The meatloaf was scrumptious! See:
MMMMmmmm! Damn good!
We had a great dinner at Mexican Radio — a bit overpriced, but “that’s SoHo for you” — then an even better time at a party in a very lovely Midtown apartment. I didn’t have to worry about a hangover, but even at this age, I still always worry about all the stupid things I must have said. The next morning I usually try to rehash all conversations and wonder at which point did things turn awkward and was it my fault. Probably.
Then I got knocked down and dragged by a cab who refused us service to Astoria. So I worried about that instead.
Alive, but bruised.
Since I’ve been working on a re-design of my website (as I hinted at during my funk the last two months), I’ve been too busy to write anything interesting. Instead I’ll just bullet point some things:
(1) The 4: Your Consideration Art Series event was well-attended considering the time of year. We had about the same size crowd as the first one, but this time, everyone who attended received two free tickets to see 42nd Street on January 22nd. Nice. The Belt Theatre is a neat space and the people there are top notch.
(2) Addicted, Mark Lundholm‘s one man show, was great. Greater still were the free tickets and being able to spread the wealth to all my friends. I’m still in love with the Zipper Theatre. I would love to put on a big show there. One day, one day.
(3) Somebody should take my credit card away.
(4) I’m in the midst of another little home improvement project. I am high from staining a drop leaf table and waiting for it to dry before I polyurethane it. Christian is on his way over to help me mount it to the wall before we eat dinner and watch the Survivor finale. It will be so nice to have a table on which to eat. Now I just need some placemats and napkins and a hanging light and . . . see #3 above.
(5) I was in Williamsburg for Cofounder’s fundraiser and became very annoyed by two grungy little hippie types. They were dancing big and drawing undeserved attention to themselves and they smelled like shit. I wanted to tell them, “You know what? You’re not making a statement, you just stink and look like an asshole.” Everyone else there was great and the music of The Izzys and Dufus was terrific. I would see the former again definitely and the latter if they ditched their smelly, megalomaniac of a keyboardist.
(6) If you’re ever in the Garmet District or go to Madison Square Garden for anything and need a quiet, quaint little restaurant, I highly recommend Napoli Trattoria. There doesn’t seem to be much info on the web about this little place, so their secret isn’t out. It’s extremely affordable and the service was very attentive without being annoying. Their cuisine is listed as “pizza”, but it has a full italian menu.
Okay, time to hang up that table.
Busy, busy beaver.
Christian successfully “made” Watergate Salad and brought it over proudly in a borrowed bowl. I immediately took a big bite and found it to be perfectly delicious. “Good,” he said, “because I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to melt down the marshmallows or, you know, smush them…” What a cutie . . . in fact, so cute I smeared it all over him and added turkey and gravy and had myself a big, giant feast before kicking his butt in Monopoly for the umpteenth time. I’m so very thankful!
Seriously, I can’t think of a more perfect dinner. I’ve never tasted meat that moist and juicy – – and I cooked it. Do you realize how crazy that is?!? Unbelievable. The next day we gnawed on leftovers and it was STILL juicy and moist — THAT’S how good it was. Since you’ll now be taking your meat cooking advice from a pro like me, I’ll give you a meat cooking hint: slow and steady wins the race.
Eat that, Emeril Whatsyourface.
Cooking is easy! Cleaning sucks!
I enjoyed a free $50 lunch of herb encrusted skate, greens and water seated next to the former Duchess of York. To Jack, apparently, I am worth as much as ex-royalty. I actually complained during lunch that despite the prime locale of the Sea Grill, it is surprisingly lacking “movers” and “shakers”. Ms. Ferguson, quite lovely as she may be, is not a “mover” and a “shaker”. She kept stealing glances at me as though she might know me from somewhere. Jack insisted, “She just wants to see who I’m with.” Uh huh. Yeah.
More interestingly, try kissing without making a smacking sound at the end. It’s just not satisfying, is it?
The Russian Vodka Room in Midtown Manhattan has incredible infused vodkas and a live piano player. The service was a bit sparce at times, but what fun we had celebrating Ken’s birthday. A great happy hour or pre-theater spot, but just watch the intake. The intense flavors mask the alcohol so well you can end up with a very severe hangover leaving you to wonder how you possibly overdid it. Not that I would know anything about that.
Last night I scored a ticket to an open bar fundraiser for a gay and lesbian charity. Wall-to-wall men and not a one of them looking at me twice. No lesbians to flirt with either. I threatened to wear a strap-on and start randomly poking people for attention.
At the bar, I whipped out my handy little “magic wallet” which garnered from the bartender a gleeful “Wee, you have one of those weird little things!” To which I replied, “Yes, it’s called a ‘vagina’. Very strange and unique. You won’t see anything like it here.”
Scott required nourishment in the form of fast food and convinced me and Patrick to exit the subway at Times Square for some Mickey D’s. Apparently the 24-hour McDonald’s in Time Square is not open 24-hours at all and instead closes at the precise moment our hands touch the door handle. Suck.
I’m on a junk food kick as of late since I can’t seem to stop losing weight. Yes, I realize this makes some of you hate me. No, I don’t care. So, I’m in a long line at a very busy Ranch 1 waiting patiently. Finally, I have only one customer between me and the lovely Ranch 1 employee that will serve me my deep fried goodness. Unfortunately this customer is Sally from When Harry Met Sally. Sally:
(1) orders what is normally a pre-packaged salad with certain contents “on the side” and insists that they remove the bacon because she’s a vegetarian;
(2) asks to see the ingredients listing for three different types of salad dressing;
(3) closely inspects each individual listing as set forth in item #2 above before determining she can’t have them due to allergies and needs to look at more;
(4) inquires as to what type of oil in which the fries are fried because of those darned allergies again; and
(5) after paying for her order, decides she wants a drink after all so places another order.
Hey, Sally, I’m this close to dunking your head into a vat of peanut oil. News flash, Sally: You’re in RANCH 1! Take your vegetarian-eating, on-the-side-ordering, allergic-to-everything ass over to PAX. You’re standing in the way of my deep fried chicken that I’m going to slather in that dressing you can’t have. Got it?
So as not to alienate the little amount of estrogen I currently possess, I baked a cake. I actually baked a fu*king birthday cake. I had two pans, a cake plate, and a bowl to mix up all the freshly purchased ingredients. Never mind that I still don’t have dishes on which to eat said cake, but I BAKED A CAKE! The amazing part is that it actually tastes great. It’s scrumptious and moist. For breakfast it went very well with chocolate milk and for lunch, Dr. Pepper made it so much better. Hmm, I wonder how beer and Nerds taste with vanilla icing? Gotta run, it’s snack time!
I love these closing paragraphs regarding CBS Anchor Julie Chen in this NY Times article: …Ms. Chen appeared flustered on camera, reading notes and waving her hands (her long fingernails painted white, as if to signal surrender) as she described how the marines in the bunker had helped “keep me calm.” and Ms. Chen did not talk to marines on the segment, which mostly showed a tape of her walking across the base in tight white pants and a turquoise T-shirt as if preparing for an invasion of St. Tropez. Good stuff.
Gee, Why Can’t I Be Like Kimberly on Different Strokes?
I just devoured inhaled a burrito the size of my head. It was so delicious I was mmm, mmm, mmm-ing and moaning while chewing. I washed it down with a Caramello and wished I had more. Sometimes I love eating so much that I wish I could vomit start from scratch. That Kimberly Drummond sure was lucky.
Hard to believe that I got caught in a marching band not once, but twice today. Those wacky St. Patrick’s Day Parades, I tell ya! Just lovely having your eardrums blasted and getting jostled by every drunk “Irishman” during your lunch break when you have PMS. Really…you should try it.
Saturday night included a date that brought me flowers (!$@%# This never happens to me!) coordinated to match my new living room (Double &%*$@# How freaking cool is that?) and a stop at a birthday party. I didn’t go to sleep till 6:30 in the morning (gulp) which meant that when my friend of five years, Zach, called me Sunday afternoon I was still in bed. He was rightly ashamed of me, so I hurriedly got dressed, grabbed some chocolate milk and Pringles and met him at the nearest subway stop.
Zach, a mere 25 years old, has boundless energy. Needless to say, he didn’t let me suffer from bad sleep and dehydration quietly. We walked all over Central Park, ate hot dogs and pretzels and tossed around a frisbee with a bunch of old friends of his that also happen to be my neighbors. We stumbled upon a DJ who was blasting some really funky dance music and over a 100 people were gathered in a in a big circle. Everybody was on skates roller dancing and laughing and mingling. It was electric and so New York. I know Zach wants to live here especially for impromptu parties like this. I could see him doing the math in his head while we were all dancing in place grooving to the beat of a different drummer.
We moved on to the best dive bar find in NYC. The Subway Inn had $3.00 beers and is about 10 steps from the N/R Lexington Avenue Station which puts me about 10 minutes from home. It’s such a dive, the men’s room has been broken and never fixed for at least two years. The bartender bought me a beer and I wrote graffiti on the bathroom wall for the first time. It was good and smutty. I hope Zach does move here. We always have fun and find the best trouble. He keeps me young at heart; and, as he says, “All women should have a Zach in their pocket.” He’s so right.
Here’s one of those wacky evening post I warned you about!
Behold lemon pepper chicken, grilled to scrumptious perfection by yours truly, asparagus and baby red potatos. This, folks, is one of my favorite meals. Simple, hearty, cheap and mmm, mmm, fu*king mmm. It satisfies my Southern meat n’ potatos need without clogging my arteries. Never mind that it’s served up on the only plate I currently own. A single green Asian dish purchased for and used by a candle for the last two years. Buy me a rug, silverware, or pretty much anything else, and I just might cook dinner for you. You can have the plate. I’ll eat off the floor. No really, it’s okay, you’re the Guest.
So it turns out after two years of never having to cook one single meal for myself, cooking reasonably for one person just isn’t that hard. However, it turns out after two years of never having to wash dishes after cooking, washing dishes sucks Cable Guy ass.
Throwing Down Those Amish Chains
Every time the Cable Guy would go into my bedroom, my bird Larry would whistle a catcall. I was like, “Yo, I think your ass crack is fine and all that, but that was the bird.”
I’m all fancified at home now. Got me some high speed internet and some digital cable to keep my lonely heart company. Now I can leave witty posts and pithy comments any time of the day. You won’t know when I’ll be updating my blog. I’m all crazy like that.
Last night was officially a blast. No pig’s blood was dumped on me and I met at least six really excellent people that don’t stink. Turns out I live so close to Bob and Christian, we could have been playing with walkie talkies all this time. Sonofabitch. I’ve already bought some string and tin cans so we can play the telephone game. This is gonna be so much fun!
I woke up after four hours of sleep, showered, found myself to be having the most excellent hair day, met Greg for “breakfast” at the Westway Diner, and…now here’s the kicker…ordered HAM STEAK. Oh yeah! I’m not talking some flimsy piece of flesh hardly good enough for Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gumb they tend to serve here in these parts. Nuh uh. I’m talking 3/4″ thick Virginia ham steak heaven served up right with two eggs over easy, a pile of potatoes and two slices of toast. MMMmmm mmmm! I’m going there every single chance I get. Bless his heart, but a pig’s gotta die.**
**I’m actually an animal lover and was appalled at the senseless killing of the pig in “Carrie”. I do, however, wear leather, suede and fur and eat cow, chicken, fish, lamb, goat, and pig on a regular basis. Turtles, squirrels and ducks only on special occasions.
Bluto got a new apartment. Earlier this evening, I spoke with him and asked him what it was like. Here’s what he had to say in his trademark gravelly voice:
“Awww, it’s great! It’s so much better, you know, ’cause it’s not filthy and it’s not in a basement. I use trivets now instead of my dirty underwear. So when are you coming over for dinner? I wanna make some gravy for you.”
Bluto rules! He’s actually a good cook; and, girls, he’s single!
Christmas just isn’t the same when your mom is in Texas remarried to someone with lots of grandchildren to spoil and your dad is known in the general population as #13A64B7. So, instead of doing nothing and seeming ultimately dejected, Marc and I were going to drive to upstate to Putnam County and spend Christmas like Jews — eating chinese food and watching a movie. Since the weather didn’t cooperate as far as driving conditions go (they had a foot of snow before 6:00AM), we left the Cabrio parked in it’s spot.
We bundled ourselves up and walked, or skated rather, on a thin sheet of ice to the theater for an afternoon showing of Catch Me if You Can. This is the perfect holiday movie. It’s energetic and requires little thought as it weaves the true tale of Frank Abagnale. Leonardo DiCaprio is genuine and endearing and the movie is without over-the-top Hollywood gimics. Although critics might think it’s lacking a true crescendo, I say ppffttt on them. It didn’t need one to make it a charming tale worth seeing.
Dinner afterwords was so nice because the snow was falling hard and fast outside our window while we were inside warm and dry eating pizza and enjoying each other’s company. There were a few people sitting at the bar drinking alone and a few solo diners. They looked so sad with long faces and far off gazes. I felt like an ass for feeling bad about not having a family with whom to celebrate. At least I have Marc, even if he hates my Goyim holidays. And, really, what am I missing? Watergate Salad? Who needs it when I have Marc’s french toast for breakfast and this time…I GOT powdered sugar!
During my morning commute I see the same caucasian male, late 30’s, dark hair, full beard who wears a black leather jacket in Winter. He looks like a Bill. I see Bill every morning, Monday through Friday. I’ve never seen Bill before I swipe my MetroCard; I first spot him on the subway platform. We board the train at Broadway and usually ride in the same car. We get off at 49th. We exit the same stairwell. We walk a block in the same direction before finally losing each other. In two years, although we’ve brushed shoulders once or twice, we’ve never said a word to one another. Never. We’ve never even made eye contact. But there he is and I know he knows I’m there, too.
Yesterday, I went to Origins and used my 15% Tex in the City discount. I told Jill I wanted something to jazz up my dull skin. Of course, I know if I drank water and ate healthy I wouldn’t need herbs crushed in a jar to make my skin look better. Instead I choose to inhale my meals that consist of things like last night’s dinner of an entire canister of Pringles Salt & Vinegar crisps and 16 ounces of Nestle’s Nesquick Chocolate Milk. Since I can’t stop eating like a poor college kid or starving artist, I’ll pay the price Origins or any other store wants to charge to help me feel as though I’m at least trying to do something to preserve my body since I never go to the doctor and don’t brush my teeth before bedtime.
So $100 later and I’m happy with my purchases but feeling frustrated. I’m alone in the City and don’t have my cell phone and just…I don’t know. So I say, “Screw it,” and head back home. After waiting too long on the platform, and letting an “R” go on without me hoping an “N” or “W” wouldn’t be just as long, a “W” finally pulls up heading from downtown towards home. I step up to the doors, they slide open and there he is: Bill.
He stopped in his tracks a moment and his eyes grew wide and my mouth fell open. He got off and I got on and still we didn’t say a word. I love New York.
In my present state of financial stability and observing the average way of life for families since I moved away from my own, I have come to realize that I grew up relatively poor. Not “No-Food-in-the-Fridge” poor, but maybe “Hide-the-Tupperware-the-Creditors-are-Coming” poor. Fresh meat was scarce in my trailer, but Spam was not. When that ran out, it was mayonnaise and cheese sandwiche. When the cheese ran out it was balled up slices of Wonder Bread. When the bread ran out I’d suck on dry spaghetti sticks.
SIDE NOTE: Now, before my mom gets all defensive, I had a happy childhood in Montgomery, Texas. What I’m saying is that most people my age have never gone from living in a tin shed to a mobile home back to the shed again let alone ever used an outhouse out of necessity.
Okay, so the reason I’m telling you this is because of my lack of Epicurean experience during my childhood. Now, years later, I live with a man for whom I broke my rule about autograph seeking because it was THE Anthony Bourdain. So tonight, my personal chef isn’t home and there I am staring at mayonnaise and cheese and bread thinking, “I’ve come all this way for this?” That’s when I remember the smoked oysters that were awaiting me.
As a child, smoked oysters were a delicacy afforded to us on very rare occasions. Hey, four tins, a box of Club crackers, Pepsi and cheese don’t come cheap. The rarity of these aforementioned items in my household made them taste so much better. I can still picture my dad cutting cheese slices and arranging the oysters on little plates and dishing out dollops of mustard before we all dug in to our treat. So, it’s not just the taste that I like, it’s also the memory. Every once in a while, I get a hankering to eat this meal or maybe to be 8 years old again.
So tonight I got home late and hungry without a meal and recall these oysters are in my cupboard. Alas, I had no cheese or crackers, but I did have mustard. I peeled open the tin, drained the oil, dumped them on a plate and squirted mustard all over them. The smell of these things is potent, so naturally Paquita was intrigued. I was eating whilst standing and Paquita stood on her hind legs as tall as her little body would allow. She sniffed the air wildly trying to see what was on my plate. She desperately wanted whatever it was. I cut off a piece of one for her and asked her, “Do you like oysters?” Paquita excitedly answered with, “Yip!” As a reward for her answer, I handed over the oyster. Instead of excitedly gobbling it down like she does with all her human food treats, she sniffed it intently eyes bulging and fixated on the prize. Impatiently, I put it on the rug for her to eat at her leisure.
What did she do instead of eating it? She started rubbing her face and body over it the way dogs do with decomposing carcasses or the feces of plant eating animals!
Smoked oysters are disgusting and I need a book like “Food for Dummies”!
Conversation with my boss while heading to lunch at the Brooklyn Diner.
Me: “Mmmm, I’m gonna get a Mr. Softee for dessert.”
Jeff: “You already have one at home. His name’s Marc.”
Extra bonus, we got to sit in “his” booth. For those not familiar with the Diner, their practice is to put brass name plates of their best (mainly famous) customers. Here’s his:
Trekking back to the office, I was sorely disappointed that Mr. Softee was on the fritz. “You’re killing me!” I screamed before sulking back to the office to face the rest of my day. Then Super Model called. Nothing like chatting with a super skinny gazillionaire to make you not regret having processed chemicals and lard for dessert. If only she called me during every meal.
Standing at the refrigerator eating pepperoncini out of the jar, an image flashed into my head. What would a senior citizen version of me look like in this scenario? Dentures retrieved from the nightstand, housecoat zipped up to here, stained slippers scuffing on the floor as I venture to kitchen in search of a snack. “Ah, pickles!” I clumsily twist open the jar with arthritic hands and proceed to scarf down a dozen sour dills. Bathed in the light of the fridge, the chilled air finds its way to my wrinkled, puckered skin.
Old Me is quite the sight to behold. I hope she’s happy.
At what age will I kick the habit of eating cake for breakfast? Is swilling olive juice as an octagenarian inappropriate? Will Hershey’s Syrup straight out of the bottle still taste as bitter sweet? When will having a Mr. Softee for lunch become out of the question? Will whole lemons be bettered enjoyed without teeth?
So many things for me to wonder.
Two favorite things said to me today:
(1) Me: “So you have people who agree with you.” Him: “They’re called Disciples, honey.”
(2) I peed green once.
Well, just like last year, we ended up NOT going to the Peninsula. Instead we had cocktails at The Oak Bar in the Plaza Hotel. Two round of drinks, $120; time spent with friends, priceless. Okay, so the drinks are a wee bit overpriced. Yikes! But, it is the Plaahhza after all.
After drinks, I decided it would be best to watch a light-hearted movie rather than sit in front of the television watching depressing images. So I met Marc at the Ziegfeld Theater where we watched “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”. The Ziegfeld is a great place to see a movie. It is a massive theater decorated in art deco styling, accented in plush red velvet and amazing crystal chandeliers. The curtains are drawn over the single screen as the lights are dimmed adding to the theatrical experience that can never be matched in any giant, modern multiplex. We laughed our faces off and tried not to feel sad for at least 2 hours before heading home to our little baby Paquita Borgito Borgato Chorizo Jimenez. She makes me laugh in her innocence and simplicity. Her main worry is the location of her “buried” pig ear and her one true love is a blue squeaky ball. She’s got it good.
Favorite thing Marc said during “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”: “So, do you think they’re gonna get married?”
In the hopes that it is true that what comes around goes around, I returned the favor bestowed unto me as reported in my August 13, 2002 post. I moved from my usual lunchtime seat due to two MTV reporters –like omigod, they are SO young!– needing my coveted space in the Channel Gardens of Rockefeller Center. I then parked myself on the bench facing Fifth Avenue and Saks–an excellent spot for people watching. On an average day, one can spot someone of note amidst the tourists and fabulous New Yorkers. My most recent sightings have been Michael Richards looking extremely dazed and confused and Stone Phillips ever-so-politely rebuffing a female fan. Today, however, I saw a woman get crapped on by a pigeon. Her instant and involuntary reaction was to put her hand on her head and touch whatever had just landed there. Not a good idea. She stopped in her tracks and let out a small scream which caused her male companion some obvious angst. The pair stood there frozen in their tracks unable to think of exactly the best way to handle this. They had nothing with them to clean her hand and were looking for a place to go in the very, very well-trafficked area. In that instant, I dipped into my purse and whipped out a trusty Lever 2000 anti-bacterial and moisturizing wipe for her use and volunteered this note, “You may think it’s just pigeon sh*t, but that’s good luck!” I hope for her sake it’s true.
I went to Cilantro for dinner the other night. Fabulous mussels (the sauce was out of this world) and salsa and plantains and, oh my, just everything was dee-lish. What I liked most was the corn that came with Heidi’s dish. It had been cut directly off the cob so that some kernels were still attached in perfect little rows. It reminded me of childhood summertimes when I stayed with my mom’s parents in Tulsa and my grandpa would take his knife and shave my cob for me. So deft and quick he was. I would stare intently as though he were performing delicate vegetable surgery. His corn always tasted better and always will.
I sure picked a stewpid time to change servers.
After much frustration, all seems to be in order. I’m still not pleased with the blog page colors and such, but—now brace yourselves, as this might come as a shock to some of you—everything can’t be perfect. ACK! I know, I know…you’re saying, “But you’re perfect, Kambri.” Alas, I am not. Don’t be upset over this news, I don’t want you to get all addicted to Xanex over this, but it is true. I am not perfect either. There. Said. Done! Now let’s get on with our lives.