Mourning

Apparently I'm one of those "once-a-week" bloggers. In the interim I have attempted to carve a pumpkin with a circular saw (or rather I was the one watching in horror as my mother and her tiny caterer attempted to do this in my garage early Friday morning), played with various helicopters, gone hiking in the gorgeous autumn weather, and worked. And, of course, it is at work where I do some of my best writing.

This little tirade was brought on one morning as I sat sipping my tea, reading the newspaper over breakfast. I saw a picture of P. Diddy and underneath I saw the word "Ciroc." I was instantly curious (as Ciroc is a favorite of mine) and read on. What it told me was disturbing.

In Mourning

I always sensed that I'd love something that would eventually let me down. Actually, I've loved a lot of things that have let me down, but here I refer to vodka. Ah, vodka. I enjoy a fine wine, a good hearty beer (Guinness!), but it's vodka that I love. I've tasted many in my short years (after all I've only just turned 21 about six months ago) from the truly detestable (Skyy, anyone?) to the cheap-so-I'll-drink-it-because-I'm-poor (Absolut) to the once-in-a-lifetime amazing (Bison Grass), but it's Ciroc that I fell for (it has a pretty bottle!).

Ciroc is French vodka made from grapes (of course). It is slightly sweet and goes down smooth without that awful burn that reminds you you're alive and hitting the liquor (I hate gin because, as Ralphie says, it tastes like burning). I can just pour it on the rocks and in minutes feel that little buzz, my eyes starting to swim in my head, the blood rushing to my face (I'm Irish, what?), and the little giggles burbling up into the my throat (I love that!). It is my magic unwind button at the end of a long day/week, my little happy pill.

Ciroc has decided it needs to get on the celebrity endorsement boat. Now, this is bad enough in and of itself: celebrities bother me, though they tend do to make me feel better about myself (so what if I'm an intelligent college grad working an awful job and living with my parents? At least I'm not engulfed custody suits and court ordered drug and alcohol monitoring!). Ciroc, however, has stooped too low. They've decided that P Diddy is the man for them. P freakin' Diddy; Puff Daddy, Sean John (Jean?), Sean Puffy Combs, J Lo's ex boyfriend (she was just Jennifer Lopez then….). To which I say, damn you!

Accordingly, I can no longer consume Ciroc. I simply cannot drink the same vodka as people who like P Diddy. The best thing that man has ever done was bring Biggie Smalls to the public at large and now dudes dead, so what up Diddy? Imagine, if you will, me, sitting at home in my cozy family room, a fire in the woodstove, enjoying my glass of Ciroc on the rocks, maybe watching "Project Runway" or, more likely, "No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain" after a long day at the office. Now picture some punk a** kid wearing an oversized Sean John tee shirt, poorly fitting pants (likely jeans, hopefully in a dark wash, after all, it's not the eighties), and some terrible shoes trying to impress some over made-up blond bimbo (I’m a strawberry blond, so don’t think I’m totally against blonds, just go with me here) by ordering Ciroc, 'cause that be how Diddy do, yo. I cannot be a part of that crowd.

Friends, if you find that I am inebriated far more than usual in the coming weeks/months, I assure it is not the upcoming holidays (ugh), but rather my quest to replace my beloved friend who has betrayed me in my time of need. I shall have to sample the spectrum of vodkas in an attempt to find that one, that very special one, which I can happily drink straight, on the rocks, or with a splash of tonic. It shall not be an easy mission, mes amis. No, rather, it will be a long, arduous, and drunken trek. If you feel strong enough, please do join me; I could use the moral support (or the physical. It gets a bit difficult to stand after a few drinks). If you don't feel up to the drinking then, by all means, write a letter! Let Ciroc know how disappointed you are that they should stoop so low! Celebrities are never the answer! Or, if you can't physically join me, but love/like to drink, stock up! Purchase some Ciroc, send a message that people are buying it and they (those corporate "big wigs") needn't do anything rash like celebrity endorsement! Maybe, maybe, if enough of us get out there and purchase my beloved drink they will think that maybe, maybe they don't need a spokesperson!

I implore you, cherished friends, save my drink, save my sanity!

**Update**

It took awhile for the commercials and ads to start and, alas, I still drink Ciroc if I'm out and the bar has it, but I no longer purchase it for my home.

My Introduction

This American Life

I hear it constantly, especially from my friends in their early/mid-twenties: "I'm just not a morning person/early riser!" This complaint comes out when discussing everything from getting to the market for fresh produce to exercise to that new job/class they've been offered/have taken up. They bemoan the idea of waking, and rising, before the sun, particularly in the winter when their beds are warm and everything else is icy. I empathize (or at least try to) and then go on to offer advice or words of encouragement to try to tempt them to join the dark side: those of us who bask in the quiet stillness of the pre-sunrise hours.

Maybe I shouldn't encourage them. Maybe I should be selfish and keep those precious moments to myself. When I was little my mother made sure my brother, Matthew, and I were in bed early, even with the knowledge that we would also, inevitably, get up early. I used to go in and snuggle with my half-awake mother in her bed while Matthew would sit on the radiator in the bathroom and talk at my dad while he shaved and got ready for work. I was always full of energy, asking about the game plan for the day: would I be allowed to have a friend over, could we go here, do this, play that? My mother would just sort of roll over and ignore me, trying to soak up a few more minutes of shut-eye.

Now I'm the one who's tempted to hit the snooze button when the alarm goes off. Since graduating college there have been very few days that it sounds before 7:00 am, but even that hour has become somewhat ungodly. I used to be able to roll out and get going at 6:00 every morning. I would throw on my jogging clothes, pop on my headphones, and hit the pavement. The only other people crazy enough to be up at that hour were the baker and the coffee shop employees (and the newspaper delivery man, but I never spoke with him; just darted between the papers he listlessly flung out his window). There was a certain feeling of fraternity between these other early birds and I; though I fear I'm the only one who felt it. I loved walking out my front door to the smell of freshly baked/baking croissants and muffins. As I started my slow jog I'd run past two coffee shops, each emanating a slightly different coffee aroma, wafting out the door to greet me. I loved that smell and referred to it (privately) as my "caffeine kick."

I don't really drink coffee. My run is what wakes me up. Getting a tired body moving is always difficult and when I first started the morning jogs it felt as though I was subjecting myself to abuse. My ankles and knees would scream, my lungs and heart were barely past that state of rest and suddenly I was forcing them to suck in and blow out great quantities of air. My heart was obligated to speed up to get blood to my despondent muscles. Time has made this process easier and now it's as though that same body begs for me to get it in motion, work it hard, and let it feel alive. It is an exceptional way of waking one's self.

My routine, unfortunately, has begun to change over the years. The downfall began the summer I graduated college. I spent two months living in Rome and lost weight just existing there, even though I felt like I ate twice as much. Since I was looking great and feeling good I didn't run every morning. When I did, I got stares as though I'd sprouted two more heads and tail. No matter. The Romans became somewhat accustomed to the blond haired, American freak that whizzed past, panting and sweating in an utterly unfeminine manner. I think I won them over when I started bringing some money with me to purchase a fresh peach or bunch of grapes on the last leg of my jog from the vendors setting up at the open-air market (it was my reward for enduring the stares, catcalls, and shouts of god-knows-what in Italian).

After returning from Italy I had to move back home since I had graduated college and couldn't seem to find a job. I started running my old route and reacquainting myself with the old neighborhood. No longer did I have bakeries, coffee shops, fruit/vegetable/meat/cheese/seafood stalls to keep me company. Instead I now have quiet back streets, trash trucks, dogs, kids walking to school, parents driving other kids to school and sometimes, once in a blue moon, a fellow jogger to keep me company. My mornings have gotten later and more people are out with me now. Jogs have become less of a reflective time and more of an exercise in dodging, ducking, and other general avoidance tactics. I still get catcalls and whistles and obscene things yelled at me, only now I can understand them and when I say something snotty back they get it.

I am slowly losing my early mornings, my favorite time of day. A time that makes me feel like I am the only one who exists. But, really, who wants to crawl out from under those warm covers before the sun has even come up? ;-)