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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

1. 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.
2. You're not here to call the bookie, either.
3. Complain about pretty much everything I do. Don't like it? Sorry. Go home.
4. 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.
5. 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?

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

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:

1. Suddenly turn right from the far left lane
2. Run red lights
3. Yap on mobile phones, without headsets
4. Ride my ass even though I'm flowing with traffic and going well over the speed limit, in the middle or right lane
5. 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.