Off to see the Wy-zard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. . .

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.