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.

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!

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.

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.