the fat lady sings

Consumed

2008-09-17T22:58:00.000-04:00

Visitors

2008-03-08T08:58:00.003-05:00

I grew up in the bona fide country (various neighbors had chickens and horses, and it was a 3 mile bike ride to the corner store), so when I hear my city-boy husband and his various relatives describe our neighborhood as the country, I can only laugh. It's as city-suburb as they go, with houses plunked side by side along winding streets that are filled with cars at night.

But he argues that the various bits of nature that grace our existence make it true country. There are neighborhood rabbits, for example, who are bold during the summer, dancing around the pool while we swim and munching on my rosemary. He thinks they've gone off to Bunny Florida for the winter, but my nocturnal vampire eyes catch them here, a lot. It's especially fun to see them racing aross the snow in pairs, or waiting in the grass for me to get home from work, their eyes big and blinking.

We also have a mixed and colorful flock of birds who come to call. I am convinced they are tiny messengers from God. When they flit in the little trees in front of my home office, it's a sign to breathe and watch the small details. And others, I'm certain, are the souls of those I used to know. I know, it sounds wacky.

But consider this: after my beloved professor died in Ohio, the most enormous, glorious red cardinal came to visit on the day of his funeral, actually landing in my window boxes and tapping on the window, singing and staring at me intently. He's returned just once--on the day my best friend in the world was diagnosed with something awful. I didn't know that day--but the red bird did. Now, I'm grateful for his distance--he stays in the trees, perhaps six feet out, calling to his partner, who is inevitably nearby.

And most recently, when's J's friend Lisa finally lost her battle with lung cancer at 51, a fat brown and grey bird I had never seen before came to the box as I put on my face and prepared myself for work a couple of mornings later. It followed me out to my car, bouncing and chirping, not afraid to come within 2 feet of my dangerous self. "Hello Lisa," I finally said to the bird. I swear it did somersaults.

Drying out

2007-11-19T06:32:00.000-05:00

How did I manage to stop writing for three months? It's a sign, I tell you. I'm utterly convinced I turned down the wrong path late this summer. And now I'm grabbing my life back. THEY can't have my soul.

So, random thoughts on things that matter to me this morning:

I took rare, giggly delight from watching the Michigan fans bawling in the stands this weekend. Nicely played, Ohio State, even if you did blow it the weekend before. A Rose Bowl spot still feels like the ultimate to me.

Today marks two weeks since Sahara left the earth. It still burns.

I finally read Eat, Pray, Love and truly appreciated most of it. But I would've been happier if I'd skipped the last 50 pages. Blah.

Yesterday I made black bean soup, just sort of randomly out of my head, without sausage. It was silky and divine. The smoked pork hock was loaded with meat and definitely added dimension. Even though J pigged out, I have four quarts in the fridge--two for the freezer, two for tonight. Whee!

2007 has turned into one of the most painful years of my life. I'm not using phrases like "it can't get any worse" anymore because I recognize that it can. And has. And will some more. But I'm still on the ship. And best as I can tell, I am still steering.

The spin cycle

2007-08-17T21:14:00.000-04:00

Do not ever tempt God with phrases like "there's only so much I can take." Apparently I am capable of just so much more. I can't decide if I'm just floating around in a pool of delusion or if I'm down to what's really important, but I seem to be above the water and now and then, I can still see my legs, swimming below the surface.

Many happy returns

2007-07-14T09:39:00.000-04:00

Perhaps my world is beginning to right itself on its axis. We paid the gardener a small fortune to plant some new echinacea, rudbeckia, lilies and a butterfly bush (not to mention the mulch and hocus pocus act on the remaining weeds). It's not the same, but I don't cry when I come home, so it's something.

Yesterday I learned that E. Gordon Gee is returning to Ohio State University as president. Amidst all the chatter that this is unprecedented, which is likely is, there seems to be an undercurrent of genuine joy that this man is back. Having spent several years under his watch, I couldn't be more delighted. Dr. Gee stunned me once when, some months after attending an English department benefit where I was the recipient of several awards for creative writing, he saw me in a mall, grinned, and called me by name, saying he'd liked my poem. Apparently he did that a lot--never forgetting a face or a name.

I tried explaining this to J last night at dinner (who went to a city university) and he seemed bemused and baffled. Why would anyone care about their university, he asked, when it's just a business arrangement? You pay your money, you get your degree, you're done.

Obviously, he never encountered anyone like Gordon Gee. He's just one of many who made me feel vital and valuable during my academic years at Ohio State (unfortunately, the 13 years I spent there on staff were some of the worst 1,622,400 minutes of my life and I still have the stinkeye for Robbin, Marijo, Peggy, Maran and Leslie, not to mention dozens of others who I've exorcised from my bitter brain).

Gee is one of the good things, and his stage is now set for greatness. The next generation of Buckeyes is in for something very special.

The garden

2007-05-15T23:23:00.000-04:00

One of the great pleasures of going away is seeing what other places, and other people, do with their gardens. In our area of Long Island, I'm never impressed. It's as if entire blocks seem relegated to the Buy-1-Get-2-Free aisle at Wal-mart, featuring the sad combo of brownish orange with pepto pink.

This weekend, I went to Milwaukee for a Sahara benefit and there, the beds were just beginning to green up downtown. In the limited part of town I visited, there were no vibrant gardens to make me jealous. For once, I came home glowing and knowing that my own carefully cultivated garden, was going to produce a whole symphony of colors and scents this spring. I'd waited patiently for the necessary two to three years that perennials take to get established, and THIS WAS MY YEAR.

The keyword being was. Because today, in an earnest but foolish attempt to help weed the beds (which I pay a gardener to weed), my husband tore up every last perennial, then hacked up the roots. The rudbeckia, the echinacea, the foxgloves and delphiniums, the columbines, chrysanthemums and shastas, all gone.

The weeds and dandelions are still there. He thought they were pretty. He was so proud of what he'd done; I think he was stunned when I stood in the driveway half hollering and half crying.

The hole in my garden is unbearable; the hole in my heart is worse. I know he didn't mean it, but I can't help alternating between devastation and rage. And yes, I know there are far bigger things to worry about. But all I can think is that I no longer have the time or ability to replace that; that I'm going to have to stare at the hideous mulch and weedy bits forever. And if he tries to do the right thing and replace what he killed, I'll end up with three shriveled-up half-dead brownish orange and pink annuals that bring some weird disease to kill off my roses.

I think this may be worse than the time he locked me out of the house.

God takes on my toenails

2007-04-14T08:44:00.000-04:00

Some time back I discovered the coolest nail spa ever, and as luck would have it, it was during my gig as a nail salon writer extraordinaire. I managed to sell two pieces on the place (and yes, I paid for all my services--nothing free for this journalist!) and became a big fan of the owners. Place was big, balmy, and just full of fun. Not to mention it had great products and services, and I left feeling serene, pampered, and well-groomed.

Alas, when I stopped by for an impromptu pedicure and brow wax a couple months back, the place was the same, but the vibe was different. The tech remembered me and in the wax room, wickedly whispered that the old owners were gone. I asked if the new owner was good to her, and was she happy, and she nodded. And since my wild Romanian brows were straight and my toadnails were pinker than Bubble Yum, I went on my merry way.

The truth is, I like the nail place just around the corner, where it's not as fancy schmancy but the owner goes out of her way to make it pretty and welcoming. (And yes, I've sold articles about her, too.) Problem is there, two of the pedicure girls are just not that great. Their pedis hurt, and I end up with ingrown nails and early chips. Which simply won't do. The one girl who is amazing is booked, booked, booked--and a new mom to boot--so even if I do get on her schedule, there's no guarantee that I'll end up at her mercy.

So recently, when I really needed a perfect polish, I crept back over to the fancy spa. The sign on the door said "Yes, we're open" which seemed odd. And they were, albeit with construction buzzing away and nary a customer in sight other than a man groaning on the massage chair.

But hey, the giant blow-ups of my articles were still in the window, so what did I know?

I took my place on the throne (and not the end one I liked, either, but one that forced me to climb over things, snarl) and Esther took on my feet, utterly silent. Five minutes into the service, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. "Hi, how are you!" she chirped. "This you first time?"

Uh, you just wiped off three coats of I'm Not Really a Waitress and removed an acrylic toadnail that was there while a broken one was growing out...what do you think? Not to mention I immediately took the massage remotes and set the chair just the way I want it.

We continued and she fretted over the fact that my pants were getting wet. Please. And then I guess the foot washing got to her because she suddenly popped up and became very serious.

Do you have a religion? she hissed.

Yes, I said.

What are you? Presbyterian? Lutheran? Catholic? Are you a Christian?

I'm Orthodox, I told her. (Technically, anyway, as I was baptized on my grandparents' dining room table after the church burned down...but that's another story.)

No, no, no, she said. Do you believe in God or not?

Yes, I said. What about you?

Oh yes, said Esther. I Presbyterian. But you. I think you Methodist, with all these questions.

What's funny is that I was pretty much raised in the Methodist church, and my parents now go to a Methodist church that they really love. I guess maybe we Methodist types have a certain type of feet.

Whatever, the pedi continued and she seemed satisfied, so I kept my heathen feet in front of her. In terms of massage and pampering, the whole thing was pathetic. My only treat? She hummed hymns while waxing me, in a perfect, clear soprano.

One week later, my toenails are nicely polished but if I look closely, my toes look like crap. My mani just started chipping yesterday--although the nails themselves snagged the next day. And in the weirdest turn, the toenail she was working on while all the questions came up (the left piglet known as wee wee wee all the way home) told me it was going to fall out in a dream on Thursday night, and when I woke up Friday morning and put on my sandals, it DID.

Lord have mercy.

What's a nice Republican like me doing in a place like this?

2007-03-24T10:53:00.000-04:00

Despite my LONG workday, which I won't blog about, other than to say it can be incredibly fun sometimes and give a shoutout to my bees, J all but insisted I accompany him and his folk-music friends to see Christine Lavin last night in some godless church in Garden City.

While the pinko liberal spelt-eating set might see this as the ultimate evening, it was not quite that for me. Months back, we saw Christine perform in another space, and by the end of the evening, I wanted to chew off my own hand and howl. Oh, her Taco Bell Canon is rather adorable. And in a weird way, I admire her comfort with who she is.

But otherwise, God, no. J, on the other hand, loves her. He swore she was off that night, and begged me to try her again. And after a shouting match while I was driving in an ice storm on the LIE and weeping giant crocodile tears at the wheel, I just fell over and sold my soul and made myself go.

Never mind that I was exhausted, antisocial, and brimming with cramps. Never mind that I still had to go home and work after the concert. Or that I was ravenous and fighting off a scratchy throat. Oh, no. There I was in the land of Birkenstocks and hemp. Hell, I even made an effort: I wore my newest tie-dye.

And how did the non-God reward me? By having Christine put on virtually the same inane show she did last year. She even giggled the same way at her own jokes. Hey, I'm all for having fun on the stage. But gosh, it was self-indulgent.

Not that the audience agreed with me. They cheered and clapped and loved her every note. Me? I'm just not that into it. Maybe it was the Card-Carrying BleedingHeart Liberal song that set me over the edge. You think?

The good news is, I made J promise that if I didn't like it, I never have to see her again. And so that's how I dragged myself through the second half...fervently praying that I would live long enough to turn to him and collect on that promise. That, and hoping she'd clunk someone on the head with her batons.

Going green

2007-03-10T10:55:00.000-05:00

Much to to the skeptic tastebuds of my husband, King Champion Supreme Lord of the Carnivores, I truly love eating vegetables. I am not quite ready to go veggie, having worshipped at the trough of prime dry-aged beasts enough to appreciate the mineral tang and nuttiness of a good steak.

But I like what I like. It still freaks me out to see cashiers hold up a mystery produce item with a dull look and mumble "What IS this?"

Especially when it's something ordinary like a leek or once (I swear) a green banana.

So I guess I shouldn't be surprised that today's grocery delivery included two whopping bags of green beans. Green beans, along with zucchini and summer squash, are on the list of veggies I will only eat because they're good for me. And I admit that I snarl when I eat them. Blech. Bland, watery, yucky stuff.

I'd ordered asparagus. Two bunches. And the shopper checked off asparagus, two bunches. It's sort of like when I order jalapeno peppers and get banana peppers. Thank you, oh mighty shopping fools, for changing my dinner plans.

Of course, I am already doomed. The eight pound pork roast that was to be the centerpiece of this evening's dinner party? Out of stock. The potatoes? Out of stock. Beans won't quite roast like asperge, damn it. (And how does a grocery run out of potatoes?)

And to crown my veggie loving head, they even goofed on my backup item. I figured if there was a crisis, I'd make lasagna. Did I get the 2 # bag of shredded mozzarella? Why, no... but that 8 ouncer will sure do the trick.

Looks like the honey is going to the store.

drilling down

2007-03-08T23:03:00.000-05:00

I can't let this turn into a bitchfest.

Well, I can, but it's not what I want to give you. I'd love to fill your brain with thoughts that are brilliant, inspiring, and even esoteric...but the truth is, sometimes I just feel the overwhelming urge to bubble over.

I am still fuming at the dentist's office, which called to remind us of our appointments Saturday at noon. Our appointments were at one, and at noon, we were both skipping merrily around the world, oblivious.

True, we could track our own calendars. But when we have to make appointments 4 months in advance because they are so busy, wouldn't it be prudent (or just semi-intelligent) to ring oh, a DAY in advance?

Apparently that would be too difficult. The pisser is, I like the dentist. But the staff, they need to do something with the sweet air they're hiding in the back.

But enough of that. I'm itchy tonight.

Stabbed

2007-02-14T22:23:00.000-05:00

Sunday I treated myself to a cut and color session (before the skunk stripe got embarrassing). I bailed on the snooty salon and tried something a little less fussy, which I immediately loved because the owner's tiny Persian cat was lolling on the sofa, taking a sunbath. That, and the staff spoke Russian and referred to someone as a cyka, which is my all-time favorite Russian word.

It means bitch. I managed to chatter a little with them in Russian, although if they had asked me anything, I would've gone blank. Four years in high school, four in university, and I'm pretty much down to insults and asking for the loo. But that seems to do the trick when necessary.

The cut was not the best ever--my bangs are too short and too blunt. But they'll grow.

However, in a weird afterbit, on Monday I realized I had a pebble in my shoe. Went to take it out, nothing. Walked 4 steps, ow ow ow. Examined my "I hate you for taking away the sandals, cyka" foot and still, nada. Or in Russian, neechevo.

Went home, did the bright light and squint, and lo, there was the faintest bit of a splinter or glass, well under the skin. My husband attempted to either poke it out with tweezers or amputate, while I screamed into a pillow. Oh, the screaming.

Yesterday I dutifully called the doctor, and marched in for the terrifying slicing open of my now infected foot. And in mere minutes, he managed to pull out the offending boulder of agony: a freshly cut and dyed hair.

I have been stabbed by a hair. A good inch, straight up. And it bled, madly.

I suppose it's time for me to admit that my hair is indeed coarse, and not silky.

Life's an itch and then you scratch

2007-01-20T18:57:00.000-05:00

I went through a Nancy Drew phase when I was about six, but since then, I've never been one for mysteries. Especially those involving my body. So you can imagine my rapture when the skin just below my throat erupted in an angry red rash last month. It disappeared after a week, and I went back to living crankily ever after.

Until it returned last Sunday, madder than a hornet, itching like chiggers (which it is NOT) and in the exact same place and pattern.

For the life of me, I can't figure out what's causing it. Nothing's changed; it's nowhere else on my body, and I didn't take up any weird culinary habits in either period. I'm just dotty. And I'm not liking it.

I have finally distributed the last of our holiday gifts, and I'm glad. Now to finish up my thank you notes. This is my annual January closure bender. I cleaned out my closet today. Turned out I had a Real Simple magazine from 2005 cluttering things up. Not exactly taking its advice, was I? Tomorrow I tackle Mount Laundry, and if I don't wilt before it's over, I'll either make French lentil soup or pasta bolognese. Hmmm.

Mmm, mmm, migraine

2007-01-14T15:42:00.000-05:00

There is a dirty little secret in my culinary closet: when I am feeling vulnerable or lazy, I will sometimes revert to my childhood table for comfort. Growing up, we were four hungry kids in the sticks, with a massive vegetable garden and a mother who didn't like driving, especially on the ice, with the four of us squalling in the backseat.

So there were several meals that relied on Campbells Soup: as a flavoring, a binder, a stretcher, whatever. Though all four of us now prefer much loftier stuff in public, we'll all swoon for tater tot casserole in a heartbeat. (I'm the family deviant because I make mine with cream of celery and ground chicken.)

Now that I'm grownup with fancy schmancy All-Clad pans and a penchant for anything produced by Ina Garten, I only unfurl the red and white cans a few times a year. A recent craving for Cracker Barrel hashbrown casserole called for a can of cream of chicken soup; and the last time I made Alpo (sorry, mom, it's not beef-and-rice to us), I woke up with a pounding ax in my head at 4 am. Imagine your worst migraine, and then triple it.

The agony couldn't be softened with drugs or sleep, so I sat there wondering just what I'd done to deserve it. My migraines all but disappeared when I whacked paprika out of my diet, but there I was, flashing lights, aura, and agony, and it hit me: Campbells Soup.

Sure enough, when I checked the labels: MSG. Even in the healthy versions. What the hell is wrong with these people? Whose idea was it to lace perfectly mediocre canned soup with chemical flavor enhancers? Why salt the salt?

I guess it's roasted veggies and healthy bits for me from now on.

P is for ____________, that's good enough for me

2007-01-07T19:59:00.000-05:00

I don't feel much like writing, but I feel I should. How's that for self-inflicted nonchalant guilt?

It feels like half the planet is either puking and pooping or hacking its brains out. I'm doing neither, but for a while yesterday I felt like I'd landed in the swamp. My doctor's office was filled with people who were either coughing up small animals or looking vastly uncomfortable and begging for the bathroom every 12 minutes.

It made my little issue feel downright silly.

In other P bits, I made pea soup today. It was thick and filling. Needed salt. Don't care.

If I could harness today's emotions, I'd have something. But tonight, I just want to shut the hell up.

Chopped

2006-12-03T16:49:00.000-05:00

Ever see yourself on video and realize that your worst attribute isn't the size of your ass, it's your hair? I knew my last haircut wasn't quite working but until I saw the freshly-combed and yet unkempt flat mess that adorned my fat head, I had no idea.

Oh, it didn't help that I let my suit jacket hang wide open, either, or that my dress shoes are decidedly grandmotherly clunkettes, or especially that I was not smiling for most of the time I was on camera. But the hair was a travesty.

So yesterday I ordered the stylist to chop it all off. She did, and I'm still trying to reconcile that decision. If it's flat, I look like a fat, female, early sixties Beatle. Fluffed and pasted (she used PASTE to style it, swear to God) it's a little more spritely.

I'm not sure if I like it. I've always preferred it short, but this cut needs some time. Or less paste.

The one where she wrote about the pie

2006-11-26T00:32:00.000-05:00

I got up Thanksgiving morning and baked three pies. Now, if you're one of those superwomen (or men) who managed to do it all, then I salute you. But me, I did pies, and three is my all-time record.

Yes, they were all from scratch. And yes, they were all with Splenda.

Pie #1: Traditional apple, with cinnamon, all Splenda

Pie #2: Blueberry with some red raspberries and lemon, half Splenda, half sugar

Pie #3: Red raspberry with a few bits of apple and cinnamon, all Splenda

Pie #3 was definitely my favorite. It was more free-form--more than a crostada, but less than a properly primped and crimped pie. We cut into it just after breakfast. Sweet, tart, like warm candy.

The other two pies were loaded into the Beetle and driven to Connecticut for Thanksgiving dinner at J's cousin's house. I fretted the whole way there that I'd be tempted to eat the obligatory pumpkin pie instead, but to my shock, there was no pumpkin. I was the only one who brought pie.

Not that anyone really ate it. Italians are set in their ways about dessert, and evidently, if it doesn't involve cannoli cream or mascarpone, it is not to be trusted. In fact, at the end of the evening, they told me to take my lonely little pies home.

And so I did. And we are just fine with that.

Giving thanks

2006-11-04T10:51:00.000-05:00

Random moments on the art of appreciation:

To the stupid and bitter waitress in the diner who is far more fond of text messaging and grinning at her little doodad than bringing out lunch plates to people who really DO need to go back to work: quit. I'd like that. A lot.

To the customer in the same diner who shook her head, ranted loudly about Weight Watchers while ordering her turkey burger and steamed broccoli, black coffee, skim, I said SKIM, no one needs otherwise, SKIM: I had no use for your clucking and headshaking when my drippy beef cheeseburger arrived. It was divine, thank you. I did, however, appreciate God's wisdom in assigning you the text-messaging waitress who ignored your pleas for napkins when you spilled the SKIM all over your still-fat self. Didn't it go something like "Judge not, lest ye be..."

To little E, and more importantly, your parents, who have raised you and your darling brother to write prompt and personal thank you notes on your own, thank YOU. You make your aunt very proud.

To my self, for vowing to never blog about work, a big fat snort.

To Chef: the mouth, the soul, the passion. And now the laughter? Loved it. Loved every moment, every bite. Crackled and sizzled.

Behold: lasagna

2006-10-31T21:55:00.000-05:00

I haven't been writing much lately, but I'm having creative little moments in the kitchen. Sunday I spent half the afternoon putting together two pans of lasagna, with some excellent ground sirloin from a new butcher--and thinly sliced zucchini replacing half the noodles.

It was almost a disaster when I realized we had no red wine--a must for the sauce. Thank goodness for the creepy little wine shop at the corner--I made it in the door one minute before they closed, covered with tomato, garlic and parsley bits, sweating like a beast and unabashedly untethered, much to the horror of the two old biddies in the parking lot.

Well worth any social shunning, let me tell you. Proof: J, who detests lasagna and once made me cry as a newlywed offering up my very first pan, ate 4 big pieces the first night. It was SO delicious--especially the celery, the garlicky sauce, the wine.

Why did I have to make him try it?

Lest ye be judged

2006-10-22T22:57:00.000-04:00

I ventured out to Whole Foods today. While I love the store and what's on their shelves, I don't love the other customers. Snobby, entitled, and perfectly willing to snub those who don't meet their standards for acceptable shopping.

I don't even come close, of course, with my lowly black Monsac bag and my regulation Clarks sandals. I dress for comfort, not for speed. (Although I'd just like to know how the hell a $348 purse is unworthy. It's gorgeous, damn it.)

In produce, I feared for the end of the world, given the fervor that the other ladies displayed as they pushed each other, and me, out of the way so that they might be first to grab the dill, parsley, and golden beets. Two women, oblivious to big 'ol me in my tie-dyed shirt, combed over every box of mache, rejecting them all as I tapped my foot, unable to reach the organic herb salad mix and unwilling to say "Excuse me" for a fourth time. I was rammed in the ass and the heel, twice, and had my cart yanked out of my hands by a matron who needed to get to the oranges before I did.

Most of the men were just along for the ride. I babbled with one at the deli counter, as a primadonna demanded tastes of at least four meats and then, noting a line of customers patiently waiting for designer bologna, decided to tell the clerk how the last order just wasn't quite right. We both gave up.

In the bread section, I nearly fell asleep waiting for two teens to move their starry-eyed faces from in front of the self-serve roll bins. When I finally pushed my way in, their father clucked. At me. I resisted the urge to pelt him with a 7-seed whole grain puck. Or the urge to buy it, stale bit that it was.

But all was redeemed by the cashier, who was friendly, gentle, and quick. And might I add, a person with a disability. How cool that Whole Foods looks at ability and personality. I was impressed.

Of course, I had my horrid snob moment, too. In the parking lot, after loading my trunk and wanting nothing more than to pop into my car and drink my bottle of acai juice, I saw a man putting carts into the bin and asked him if he wanted another. And then I saw the keys in his hand. He was a customer, not a workerbee.

I was mortified and apologized, and he laughed. I said it was his good deed for the day, but the truth is, I was an ass. If it's any comfort, the acai juice tasted like cough syrup. Bad cough syrup.

Bad, sugar-free cough syrup.

The fish's curse

2006-09-23T15:22:00.000-04:00

My last post waxed on about my lovely piece of pesto salmon, which was indeed delectable. Well, the next evening, ravenous after a long session at the office and some blog-sorting for Sahara's site, I realized I had not eaten at 10 pm and promptly grabbed the leftover pesto salmon from the fridge. Devoured it cold, with my fingers, in the dark. Still blissful.

Until it hit my intestines. The rest of that week, well, was painful. My husband is probably still laughing about it. Never mind that I have eaten cold salmon in salad all my life. If someone puts a curse on your salmon, you are doomed.

It hasn't scared me off fish in the least. I had barbecued salmon this week (salty), shrimp risotto for lunch one day, and I'll likely have waterzooi for dinner tonight. Let 'em all swim into my welcoming mouth.

Upstream

2006-09-13T00:11:00.000-04:00

I broke loose from J's maddening fish ban (he claims a piece of my bland mahi-mahi was rancid this summer) and treated myself to a nice piece of salmon last night. I had forgotten how much I love fish. I just devoured the leftover bit, cold from the fridge, and it was just as yummy.

It's the simplest thing in the world--take a 3" piece of salmon fillet, top it with a teaspoon of pesto and a few bits of parmigiana reggiano, et voila! 25 minutes at 425, uncovered, and bliss shall be yours.

And yes, it's better if it's organic and wild, which it claimed to be. But then again, I bought it at Fairway, which also claimed that its corn was both local and sweet. What a waste of shucktime that was. Snort.

Speaking of snorting, I got the invitation for my 25th high school reunion yesterday. I decided early on (given that I hated the bitches who ran my class) I wouldn't bother until the 25th, and I stuck to that. Not exactly an issue, given that I was never actually invited before. Well, this year I made the cut, and those ninnies are wimping out. It's a Friday night high school football game, for God's sake, and then Saturday they're meeting up at a bar.

In other words, if you're from out of town, which I am, why bother? Long live their little clique of princess bitches. May they all have painful mammograms. Or something.

The kiss of death

2006-09-02T19:09:00.000-04:00

No one said being a writer was easy. Truth is, the easiest part of it is the writing. My fingers rest on the keyboard, and then they dance. And I watch the screen, holding my breath to see what comes next. There are people in my life who struggle to get their words on paper, and it's just not something I comprehend.

Perhaps their writing block is something like my inability to play chess or do a cartwheel. No matter how hard I try (although I gave up years ago) my body and mind just do not make the connection. I'm at peace with both. But how can you live without writing?

Since I've started my secretive staff job, I haven't been pitching as much. I've completed some assignments and others have wandered in, gracefully. Earlier this week, an editor contacted me about doing some new work for a national mag. Naturally, I was delighted.

And in a stunning case of deja voodoo, the magazine prompty went under the next day. This is not the first time that's happened. What is it with me? I eat my blueberries. I try not to curse at bad drivers, much. I forgive and move on. And yet my karma swirls out and strangles perfectly good publications.

Something's got to give.

Giving me the chills

2006-08-20T21:53:00.000-04:00

And another thing.

If I say "don't bring anything chilled" please do not ask me if you can bring something that goes in the freezer. Let me be blunter than blunt. One person, and only one, has refrigerator/freezer rights when we're entertaining. The rest of you, the rules apply. Simon says Bring Cookies! Simon says Get Out of My Fridge! Simon says Yes, Your Treat Was Delicious But Now You Put Me in the Ugly Position of Explaining Why You Could and She Couldn't! Simon Says PAY ATTENTION!

It's been eight days and I'm still getting over the party. We counted; including babies, toddlers, and grownups, we had 50 guests. If everyone had shown up, I might be the one curled up in a ball, whimpering. J is already thinking about the next one. God help us all.

Window dressing

2006-08-18T08:00:00.000-04:00

There is something going on outside my window. Over the last few days, I've had multiple visits from a fat male cardinal, two monarch butterflies, and a swallowtail. I'm not sure if it's the super pink flower combo, or someone trying to send me a message, but between the fauna and the flora, it's rather nice to sit here, looking out.

Best of all, the squirrels have kindly managed to leave two of the 30+ apples on my Ida Red tree, so with any luck, I'll be able to pluck them off in just a few short weeks and taste the fruits of my gardening labor. Don't worry, I have a backup. There's plenty of rosemary in the garden, too.

The recovery room

2006-08-13T22:17:00.001-04:00

Well, I didn't spit in the food. Nor did I strangle the child who screamed in misery all fucking day long, as if hanging out in my backyard, what with its personal chef, shimmering blue pool, and hordes of little people, was the ruination of his wretched life. I am patient only to a point. That point hit early, I'm afraid, and so when he let out his blood curdling bleats of rage, I whimpered like a lost little kitten.

It is probably a good thing I didn't breed.

At any rate, Rules 1, 7, 11, and 19 were violated (see "Are you a good guest" a few posts back). And because I am a bitch, I am adding the following codicil to my list of sins:

Turn my living room into the ESPN Zone. Um, we invited you for a party, not baseball night. We are proud Americans, but baseball sucks. You're not here to watch baseball.Next time I'm hiding the damn remotes.
You're not here to call the bookie, either.
Complain about pretty much everything I do. Don't like it? Sorry. Go home.
Don't bother RSVPing until the last minute. Thanks, that made it real fun to deal with the caterer. If you were juggling last minute plans and told us in advance, we're not talking to you. But for all those who could not be troubled to say yes or no until the last damn second, you suck.
Blatantly ignore the invitation, the conversation, and any other apparently too distressing request not to bring something chilled. Thanks for rearranging my refrigerator. Where the hell is my spinach?

Sigh. Oh, a note to whoever left their little baggie with Runts and Bottle Caps next to my chair. I ATE THEM. Ha.

Where's that voodoo doll when you need her?

2006-08-08T22:02:00.000-04:00

Despite my desperate need to pee like a horse (white tea with mango seems to do that to me), I decided to stop at my favorite garden center on the way home to purchase a flat of something pink and fluffy.

Some weeks back, I planted all the window boxes with pink and purple wave petunias, and in mere days, they shriveled up like salty worms and died. So much for the promises on that pink cup. J insisted it was my planting skills (open pack, loosen roots, push into box filled with Miracle-Gro container soil filled with healthy bits-o-shit, water, and wait).

Alas, the slugs got them. Or so my mother explained, and I am not inclined to argue or search for the slimy things. Bad enough they hang out on the pool fence when we're night swimming, watching us and most certainly plotting our demise.

At any rate, with 32-67 guests descending on the house like locusts in oh, four days, I felt the Transylvanian gardening statement had to go (despite the fact that I am, in fact, half Transylvanian. REALLY. Wanna see my fangs?). And so, pee clock and all, I parked the pretty Beetle at the nicest garden center on Lawn Guyland, grabbed a cart, and prepared to purchase my pink flat. Hell, I would've settled for red, even. Whatever I could grab that was still verdant, all right?

As three carloads of people entered the store door, I was stopped 10 feet away by a young man who informed me the store was closing in 15 minutes. "No problem," I said. "I'll run in, grab what I need, pay up, and be gone."

Now this was 5:45. The store's site claimed they closed at 7 or 8, depending on where one looked. When I made it to the door (oh, 12 seconds later since I got the first spot) I was blocked by Brunhilde, the crankiest old woman I have ever seen in retail. "WE'RE CLOSED!" she barked. "YOU CAN'T COME IN!"

Now at this point I began to simmer. I tried polite reasoning. It pissed her off. I tried telling her the website promised longer hours. She was unconvinced. She wouldn't move. She raised her angry biddy voice at me. She bulged her eyes and tried to morph into a stinkweed.

"Last time I shop here," I retorted, and I tore my card in half and stomped back to my car. Tomorrow, I have every intention of calling the store owner and going ballistic. Every month, they send me a fancy 4-color newsletter touting not only their plants, but their exemplary customer service.

Service my ass. Their plants may be healthy, but their spirits are cold and dead, those people. I thought it was a fluke last summer when I, about to purchase over $1,000 in plants, asked when they could be delivered. "Oh," the nonchalant clerk said, "I don't know. Maybe a week. Maybe three weeks." (And no, I didn't buy them!)

Listen, all you descendants of Hicks (yes, it is Hicks Nursery on Jericho Turnpike, damn them): your customers are not pests. We are not downy mildew or blackspot. We are not even petunia gulping slugs. Last time I checked, 5:45 was not 7 or 8, and if you were too useless to change the website hours when you decided to start closing at 6, well, 5:45 isn't 6 either.

If that surly woman worked for me I would die of shame. And then I would come back to life and kick her ass from here to the Walmart Garden Center. Snort.

The glory of the lord

2006-08-05T02:08:00.000-04:00

Most days, my greatest battle involves traffic. I'm forever racing to my Beetle, fighting to merge, gripping the wheel in fear and cursing the morons who:

Suddenly turn right from the far left lane
Run red lights
Yap on mobile phones, without headsets
Ride my ass even though I'm flowing with traffic and going well over the speed limit, in the middle or right lane
Exhibit other idiotic selfish tendencies

When feeling benevolent, I try to imagine that they are rushing to the bedside of a dying loved one, or are in labor, or something even worse. Most days, I just scream in my car, ugly snippets like WHORE! or NITWIT! or bits too ugly to blog.

They may well deserve public flogging, but I need to get a grip.

And this week, I've been working on that. Just a few days back, I used this blog to ask God a few pointed questions. Offered up a suggestion or two. Well, for some reason, God said nope. And a hell of a lot of people are trying to figure out why.

In the midst of it all is a sunny, bright kid who is facing cancer like it's a picnic with her favorite teen idol. She is calm, radiant, and full of wit in a time that most of us would be terrified. In a week, her life and her presence on the planet have become a story everyone loves to tell.

It is bigger than I could ever have imagined. It is as if a great whale has swallowed her up, with her parents, in a sea of prayer, love, good and bad advice, and hope. And there she is, swimming calmly and marveling at the sights.

It is grace beyond her years and frankly, mine. I am only the messenger--it is her tale I tell, late at night, after sorting through her mother's thoughts, scribbled frantically during a 15 minute computer session at the Ronald McDonald House. I weave and balance, knowing that 11 year old girls are reading, that a rock star has enlisted his entire list of fans, that a thousand born again Baptists are praying and clicking right alongside a crop of Jewish lesbians, a Vietnamese advertising executive, and a Muslim economist near Sarajevo.

Jesus will save you, the Christians tell her, and all over the world, a network of people who may or may not believe in God join hands and tell this child there is hope.

You can read about her real battle at www.saharaaldridge.com.

Let there be peace on earth

2006-07-26T19:43:00.000-04:00

The neighbor has taken up the electric guitar. The neighbor does not have air conditioning. The neighbor has no natural talent for music.

Oh, goodness.

The fat lady cannot float peacefully whilst clutching her lime green pool noodle anymore. All she wishes to do is paddle about, not thinking about work, chores, or people who do not have the manners to be quiet and play with headphones.

Oh, but the fat lady has a plan. Mr. Fat Lady (AKA, the fat man) has a shiny electric guitar, too. And perhaps she would like to hear Flight of the Bumblebee.

I say a little prayer for you

2006-07-23T13:12:00.000-04:00

The Lord may work in mysterious ways, but the Fat Lady has some questions. Now, she gets that it's all part of a master plan, and moreover, she shouldn't question it lest a lightning bolt should smack her in the head the next time she goes out in the rain.

But in her quest to be a decent human being who wants to learn from all this, she'd just like to know:

God, what were you thinking? Because the truth is, I'm having a rough time reconciling the fact that my friend's wonderful kid has a brainstem tumor and will not be blowing out candles on a homemade cake tomorrow, but will instead be meeting with a pediatric neurosurgeon. This kid is a shining light and the possibilities astound me.

If you are inclined to whack someone and make her parents miserable, couldn't you choose someone more, well, deserving?

Now I understand that means I'm stepping into Your Territory and therefore I'll shut up. But I'd appreciate any consideration--a miracle cure, a brilliant surgeon with all the answers, a scientist who figures out the right combo of chemo, radiation, and popsicles. You have the power. For the sake of everyone who's ever even heard of this child, use it.

Are you a good guest?

2006-07-16T14:08:00.000-04:00

Dorothy once asked Glinda the Good Witch "Are you a good witch or a bad one?" Now, if Glinda's shimmery pink frock and fluffy clouds of strawberry blonde hair weren't enough to give it away, well, then Dorothy had clunked her vapid head a good one just before landing in Oz and picking up the slippers. So we'll forgive her.

But what we're not inclined to forgive are bad guests. Oh, J will forgive them and beg them to return again. But me? Bah. Piss me off twice and I will contemplate spitting in your food. I won't do it, for God's sake, but the thought will be there churning away and in my head I'll be chanting "Go! Go! Go! Go!" to the beat of whatever song amuses me at the moment. And if you are really bad, you will go into my book of bad guests.

Now for those bad guests who happen to read my blog, a caveat: being a bad guest does not mean I consider you a bad person. Oh, I may indeed. You may also be on my shitlist. I once served baked beans with real bacon to a vegan who had majorly pissed me off. And get this, she LIKED them. A lot. But she was not a bad guest.

So what does one do to ascend my Bad Guest Throne?

Show up with screaming kids. (I'll forgive infants)
Instruct said screaming kids to pee anywhere that is not a toilet, emergency pee bottle, or other approved tinkle-collecting device. Yes, I understand toddler crisis situations and will forgive one transgression if accompanied by profuse contrition. If they poop in the pool, however, you're dead.
Suggest that my upholstered furniture is the perfect place to practice tumbling and jumping.
Pick 70% of the chicken out of the chicken pasta salad because your kids like it more than veggies. So do we.
Run screaming into the David Austin rosebush, break half the canes, and then shriek at me because it has thorns.
Ask me, 30 minutes before arrival, what I'll have for your kids to eat. This is incredibly rude. Train your brats to eat what's offered, or bring something for them yourself, that doesn't require me to cook or rearrange my entire fridge. Trust me, if I know your kids are coming, I have prepared something from the list of Acceptable Child Chow Version 7.24b.
Show up with items that require refrigeration, kids or not. Cousin Debbie, you are exempt because I will SAVE ROOM for your fabulous cannolis.
Show up with something so pathetic, you should be ashamed. For example, a friend of J's once presented me with a box of 6 Dunkin Donuts, for 4 people. At the door, his 15 year old son told me he was starving and promptly ate 2. Gosh, it sure was fun when he ate two more for dessert (after devouring 2+ pounds of steak) and left 2 for the rest of us to share. Mutant.
Just as bad was the one who showed up with a 2-liter bottle of soda. Regular soda, which J and I never drink. And when he called to announce this gift, we told him we keep plenty of regular on hand for our guests. We have been shaking our heads all week.
If you can't afford to bring anything, or forgot, or couldn't find what you wanted, come with nothing. It's fine! Really! Sure, we'll dub you with a nickname (like Ronny-no-pie) but it's you we want, not your treats (again, exemption for Cousin Debbie, we will accept the aforementioned cannolis OR your nut cookies, thanks. 800 dozen, please.)
Your kids destroy my living room, and you don't clean up.
You plug the toilet, and do not bother to request homeowner assistance instead of flushing it 56 times and leaving the water teetering at the edge of the bowl.
You leave cups full of soda in the trash.
You put full burgers into the trash. At least cover them up so I don't have to spazz out over the waste.
Give me decorating tips and tell me what you would have done less than a month after I complete an 8-month fullblown kitchen renovation.
Refer to my house as a cute little cottage. It cost more than yours did, midwesterner.
Talk endlessly into the night when you can see I'm falling asleep.
Exclude me from conversations. There is a special hell for you and I'm gonna round up all my southern-drawling pals to duct tape your mouths and then force you to listen.
Arrive more than 10 minutes early. Park your ass around the block and wait. Or for God's sake, unless you are Amish, use the cell phone, and call to let me know. 9 times out of 10 I'll say come on over, and on the 10th, you will feel my unshowered hysteria through the phone and offer to bring wine, Xanax, or other calming potions.
Change the baby on my bed without putting down a towel or sheet. Ooof!
Expect me to provide towels and laundry service. One forgotten towel trip is fine. ONE.
Smoke in my house.

Gosh. Why would you want to come see me?

Off to see the Wy-zard

2006-06-22T22:02:00.000-04:00

No, I am not dead. Nor am I pretending to be one of those monks who makes the good fudge.

I started a new gig about a month ago, and I'm still adjusting to wearing shoes and proper undergarments all day. And that's all I'll say about it, other than the people are nice, it's a good situation, and I'm writing. The rest of it, nope.

What, you think I didn't learn from Dooce?

Anyway, I'm off to Cowtown in the morning, to frolic with the nieces and senior nephew, the parents, and of course, Greg-in-his-adorable-new-hut. G has kindly offered to be my date for Picnic with the Pops Saturday night, where we will gaze upon Wynonna and let her lull us into bliss.

Back away from the fork and nobody gets hurt

2006-06-04T17:42:00.000-04:00

The FDA has decided we are all too fat. No, really? But in their bizarre quest to downsize the American waistline, they've just taken aim at restaurant portions. They're suggesting that chefs trim the fat--and the portion size of restaurant entrees--so that our citizens won't eat ourselves into a state of greater distress.

While some portions (okay, most) are absurdly enormous, isn't the FDA going a little far on this? What's wrong with suggesting that people use judgment? Push away from the table. Put down the fork. Don't take the second twirl with the pesto mayo, no matter how divine it may be. The reality is, we know what we're eating. We know what it can do. And sometimes, we still choose to shovel it in.

I don't want the government regulating my body--and I sure as hell don't want them regulating my chef. Let him (or her) create joyfully. You want nutrition information available? That's cool. But leave my pretty plate alone.

Simply the best

2006-05-08T08:19:00.000-04:00

When you are married, you end up enduring a lot of things for the sake of your spouse's pleasure. Now, before you cover the childrens' eyes and close this post because you don't want to know THAT much about the fat lady's private life, that's NOT what I'm talking about here. My goodness.

No, it's music. For the last ten years J has been blasting the oldies like a senior citizen whose hearing aid needs turning up. And I have suffered through many a concert where I am the youngest in the auditorium by multiple decades.

Well, Saturday, I began evening the score. I dragged him to Wynonna in Atlantic City, and I was so overwhelmed, joyful, and in love with her every throaty note that my lip quivered and tears ran down my cheeks.

It was a very good day. We had a decent drive, an excellent dinner that was more than a bit unexpected, and the best service ever from a waiter (Susan at East Bay Crab & Grill, you ROCK). The hotel room was free, enormous, and comfy, we had candy for the car and J seemed amused by my "pop a jelly bunny in his mouth and ask him to identify the flavor" game. I kept most of my gambling money (a whole $100) in my pocket and played on $20 for two hours and still came home with $57.50 over the $100.

He was happy because he got to see whores with tattoos. And because, on Sunday, we drove to Philly to taste-test cheesesteaks. Pat's and Geno's are on the same corner. Geno's wins by a mile--better meat, although less of it. Softer, fresher, bread. Comfier plastic tables that are not particularly friendly to those who eat a lot of cheesesteaks.

I sang Wynonna songs in my head the whole way home.

Krystal blue frustration

2006-05-01T17:49:00.000-04:00

I really don't want this blog to drown in a sea of whining about abysmal customer service. But sometimes a girl needs to snap:

On Saturday I was foolish enough to stop by the Waldbaums in Levittown to do a bit of grocery shopping. Why foolish? Because this particular store offers rotten service--consistently.

Also foolish because I usually shop at the new Waldbaums in Jericho, where the service (and products) are outstanding. The staff members at Jericho are cheerful, know their products, and treat customers like valued human beings.

But Levittown is another story entirely--and my experience Saturday convinced me to never return. According to the receipt, my cashier's name was Krystal; she was, without embellishment, the epitome of awful. She treated me with absolute disdain: no greeting, no smile, just a look of scorn as she pulled my items across the scanner. When she scanned my jumbo delicious apples, I noticed they rang at $1.29/pound rather than the advertised $1.00/pound, and I mentioned this to her. Nicely. Rather than checking, she argued with me, finally sending a pleasant man off to produce to check the price. As we waited for him to return, she huffed, puffed, snorted, and finally turned her back on me.

When he returned and showed her the mistake was hers--she'd refused to look at the apple tags and instead input the wrong code, she glared at me as this was corrected. She completed the transaction in silence, just sighing enough to let me know that my choosing her line had ruined her day, or perhaps her entire life.

Gosh, so sorry to have chosen her line. Maybe her little nose stud was poking her.

Bless me

2006-04-27T09:33:00.000-04:00

I have a cold, and it's all J's fault.

It nearly did him in last week, which of course pissed him off because it was his Easter/Passover break from the perils of teaching 6-hours-and 37-minutes per day, less prep, lunch, and nap, and not including Fridays which are 6-hours-20-minutes. Instead of stormtrooping Home Depot he had to settle for wheezing in his woodshop and spending far too much time at the doctor.

He was kind enough to share the bug with me. I normally don't accept these things but this one crept into my delicate nose and now has me cranky. Of course, I'm not nearly as sick as he was, but it's still annoying. My throat hurts, I'm sneezing too often to be blessed, and I'm just slightly mud-brained.

The good news is, I am drinking LOTS of iced tea. Yesterday I sucked down two pitchers of Republic of Tea's blackberry sage. So delicious, and it doesn't need sweetener. Today, it's Bentley's Mango White. It's good to know that simple things still comfort.

The bunny trail

2006-04-14T16:41:00.000-04:00

So last Saturday we were at Wal-mart, and J was frolicking with the discount paintbrushes and el-cheapo sno-cone syrup like a lottery winner in a ho-house. After loading my wifely cart with Bounty, White Cloud, Lysol Wipes, and trash bags, I plunked myself down on a bench in plasticware to await his clearance for departure.

I was not far from the day's highlight--a mangy white rabbitish human holding an egg and wearing footie pajamas. He was conveniently ambling between the endless shelves of Easter candy, baskets, cellophane grass, plastic eggs, doo-dads, and other crap--and the garden center, where a disinterested woman was getting reamed for giving out two free pansies instead of one.

I tried not to watch all the parents filling their carts with Easter booty right in front of their mewling progeny, thus destroying any potential belief in the true Easter Bunny who hops through windows and fills baskets while the wee ones are fast asleep. Now it's all "Mom, gimme," and into the cart it plops.

But then a mother with two girls, perhaps 3 and 4, wandered up, and the tinier girl stopped in absolute awe, her face glowing, her little legs jumping up and down. "Mommy," she whispered, "Mommy, mommy, mommy! It's him. Look! The Easter Bunny!"

And in that instant, I believed, too.

In small packages

2006-04-07T12:30:00.000-04:00

In December I pitched and sold an article to For Me magazine, Woman's Day's younger, hipper little sister. I've been trying to crack the women's market for over a year and finally, I nailed it. Of course, as soon as she accepted my piece, my brilliant editor quit to be a factchecker at Teen Vogue. But such is life.

Anyway, it was slated to run in the May issue and for the last two weeks, I've been hitting grocery mag racks and Borders like a stalker. On Tuesday I went to the new Barnes & Noble to scavenge their giant racks. Much to my delight, a manager saw me hunting and offered to help. We bent and stretched and did all sorts of Pilates, but alas, no For Me for me. Bah.

But I am easily consoled, and so marched off to the cafe for a venti iced decaf whole milk sugar-free hazelnut latte. And for the first time in my entire $4+ ridiculous beverage life, the clerk repeated it back perfectly, marked it on the cup, and invited me to sit down and relax while he whipped it up. Well!

Ass parked in a chair, I glanced at the cafe's rack of recommended mags and books, and there it was: the May For Me, with Sarah Jessica Parker on the cover. I held my breath, pulled it open, and there it was, in all its glory.

Have you ever seen a fat lady dance in a cafe?

Stiff

2006-03-26T18:49:00.000-05:00

Dearest Shampoogirl,

Your blonde tresses are really pretty, but I am afraid they are not enough. Nor was your skill in clipping a black towel around my neck that exemplary: the towel slithered to the floor moments later and lay there, rejected, for the next two hours. I felt its pain.

You see, Shampoogirl, as much as it must suck to roll little towels and stuff them in a basket, as much as it must nauseate you to wash hair, oh, three times in two hours, or lead a client to the dryer now and then, it is simply part of your job. I don't believe the salon hired you to be Stuckupprincessgirl.

Thanks to you, my forehead is brown. My scalp and hair really did need more than the ten-second swoop of suds, and rubbing one side of my head was just the ticket. Oh, and the joyful 30 minutes under the dryer with ice cold air blasting on my glaze was just so divine. I felt so precious when you stomped your royal foot and ordered me to another chair when I dared to grab a magazine. Oh, the agony!

Shampoogirl, all my life I have been a generous tipper. I've served for a living and I know how awful it can be. Today I did something I've never done in my entire life: I kept your tip in my pocket. And gosh, Shampoogirl, not one of the other women you hosed down this afternoon coughed it up, either. We weren't cheap. We didn't forget.

But apparently you did.

Your dyed-and-not-so-devoted customer,
The fat lady

Rolling on the river

2006-03-20T19:49:00.000-05:00

Sunday would not be Sunday in the Yaegerhut without the hot Panera injection. J has developed this odd addiction to their cinnamon crunch bagels and lowfat cream cheese, and sways with rapture as he feasts and conquers his world for the week.

Not being a fan of their pretty pastries that taste like sawdust, I usually end up ordering lunch at 10:30 am. I have overdosed on their lowfat black bean soup. It's not bad if I can convince them to stop being so damn stingy with the croutons. Honestly. I ask for croutons, and they hand me a baggie filled with oh, four. Once, five. I am not satisfied with less than eight.

On yesterday's jaunt, I was almost delirious as their website promised the trifecta: a new salad, a new sandwich, and a new soup. Wheee! Got there to discover the salad and sandwich, but the same old boring and greasy soup choices. Where oh where was my spring pea with asparagus and mint?

I made the mistake of asking the Paneroid at the counter, and with great sighing and banging upon her shiny register, she rolled her eyes as if I had asked her to calculate Pi to 57 places. And as my husband bounced up and down with glee over his forthcoming toasty bagel, I contemplated all the miseries that my first boss would've heaped upon her snotty, indifferent head. Paneragirl, you are a bad, bad person.

Overblown

2006-03-17T23:36:00.000-05:00

It has been a frustrating month, what with disappearing editors and gigs that slink out of town in the middle of the night. At times I have looked at the multi-pierced barista at the local Barnesbucks and wondered if her nonchalant incompetence is actually a sign of superior intelligence.

But then I am granted a small sign or two. Case in point: yesterday, after a meeting that left me reeling, I stopped by a couple of nail salons to deliver the latest issue of Nails Magazine. The salons had been sources for my article, The One Hour Princess (on profitable pedicures) and I thought they might like to see the piece. (It's here if you're so inclined.)

Well.

Got to the first salon, and there was my article, blown up into a giant poster in the front window. The counter was covered with copies. On to the second salon, where the owner threw me into a chair and got teary eyed as she described reading the issue she got in the mail. Apparently she didn't quite understand why I was asking all those questions or taking photos a few months back, but there she was. "It was a dream come true," she sighed, and chased me out to the car to hug me.

Better than a hot stone therapy massage with extra reflexology.

The lizard in the blizzard

2006-02-12T17:12:00.000-05:00

Boy, do I wish I'd gone on that cruise with G and D this week.

We got six inches overnight, and a good foot more today--and it's still snowing hard. J fired up his stinky green blower and fumed himself up and down the street, enamoring the neighbors as he cleared their walks and driveways. Soon as he ran out of gas, he hopped into the Beetle. Nothing keeps that man from Panera on a Sunday. We had some yummy black bean soup and other assorted bites. Soon as we got home, the plow came by four times. I guess he needed to make sure he blocked the end of the driveway.

The rabbit that enjoyed my garden this summer was back in the yard last night looking terrified. We think its escape hole got filled up and it was too dumb to dig through. Barefoot Contessa wannabe that I am, I tossed it some raw spinach, carrots, and bread and it came running. So long as it leaves my rosemary alone.

J was in a tizzy this morning, threatening to eat all the food, which I've rationed to last for over a week (if he's obedient). He tore into my good bacon which means my plans for 3 quiches and a pot of bean soup are wrecked. Good thing I've got six boxes of microwave popcorn for true emergencies.

No peeking

2006-01-30T11:05:00.000-05:00

It was only a matter of time. In a moment of hope last fall, I planted hundreds of bulbs in the yard: yellow narcissus, white daffodils with orangey-red trumpets, lemony ruffled jonquils. All in enormous clumps. Down the driveway bed, in the big composed beds front and back, and even around the pool.

We've had virtually no winter to speak of this year (a fact that delights me, I must admit) so my one fear is that the bulbs would start shooting up prematurely. It won't kill them, but when true spring hits, the little leaves will sport dingy brown tips. Day after day, I've scanned the yard, watching for the first celery-colored tuft.

Yesterday, there it was. Part of me was thrilled: the bulbs lived! It was a good investment. The other part slumped. I covered it up with mulch, but by the time I came out an hour later, its little friends had all pushed through, clamoring for the sunshine.

And who was I to stop them?

Red light, green light

2006-01-21T00:46:00.000-05:00

Will someone please tell me what's going on?

Today J had the rabid desire to consume an enormous cheeseburger (20 ounces, not including cheese and assorted toppings) and a double malt pistachio shake, so I zipped off in my little grey Beetle for a late afternoon date.

By the time I arrived, he was shaking by the doorway, getting whiffs of the beefy aroma and subtly staring down the packs of teenagers who were surely going to take our table, relegating him to leftover pork roast at home.

I was quivering for another reason: the normally 8-12 minute ride (burger nirvana is just a block from the dentist I enjoy so much) lasted a frustrating 38 minutes. Why? Because every self-centered nitwit in Plainview insisted on running the lights and turning left when the green light on my side indicated it was my turn. Not one car per intersection, or even two, but EIGHT! Then NINE, as I aimed my Beetle right at them and growled. And yes, most of them were yapping on cell phones, which is ILLEGAL in this state.

I was so flustered by the time I arrived, I couldn't even think of eating moo-cow. I had a portabella mushroom sandwich, on rye. And a half milkshake. Banana. Yum.

J and his burger had a lovely time, and his photo is now on the wall for finishing the big beast. My man is famous.

Out of the mouths of babes

2005-12-31T01:33:00.000-05:00

Over the river and over the woods, in a tiny white jet I go. . .

If I didn't travel, I'd probably never see my family. It is apparently an unwritten rule that I must be the one to stuff myself into an aircraft and live out of a suitcase for several days. Oh, I cannot say they never come. . . but the one who holds the record has been here twice in ten years. I try not to grumble, but Christ.

But my journeys are rewarded with both homemade cookies and strong showers. Not to mention thoughtful comments from the kidlets, who are too smart for words.

Take K, who is 4: When I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian. And a jockey. And a volunteer firefighter on weekends. But what I really want is to be a blonde.

The cards

2005-12-23T01:32:00.000-05:00

Ho ho ho, or something equally festive. If you're waiting by the mailbox for our Christmas card, get back in the house and wrap something. The box has been on my desk for a month and I just haven't bothered.

It's not that I don't wish every last one of you lovely things, miracles, and remarkable moments. Really.

I'm simply focused on finding my next path. Or my next client. Or something radiant.

I know. Coal in my stocking. Humbug.

Flossing: history revealed

2005-12-12T23:32:00.000-05:00

Not long ago, a bit of shredded meat got stuck under one of my crowns (the dental kind, not the princess kind, unfortunately), and after half a roll of Glide floss (the multiple orgasm of floss, really) I finally admitted defeat and called my dentist.

Seconds after ascending his throne and being tipped upside down, I was informed that the tooth next to the crown had a little cavity. I accepted his offer of a quick fill, and my life has never been the same.

Let's just sum it up: nerve damage. . . the charming sensation of lightning bolts alternating with rusty nails being shoved up inside the tooth, now nicknamed stubby the evil bastard. . . a lovely procedure to have it opened and drained. . . a root canal in two parts. . . a broken filling on the other side, the only side on which I could chew. . . and a month later, I'm still sporting stubby and food is still getting caught under that crown.

In the middle of all this, I changed dentists. The new guy is great, but I'm real tired of hanging out in his office. We filled the broken beast on the other side, and then the tooth next to it decided to make itself known.

Lo, another crown, more torture, and gums that now go ballistic when I eat meat. I haul out the Glide flosspicks and dig like a pirate on a beach. It's kinda scary. Bits are turning up days later--even after I've flossed three days in a row. Where does the food hide? How does the broccoli stay bright green?

I don't give a damn about the whole state of Michigan, but. . .

2005-11-29T08:07:00.000-05:00

We got stuck in Detroit for 4 hours on Thanksgiving, thanks to the self centered idiots leaving LGA that afternoon who simply refused to board quickly and take their seats. It was like flying Air Bronx. Took over an hour to load the aircraft, and then they wouldn't sit. Then, of course, we lost our takeoff slot.

So much for our connection. But in a stroke of weirdness, we got off the plane at the same gate from which our Vegas bound flight had just departed, and so they had little kits waiting for us with our new flight info, a letter of apology, phone cards, and food vouchers. We were stunned. For all the bad things we've heard about Northwest, they treated us quite nicely.

We figured we'd donate the phone cards, and I told J to screw the vouchers as I knew a secret. Dragged him to the Westin in the terminal, where I stayed last January during the auto show. It has one of the coolest lobbies anywhere, with 8 story live bamboo in the atrium, running water, lots of stone, and a zen atmosphere. They also have an open restaurant where I figured he could have sushi and a glass of wine. It's insanely expensive, but a treat for the soul as much as the mouth.

No sushi. Instead, they served Thanksgiving dinner--for $18.75. We almost keeled over. Roasted butternut squash soup with curry, orange, and creme fraiche. Salad with walnuts and dried cranberries. The bird, with porcini and truffles, over stuffing, broccolini, and asparagus, with mashed taters and cranberries. Dessert was a huge slice of cheesecake with maple-sweet potato caramel and toasted walnuts.

It was blissful, and we both marveled at our good fortune. And then the waitress asked if we had distressed passenger vouchers, and told us they accepted them! So we had that amazing meal for barely more than the cost of a tip.

Who knew? I mean, when did those wolverines get so smart?

Fairies

2005-11-14T02:20:00.000-05:00

My husband is convinced that fairies fly into our bedroom during the day and make our bed. Today I broke his fantasy bubble and revealed the truth about the Q-tip fairies: they do not exist.

Evil bitch that I am, I then emasculated him further by insisting he fill his little Q-tip jar himself. At first he resisted, pointing at the two jumbo boxes of Q-tips and asking which to select. "The open one," I replied, not giving him an inch.

Moments later, as he stuffed the little sticks into the jar, I swear I saw the tiny wings sprouting on his back.

So my question is this: what are boy fairies called?

The fat lady weeps

2005-10-26T12:26:00.000-04:00

A great teacher and poet died last week. Call him professor, call him poet laureate, call him husband and father, call him friend. I called David Citino my mentor and inspiration, and I'm immensely sad knowing that he's gone from this world.

True, his words live on, but that's little consolation for those who long to sit with him, watching those coke bottle glasses bent over a poem, pencil ticking off the extra words, stripping it down to simplicity. Or to hear him laugh, burst into song. All of us were very blessed.

Where's the beef?

2005-10-16T11:50:00.000-04:00

There is a raging debate going on in our little sage house this weekend: if a meatloaf is made with chicken and turkey (as opposed to beef, pork, or veal), can it still be called meatloaf? I say yes, especially since the recipe it started from calls it meatloaf, and it is an enormous loaf of ground meat, eggs, french bread crumbs, onions, garlic, pepper, cheese, and thyme.

One would hardly call it chirkey loaf.

Whatever the case, it's delicious. So were the roasted brussel sprouts and carrots. Maybe I'll go have some for brunch RIGHT NOW.

Passion, fruit, tea

2005-10-14T13:23:00.000-04:00

I don't often babble about the behavior in New York grocery stores because it is generally so dismal that I just go home and grunt into my pillow. Now and then the cashier speaks at Waldbaums, and the cheery bees at Trader Joe's are always abuzz with joy, but the rest of them, bah. They hate us, and it shows. The nitwits who staff Fairway are the worst.

Lucky for me, there's now a stunning alternative: Whole Foods. Let's just say I am in love, with every smiling, helpful person, with every perfect piece of produce, the honeycrisps and sugar pumpkins, the leeks and carrots I could buy individually, with the enormous stash of tea, the aromas, the floors, the whole damn heavenly place.

Oh, damn the prices. I'm going back, again and again.

Mister Softee rides again

2005-10-11T01:52:00.000-04:00

All summer long, I was tortured by the tinkling notes of the Mister Softee jingle. The truck would creep up and down the streets of my little neighborhood, and despite the $8 in my sweaty little hand, would never make it to my particular street.

But then it did. "Deedle-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee, dee dee dee Mister Softee," and I went racing down the driveway, sandals askew, to wave down a hot and stinky truck. It was late August, hot and humid, and the sprinkles on my husband's sundae melted into my hands and shirt before I reached the pool. Still, it was wicked, joyful, and sweet.

Every few days, I ran to greet the truck, quickly switching from ice cream to milkshakes, which keep better, and are especially yummy if you ask the driver to mix in a real banana (as opposed to processed banana flavoring).

Eventually, though, I tired of spending $8/day on stuff that was only making my blood sugar go up. And so I put my hands over my ears, or busied myself chopping garlic when the truck sauntered by, even pausing at the end of my driveway several days. "Once a week," I vowed.

So it was double torture when Mister Softee decided to step it up. Not only did he come by between 3 and 4 each afternoon, he began doubling back at NIGHT! Not 7:30 or 8, but at 9:30, when all good children should be sound asleep in the their beds, and not wandering the streets in search of soft serve. And lately, he has been bumbling down the street, deedly-deeing away, after 10 o'clock.

Methinks Mister Softee needs Mister Sominex.

Playing chicken

2005-08-08T18:27:00.000-04:00

Any day that starts out with a husband begging his wife to rescue him is bound to be good. In a pre-senior moment, J locked his keys in the Beetle and I had to dash off with my spare set to let him in. Good thing I work from home, huh?

That accomplished, we got him fed and then visited the jeweler. This is always a good thing. My birthday trinkets were sized and ready but alas my neck grew, and my wrist did the opposite, so I didn't get to wear them home. Boo. But we ordered a new piece for me, a ring made from the stones of both our mothers' own rings, and it will be lovely. And we got my pearls lengthened, so once it is cool enough to wear them again I will look polished and preppy. . . in my tie-dye.

Our third stop had us across the street from a poultry farm, and since there was no meat in the house for J's dinner, he was only too eager to stop. He balked a little when he saw the cages and heard the clucking. But when the chicken man held up the first possibility, J turned pale and bolted to the car like a city boy. I pointed at another bird, a fat white chicken with a good attitude, thanked him for being our supper, and nodded at a white duck. "Honk," he said in return, agreeing to come home with us, too.

Ten minutes and $24 later, I left with two warm black plastic bags. The temperature was disconcerting. J squealed louder than the birds during their beheadings and made them ride in the trunk.

But somehow he recovered enough to get that duck in the oven. And it already smells amazing. I haven't had fresh poultry since I was 13, when we lived in the country and I rode my bike to the chicken and egg farm. Chickens were $4 then, with $1 extra for the execution. My mother always gave me the $5, but $1 bought a lot of candy on the way home, so I watched once and from then on, snapped their necks myself.

That's no longer an option. J would faint.

It's your party, and I'll cry if I want to

2005-08-07T10:10:00.000-04:00

Call me ambitious. Or call me insane. Either way, I somehow encouraged the homebound husband (30 more days) to not only participate in the block party, but to invite every human he knew (and was still speaking to). And then in a fit of madness, I invited my posse. Most of whom were already dripping at block parties of their own, but had it all made the A-list of priorities, we could've had 68 people in our yard yesterday.

Friends. Sometimes you love 'em best when they stay home.

But despite that anti-social sentiment, we ended up with a good crowd of 37 yesterday, not including Lenny or Kenny the grill man, hired to keep us well-fed and even more content than usual. Kenny-Lenny was my hero for the day, and he made mighty fine burgers, and did not laugh when I doused them with mustard. AND he got my name right, which is more than I can say for myself or some of the guests, and they weren't the ones drinking mai-tais, either.

It was a glorious day, just this side of too hot and humid. The kids behaved. No one knocked over the pickles. Six rolls of toilet paper were used and replaced in my loo without my having to do it myself, and no one clogged the toilet! This is true party success.

The guests even spontaneously folded and put away our chairs and tables. How is that for wonderful? Luis and Maryann, you get the pamela-ain't-havin'-no-kids-but-y'all-do-it-right Award for the year. With special mention to B&B, but I already knew they were wonderful.

At any rate, I learned the ultimate party/dinner guest lesson yesterday: don't bring something that goes in the fridge unless you ask first. I actually figured it out the night before, when I suddenly had visions of 45 cake boxes competing with my giant bottles of fruity alcohol and even larger vats of mango salsa. I hereby pledge to always bring cookies or brownies unless I am asked to trot my diabetic ass into the corner bakery for a dulce de leche cake.

I got lucky on this one yesterday as we got the message out to most guests before they hit the bakery. (All you who called, gold stars, and all you who obeyed our orders not to bring anything but your asses and your towels, DOUBLE gold stars!) I had room for the two fridge worthy items, including a box of the best handmade cannolis in the world, one of which I'm about to eat for breakfast.

Hell, I may even eat two, because Mr. Party Central is still curled in a little ball, whimpering. Silly man. Parties are fun.

No thank you

2005-07-27T19:15:00.000-04:00

This whole yoga and self-centering doesn't work when you've got a ranting man in the house. I am working so hard (at working hard) and doing everything I can to stay sane without vitamins or medication, and then there's him. A bubbling fountain of anger, resentment, and blame.

Apparently the fact that I work at home means that I am a housewife. Forgive me, but I doubt my clients would agree. Worse yet, I am apparently the worst housewife in the world. Oh well. It is not exactly what I aspired to when contemplating my life.

And no, that's not an insult to good housewives everywhere, who take their roles and responsibilities seriously and offer them up with pride. Ladies, I salute you, in my most ardently feminist manner.

It's just not me. And I am not a criminal because I forgot to get fat-free pudding.

There's no thank you for getting it right. But imperfection, oh, let's blast her struggling psyche.

Gratuitous worship of the Barefoot Contessa

2005-07-15T13:28:00.000-04:00

It was the best of weeks; it was the worst of weeks. In a fit of sheer genius, I sent my history-loving husband off to Detroit, land of authentic memorabilia, Bob Evans restaurants, humidity, and funny odors (I am, of course, an Ohio State graduate and thereby contractually obligated to denounce the state of Michigan whenever possible).

I then invited my stack of girlfriends over for a chick's night in, and ceremonial making fun of our former boss's little boobs. Although it's generally the brain we make fun of, not the breasts. But whatever.

This, of course, was all to happen in a two day whirlwind, during which I was managing my clients, fielding phone calls from the man as he sat on the actual Rosa Parks bus, either watering the garden or beholding the torrential rains that came five minutes later, and folding more laundry than two people should produce in a year.

So naturally, it was all set to crash and burn. Dropped him off at the airport, got rear-ended on the way home. Lesson learned: in a Beetle vs. Mini Cooper battle, the Mini wins. Damn it.

Went to the doc, expecting long lecture on weight, blood pressure, need to consume nothing but celery and boiled eggs for summer. Got instead gentle praise, permission to eat lemon tart in France three months ago. Lesson learned: he's not the enemy.

While out running around, knew that the cleaning people were getting the house in perfect condition for last night's soiree. Went to grocery and stood in line behind world's SLOWEST WOMAN ALIVE who took 4 minutes to pull out her debit card. Came home to messy house and message that cleaners were sick. Guests to arrive in 2 hours. Lesson learned: the one day you really need someone to scrub your toilet, she's not going to bring the brush.

Thanks to the Barefoot Contessa, who deserves the highest praise possible, managed to make the house, food, and atmosphere all fabulous, and all on time. Even had time for a quick shower with expensive French bath gel.

Wheeeee!

Summertime blues

2005-06-29T09:23:00.000-04:00

Admonitions to self:

Count the Xanax. Barring any moments in traffic or relatives moving in for more than 24 hours, you have enough to get you through the summer.

Telling him he can't talk about school, his fellow teachers, and the endless chatter about students for the REST OF THE SUMMER was a brilliant move. Enforce that one.

Find things for him to do every single day, and praise him when he gets them right. (This is from Dog Training 101.)

When it gets bad, close office door and play 80s disco-pop and howl along with self-pitying lyrics. It is time he learned what you really like.

Remember, you knew he was a teacher, with summers off, when you married him.

Make little calendar with creative date covers, a la Martha, to mark off the next 65 days of non-solitude.

When it gets really bad, hand him the sunscreen, a sandwich, and a bottle of water, then lock him at the pool.

Wherefore art thou, Walmart?

2005-06-22T14:37:00.000-04:00

Here on Long Island, the arrival of Walmart was greeted with almost as much excitement as the opening of Krispy Kreme. And in my neck of the scrubby woods, they actually share a parking lot. I can fulfill my cleaning product and cotton ball needs, pick up a pack of panties, and inhale Original Glazed, all in the same stop.

But I'm not going back. Even my maids aren't going back. They've turned me on to the upgraded Walmart, which has a secret garden center entrance and a Pergo-like floor in the undies section. It also has narrow aisles and a semi-agitated woman sitting at the garden entrance who told me to "look out there" when I asked where they keep the carts. And I still haven't found their stash of fat-free pudding, or any green trash cans with wheels. Bugger.

Last night, to save time, I went to the Krispy Walmart, where they had 6000 people in line and 2 cashiers open at 5:30 pm. I had the misfortune of waiting behind a family who clearly had just arrived in the US with nothing. First Mama and Papa with one cart, and as we inched forward, the children and granny and endless relatives kept coming up with full carts to add to their bundle of discounted home joy. I couldn't do a damn thing about it, either. There were 800 people in line behind me. The customer service rep kept begging everyone to go to jewelry to check out, but refused to hold my spot in line if I got there and found an even longer line of panty-craving consumers.

Finally it was my turn, and the cashier did not say a word to me, just slammed my things into the bags and pointed at the total. She even managed to rupture my bottle of RoundUp weed killer, not that I discovered it until it leaked all over my hands and trunk. And what was Walmart's solution? Go back in and wait, in the same line.

I left. Krispy Kremes stink on a hot day anyway.

Gender-based laws of nature

2005-05-28T09:38:00.000-04:00

I grew up with three brothers, so you'd think this would've come to me before now, but I'm bristling with the question:

Is there some sort of male law that makes heterosexual adult males incapable of the following?

Replacing the roll of toilet paper
Handing over one plastic-wrapped and therefore invisible ultra-thin maxi pad when a woman has declared an emergency
Replacing the roll of paper towels
Remembering that the paper towels are kept in the front closet, and have been for five years
Picking up the hand towel in the bathroom after throwing it on the floor
Throwing out the empty box after consuming the last granola bar, cracker, cookie, or other high-carb treat
Drinking from a glass instead of the container when no one is watching

I'd really like to know, so I can go appeal to the judge. Or better yet, become the judge.

The things I ate in France

2005-05-03T00:19:00.000-04:00

Foie gras. . . searingly hot duck liver over a bed of crushed tart cherries and redcurrants and their wonderful juice. It was so wonderful, I wanted to lick the plate and order it again as plat and dessert.

White asparagus, which seemed to be the big flashing blue-light special on every single menu. Maybe I'm missing the point, but it wasn't that spectacular. . . and it sure wasn't worthy of 15 whole euros.

The worst spring roll I have ever tasted. I should've known better. Raw garlic pasta wrapper, red peppers and tons of cilantro tossed with merde-stinky mushrooms do not add up to anything but icky.

Every single flavor of Laduree's macaroons, except licorice. Swoon, except for the rose, which is just plain weird. But to be contrary, the violet is yummy.

Tarte citron, millefeuilles, tarte tatin, pear tart, tart with apricots and fraises (there is no strawberry like a French strawberry) and lots of creme Chantilly. And let us not forget the passionfruit and cassis sorbet. (This is not the proper way for a diabetic to behave.)

Omelets. Blissful, soft omelets with jambon and fromage. Mon dieu.

I want to go back. Now.

Duck, duck, mousse

2005-04-04T17:28:00.000-04:00

We ventured into the city yesterday for brunch, and ate at this tiny little place in the Village called Deborah, where the cheerful lesbian chef held court over her open kitchen and worked absolute magic with the food.

J and I both ate the same thing, which is often a mistake, but we couldn't resist the pretty waitress as she swooned over the duck confit hash. And boy, were we rewarded. Almost smoky, with a hint of either plum or hoisin sauce, soft, garlicky potatoes, and threads of what looked like spinach, topped with two firm eggs that were past their over-easy promise, the hash was incredible.

But the best part was Deborah's homemade banana pudding. I went for the key lime tartlet with nut crust (bliss) but J was the smartie. I managed a tiny dot and would've done just about anyone or anything to have the entire happy glass.

Yum.

Viva, Lost Vegas

2005-02-27T18:19:00.000-05:00

I suppose I shouldn't be complaining since I came home with more money than when I left. . . and the room really was free, thanks to a casino host who will probably never invite me back again.

But here I go.

On Wednesday at one of the major casinos on the strip, I saw something that should have defied nature. Picture, if you will, a 35-ish mother. Breastfeeding an infant. In the casino. While simultaneously dragging on a cigarette and pressing the spin button at a slot machine.

Now that's multitasking.

Whine on, I'm buying. The slots at the Monte Carlo are both outdated and tight. It's as if their slot buyer shopped at the 99 cent slot shop. Bring on the Monopoly, Price is Right, and other 70s TV-themed slots. Your I Dream of Jeanies just don't cut it anymore.

I ate too damn much. That said, I enjoyed just about every bite. Yes, dear, even the salad.

Should someone in your group decide to go retro and buy tickets for the Rat Pack Revisited, either book a spa appointment for yourself that night or wear a gas mask. While the show isn't bad, the venue is blessed with the most foul stench ever to grace a tourist attraction. Evidently the patrons like to mark their territory like a bunch of feral cats. My husband can't smell, and even he was choking on l'eau de pissreek. I ran out of the building and went straight to the first sink.

In and Out burgers are much more delicious than Fatburgers. But Fatburger has better shakes.

One last thought: when a waitress raises her eyebrows and beams when you order a large margarita, do yourself a favor and downsize to the medium. I think it was meant to quench the thirst and buzz needs of a family of sixteen. Lordy. I am still amazed that I was able to walk from the restaurant.

I didn't come here to listen to you, dumbass

2005-02-16T11:58:00.000-05:00

Attention, loudmouth:

Your wife is talking to the people at the next table, and your whining kindergartener is crying too damn loud for a little girl who's eating a $75 steak. And it's all because you are an arrogant buffoon with that cell phone.

So hang up!

You're at Peter Luger. This is Valentine's Day. The entire room has to listen to your blather, and no one gives a shit! We are here for the meat and the experience, not to spend an hour with you.
And PS, the crying kid needs to shut the hell up, too.

If I only had a heart

2005-02-12T08:34:00.000-05:00

I don't have kids, and at this stage in my life, I don't think they're happening. I've long given up on the whole pregnancy and passing on the family name thing, but somewhere inside I still harbor traces of wanting a Chinese baby girl. My inner Women's Studies minor gets activated and I get indignant and want to spoil my own little one and zip her into a pink snowsuit.

Oh well.

Anyway, last night, after seeing the movie Hitch (pretty damn good), feasting on chicken taquitos and fresh guacamole at Baja Fresh (their Salsa Baja is like crack to me) my husband decided we should bring dessert to our friends' house. Since we are both trying to shrink, we brought fruit. And it wasn't bad. Nor was the visit, probably because their three kids had already gone to bed, and other than a few wailing protests from upstairs, we didn't hear a peep, which meant we got to talk like grownups all night.

So there we were, slurping down melon chunks, talking about C going back to work when the youngest turns five, when she expressed her concern that if she worked far away, who would help her kids if there was a crisis at school one day.

And I sat there and didn't say a word. My mouth wanted to open and remind them that I'm a mere 10 minutes away, that I work from home, and that my Beetle is kid-friendly and has at least 15 Happy Meal toys in the back. Oh, and that I would be happy to help out in an emergency.

But all my car-loving mind could conjure up was the thought of one of those kids barfing all over my car.

So there it is. I am unfit for even substitute parenthood.

The bassmaster

2005-02-08T20:57:00.000-05:00

Somewhere in my neighborhood, there's a nitwit who loves his bass. At night. And while the rest of us are sitting here enjoying suburbia and our $7500 tax bills, he's pumping it up. It's not even rhythmic. It's just banging and jamming and it gets to my teeth.

If I knew who it was. . . well, I wouldn't do anything about it. What does one do in these situations? Ring the bell and say "hello, your sorry-assed excuse for music is too damn loud?" Uh, no. For one thing, who would hear the bell?

And for another, this is New York.

My husband would probably suggest we retaliate with bad opera (and we have plenty) but then the other neighbors would probably come after us.

No wonder my parents insisted that we grow up in the woods. What gets to you there? Raccoons? Nut-hurling squirrels?

Toe woe

2005-02-06T11:12:00.000-05:00

I broke my baby toe this week.

In a moment of utter stupidity or semi-blindness, I whacked it right into one of our Pier One pine kitchen stools. Whatever they tell you about pine, it's not a soft wood when body parts are involved.

Four days later, it still hurts like hell, the nail is trying to fall off, and underneath my Scarlet nail polish, I think the damn thing is turning black. And did I mention it hurts?

Tomorrow I'm supposed to go get a pedicure, but I haven't decided if I'm ready for them to handle my delicate little foot yet. I wonder how you say "don't touch my baby toe, damnit" in Mandarin.

Veggie, veggie fruit fruit

2005-02-05T16:29:00.000-05:00

We went to the grocery store yesterday, but my husband fell into such a tizzy when I disappeared down the laundry aisle that he called me on my cell phone (that incidentally plays "Evil Ways") to share his angst. I didn't pick up, but that meant I forgot the egg whites.

So off I trudged this afternoon, to another grocery that has the misfortune of being attached to the local WalMart. Meaning, of course, there is always a battle for parking, the clientele have that harried look, and you can always find an open pack of cookies.

Not that I eat them. I'm diabetic. If I want a cookie, I'm going for the good stuff.

But I digress. What I must bellow about today is this store's cashiers. Why oh why are they incapable of packing bags of food? Isn't it easy enough to put the cold things together? To put the soapy things in a little bag home of their own, and not in with the lemons and cauliflower?

And why the fuck can't they manage a simple thank you?

I grew up working in a supermarket, and if I had treated customers with such disdain, my ass would've been out the door and the manager would've had my mother on the phone. And we would've been forced to shop somewhere else out of pure shame.

Whatever happened to shame?

Hello darkness my old friend

2005-02-05T16:28:00.000-05:00

What is it about editors? They've got this anti-social thing going on, and I don't like it one bit. I mean, how hard is it to respond to a simple query or follow-up? I'm so eager to please, I send follow-ups that ask them to merely type yes, no, or need more time in the reply, and they still can't fucking bother. How rude is that?

It irks me more because most of my editors are great at responding to whatever I send. Why can't the others play nicely with freelancers?

It's as if silence is an acceptable response. Please.