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.

Veggie, veggie fruit fruit

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

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.