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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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?

1. Replacing the roll of toilet paper
2. Handing over one plastic-wrapped and therefore invisible ultra-thin maxi pad when a woman has declared an emergency
3. Replacing the roll of paper towels
4. Remembering that the paper towels are kept in the front closet, and have been for five years
5. Picking up the hand towel in the bathroom after throwing it on the floor
6. Throwing out the empty box after consuming the last granola bar, cracker, cookie, or other high-carb treat
7. 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.