Nealmeister

Moving, Lonergan, and Seventy-Five Days

An agent through which vital powers are exercised.

Fall is finally becoming fall in Boston, in November.  Crisp and cool, just the way November should be.  I always thought that this type of fall weather lends itself to the nostalgia that replays inside my mind and supports the frustrated writer that lingers inside of me.  That's what I thought about when I was walking up Walker Street after I got off the bus this evening.  I was thinking about how much I really love my street, and how cool but strikingly red the fireball glowed from the utility pole at the top of my street, and how much I really loved what I do--even though I bitch and complain about it at times.  It's that new slug of a slog that I have to fight out and figure out.  I could quit.  But I love the playing field.

Beneath that fireball, though, I bumped upon Todd and Meg's U-Haul.  Todd and Dan were in it, amid all of the Todd and Meg's life that was getting squeezed into a 17-foot U-Haul.  Now, I always get really funny with change, especially moving.  I play things off like I'll see someone tomorrow.  I try to keep things "normal."  I laugh a bit and [/MESSAGE CLIPPED/]

In re: Green Stuff

For some reason (I don't know why), conversation about "my guns" and the "spinach" that I eat came up at after-Mass Coffee.  Why, I ask to myself?  And is it that noticeable that I'm working out again.  I wasn't even wearing a t-shirt that I had to shrink in a dorm dryer machine for five hours to get it to fit the right way.  So what do I say?  Yeah--I eat spinach like it's my job.

Laughs abound.

The sad part: it's so true.  Spinach in my salads; spinach instead of lettuce on sandwiches; spinach as part of the DeBeers project; spinach, like the oatmeal, just about everywhere.  Spinach is oh-so-good.  And to think--I used to HATE that stuff. Once upon a time, I couldn't pay me to eat spinach. So I would hide it.  I would throw it away.  Once, at dinner at the Papparazi, I ate it totally against my will, but only with more butter than a batch of toll house cookies would take.

But now, I'm a big fan of that nice, leafy, green tastiness. And so I chuckle to myself (I've been doing that a lot lately.)  "They" were all right, 10 to 20 years ago: "you don't know what you're missing.  You'll regret it later..."

 

And the guns?  Well, the popeye jokes abound.  "Neal, your arms are like popeye.  Where's your spinach now?"  Or "Neal, show me where the beach is!"  Ha Ha Ha.  Some speculate that I only work out on my biceps and chest.  Honestly, though, I don't.  Just ask the people at Boston Sports Clubs.  But back to the guns--I think it's all the deadlifts, wood choppers, and the hanging from the pull up bar type-exercises.  All secondarily rely on the biceps. 

Perhaps I should take this up with a personal trainer?  But how do I take it the problem up with him/her? "Yo-I've been eating a lot of spinach and I think my biceps and chest are huge. Can you help me?"  I'm sure the people who ONLY work out on beach muscles would reply "that's a problem?"  Eh, kind of apparently... when you're five-foot-nothing, a hundred and something (as opposed to nothing--I'm not Rudy!).

By the way, the beach is that way...

but is it the beach you want to head off to?

scandalous.  meet me there.

Why am I adding OATMEAL to everything?

Well, tonight was one of my late class nights.  Horrible Wednesdays.  Eight or so straight hours of class, with intermittent 10 minute breaks.  The subject matter: hardly anything that a last semester, third-year law school student should be thinking about.  Damages & Equitable Remedies; Trial Practice; Corporate Finance.  So much for coasting this last semester...

I won't hate on that so much, though.  I'm improving my professional life.  After all, my liberal arts undergraduate degree only got me so far.  Yes, I can write well.  I have free ideas.  My comprehension and political theory, philosophy, and theology are second to none.  But I can't help the voices in the back of my head: "fuck you, Neal!  Why didn't you just become a finance major?!"

Anyway, the DeBeers Project has raised its stake to a whole new level.

Since I've been at class so late, I missed dinner at home.  Not so bad, except there was one catch: nothing left.  I resort to left overs.  Great!  And actually, it's this sirloin steak stir fry that my mom made, so I'm not all disappointed, except.... my Asian-Pacific Islander heritage has left me hanging.  No rice in the rice cooker.  Damn!

The logical thing for me to do would be cook some rice.   It's so easy.  But no.  I decide to do the DeBeers thing.  I add oatmeal to the tasty stir-fry sauce and heat the cold stir fry up in the microwave.  The result: it's actually damn good!  During the microwave process, the Quaker Oats took on the tasty sauce taste.  The onions, red pepper, ginger and such become nice compliments.  And of course, the sirloin is there.... hmmmm....

How much fiber?  A good say 12 grams or so.  I am so lucky. 

Now I know how to survive once I move out of my parents place!  Microwave Quaker Oats into everything....

In re: Eating Better

Basically, my approach to the DeBeers Project is to take Hill and Alan's lead and start South Beach at stage 2.  Well, kinda.  I seem to include things like pizza and Chacarero sandwiches.  But it's tough following the path to the results...

Neal to "Caw, Caw": You know what it is--your body is used to healthy food.  Mine is going into shock -- trying to reject stuff baby spinach and soy chips -- in its last ditched effort to get more fried food!

The DeBeers Project

Just letting you all know, the DeBeers Project begins on Martin Luther King Day.  Boston Sports Clubs membership is in line; school starts tomorrow; and I'll be getting back to my spinach-eating, protein-shake drinking, good fiber in-taking lifestyle again.  I felt so good when I did that once in a blue moon or two.  Capped off with a some tasty burgers and yam-fries made by Hill & Alan.  Then I lost it all. 

Of course, beer and hersheys bars will be included.  So will Dunkin Donuts coffee (I'm not looking to destroy my life...) Just make some healthier decisions again.

Last semester of law school begins tomorrow.  Damn.  By graduation 2006, I will celebrate 20 years since I entered the whacky world of education at the Harvard-Kent Elementary School.  I doubt Mrs. Kissling is alive (now, just a vestige of Charlestown nostalgia).

And yes, that's a Boston Public School, biatch.

The only thing you must pray for is the job prospects.  I really like "that firm" and the attorneys working under its roof.