Nostalgia*

This morning, Meg sent me an email exchange we'd had in the week we first met, shortly after she crashed my birthday party at Grassroots and I informed her she was officially my new best friend. Here are the highlights, because they're funny.

Me:
Back when I was doing the online dating thing, I came across this guy who had every hair color listed in preferences except red. So I emailed him and asked him if he had a redhead aversion. I even said, look, I don't want to date you, I'm just curious. He didn't write back.

Meg:
That guy probably couldn't believe you didn't want to date him. "But, she's a redhead. Seriously, how choosy can she afford to be? This has to be a ruse."

I'm trying to think if I have any mass exlusions from my dating pool. So far, I have come up with:

1) Fascists.

You?

Me:
2) Republicans
3) Vincent Gallo

Meg:
4) My uncles
5) The homeless. Sorry. I'm a bitch like that. Where would we go to hook up?
6) Gilbert Gottfried

Me:
Am I the only one who didn't know GG did the AFLAC duck?

7) Flava Flav

Meg:
Yes.

8) Scientologists.

Me:
He was the first celebrity I ever saw in NYC. It was my first day
interning at VH1 and I saw him in Times Square. I was hoping for like,
Johnny Depp and I got Gilbert Gottfried.

9) Gene Simmons

Meg:
Mine was Teri Hatcher, pre-desperate housewives. During her slump. She looked quite the crackhead hovering outside of Cabaret (when it was running) wearing the tiniest tightest jeans that clung to her leg bones (which were the size of my wrists) and a huge fur coat. It was July. I was underwhelmed.

10) Sarah Jessica Parker

Me:
True story. My friend [name redacted] met [name redacted: all you need to know is he's famous] in a club, and he invited her to go back to his place and play Bend Over Boyfriend with a strap-on.

I would have gone.

11) Guys who like Coldplay

Meg:
I would have gone in a HEARTBEAT. Are the rules to Bend Over Boyfriend as easy as they sound? How does he feel about redheads?

12) Guys who use the phrase "Where's that at?"

Me:
I can only assume his stance on redheads is..."They can totally fuck me up the ass with a strap-on while my wife is out of town."

13) Guys who attend Star Trek conventions

Meg:
14) Guys who use babytalk in the sack.

Me:
15) Guys who won't let me fuck them up the ass with a strap-on.

Meg:
16) Guys who want to wear diapers and pretend that I'm their mother.

Me:
17) Guys who want to pee on me, or want me to pee on them.

Meg:
18) Any man who uses the word "bro" when talking to other men.

Me:
19) Any guy who uses the word "anywho." Seriously, I dumped someone
because of that once.

Meg:
20) Guys who "don't eat sweets, really." Seriously.

Me:
Who says that?

Meg:
I just have to hold on to the hope that somewhere out there there is a guy who will let me stick a dildo up his ass, who likes cheesecake, and who loves peeing in the toilet.

Me:
Pretty tall order. Talk about unrealistic expectations.

*Of the early days of my friendship with Meg. Not of dating. Shudder.

Private Cheffing, Day 3

When I first decided to give the whole private cheffing thing a try, I asked my favorite culinary teacher/mentor/gay boyfriend Elliott for advice.

Me: What if I suck?

Elliott: I sucked when I started out. I got fired from like three jobs. You'll be fine.

That comforted me, but it didn't prepare me for the anxiety I felt before donning that chef jacket for the first time in someone else's kitchen. On day 1, I mismanaged my time, broke a dish, and drizzled too much olive oil on the roasted acorn squash. On day 2, lunch went off without a hitch, but her dinner looked like something you'd feed your dog. If he pooped in your shoes.

My clients are an older couple who live on the Upper East Side. I make them lunch and dinner Monday-Friday. I serve lunch, leave dinner out for them and go home. They're mostly vegan, but they eat salmon once a week. They don't often eat the same thing, so I have to make two different dishes. They have separate refrigerators, and as I always make enough for more than one serving, I make it a point to check and see what got eaten when I come in.

I was full of apprehension today as I imagined her looking at her dog-food dinner and exclaiming, "I will not eat that!" It was a white bean and broccoli stew, by the way. His dinner was a pasta primavera. I tasted both before I left, and was wholly satisfied with the look and taste of the pasta, and with the taste, but not the look, of the stew.

Imagine my surprise when I checked the fridges and the stew was nearly gone, but the pasta had barely been touched.

"The stew was delicious," she exclaimed when she came into the kitchen for some tea. "It was perfect!"

I was happy that she'd enjoyed it, and even happier that I wasn't going to get fired for feeding her dog food. In my defense, I tasted it and it did actually taste really good. The ugliness came solely from the pot-to-serving-plate transfer, which didn't go nearly as seamlessly as I'd hoped. Still, I was bummed by the lack of interest in the pasta primavera. Until he made his kitchen stop.

"I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by leftovers," he said. "Let me look at the menu for the week." He then informed me to skip dinner tomorrow so he could finish the pasta primavera. I was elated.

After that, I calmed down a little. I am only a rookie after all, and rookie mistakes are to be expected. I couldn't have been happier today with my lunch of tomato soup and roasted root vegetables. And my dinner of tandoori vegetables and roasted vegetable stacks with tomato dressing looked appetizing enough to be served in a restaurant. The latter looked like cheeseburgers. You could say, I hit my stride. As it turns out, I don't suck nearly as much as I expected to at first.

Now, if I could only solve that problem of coming home after cooking all day and ordering takeout or making nachos, I'd be golden.

The Right Stuff

It's not that I don't have anything to blog about, per se.

I mean, just last night I was sitting on my porch in Brooklyn, and the largest raccoon I have ever seen in my life lumbered past me.

And we also have a vandal tagging the neighborhood. He goes by the name "Vegeta," which Google tells me is a Dragonball-Z character. So, not only is Vegeta a menace, he's also a dork.

And today, I went to an insane press event, where I was served a seven course French meal with eight different glasses of wine, plus two cocktails. And the goodie bags included two more bottles of wine, champagne and enough chocolate to get me through my PMS for the next six months. And Josey was there! And at my table! She had to leave early to go to the dentist, though, and she missed dessert. So I'll just pretend it was nothing to write home about.

And last weekend, my friend Summer and I had a slumber party, and I made us the best dinner I've ever made in my life: pan-seared, panko-and-sesame-crusted tuna with coconut rice and a salad with stuff from the farmer's market and a honey-ginger dressing I whipped up. I wish I'd taken a picture of it. And also, I wish tuna didn't have so much mercury in it.

So, you see, it's not that nothing is going on. It's just that, I can't say no to freelance work, ever, even when I should, and I'm so completely overwhelmed with it right now that I can't even think straight. But I'm hoping to get everything under control this weekend, and next week I start my private chef gig, which will hopefully result in hilarity, like me cutting off my finger and accidentally serving it. It could happen. Well, not to anyone, but to me, definitely.

Happy days

Today I:

-Found a dollar on the street on the way home from TYM's in the morning.

-Accepted an offer for a temporary personal chef gig.

-Regarding a freelance web job, was told that they'd work around my personal cheffing schedule because they'd rather work with me than anybody else.

-Received a check in the mail for another freelance job without having to shake anyone down for it, just in time to pay my taxes. Okay, my taxes are technically late, but only by two days.

Summer may be drawing a close, but apparently the sun has decided to shine out of my ass for this particular moment in time. It almost makes up for the fact that I barely got to the beach all season. Almost.

Regarding NY1

Apologies to my readers who live outside NYC

Curly: I think NY1 thinks I live in Queens. Unless everyone is subject to special Queens news segments. I get them regularly now. I don't give a shit what goes on in Queens.

Me: NY1 has a huge boner for Queens.

Curly: Hands down, that's the funniest sentence I'm going to encounter all day. Well done.

Me: Sweet.

Curly: I feel like NY1 is on a quest to alienate me. First with the relentless Uncle Junior promos and now this. Next up, they'll increase Shelly Goldberg's segments. She'll anchor the news.

Me: I just shuddered at the thought.

Curly: I wonder if other cities' local news stations elicit such a response from residents. We're pretty hardcore about NY1 personalities. A mere mention of the channel and people will rattle off whom they love and loathe.

Me: Like Debbie Duhaime. God, I hate her.

Curly: I have no opinion of her but whenever she's on, I think "If Jess is watching right now, she's fuming." And I'm mindful not to abbreviate major roadways in your presence, like the Hutch. Or the Belt.

Me: The Hutch is okay, actually. When I lived in Westchester, I called it that.

Curly: Oh, it's the George that sends you into a rage, yes?

Me: Yes. And the Jackie.

Curly: She probably says Avenue of the Americas too.

Me: SHE TOTALLY DOES.

Wii-eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

TYM and I did lots of fun things this weekend, involving beaches, Bill Maher and pulled pork, to name a few. We also spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to procure a Wii, which proved harder than either of us thought it would be. Brooklyn was fresh out of Wiis, but we lucked out late Sunday night at the Virgin Megastore at Union Square.

I don't think I've mentioned this before, but TYM is moving in with me in a couple of months. Because we both know how to prioritize, we've started purchasing things we really need in order to make the transition seamless, like a chaise lounge that we have no place for and now, a Wii.

I haven't ever really owned a game system before, unless my Commodore 64 with the Olympic Games series counts, and I don't think it does. I am so into the Wii, to the point where my entire upper body is sore after only two days. I have a list of games I want to get, including House of the Dead and that one with the psychotic bunnies that kill people. Right now, we just have Wii Sports. I kick so much ass--both figuratively and literally--at boxing. I'm much better at Wii bowling than I am at regular bowling. I'm an awesome baseball pitcher and a terrible batter. Tennis is exhausting, but fun. And I firmly agree with what Lizz said yesterday (not on her blog but in real life), that Wii golf is just as tedious as real golf. Also, I suck at it.

If I get this chef job I'm up for, I'm going to splurge on Wii Fit. I'm also going to get half of my left arm tattooed, but that's another post. So wish me luck--because it might be the only fitness program I can actually stick with.

Case Closed

Because I’m a 14-year old girl trapped in an adult woman’s body, I’ve been itching to see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. You see, back in the days when I worked at iVillain iVillage, sometimes books would find their way to my desk from publicists and the like, and the first installment of Pants just so happened to walk over one day. Not immediately realizing it was a Young Adult title, I dug in, and by the time I realized I wasn’t part of the book’s target demographic, I no longer cared. I loved it, and I was all over the original movie when it came out.

Now, I’m about to reveal a spoiler, so if you’re dying to see this movie and don’t want it ruined, you might want to stop right here.

Effie, Lena’s younger sister, is kind of a beaver. After her failed attempt to steal Tibby’s boyfriend was thwarted, she decided to exact her vengeance on the Sisterhood by stealing The Pants that brought them miracles and cemented her friendship. In case you haven’t figured it out, The Pants are a Very Big Deal. So Effie takes them to Greece, and loses them, or so she claims. And because these girls all live in a fictional land where teenagers can just hop on planes on a whim, Tibby, Lena, Carmen and Bridget go to Greece to find The Pants.

The Pants? Gone forever. (Unless Effie has them hidden away somewhere and I bet she does because she’s a total bitch) But see, what the girls realized is that they don’t NEED The Pants--all they need is each other. All together now--awww.

I wouldn’t say that Curly, Betony and I set out on a quest to find The Pants, per se. But as we rode to our respective homes on the F-train, The Pants found us, much like they found the Sisterhood. Behold:

Exhibit A
The Pants, last seen on a site selling props from the movie.



Exhibit B
The Pants, riding the F-train.



Curly, Betony and I have ensured that there will, in fact, be a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 3. You're welcome. And uh, random lady on the F-train, sorry we uh, beat you up and stole your pants.

Regarding Breakfast, and a Popular MTV Show from the Olden Days

Background info: Prior to this exchange, I uttered the following statements: "Joe Lieberman can suck it", "I want to marry Doritos" and "Fuck Gouda."

Me: Kyle wants to have breakfast Sunday AM. You in?

Curly: Mmm, breakfast.

Me: TYM and I already started discussing breakfast options for Sunday.

Curly: You guys like to plan ahead, huh?

Me: Only when it comes to breakfast. Is is the most important meal of the day, after all. And the most delicious.

Curly: If I know I'm going out for breakfast, I sometimes start deciding the night before if I want something sweet or savory.

Curly: I usually know going in if it will be pancakes or an omelette. I rarely make that call tableside.

Me: Ha! Breakfast rules.

Me: Did you notice I'm kind of like Beavis today?

Curly: You're kind of like Beavis every day. At this point, it's like my parents' accents -- I don't even notice it, really.

Puerto Rico Pics

Here.

Odds, Ends

So, yeah. I’m back. I have more mosquito bites than I thought was possible for one body, and random parts of me are burnt to a crisp. I thought TYM and I would never have a vacation more fun than our trip to Belize, but we did it in Puerto Rico! I’ll have photos up on Flickr this week, with accompanying stories. (TYM: Why are you taking a picture of the GPS? Me: I’m building a narrative!)

One thing I couldn’t get a pic of, sadly, was our Biobay tour. We took a nighttime kayak trip to Mosquito Bay (hence the bites), home to bazillions of dinoflagellates that give off bioluminescent light when it’s dark. Our guide told us to leave the cameras behind, as they’d get wet, and it’s a good thing I listened, because I tipped my kayak while getting out of it to swim.

Swimming in the bay at night was amazing. If you’ve seen Hellboy (or Hellboy 2), moving around in the water looked like Liz does when she gets all firestartery. It didn’t take long before TYM and I were making all sorts of pow-swoosh-bam superhero noises while we moved around. When we lifted an arm or head out of the water, the little organisms settled into crevices and hair like glitter. Before going, I thought all of the photos I’d seen were fake, but they’re totally not. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done, and if you ever go to Puerto Rico, you must do it.

I texted Azee this morning and asked her if she wanted to hang tomorrow night. She responded with, “I have someone picking up antlers at 7:30 but no plans after that.” My friends are weird. And awesome.

I had a dream last night that TYM and I were on vacation somewhere and Bill Maher was staying in our hotel. He totally hit on me at one point when TYM wasn’t around, and when I told him what had happened, he didn’t believe me, because “Bill Maher doesn’t like white ladies.” Except for Ann Coulter, of course.

Last night, I attended BUST Magazine’s 15-year anniversary bash with two tall ladies who make me feel like a midget. See?


It was fun—JD Samson from Le Tigre was the DJ, and there was dancing and some kickass goodie bags with graphic novels, coloring books, tools, CDs and free vibrators. Plus, vegan cupcakes from Babycakes and performances from the Lady Circus. Unfortunately, we had to leave before seeing my imaginary best friend Amy Sedaris because I was about to pass out from not sleeping two nights in a row. It’s probably for the best—if I met her, I think my latching onto her leg until she promised to hang out with me and get BFF necklaces would result in a restraining order.

Can you believe I still don’t know who won So You Think You Can Dance? Don’t spoil it for me—I’m watching it tonight.