up your castle. On a regular basis.

We moved in 3 years ago. We ripped up the carpets downstairs and found lovely hardwood floors underneath, replaced the brown lino in the kitchen and dining room, painted a few rooms and painted the kitchen cabinets.

Then I had to remove a drop ceiling in a bedroom, fix and paint the ceiling, and paint the walls and trim. That project started the summer we moved in and didn't quite get finished until a few weeks before Duncan was born last July. So it took 2 years.

The bathroom wallpaper had to go. Unfortunately, the faux bronze marble panelling was too hard to remove so I painted over it in multiple coats of tangerine paint (see picture). We put in a new vanity too, painted the ceiling and added trim and painted the rest, a couple of outlet covers and we were good to go.

Oh, and then there was the kitchen remodel 2 years ago in the fall which involved moving a gas line and getting a dishwasher. Love the dishwasher. How did I exist before it?

This summer, we're renovating the attic. This involves multiple steps.

Step 1: Get new roof to replace leaking one.
Step 2: Move all the accumulated junk in the attic to the garage (step 2 should have been completed before step 1, but wasn't)
Step 3: Remove old insulation.
Step 4: Install new insulation, wiring, dry wall, paint, refinish floor, maybe some trim, figure out what to do about the stairs and move in. :)

We're on Step 3 right now. I have a feeling we might be on Step 3 forever.

Removing 50-year-old insulation is the filthiest thing I've ever done.

It is dirty, messy, exhausting and hot. Not hot in a good way.

I'm not sure if these photos truly illustrate what it's like up there. Or what you're like when you've been up there an hour, tearing down insulation and stuffing it in garbage bags, bits of cedar shingle from the roofing job raining down on you.

I wore a surgical HEPA mask. I still got black guk in my nose. And my arms don't ordinarily look as hairy as a gorilla's.

I was hoping maybe I'd find a treasure or two hidden away between the insulation and wall. The only thing close was some crumbling newspaper around the windows -- the D&C from Friday, Oct. 13, 1950. But it's too fragile to uncrumple and read. So I guess I'll have to be content with the calories I burned (and then ate when I went out for dinner) and the fact that it's 90% done. We're almost onto Step 4.

I wonder what we can do next? Maybe a 1/2 bath in the downstairs pantry...

It's 81 degrees inside my house -- with the air conditioning on. It's a window unit and it's been working all day. But given that it's 97 F outside, I'm not complaining.

A few summers ago when I was still renting, my apartment had no a/c except for a tiny, old, not-very-efficient unit upstairs in my attic-turned-bedroom-oven. For reasons that escape me now, I never bought a window unit for the downstairs. I could have. My landlord would have put it in, he was the best landlord. He came over on his lunch breaks and watered and weeded the garden. He switched out storm doors for screen doors in the summer. He could have handled an a/c unit.

That happened to be the summer they were doing something to the a/c at work -- while we were still working in the offices -- that involved lots of dust and boarding up our windows so we had no cool air and no breeze at all. It was stifling.

That experience taught me how important it is to be able to cool down for some period of time on a hot day. Being overheated at work all day and then coming home to roast did me in.

So what do you do?

For the next couple of days, the county is offering some "cooling stations" which, when I first read the D&C article, sounded like cold rooms that you can go and stand in for as long as you'd like. Since the list includes a church and three senior centers, I imagine they'll let you have a seat and get off your feet awhile.

If hanging out at a senior center doesn't sound like fun (bring a baby, they love babies), head to Cinema Theatre ( 271-1785) - for $5 you can enjoy 4 hours of air-conditioning and 2 movies. Plus, if you eat dinner at the air-conditioned Highland Park Diner (461-5040) beforehand and spend $8 per meal, you get free tickets (or at least you used to when the tickets were $3).

Me? I'll just be sitting in front of my window unit eating Klondike ice cream bars.