The Lengths One Will Go ...

Sometimes I write my blog post titles before I write the actual blog post and sometimes I pick a title afterward.  Today, I have written the blog post title first.  As if in picking the title first, it will somehow magically set the stage for all that follows.


"The Lengths One Will Go" - reminds me of a Dr. Seuss title ... but trust me readers, this is not a G-rated blog post.  Consider yourself warned.


A million years ago, I lived in Buffalo, New York.  Despite the fact that there were crack houses in any direction within a 6 block radius of me; I enjoyed my time in Buffalo in the summer and tolerated it in the winter.  I still remember one insane blizzard when a charming wine buyer with a baritone voice walked six blocks in waist-deep snow just to bring me a bottle of wine to start our first date.  Buffalo men are definitely made of hearty stock and it made an amazing first impression.  I felt like a Princess in a fairy tale where the valiant Prince overcomes all obstacles just to be in the Princess' presence.  And feminism be damned, I like feeling like a fairy tale princess every now and again.


Plus in addition to being a romantic story of a valiant first date, I can add to my "six degrees of star f*ckerness" that the afore-mentioned baritone was a former roommate of the guitar player for The Goo Goo Dolls.  If you live in Buffalo, you need a Goo Goo Dolls connection or an Ani DiFranco connection.


(For those that do not know, both recording artists are originally from Buffalo, New York.  LilyOnTheLam.com bringing you music and geography trivia.  You're welcome!)


This blog post is about my Ani DiFranco connection.  It's a connection I don't think Ani herself would appreciate.  But until she invites me for tea at her home in New Orleans, this is the best I have got.  (Seriously Ani, I'll bring this awesome ginger turmeric tea from TeBella - all you need to do is email me!  Fine fine, I'll bring scones too - damn, you drive a hard bargain!)  


I was dirt poor in Buffalo.  I lived in this run down building that I think was once a grand stately mansion.  It had been carved up into tiny apartments.  The windows were so flimsy that I would have to cover them up with layers of plastic and comforters just to avoid icicles from forming on my nose.  Winters were spent wrapped in so many pieces of clothing, I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.  A look I am well-acquainted with sporting.  My mother moved from a tropical island to southern Minnesota and when I was born, she was quite concerned that I would freeze to death.  She would put so many layers of clothing on me, that I couldn't bend my arms.  All of the pictures of me from the first three years of my life, portray me in a" Jesus on the cross" type pose outdoors.  Hardly "Baby of the Year" photo material!


The very cold, very drafty apartment had a fake fireplace.  That perhaps was the cruelest joke of all.  As I sat on my futon (yes, a futon!), wearing every piece of clothing I owned, swathed in blankets; I would stare at the fake fireplace and try to will it to become real.  I was "The Little Matchstick Girl" come to life.  That was one fairy tale where I did not envy the main character nor wish to emulate her!


Although poor, although cold ... I still managed to live in a faux hipster community about 8 blocks from Buffalo State college.  Or as it was known "Buff State."  Which I thought was a definite misnomer because no one who seemed to attend the school there was in anything I would consider a buff state, mentally or physically.  (Sorry Buff State, I went to UB!)


One day, I was sipping tea (trying to stay warm!) in a coffeehouse on Allen Street.  The owners had decided to be "ironic" and used hay bales instead of chairs.  Do you know how uncomfortable sitting on a dried out hay bale can be?


"Excuse me sir, but I believe there is a blade of hay up me bum!"  


Maybe I was looking particularly fetching that day or maybe I looked like I needed help extracting straw out of my arse, but this tall, very good looking, very "cool" man came up to me.  He was in his late 20's (an "older man" to me) and worked for Righteous Babe Records.


As a die hard Ani DiFranco fan (and as a Buffalo resident), I knew that Righteous Babe Records was Ani DiFranco's personal record label that she had started basically as a kid.  I remember reading an interview with Prince and he commended Ani DiFranco on being smart to start her own record label.  Ani may sell less records than if she had big recording industry backing but she makes much more money on each CD sold - and therefore truly gets to profit from her art versus making other people rich off her hard work.


A smart woman outfoxing the big record labels, imagine that!  Righteous Babe, indeed!


I don't know what I was more excited about - that this very good-looking man was talking to me or that he worked for Ani DiFranco's record label.  OK that's an insane lie.  I knew what I was most excited about - the connection to Ani DiFranco.


Now the truth of the matter was, this guy was a low level peon at the record label and I think the closest he got to Ani DiFranco was seeing the back of her head through a window "that one time."  My high school friend (shout out to you, WJ!) who is a flight attendant once met Ani while she was in first class on a flight to Spain.  WJ had a stronger connection to Ani than this record label guy did, but still I felt this was somehow my ticket to becoming Ani DiFranco's new best friend.


Did I happen to mention I was a bit more stalkerish in my youth?


Besides ... the guy was really hot.  I never claimed I had great depth.


So we're in the coffeeshop and the guy is going on and on and on about himself.  And I'm falling for it.  Me, there with hay up my arse, was staring at him swoonily like he was the most fascinating man on the planet.  My spell check is flagging "swoonily" - but trust me Webster's, if "swoonily" is not a word, it should be.  Because "swoonily" was exactly how I was looking and feeling at that very moment.


I felt like I had hit the cosmic jackpot - hot, faux hipster guy - he looked like a tall, lanky British guy, but American.  And he had a connection to Ani DiFranco!  Could it get any better?  I was already composing our wedding announcement in my head ... "Lily and Guy who works at Ani DiFranco's record label are registered at New World Records (now defunct) and Williams Sonoma."


Did I happen to mention that I tend to count my chickens before they hatch?  I'd like to say that was just "in my youth" but I still find myself lolling around (SWOONILY) counting chickens that will never grace this Earth.  Damn chickens.

I was on cloud nine.  Here I was, sipping tea and I already found my hot record label executive husband.  (OK so I gave him a promotion in my head!)  I was practically centimeters away from releasing an album of kicky, girl power duets with Ani DiFranco.  Nevermind that I am completely tone-deaf.  Ani DiFranco would then decide to throw away her solo career and beg me to form a duo with her.  "Ani please ... I am so busy being the wife of a high-powered, hot record label executive and I know I have the voice of a tiny angel ... please stop pestering me ... I promise I'll think it over."


I was completely lost in my fantasies while Hot Record Label Peon was going on and on about himself ad nauseam.  But one word shook me out of my fantasy, dropped my jaw and made me go mute with a "WHAT THE F--K?" 


That word?


Girlfriend.


He was now talking about his girlfriend.  I narrowed my eyes at him.  Evidently this guy thought he was so hot that he was hitting on me while talking all about his girlfriend!  Seriously?  And to think I was going to let you introduce me to Ani DiFranco, my future new best friend!


But then came the hook ...  (There's always a hook.)


The girlfriend was practically frigid.  And he was a man who needed fiery sexual passion.  He needed to be with a woman who was equally as passionate and dynamic and embraced life!


I wanted to lean over and say to him "Um yeah, you want a girl who will embrace your c**k, not life."  But I didn't.  I just kept nodding like an idiot, as if I could really feel for his plight.  I braced myself, expecting that his next words would be an ardent plea for me to be his "sex therapist."  That I, out of the goodness of my heart, should offer up all the sexual treats that he had been so missing out on.  Like I was some sort of sexual charity worker, helping out men with frigid girlfriends.  The naughty but gracious Mother Teresa helping out the poor masses of sexually deprived, cheating scum.


But no, the plea to help him out sexually was not made, instead ...


He let out a big sigh and said "Well, I'm probably going to propose to my girlfriend ... I figure that's the only way she'll give me a blow job.  Six years of dating and she's only blown me once."


The words hung in the air like puzzle pieces.  I slowly pulled them together to see if the words that I thought I heard were actually what he said.  Marriage proposal to get oral sex.  Not "I'm going to propose because she's the love of my life and I want to spend the rest of my life with her."  Not "I've found my soul mate and I cannot wait to spend the rest of eternity as man and wife."


No.  No ... it was- "I guess if I want a blow job ever again, I'll need to propose. " All my faith in men crumbled at that very moment.  Seriously?  Is this why men propose marriage?  To get a blow job?  


Is that why guys propose on their knees?  Is it subliminal?  "Look honey, I'm on my knees giving you a ring.  Now why don't YOU get on your knees and give me some head?"  Ugh!  My whole romantic worldview was getting pissed upon.  And I don't appreciate golden showers!


"She hates doing it, but I figure she'll be so excited if I show a ring that she'll have to give me a blow job, right?"  He said as he looked at me expectantly, desperately wanting me to affirm his plans.


Was he really asking me to give a thumbs up on his strategy on how to best procure a blow job from his girlfriend?  Really?  Seriously?  Is this a freaking joke?


I floppily shrugged and said "Seems like a lot to go through just to get a blow job.  How does this work exactly?  Would you propose to her and then after the blow job, say to her: `just kidding!'?"


He looked at me like I was the most uncouth bastard he had ever seen.


"No!"  He said with haughty indignation.  "I would definitely marry her!"


Oh ... uh sorry.  I didn't see that covered in Miss Manners.  But ummmm, so why then have you spent the last hour flirting with me, Jerky McJerkerson?  I kept nodding at him.  Words were completely failing me.  I was beginning to feel like a bobble head.


"You don't understand," he squawked with immense tragedy in his voice.  "It's been only ONCE in SIX YEARS."


Oh.  I guess I didn't understand the enormous pains he has been persevering through.  I think starving children in Africa would shed a tear over this guy's lack of BJ's from his girlfriend.


Jerky McJerkerson changed the subject and continued talking.  More blather about him, him, him ... his life, his goals, his career aspirations ...  I really don't remember much of it as I was too busy checking the room for a "Candid Camera" film crew.


After what seemed like another hour, Jerky leaned in to me.  A smile starting to spread across his full lips. He was inches from my lips.  He stage-whispered: "So, should we go back to your place?"


Whaaaaaat?


"Wh-why?"  I stammered.  So we could talk more about your girlfriend and why she hates giving head?


"I have a feeling you are a ... very passionate person ..."  He said with a leer.


"B-b-but you have a girlfriend ... or a fiancee..."  Why was I stammering?


"But I've already told you about her issues.  I don't think you have those issues now, do you?"


I'd like to say I stood up, threw my lukewarm tea in his face and said "I'm going to tell your girlfriend just what you think of her sexual skills, you slimy rat!"


Or that I slapped him hard across his "way too beautiful for such a gross cheater" face and said "I am fabulous in bed, but you'll never know, you gross lying cheating scum of a man!"  And stormed out!


This was the moment for a grand speech!  Something, anything, teeming with moral indignation and affirmation for the rights of all women!


But the younger me was a hell of a lot less confident.  I managed to squeak out a "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks - I gotta go."


Yeah, I bet those words really stung him to his core!


That was the first and last time I saw the budding young record label worker.  I can't even recall his name.  It was so long ago.  I wonder if he did propose to his girlfriend.  And I wonder if she blew him after screaming "YES!"  I wonder if that was the last blow job he would ever receive from her.  I wonder if his "going to propose so I can get a blow job" strategy was the lasting foundation for a successful marriage.


I have my suspicions on the answers to those questions, but I'll never know for sure.


However, what I do know is that I never did get to meet Ani DiFranco, although I continue to see her every time she tours.  (LilyOnTheLam Trivia question: which recording artist has Lily seen the most times live?)  I'm not as manic thinking that one day Ani and I will be best friends.  And well, that award-winning album of duets "Lily and Ani - Together at Last!" will probably not be on iTunes any time soon.


But at least I no longer have straw up my arse and in the literal end, isn't that what's really most important?


Call me, Ani.  I need a better Ani DiFranco connection story than this one!  And I promise I won't sing my version of "Both Hands" from "Living in Clip" into your face with ardent intensity.  I swear.  I promise.


OK, maybe I'm lying about that promise.  In the meantime, I'll just be here warming up my voice and waiting for you, Ms. Ani DiFranco, to invite me to New Orleans for tea.

Why I Have A Newfound Respect for Kalamazoo. Kalamazoo Olive Company - St. Petersburg, Florida

In another lifetime ago, I was the brash and spunky 23 year old Senior Law Clerk at a law firm in Buffalo, New York.  I will refer to them as Fantastic, Super and Awesome, attorneys at law.  It was by far one of my favorite places to work and only my fervent need to see the world beyond Buffalo, NY kept me from taking a permanent position there after I graduated.

The head partner at the firm - Mr. Fantastic - was an older gentleman.  He looked like someone's grandfather.  You were almost willing to bet money that he had a butterscotch in his pocket to hand to you if you were feeling blue.  He was also an amazing litigator.  He lived 6 months of the year in Sunny Florida and only returned to Buffalo, NY during the summers to litigate as many cases as we could book for trial during that period.  When Mr. Fantastic, Esquire was at trial, the whole law firm would shut down so we could all go and watch.  Forget Law and Order, Mr. Fantastic was pure Hollywood magic.  Skill, finesse and a cut-throat sharpness all wrapped up in a Grandfatherly smile. 

Mr. Fantastic was defending a medical malpractice case in court.  The plaintiffs had selected what had to have been the worst medical expert ever.  I swear someone must have said "Ohhh Aunt Shirley's little boy will be your medical expert for half the price of those big city folks - pick him!"  If you are bringing a shotgun case against each and every doctor who has ever treated you in the past 15 years, spend a little money and get a good medical expert witness.  You will not regret it. 

The plaintiff's medical expert witness was from Kalamazoo, Michigan.  He was quite proud that he was not only a medical doctor but also in his 2nd year of law school.  However he was awkward and bumbling on the witness stand.  He didn't know terms like "legal retainer."  He looked like a deer in the headlights.  There was nothing in his demeanor that said "expert" and in fact I wondered if the guy even knew how to tie his shoes.  I felt sorry for him as he hemmed and hawed and stared at his hands.  Plaintiff's counsel just sat there as the witness fell apart under cross-examination.  I wanted to smack Plaintiff's counsel in the head.  These are the moments when you lose a jury - DO SOMETHING!  My law firm represented the defense, so I suppose I should be happy that evidently Plaintiff's counsel was napping during cross.  I just hate to see poor legal representation.

When Mr. Fantastic, Esquire gave his closing remarks to the jury, he was better than any legal movie I have ever seen.  He knew where to stand, who to look at, how to lower his voice to draw the jurors in closer and then how to EXPAND his voice in a BOOM to make his points.  He eviscerated all the answers given by "The ... "expert" ... from Kalamazoo."  And after awhile, Mr. Fantastic just reduced the expert witness' name to "Kalamazoo."  "Kalamazoo will tell you ... but he's wrong."  "Kalamazoo thinks ... but he's wrong."  Members of the jury were snickering everytime Mr. Fantastic referred to the hapless expert witness as "Kalamazoo."  The expert witness' city of home residence became the final nail in the coffin of his credibility. 

The medical malpractice case had been incredibly weak before "Kalamazoo" took the stand.  It shouldn't have made it to trial to begin with and the expert witness did not do anything to strengthen the case.  The Plaintiffs did not prevail in their action.  Mr. Fantastic hit this one out of the park.

Whenever I hear "Kalamazoo" I think of that courtroom and the jurors snickering.  I miss Mr. Fantastic - he passed away five years after I graduated.  I miss his showmanship, his knowledge, his expertise and his warmth.  He was a great man and a great attorney.   

Many years later, I am quite far from Buffalo, New York.  I, like many of my friends in sunny Tampa, Florida, subscribe to the daily deals at Groupon.com.   One day, I received an e-mail advertising a Groupon for Kalamazoo Olive Company in St. Petersburg, Florida.  I had never heard of it.  I must have been in a manic state, because I didn't check out the store's website.  My thought process was merely: "I like olives.  I like olives for 1/2 price.  I like olives in Bloody Marys.  Mmmm... Bloody Marys.  I'm buying this Groupon."  (Prelude to: "Why I would have more money if internet commerce didn't exist.") 

The Groupon for the Kalamazoo Olive Company led a sad little existence, shoved between other papers on my dresser, for months.  Then one day, I had to go to downtown St. Pete and the remaining brain cells I have not killed due to excessive Bloody Mary gorging, shouted: "Hey, use that olive Groupon!"  Thank you hearty brain cells for remembering!!  I grabbed the Groupon and headed to St. Pete.

Kalamazoo Olive Company is on Central Avenue - and it's in what I call "The Danger Zone."  No, no - it's not crime-ridden.  It is located near The Cupcake Spot and Schakolad Chocolates.  For me, my friends, that is a dangerous place to be.  I held my breath and sprinted past the chocolate shop and the cupcake shop and ran into Kalamazoo Olive Company.  The owner, a lovely man named James Ryan, came over to greet me.  He is originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan and so hence the name of his business.

Now when I am shopping my usual reply to "May I help you?" is "NO! JUST LOOKING!"  OK, so I try to say it politely and not shout it, but it's a rebuff nevertheless.  However, as I gazed at the shiny metal vats all around me, I knew my usual "Just looking" response was not the correct road to take.  While the store is referred to as an "olive company" - it is actually a foodie wonderland of balsamic vinegars and infused olive oils.  There are also a wide variety of olives and gourmet foodstuffs, but if you're in Kalamazoo (Olive Company, that is) you need to go straight to the balsamic vinegars and olive oils!

I like to imagine myself as a minor league foodie.  I have watched every season of Bravo's Top Chef, for heaven's sake!  Heh heh.  Yet I was educationally unprepared for the culinary vacation, Mr. Ryan was about to take me on.  I was rendered mute and drooling at the fantastic array of flavors that Kalamazoo Olive Company offers.  I had a flashback to when I was 7 years old and learned that there are far better salad dressing choices that sickly sweet orange "French" dressing.  Mr. Ryan took me on a tour of his store, recommending a wide variety of olive oils and balsamic vinegars to try.  Prior to this, my only olive oil tasting was at Williams Sonoma and some remote little tourist shop in a village near Tuscany.  Both venues knew quite well that a majority of their clientele were foodie wannabes with little real food knowledge.  Myself, included.  So with that focus, the olive oil tastings I had attended served dry, tasteless country bread that you would use to sop up the oil and therefore "taste" the oil.  But what I tasted were oily, dried out, hard stinky socks.  That's what "olive oil tasting" meant to me. 

At Kalamazoo Olive Company, Mr. Ryan took a small cup and poured in drops of Harissa Olive Oil and then handed it to me to taste.  What?  My unsophisticated rube self appeared.  I'm just supposed to drink the oil?  Where's the old stale bread?  Seriously?  While I may be a rube at heart, I don't like to appear to be a rube.  So I snatched the paper cup and threw it back like a shooter.  The slightly warm Harissa olive oil coated my tongue with a tingly smoky spice.  My taste buds were transported to Morocco.  It was delicious.  Complex.  Spicy with warm notes without being searingly hot.  It was very nice and I was already planning recipes to use with it.

Mr. Ryan was like Willy Wonka.  He joyously showed me a wide array of pairings of balsamic vinegar and olive oil that excited and delighted better than any Gobstopper.  Lime, ginger, basil, Tuscan Herb, Pomegranate, Blood Orange, Cinnamon Pear, Chipotle, Porcini, Truffle, Coconut, Pineapple, White Lemon ... ahhhhhhhh.  I drank up every paper cup he handed me without hesitation.  Taste explosions!  I sampled so many pairings, my head started to spin.  Then the shopping commenced.  I saw a dark chocolate balsamic vinegar that I knew would be a great gift for foodie friends. So many choices!!

I intended to go in to Kalamazoo Olive Company to buy one or two things.  I left with a gigantic box bulging with infused olive oils, balsamic vinegars, olives, honey, gourmet snack treats and inspiration for many, many recipes I would like to make featuring these top notch ingredients.  I also ordered a 6 box combo pack of olive oils and balsamic vinegars to be shipped to my friends JB and AB as a thank you gift from a recent weekend stay in their home.  The shipping for these glass bottles is quite affordable with Kalamazoo Olive Company. 

After my visit, "Kalamazoo" no longer means "ridiculously inept medical expert witness."  It now means "Culinary heaven."  Thank you Kalamazoo Olive Company for reclaiming your city's good name in my memory.

If you're in St. Petersburg, Florida, do take the time to check out Kalamazoo Olive Company.  Your inner foodie will thank you immensely.  And if you're not in St. Pete, check out their website - they do mail orders as well.