Boo!

I need a break from reality.  Sadly, the minor respite afforded by one of my favourite holidays did not last long enough to alleviate the current tedium of daily life.

Halloween has come and gone, and while the festivities were significantly tamer than in years past, I still enjoyed myself.

I went to the Halloween Parade for the first time, and despite the heavens' repeated attempts to drench us, it was still pretty rockin'.

It should be noted, however, that arriving obscenely early is crucial if you want to get a decent vantage point from which to observe. We had managed to station ourselves, despite a late arrival, on a high curb that afforded us a decent view over the heads of those in front of us... until the umbrellas went up.

I was, of course, appropriately attired.

Which may explain how, later, I inexplicably found myself walking in the parade as my friends and I struggled to find an open subway entrance.

Shortly (relatively speaking) thereafter, I found myself in the Bronx, where the World Series had significantly overshadowed the holiday at hand--unjustly, in my opinion. I mean, the Series goes on for seven nights, whereas Halloween only gets one! In such an instance of unequal time-sharing, one would think that the holiday at hand would take precedence. However, just try talking rationally to a Yankee fan. Go on, I'll wait here.

...

A fruitless endeavor, no?

Eventually fatigue and baseball overload, not to mention having my mid-section cinched in by a steel-boned corset, took their toll, and after narrowly avoiding smacking the idiot mentioned in my previous post, I took a taxi home and promptly passed the hell out.

Happy Halloween!

Pop Quiz

It's Halloween and you are in a bar, hitting on a girl in an elaborate costume. You ask for her number. She declines. You,

a.) shrug it off and continue making polite conversation, hoping to change her mind with your natural charms;

b.) go find someone less resistant, and more drunk, to hit on;

c.) start talking about how much you hate Halloween, because of the way other bars (not the one you are in) handle the holiday, then get offended when she points out that the problem seems to be yours, and that you shouldn't blame the holiday because you make poor choices of location in which to celebrate, accuse her of being overly sensitive, and warn her that she shouldn't get too excited about some things, or she won't have enough energy left over for other things in her life.


I'll just let you mull that over. Go ahead, take your time. Tune in tomorrow to learn the answer that absolutely will NOT get you in my pants, plus more Halloweeny goodness...

Thoughts, Deep and Otherwise...

As I plodded to the subway after a torturously long and slow double shift yesterday, my exhausted brain managed to crank out some rather important thinking. Here it is:

I need to get over the fact that my life isn't what I want it to be, and instead of being quietly miserable, do something about it.

Again.

This type of thinking is what landed me in Grad School the last time, and while I was certainly enriched by the experience, I must reluctantly admit that, just maybe, I didn't choose the right course of study to get where I want to be--teaching college. So, it's ime to make an appointment to take the GRE, thus forcing myself to study for it, get those PhD applications in order, and...

...get over the insecurity and fear of rejection that has kept me from entering any academic program that requires an audition. The worst that can happen is that they say No. It will suck, but it won't kill me. Thus, I am applying to Yale's MFA Program. Because if I'm going to kick my fear in the ass, why not do it on the grandest scale possible? An MFA will also qualify me to teach college, fulfilling the "Get my life on the right track" course of action that I am determined to, once again, undertake, with the added bonus of offering the kind of experiential learning that is lacking from the more academically-oriented doctoral programs.

In other words, I'm just going to keep trying until I get it right. Or until the Federal Government refuses to give me any more Education Loans. (Though in my defense, I am only applying to programs that offer the sort of financial aid that will cover all or most of my expenses, thus adding comparatively little to my already massive debts.)


And, on the not so deep scale, I need to decide if it's really worth flirting with a guy I work with, no matter how attractive he may be. True, he's just working in the kitchen for a few months and is therefore technically not my superior (because I am NOT repeating the "Alcoholic Coke-Head Chef Incident," or any variations thereof, EVER AGAIN)... but he is the owner's younger brother, and therefore exists on a sort of plane unto himself.

He's also young.

Which I'm willing to overlook.

Because he's hot.

He'd been around for awhile, but I wasn't attracted to him until yesterday when I actually talked to him for awhile. Not gonna lie, it may have more to do with his British accent than his chewable lower lip, but a little spark kicked off in the back of my brain. It could also be that it's PMS week and my hormones are firing off like mad. I have a sneaking suspicion that, were I to just go for it, I could probably reel him in with little difficulty, but the thought of doing so under the gaze of the entirely female floor staff makes my skin crawl. I'd feel like some sort of exhibit at the Mean Girls Zoo.

There is a downside to having an all female staff. For the most part, I stay out of the drama, but overtly flirting with the boss's hot brother would decidedly land me in the middle of it.

Probably best just to covertly flirt with him to pass the time, and not worry about it.

Because clearly, I have enough to think about already.

Of Noodles, Ingenuity, and Following Instructions

I know. I know. I keep promising to stop being such a terrible blogger, and then I go right ahead and fail to post for an entire two weeks, which--barring the time I spent out of the country--is pretty much a record.

So this time, instead of handing you more empty promises to stop sucking, I have decided to accept the fact that, for the time being anyway, I am a crappy blogger. Not that I haven't crafted a dozen posts in my head while far, far away from my computer. I have. Scores of them. I just never seem to get around to sitting down and typing them up when I get home.

Massive blogger FAIL.

Besides, you really don't want to hear me whining about how I feel like a failure for being a waitress with a Masters Degree, which is what largely occupies my thoughts as of late. I'm sure you'd much rather see what I got up to in my kitchen on my day off yesterday, right?

That's what I thought.

Speaking of my kitchen, here it is, in all it's teeny-tiny glory.

See that little splash of colour in the bottom left corner? That's a pillow on my couch. My apartment? Is tiny. And this little closet of a kitchen is where the magic happens, with the help of a rolling island that lives in my livingroom and spends two-thirds of its time covered in junk mail and other assorted detritus, shown here in a rare moment of functionality:

Just thought I'd give you an idea of what it is I have to work with.

Anyhow...

Yesterday I found Heaven, and it is called Fairway, aka the most fabulously awesome grocery store EVER.

What makes it so awesome? Well for starters nestled on its shelves I found Blackcurrant Red Wine Vinegar. What am I going to do with that? No idea. But it was ONLY FOUR DOLLARS! Combine that with a selection of every. single. product. milled by Bob's Red Mill, and I? Am one happy freaking frog.

Especially since my pregnant Latvian co-worker has been missing the food of her homeland, affording me the perfect opportunity to try my hand at smitten kitchen's black bread recipe, and it's staggeringly complex list of ingredients.

Once the shopping trip was over--I admittedly went a little nutso in the Fairway and decided to treat myself to a cab ride home, thus entrusting myself to the care of THE WORST CAB DRIVER EVER. Seriously. We were on 125th. I told him we were going to 199th. He tried to go South. Then he tried to turn into the Sanitation Department, thinking it was a street--I lugged my treasures up five flights of stairs and dove into bread-making land.

True to Deb's word, the bread itself is remarkably easy to make once the ingredients are assembled, and the results? Are just lovely.

The round loaf is for the afore mentioned co-worker, and the loaf? That's for me.

If we're being honest, I think this loaf has just a little too much caraway for me, and when I make it again (because trust me, I most definitely will) I will probably cut the amount in half, and perhaps add some more shallots, but on the whole? This bread is absolutely lovely, has a really great texture, and I'm betting it will be fabulous toasted and topped with cream cheese.

While the bread was on its first rise, I set about making my dinner: Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, from Ted Allen's "The Food You Want to Eat", which I had pulled off the shelf on a whim earlier that day.

I don't have any prep photos from this dish, mostly because I was on the phone with Therapeutic Ramblings (whom I've known since the first day of Freshman Orientation at Undergrad College, many moons ago) while I was cooking, and two tasks at once is about my limit, at least where hot stoves and spitting fat are concerned.

A note here on following instructions:

The recipe stated to brown the short ribs for 12-15 minutes on med-high and turn down the heat if the bottom of the pan started to burn. Well, I started out on more of a medium heat to begin with, as my crappy electric stove (probably the only one in NYC--I HATE ELECTRIC STOVES!!) tends to cook hotter than gas. So, when the pan started to burn around 7 minutes, and the ribs appeared brown, I decided that was good enough and moved on to the next step.

I shouldn't have.

See, the browning process not only serves to sear the juices into the meat, but also to render the fat from what is a very fatty cut. Because I only browned the meat for half of the allotted time, a few of the pieces retained a large amount of fat, resulting in a fattier broth, and a few pieces of meat that were largely inedible.

That being said, since I was only feeding myself, there was still plenty of edible meat left to feed me and leave leftovers, so it was not a fatal error. Just an irritating one.

Right, back to the timeline...

When the ribs were set to braising on a rear burner I took a moment to shape my bread loaves and set them to the second rise, and then set about my final preparation for the evening: Homemade egg noodles.

The recipe for these darlings, which I halved, is super simple:

Egg Noodles
2 1/2 c. flour
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 c. milk, warmed
1 Tbsp. butter, melted
Pinch salt.

Combine ingredients in a large bowl. Knead until smooth, approx 5 minutes. Let rest covered in plastic wrap for 10 minutes. Roll out and cut. Allow to dry before cooking in lightly salted boiling water.

See? Told you it was easy.

The original recipe called to roll out the dough with a rolling pin to either 1/4 or 1/8 inch and then cut, but since K bequeathed me a snazzy pasta maker--and I like my noodles thin--I rolled out the dough to the #6 setting and then cut wide noodles with a pizza cutter... which is probably how I ended up with a whole lot more than the 2 servings the recipe claimed it would make.

What's that you say? What is that snazzy device on which my noodles are drying? Well...

...it's a clothes-drying rack, set up in the middle of my livingroom. Necessity is the mother of invention. Or so I'm told. Please, ignore the mess in the background.

About halfway through the noodle-cutting process, the bread loaves went into the oven to bake for approx 45 minutes. The lid came off the braising pot to allow the sauce to thicken, and then, finally, the noodles went into the pot.

Here they are, looking all buttery and fabulous.

Et viola! Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, served over Fresh, Buttered Egg Noodles.

And despite my failure to follow instructions, they were still delicious, eaten at my coffee table while watching Glee and drinking the half bottle of wine left over from the recipe.

So there you have it: I can cook a feast in a closet, knit a sweater, and I'm hot. Yet I'm still single. How does this equation add up? Well, my friends, that's a blog post for another day...

Health Nut

Today I have consumed the following (in more or less chronological order):

3 candy-corn pumpkins
1 1/2 Lattes (one with sugar, one without)
1 Mont Blanc (vanilla gelato, chestnut cream, whipped cream, & toasted almonds)
1 very small bite cinnamon ice cream with caramel sauce
Some french fries
A crappy panini
1 Maraschino cherry
1 small slice of baguette with some goat cheese
2 Arnold Palmers
2 Profiteroles, each containing: 1 raspberry, some strawberry sauce, and whipped cream
1/4 glass of (very good) red wine from a bottle that someone's table didn't finish
6 crackers topped with cheddar cheese and half a green olive, microwaved into melty submission
4 green olives
6 black olives
2 chunks cheddar cheese
3 slices Genoa salami
4 slices Pepperoni
A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Okay, so maybe the last one is a lie, but had it been presented to me shortly after midnight when the woman next to me on the subway was scarfing a bag of Doritos, the intoxicating scent of which was seductively entreating me to bludgeon her with my newly-purchased, hardback edition of "The Indispensable Calvin and Hobbes," rip the glistening bag from her undeserving hands, and either consume the contents as a lion would a gazelle, or else bathe in them, well... I probably wouldn't have turned it down.

The above, combined with the theme song from The Smurfs inexplicably taking up residence in my head and refusing to vacate--despite repeated requests by the regular tenant, "Single Ladies," to do so--serves as a pretty fair indicator that I am on the verge of losing it.

Thank heavens I've got the next two days off.

History

Out of curiosity, and to kill time during commercials while watching the Grey's Anatomy season premiere, I hauled out an old journal to do a little fact checking. Namely, to check the duration of the few "significant" relationships I've had since ending things with High School Boyfriend when I was 19.

The winner, English Ex, clocked in at just shy of two months--five weeks of which we spent on opposite sides of a little body of water commonly known as the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed longer, perhaps, due to the fact that we were friends for awhile before we made out after watching Labyrinth, but facts are facts.

I am 29 years old, and in the past decade, I have not had a "relationship" (I feel I must use the term loosely) that lasted even 2 months.

Can that possibly be normal?

ARGH

Well kids, time to add another entry to the ever-expanding list entitled Jobs Froggy Did Not Get, Despite Having A $100k Masters Degree and Feeling Great After The Interview.

On one hand, this should motivate me even more to get cracking on those PhD applications.

On the other, all of this rejection--boys, employers--is getting to be a bit much. If the bread I've currently got in the oven doesn't come out looking pretty and edible, I may weep.

Susan Miller was right. September SUCKS.

So, About Last Night...

It seems that alcohol-fueled emotional breakdowns make for maudlin blog posts.

This morning, however, the self-pity has been thoroughly purged from my bloodstream, along with the last of the Amstel Light and Crown Royal.

Time to buy a card, find a cobbler to polish up my pink shoes, straighten my hair, and hit the road.

It's Wedding Time!

Tonight: Again

Tonight I have to get it out.

This sadness, for myself.

Because tomorrow it is all about my friend. This friend that I have known longer than all the others. Longer even than the girl that I call my best friend, even though she does not hold that word for me.

Tomorrow it is all about my friend, and the absolute, genuine joy that I feel for her, as she embarks on this next step in the journey of her life...

But tonight...

Tonight it is about me.

And the sorrow I feel for myself... as I am left behind.

I'm not certain that such sorrow and such absolute love can exist together without dire consequence. So tomorrow I abandon myself in love for my friend.

But tonight, in a few moments of absolute self-indulgence, before I fall asleep... it is about me.

And I am lonely.

I am sorry for that.

But not ashamed.

Limits

On the eve of the wedding that officially marks me as the LAST single girl among my childhood friends, I have the following to offer:

As my friend marries her partner of seven years, I offer nothing but joy and hope for a long life of happiness between the two of them.


As I watch all my married friends celebrate this new union, I wish nothing less for each and every one of them.


As I spend every dance on my own, I accept the very real possibility that I will spend the rest of my life in just such a fashion--alone.


As I accept this moment, without fear or regret, I still feel sad and wonder... at this moment, what does the rest of the world see in me?


I do not wish the rest of the world to judge me by standards up to which I cannot live... yet I cannot seem to stop holding myself to those exact same standards... and coming up short.

Like all things, this too shall pass. But for this moment, allow me to feel just the tiniest bit sorry for myself before I move on.

Food Porn

Howdy y'all!

Still getting back into the swing of things here in NYC, and that includes... cooking!

The light in my apartment has been sort of crappy for photos--stupid grey, cloudy skies--but that will hopefully not detract from the fact that these? Are both *fabulous*!

Huevos Rancheros
These were made using the super-simple recipe at smitten kitchen (which I have only just discovered, incidentally, and will now be visiting on a regular basis). I found it via this site, with which I am also, officially, in luuurve.

Deb's photos are far better than mine, but still... behold the yumminess. I'm about to make them again for a late breakfast.

I followed Deb's instructions almost to the letter, with only a few modifications to the salsa fresca, which I made as follows:

• 2 plum tomatoes, diced
• Sweet, spanish onion - a chunk thereof, diced
• Almost 1 fresh jalapeno, minced
• 1 sm clove garlic, pressed
• Cilantro - um, use some. Chopped.
• Juice of 1 whole lime
• Teensy splash of olive oil
• Salt
• Fresh ground pepper

And may I just say... it was divine. Can't wait to use the leftovers and see how the flavours have mingled and gotten to know each other as they huddled together in the fridge overnight. As it was, I made the salsa first, covered it with plastic wrap, and let it sit on the counter while I made the huevos--which, as Deb predicted, were incredibly messy.

Speaking of the mess, anyone have any tips for getting carmelized oil off of a stainless steel pan without scrubbing until your arm aches?

While you ponder that, we'll move on to...

Zucchini Bread
It's been years since I made this and for some reason I never saved the recipe I used the last time, so it was back to the drawing board (aka, the internet) to come up with a new one. Eventually I settled on Zucchini Bread II from Allrecipes.com, mainly because I already had everything I needed in the house, and it got good reviews.

It was a good choice.

 

Me being me, of course, I had to fool around with the recipe just a little bit, and so instead of a full three teaspoons of Cinnamon (which seemed like an awful lot, even for 2 loaves), I used two slightly heaping teaspoons (so maybe closer to 2 1/2), then added some generous shakings of Cardamom, Corriander, and freshly grated Nutmeg.

I was not dissappointed with the results.

I plan to take the second loaf to work today. I'm willing to bet it will be demolished before family meal is over. The remainder of my own loaf will be climbing aboard a train with me tomorrow as I head off to PA for a wedding, where not only will I be seeing one of my beautiful ladies get married to her partner of 7 years, but also will be making Lamb & Feta Stuffed Peppers for my parents. Perhaps I can even get my dad to take photos with his snazzy DSLR camera.

But then again, I wouldn't want to spoil you.

Happy (early) weekend!

I was back at Rep Company today for the first time since I left for Maine. It was a dreadfully quiet Sunday, being only myself, the owner, and a rather eccentric gentleman who always forgets that we've met before hanging around in the reception area with most of the lights off.

At one point as we are both eating lunch he tells me that I am very pretty, and will therefore fall in love very easily.

Given the events of the past few weeks, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

Instead I thanked him, informed him that that was decidedly not the case, and finished my bagel in peace.

The bagel was fantastic.

Out With the Old...

You know, contrary to what you might think, a night of excessive alcohol consumption can actually do wonders to clear one's head.

Yes, I did say clear.

Perhaps not at the particular moment in time when one decides it is an excellent idea to smoke yet another cigarette, or patronize a bar which uses actual padlocks to secure the bathrooms from non-paying visitors; but a bit further down the line, when the worst of the hangover has abated and one is left only with a gnawing hunger and the vague sensation that, while the previous evening's activities may not have been exactly wise, they were perhaps not quite as foolish as one was wont to believe when the alarm went off at 8am.

Confused? Let's break it down.

On Thursday night, I? Was Pissed. Off. Mainly at DM for being such a douchebag and disappearing on me in such a cowardly and disrespectful manner. I slogged through the most pathetic lunch shift in the history of lunch shifts (My share of the day's take? $33. How am I going to pay my rent? No fucking clue.), jumping every time my phone vibrated in my pocket, and scurrying off to the bathroom shortly thereafter because this time, surely, it would be a text explaining that his house had burnt down/he'd been arrested on suspicion of terrorism/a dinosaur had eaten his phone, and that's why he had so rudely failed to respond to any of my numerous attempts to make contact over the preceding week.

Of course, it never was, and thus my anger grew... and festered... and otherwise caused the bonfire of unpleasantness smoldering in my brain to grow rapidly to a monstrous inferno.

So I took matters in my own hands--or liver, as it were--and determined that the only means by which said flame could be extinguished was by drowning it... in beer.

Enter a Knight in Shining Armor: a friend who perpetually greets me with "Hey Gorgeous," and insists on paying for my drinks when we go out. He promptly agrees to get me roaring drunk, in an establishment showing the Steelers season opener, no less!, and we were off.

Innumerable beers, a subway ride, and a non-English-speaking bar later, we hauled ourselves up the 5 flights of stairs to my apartment (which miraculously actually seem shorter when one is hammered), and promptly passed out after a few minutes of more-or-less platonic cuddling, and not nearly enough water.

I say more or less because we have slept together in the past, but on this particular occasion did not. It is a testament to our friendship that we can behave in this manner from time to time without any ensuing weirdness. He is, without a doubt, good people.

Through the fog of my hangover the next day, as I brushed away the debris of the Great Fire (not to mention the Great Flood) from my mind, I realized... it was okay. I was over it.

Not one-hundred-percent, of course. Some illusions take longer to dispel than others. But the raging inferno of anger had subsided, leaving only a few embers of wounded pride and "what the fuck?" smoldering away in sheltered corners; and those too will extinguish themselves in due course, if left unfanned.

In short, there is nothing like an evening of debauched camaraderie to put things in perspective, to help you let go of the things you don't have, and to take pleasure in the things that you do.

So long DM. It was, and always will be... your freakin' loss.

Ass.

Fucking History...

...repeating itself. All over the carpet.

Thanks History. Thanks a lot. It's going to take forever to get those stains out.

It's been a week now since I've heard a peep out of DM. In the entire time I've known him, I've never gone more than a day without hearing from him in some form or another, even if it was just a two word text message, but now... Texts and voicemails, including the last which stated "You are clearly avoiding me and I'd like to know why. Call me." have gone unanswered. Short of his being, oh, let's say, dead, I cannot come up with an explanation for this fuckery that would not leave me pissed off.

And no, I don't wish he was dead.

My self-esteem might, just a little, but the rest of me would much rather he remain attached to this mortal coil... even if he is a total fuckwit.

So here I sit, kicking myself for genuinely, honestly expecting this one to turn out differently than all the rest, and wondering if he'll ever surface again and attempt to win back my affection with some sort of explanation, half-assed or otherwise... or if he'll just join the ranks of all those before him, who stuck around just long enough to get my hopes up, and then vanished into the stratosphere with nary a backward glance.

Fuckers.

It's Ba-ack...

After nearly two months without a sighting, my own personal Crazy is back in town and appears to be setting up camp for an extended visit.

Fuck me.

So, in an attempt to purge the Crazy from my system (by letting it loose on the internet, naturally), here is what's bugging me:

While it was good to see DM again last week, there was a brief moment when he was acting a little weird. He seems to be having the same Early 30s Crisis that I've watched some of my other friends go through, wondering what he's doing with his life, etc. Then he made a comment about how we don't know each other all that well (true, but that's what dating is for, right?), and how if I like him, I clearly don't know him at all. I told him that was bullshit and the moment passed... but it was enough to sew a seed of doubt in my previously untroubled mind.

Yet the next day when we said goodbye at the subway, he made a comment about how it was going to be a bitch to get out of my neighborhood on the weekends--indicating that he planned to be up here again in the future, perhaps even regularly.

Then he went away for the holiday weekend. I didn't see him again before he left. We spoke briefly on the phone on Thursday night, and I have not heard a peep from him since. I sent a single text while he was gone, which went unanswered. I called last night when he should have been back, and left a voicemail which has gone unacknowledged. I sent another text about an hour and a half ago, about something trivial, and have heard bupkus.

This is odd for him, he has always been a prompt responder. It's one of the things I like about him, because I never for a second doubted that he was into me. It was a comforting change of pace from days past when I was constantly left wondering.

You know... like I am right now.

Because this is me. The girl from whom men flee, as one would a burning building, on a fairly regular basis.

So my question to you, to the universe, and most specifically to him, is why would a man who was always eager and excited to talk to me back in July, and who maintained contact via postcards and text flirting for the five weeks I was out of town, suddenly up and shut down all lines of communication?

In other words... What the fuck, DM?

What the fuck, indeed.

I can only hope he's lost his fucking phone. Right about now, that's the only explanation I can think of that doesn't piss me off.

*grumble*

Sorry, just need to get this one off my chest:

I just received an email forward from a very Republican friend of mine that contained a link to some congressman bashing healthcare reform, likening it to "punishing" those Americans who have "earned" healthcare from their jobs in order to insure those who have not.

Now, first of all, there's the very simple argument that not every job out there offers healthcare, period. So if you want to be able to go out to a restaurant, see a movie, get your nails done, go shoe shopping, buy groceries, or even simply wash your car, well... those industries are all, ALL, staffed by people who, according to this fellow, don't deserve healthcare because they haven't "earned" it.

But all that is, believe it or not, beside the point.

What really gets me is that the woman who sent this email to me has never spent a single second of her life uninsured. She has absolutely NO frame of reference for what it's like to cross your fingers that your cold is just a cold and not bronchitis, because you sure as hell can't afford antibiotics.

First, she was covered by her parents. Then, she got married and is covered by her husband's medical insurance, which--because he is in the Air Force--is pretty freaking fantastic.

She never went to college and has held perhaps one job in her life, but when she needed to have major surgery at 25? The US Government ponied up 100% of the cost. Which is totally okay, apparently, because her "job" is being married to a serviceman.

I, on the other hand, have a Bachelor's and a Master's degree, and have been employed by numerous employers, a few of which provided health insurance, but the majority of which did not. I pay my own rent, pay my own bills, and have an exorbitant amount of student loan debt to qualify me to work in a field where, thanks to the complete and utter fuckwittedness of our last (Republican) president, there are currently very, very few jobs. So here I am, waiting tables and praying nothing bad happens to me, while I keep on looking for a job that will allow me to bring a little educational diversity into the classrooms of under-served New York City students, which, while rewarding to me and invaluable to the students, STILL won't provide health insurance.

So... you tell me: which one of us has fucking earned a little healthcare coverage?


Thank you. I feel ever so slightly better now.

The End.

Head First

I am diving back into Real Life.

Or trying to, anyway. You know, in the moments I can tear myself away from looking at other people's camp photos on Facebook.

DM came over on Monday night and I made dinner. Aside from my elation at eating something that did not originate from a can, seeing him again was great. All the chemistry is still there. We had a bit of a stilted heart-to-heart in which I discovered (somewhat to my relief) that he is not perfect--that he in fact shares many of the same flaws inherent in pretty much every guy I date--but it's early days... we'll see if those flaws turn out to be of the emotionally crippling variety. Fingers crossed that they do not, as (though I am loathe to admit it for fear of jinxing myself) I am actually excited about this one. It's been awhile since that has happened, and it would be a pleasant change of pace if that excitement didn't blow up in my face.

You hear that Universe? Just sayin'...

After a greasy diner breakfast-for-lunch the following day, I bid him adieu at the subway (he kissed me on the sidewalk and I didn't squirm! This is progress people!), then decided to plunge feet first (head first would be a bit painful) into my Avon Walk training (go here! give me money!! only $440 left to raise!!) by taking 10 mile walk down the Hudson River Greenway, which--barring a slightly smelly stretch under the highway around 135th St--is just beautiful! I fully plan on making this a regular route. This time I just walked to 135th and back (about 8 miles total) and then hiked up and around Fort Tryon Park. Next time I might take the subway down to Battery Park and then walk the 11 miles back. I am excited!!

After my walk I stopped on my favourite lawn in the Park for a stretch, with the result that I'm not as stiff as I thought I'd be today. Still, I'm heading out to Bikram Yoga in a few for some deep stretching and a whole lot of sweat. Again... excited!!

I've updated my resume and am once again on the hunt for teaching work. I start back at the restaurant next week, but would love to be able to stop waiting tables entirely. I also need to get in gear and start studying for the GRE as I only have 3 months to compile my PhD applications, and if I hope to get into Ivy League School That Only Accepts Two Applicants Per Year, I had best get my arse in gear!

Like I said. Head First.

It's the only way to go.

"Guys...? Do you think it would be dangerous if i taped my nostrils shut?" *

* Uttered by one of my campers after lights out. Miss her already.

Hello there beautiful people. Have you missed me?

Well, to be honest, you may be missing me a bit longer. My body is back in the Real World, but much of my brain is still back at Camp. I have a feeling it may stay that way for awhile, much as it did after Uganda, or last Summer's travel bonanza.

In the mean time, what little mental capacity I was able to stow in my somehow-15-lbs-overweight-luggage will be dedicated to:

• Training and raising money for the Avon Walk. (Click the link and give me money! Thousands of women will thank you!).
• Preparing for an interview/audition for a teaching position so I can do as little waitressing as possible.
• Looking for more teaching work, for the same reason.
• Convincing my Rep Company to do the original musical that premiered at Camp this summer because I'm in love with it and desperately want to be in it.
• Finally unpacking (and finishing painting) my apartment.
• Figuring out how on earth I'm going to pay all the bills that are waiting for me.

Oh... and seeing The Boy again. In an attempt at maturity, I've decided to call him DM, which is close enough to his name to not feel like a silly (and therefore distancing) nickname, but still different enough to maintain anonymity.

Clearly, even the smallest part of my brain is prone to overthinking things. Good grief.

[WARNING: Non-Sequitur Ahead]

I wish the sun was out today. I feel that the best way to reconnect with my life here in the city is just to go wandering, but nobody wants to wander when it's grey and gloomy.

[Okay, okay, LOTS of non-sequiturs]

There are not words to express how much I am enjoying my cup of coffee this morning. As wonderful as life at Camp was, the coffee was barely a step above (and perhaps even a step below) dishwater. Dirty dishwater. In other words... it was foul.

Although I had been greatly looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, with no company other than my cat, I also found it extraordinarily difficult to get myself out of bed this morning without twelve noisy girls and the impending threat of a trumpet call to urge me to do so. Even after 10+ hours of sleep.

Apparently, The Granddaddy of All Roaches made a return visit to the apartment while I was gone. Gracie held him at bay while my housesitter first panicked, and then attacked him with Raid. The Great Foe has been vanquished. Fingers crossed that he is not followed by reinforcements.

Yesterday after a morning of bidding farewell to campers, cleaning up, and striking all the lights in the theatre, I frantically (and not very neatly) packed my bags and threw them into the minivan of the counselor driving me to the airport. I was still in my stripy pajama pants, my hair in two messy buns, my glasses slightly askew. I checked in for my flight and made my way through security to my gate... where I was selected for a random pat-down before being allowed to board my flight. When I got to JFK, I discovered that my just-barely-closed luggage had been inspected (and very poorly re-packed) by the TSA. As I stood in the massive taxi queue with a 60 lb pack strapped to my back, a rainbow yoga mat, a woven purse from Peru, and a flowered laundry bag full of all the things that wouldn't fit in my pack dangling from my hand, all I could wonder was... since when does Hippy = Terrorist?

I'll leave you to ponder that while I head off to shower, face the world, and perhaps even straighten my hair for the first time in over a month.

And browse Craigslist for a free hair colour appointment because my roots are appallingly long.

Hey there Real World, long time no see. Do me a favour and take it easy on me, 'kay?

Hello!!

Howdy my lovelies!

I'll be honest with you, I haven't really got the brain power at the present moment to write a post of any real substance, but just wanted to drop a line and say that, in all honesty, Camp... is...

AWESOME.

As in, I can't believe I'm actually getting paid to be here.

It's that awesome.

We're between sessions right now. First session kids left yesterday, in a chaos of suitcases and tears, and tomorrow the new kids arrive. There are new counselors here too, so there's a whole new ream of names to learn--I had finally learned all 55 campers' names around, oh, 2 days before the end of the session.

The last week of the session was exhausting and I'm still utterly braindead, but I am in awe of the work these kids put together in those three weeks--and will be singing the songs from the musicals for the next, oh, decade or so.

Also, my Facebook friend list is growing rapidly. I am, like, totes popular now.

And since you may or may not be wondering, I've been keeping in touch with the guy I went out with a few times before I left. He's sent me a few postcards and we text when the kiddos aren't around. We'll see where it all stands when I get back, but contact has not been entirely lost.

I suppose that's about it really. Life is good. I am not looking forward to returning to the real world in a few weeks.

Do I hafta?

Catching Up

I finally took the flattened boxes from my March move-in down to the curb.

I returned my library books (though I didn't pay the fines).

I put my Netflix account on hold and returned the movies I had (only one of which I've actually watched).

I went to Target to buy a flashlight (and ended up buying two when I found the same one I'd purchased at The Sports Authority for less than half the price--yay 90 day return policy!), and replace the bath mat that Kitty Dearest chose to piddle on last night.

I leave for 5 weeks of Camp tomorrow morning and I still need to...

... clean house for my house/cat sitter (no small task, let me tell you!)
... do laundry
... PACK

But...

My dearest wegrit reprimanded me this morning for leaving you all in the lurch for 10 days, and I have no idea how frequently (if at all) I'll be able to blog while at camp, so I thought I'd take a moment before tackling the Herculean tasks outlined above and try to get you all caught up.

With sub-headings.

The Boy
There have been two more dates since last I wrote, the first of which I am not entirely certain counts as a "date," per se, as it consisted predominately of sex. I am pleased to announce that make-out chemistry, for once, translated to naked chemistry. About bloody time.

The second consisted of near disaster as I went to meet him in Park Slope, which took me NEARLY TWO FRAKKIN' HOURS because the R train is, I believe, evil incarnate. I was to call him when I got above ground, which I did, and got his voicemail, several times. I was growing increasingly more and more irritated (flakitude is just about my biggest pet peeve of all time, particularly in masculine form), when he finally appeared from across the street, looking about as harried as I was annoyed, and asked "Did you get my note?"

Er... Note?

Turns out he'd left his phone at work, had been waiting for me outside the station but the whole reason we were in Park Slope was that he was cat sitting for a friend's cat that needed medication so had to leave to take care of the kitty, and therefore bought markers and tape and left a note for me on a mailbox outside the station... which I had missed, because a creepy guy was leaning on said mailbox.

He showed me the note, I laughed, he kissed me a little too intently considering that a couple of girls were standing perhaps a foot from us (gonna have to address the PDA issue--i.e., my complete aversion thereto--sometime in the future, if this thing pans out), and then he bought me dinner.

I also met one of his roommates who, as it turns out, a few years ago ran a fundraiser to help build the dance school that I later worked with in Uganda! Small world!

Oh, and he bought me a book to read while I'm at camp, which was nice.

So, to summarize... I like him, though exactly how much seems to swing like a pendulum at any given time, and I can't figure out if that has anything to do with him, or if it's just my commitment-phobia triggering my flight reflex. So far, other than the forgotten-phone incident, he hasn't put a foot wrong... which seems... creepy. Anyhow, I'm about to take off to Maine for five weeks, so really, there's no use getting myself all worked up about it.

Though I do wonder if I should RSVP to my friend's wedding in September as having a date. Probably not. Counting my chickens and all...

Speaking of which:

Bridal Shower/Bachelorette Festivities
It is now my firm belief that ALL bachelorette parties should take place in a gay bar.

The original plan was to go to Sisters, a lesbian club in Philly (because this wedding has two brides... and no groom), but when we got there we learned that the dance floor was closed on Sundays, so after a few shots and some beer pong with the regulars--and my best friend nearly getting her ass kicked when she asked if the bartender knew how to make a muff diver (the bartender thought she was just being inappropriate)--we made our way down the street to the neighboring gay bar, Woodys, which came complete with a dance floor, DJ, and, er, gay porn being shown on the big screens. I was, it seems, the only one not traumatized by this.

A gay man repeatedly told me I was the most beautiful girl in the club... only to follow up by telling me I looked like his mom. I'm pretty sure he meant that as a compliment, but still...

And cheese steaks at 2am after dancing your ass off for several hours nonstop? Best. Idea. EVER.

So is realizing that you met some of the greatest friends you'll ever have when you were 9-12 years old. I love my girls, and feel incredibly blessed to have such amazing women in my life.

Work
Job still sucks. Hours still suck. Recently learned that they're raping us in the money department even more severely (and potentially illegally) than we were previously aware, and am feeling very ambivalent about potentially coming back in the Fall. If I do, it likely will not be for long.

However... fourth time is the charm, and after I missed him THREE TIMES, everyone's favourite Twilight actor FINALLY came into the restaurant while I was working. I delivered his salad. Yes, he is hot. He was also, however, in a very obvious "please leave me the hell alone" state (hat pulled low, jacket collar up, hunched down in seat) so I suppressed the urge to behave like a slavering fangirl and did just that. So... sorry. No photos.

Miscellaneous
Seeing a woman in a full burka pushing a stroller is a little creepy. It's like the Angel of Death has taken up babysitting to bring in some extra cash.


And that, my darlings... is all I got.

I hope you feel less neglected after this massive update, and as such, I hope you can weather the upcoming semi-hiatus with grace and no ill will. I'll update when I can, should I have anything update-worthy to share, and I hope you all have a lovely summer.

Oh, and I don't even *know* what heights the number in my Google Reader has reached. I am abolishing my self-guilting tendencies and marking all as read when I return in September. Clean slate! Fresh start! Fingers crossed that I can suck a little less on my return.

Lovies!
XOXO
-FP-

De-Brief, In Brief

Pros:
Cuter, and ever-so-slightly taller, than I remembered.
Chose the scenic walk to the restaurant.
Made me laugh.
Paid for dinner.
Still an excellent kisser.

Cons:
Will be shorter than me if I'm wearing heels.
Poor lighting didn't let me see if he's a good tipper.
Blew his nose in cloth napkin at restaurant.

Verdict:
Although I actually managed to behave myself (for once in my bloody life) and decline the invitation to go home with him, there is definitely some chemistry there that merits exploring before I leave for five weeks. Does it go beyond chemistry? Jury is still out.

Hey, it was a first date. And it wasn't a disaster.

That, in and of itself, is an accomplishment.

Grammar Lesson: Not Only / But Also

Not only did I meet (and make-out with) a boy on the Fourth of July, but I also gave that boy my number.

Not only did I give that boy my number, but he also utilized it within less than 24 hours.

Not only did he utilize that number, but he also asked me out to dinner.

Not only did he ask me out to dinner, but I also said yes.

And we're going out tonight.

I...

... had a crazy intense make-out session with a boy on a rooftop this evening.

That was unexpected.

Not that I'm complaining.

Happy Fourth of July y'all!

Oh. My. Holy. Jesus.

I had just reached that particular point in tiredness when one says "to hell with the second half of that 40 in my fridge, it's time for bed!"

I'd taken off my glasses and gone to use the bathroom and, as I was coming out of the door, I happened to glance up toward the ceiling of the livingroom and I thought to myself, "Hmmm... what is that dark spot up there on my wall?"

I put on my glasses.

This... was a bad idea.

For the dark spot lurking on my wall just below the ceiling... was the biggest motherfucking cockroach I have ever seen.

Black as midnight and larger than some of the mice my cat has slaughtered, I watched, awestruck, as it slowly made its way along the wall to the corner, and then began to descend.

My first instinct was, of course, to grab my camera from the coffee table and attempt to photograph this minion of Satan, lest the world at large think I was exaggerating.

Unfortunately, due to exhaustion (and the first half of that 40 of Budweiser, now happily at rest in my stomach), I failed in this endeavor, and as my unwelcome guest came closer to disappearing behind the cabinet of my secretary desk (and allowing my imagination to relegate it to such locations as, oh, let's just say, my face), I realized that something had to be done.

Go ahead and substitute "thrown" for "done" and you can imagine what happened next.

I searched frantically for a launchable item that could thwart my enemy without damaging my walls or, more importantly, the glass-fronted cabinet of my desk (really, my own foresight in the presence of such menace amazes me). After discarding both a J. Crew flip-flop and a Nike Air-Rift sneaker as being too bulky, I settled on an American Eagle ballet flat (though let it be known that mine was pink), and took aim at my foe.

To my credit, considering that a.) I'm exhausted and tipsy, and b.) my hand-eye coordination, when it comes to projectiles, is lousy, I came remarkably close to exploding that roach with a single act of footwear.

Unfortunately, I was about an inch shy of my target, the shoe now lies atop my cabinet (where it will most likely remain until I move), and the roach has tumbled to god knows where, and at this moment is most likely making himself at home in one of my sneakers.

Rest assured, no shoe will be donned unchecked for a very, very long time.

In the mean time, my day-off plans for tomorrow, which previously included only "loaf on couch like vegetable," and "wash aprons," have now been amended to include "get lazy ass to hardware store and buy screens for damned windows to insure that this ballet of fuckery never happens again."

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to chug the rest of that 40, jump at the tiniest flicker of every shadow, and have nightmares about roaches the size of my face wielding ballet slippers before holding my cat hostage and demanding reparations.

Damnit. I never had this problem in Brooklyn.

Perspective.

17 YEAR OLD COWORKER

I hope it's not busy tonight.

ME

I hope it is. Me and my bank account need it to be busy.

17 Y/O

Right.

(Beat)

So are you saving for anything in particular? Or just because?

ME

(Pause)
Um... my rent?

17 Y/O

Oh.

ME

My $100,000 in student loans for grad school... my credit card debt...

17 Y/O

Uh huh.

ME

Yeah.

(Pause)

Getting old sucks.

(Beat)

So... you going to college in the Fall?



----
To those using readers, sorry about the blank post. Clearly, I am a wee bit tired.

Really Universe? REALLY??

I.

Am.

So.

Motherfucking.

ANGRY.

Irate. Upset. Apoplectic.

The word Homicidal comes to mind.

I just got a call from the egg donation clinic. The results of my pap are back and I have motherfucking HPV... again.

I had it for four years. I had lots and lots of sections of my cervix painfully removed in a process called a colposcopy. It finally went away and I've been clean for the past 2 years. And now, one of the two men I've slept with since my last exam (neither of whom rated above "average" in the sack) has given me the gift that keeps on giving... in the form of painful and expensive testing, and even more delays in the donation process which now pretty much DEFINITELY won't be happening until after camp, even though I really need that fucking money NOW because my job sucks and we're barely scraping out $100 a day in tips after working 14 hour days, and we're not even getting that money until our paychecks which means it will really be about $75 after taxes which is way less than I was making sitting around on my ass on unemployment and REMIND ME WHY THE FUCK I WENT AND GOT A JOB AGAIN BECAUSE REALLY IT'S NOT SEEMING LIKE SUCH A GREAT IDEA RIGHT ABOUT NOW?!??

So now I get to spend tomorrow--my one day off this week that won't be spent in a cloud of exhaustion--going down to the Egg Donation clinic to sign a release for my charts, then going to the sliding scale clinic they recommend and signing up for a card, then going to their gyno department to make an appointment for the colpo (so I can spend another day off getting chunks removed from my cervix as opposed to doing something I'll enjoy).

And since there is no HPV test for men--apparently, we are the only ones who get to suffer--I don't even get the pleasure of calling The Contender and saying "Go get tested, Asshole!"

I would really REALLY like some good news right about now.

Battered

Holy hell am I tired.

It seems that, lately, the universe has been conspiring to make me a bad blogger. First, there was the whole hospital thing. Now, there is The Job That Ate My Life... to say nothing of my feet, knees, and hips. Ow.

Everything hurts. I've tried three different pairs of shoes, but after walking around on a hard tile floor for 14 hours straight, shoes don't make a lick of difference. My new Earth Shoes left my feet feelings lightly less battered, but the strap happens to rub directly across the spot where I cut my foot open on the bar refrigerator, so until that heals, they are temporarily shelved.

Today I am off, and while mentally I really want to go downtown to meet a friend and her husband at the Big Apple BBQ street fair and gorge myself on assorted sauce-drenched meats, physically I just want to glue myself to the couch, order take-out, pay someone else to do my laundry, and watch CSI: Miami until I go cross-eyed. So which do I appease, body or soul? Considering that the BBQ will involve lots of walking around, not to mention standing in lines, it seems that the desires of the two are mutually exclusive.

I'm off tomorrow as well, but I have to get up mildly early to go do my hours at the Rep Co, which I shifted to an earlier time slot so I can go join my friend at the Ballet in the afternoon. This also means that anything productive (laundry, washing my cat-hair-laden bedding) should probably happen today.

Something's gotta give, and soon. Granted, this job is only temporary until camp--and if I come back to them afterward it will most definitely be on a part-time basis--but can I really stick it out through July 22nd with this brutal four-double-shifts-per-week schedule? If the restaurant keeps getting busier and we start pulling in $300+ per day, I'll be able to convince myself that the financial aspect makes it worth it... but right now, when I'm making more or less the same amount of money as I was getting from unemployment? It makes me want to kick puppies.

If, you know, I could lift my leg.

Working Gal's Blues

Working for restaurant owners who themselves have never worked in a restaurant is a mind-boggling experience.

They wander aimlessly across the floor, completely oblivious to the fact that, directly behind them in the narrow pathway between tables, is a server with about 30 things to do, who desperately needs to get around them.

They choose the most inconvenient places imaginable to stop and have a conversation with contractors/friends/fellow-owners. In the only doorway to the kitchen, for example. Or directly in front of the service bar.

They'll try to hand a glass bottle of water to one of those friends, reaching across the open doorway, and after three servers burst through the gap between them, laden with trays of food, they still haven't quite figured out that it is not a good place to hang out.

They ask you to get them sodas in the middle of a rush.

They decide to hold your credit card tips until your paycheck, utterly oblivious to the fact that the chief reason anyone gets into this line of work in the first place is money. Caah-in-hand, unseen by the IRS, MONEY.

They spring this information on you unexpectedly a few days into the first week of business, allowing you no time to budget for the fact that you won't see more than a few random dollars for two weeks, because in a neighborhood filled with high-rise office buildings, everybody pays on credit cards.

Chances are, having opened a restaurant for the hell of it, being able to afford to do so, and therefore being entirely unfamiliar with the concept of getting by day to day, paycheck to paycheck, they don't have the slightest idea of the financial crunch this move puts on all of their employees.

The employees without whom, it must be said, their business would be entirely unable to function. Because the idea of these individuals donning an apron and carting around trays of french fries is laughable.

Not to mention working four double-shifts, currently clocking in around 14 hours each, per week.

Then again, at least they're actually paying us, which is more than I can say for the last restaurant by which I was "employed." (Can you call it "employment" if they're not paying you?)

All I can say is: business had better pick up, and the money had better get exponentially better, and SOON. Because now that I've taken a job, I can't go back on unemployment (because restaurants never "downsize"). If this place bombs, I am screwed.

S.C.R.E.W.E.D.

And that's a terrifying thought.

Older and... Wiser?

I'm not as young as I once was, in more ways than one, and not all of them bad.

I am off work today, thank goodness, after working two VERY long days at the new restaurant for our soft opening--where we have a limited number of "invite only" guests eating free food while we practice not launching french fries at people, and the kitchen tries to get their shit together. Now, a 13+ hour day is long by anybody's standards, but DAMN have I been feeling it... in my muscles, my bones, and especially my feet.

In essence, my body HURTS. And that makes me feel old.

On the other hand, watching some of the young girls (21, 22) that we're working with, I am damned grateful for the maturity that experience and life in general have given me. There are downsides to an all-female floor staff, such as the tendency to gossip and create drama at every opportunity, but what really gets me are the freakin' tears.

One of the women training us is French, so let's call her Elle, and all of these children have decided that she is rude and evil and they bitch about her behind her back every second they can, simply because she doesn't pat them on the head and tell them they're pretty every time she offers some constructive criticism.

Something that became particularly apparent to me during my studies abroad last Summer is that, as a whole, Americans expect to be coddled. We want our hands held and our asses wiped and god forbid you offer us any sort of criticism without softening the blow with a compliment (or twelve).

So when Elle corrects someone's service technique, or tries to show them a more efficient way of doing something... they cry. Or bitch about it and petulantly not do what they were told. Let's forget the fact that she is a.) just doing her job, b.) from an entirely different culture that has an entirely different approach to interpersonal relations, and c.) speaking a language that is not her native tongue. None of that matters in the slightest. She isn't treating me like a delicate flower and therefore she is a bitch.

It's really ridiculous.

Now, don't get me wrong, she rubbed me the wrong way for a day or two as well, but then again, EVERYTHING was rubbing me the wrong way. And in the end? I got over it. And now I think she's lovely. That may have something to do with the fact that she clearly likes me as well--most likely because I'm not incompetent--but that's beside the point. It's a fucking job people. Not high school. Or day care. We're not here to make friends, we are here to get paid. Period.

Fortunately there is another "old hand" on the staff, with whom I instantly bonded, who also takes all of the lunacy in stride. I'm sure a day will come for each of us when we totally lose our shit--because it's the service industry and that's just how it goes--but until that point in time, I'm just going to keep my ass out of the drama... and hope my feet don't fall off.

Nom Nom Nom

Happy Weekend my lovelies!

Yesterday I spent my afternoon basking in the sun in a park in Brooklyn, picnicking with some absolutely lovely people. I can't think of a better way to spend such a gorgeous, sunny afternoon.

As it happens, several people at the picnic asked for the recipe for the dessert I brought, which, incidentally, looked like this:

Heavenly, right? I know. I'm awesome.

It's a pudding, but in the British sense of the word, which means that under that lovely, crusty top it is a creamy colour and has a consistency somewhere between sponge cake and flan. Difficult to describe if you've never had it, but very, very tasty. And since I just spent a few minutes typing up the recipe to send to one of my fellow picnickers, I thought I'd share it with you all as well!


Lemon Surprise Pudding

Ingredients:
1/2 cup caster (superfine) sugar *
1/2 cup self raising flour **
1/4 cup butter
1 1/4 cups milk
2 eggs, separated
Grated rind and juice of 2 lemons

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 375°F (190°C, Gas 5). Use a little butter to grease a 5 cup (.5 litre, 2 pint) baking dish.

2. Beat the lemon rind, butter and sugar in a bowl until pale and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and flour and beat together well. Gradually whisk in the lemon juice, then milk (the mixture will curdle, but this is supposed to happen).

3. Fold the egg whites lightly into the lemon mixture using a metal spoon, then pour into the prepared baking dish.

4. Place the dish in a roasting pan and pour in hot water to come halfway up the side of the dish. Bake for 45 minutes until golden. Serve immediately.


NOTES & HINTS:
* Superfine sugar is NOT confectioner sugar, it is granulated sugar that is ground, well, superfinely. I only had a little left so I went halfsies with regular granulated sugar and it didn't pose a problem. If you use regular, just spend a little extra time beating together with the butter & lemon rind.

** If you don't have self-raising flour, you can just add 1/2 tsp baking powder at the same time as the flour.

I used an electric juicer to juice my lemon which gives a LOT of juice, so when it came time to fold in the egg whites my mixture was very liquid and the heavy egg whites weren't blending with the batter. I ended up using the electric mixer on low to beat them in, just for a few seconds. Didn't seem to cause any problems.

Finally, it took my pudding about an hour to bake, versus 45 minutes, which may be because, as I said, the mixture was really liquid. Either way, just go by the colour on top. When it's nice and golden brown, it's ready.



And there you have it! I've got a whole slew of Food Porn on my harddrive just waiting to be shared (chicken & snow peas, several pizzas, and my first attempt at homemade ravioli, just to name a few), but I'll save those for another time.

Perhaps I should just turn this into a food blog and call it a day. But then, where would I go to bitch about stupid people on the subway, or my love life (if, you know, I ever happen to develop one)?

Yup, better to keep it as it is--and much like my diet--a little bit of everything.

Bon Appetit!

Tidbit

I just received a lengthy mass email from High School Nemesis Who Has Now Found God And Is Therefore, Apparently, No Longer An Asshole. While the first portion of the email was at least an educated and well-written brief (with citations!) on his own religious struggle (he has a Masters in Theology...from Yale, no less), the second half was one of those forwarded-to-death, tug-at-your-heartstrings, isn't-god-great-etc-etc emails.

After the schmaltzy story [insert close-up of single tear], there was this:

"When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go, only 1 of 2 things will happen, either He'll catch you when you fall, or He'll teach you how to fly!"

Being one to frequently equate organized religion with the behavior of lemmings, I couldn't help but find this ironic.

Rut Rut Rut

I am in a serious rut.

As non-thrilled as I am at the prospect of waitressing again, at least once the restaurant opens and I start working a regular schedule I'll be doing something.

You see, the chief difficulty that I've found with being unemployed is that, when you have such an extensive amount of free time in which to do things, it becomes exceedingly difficult to do anything at all.

Laundry, for example. If you work 9-5, Monday thru Friday, you either do your laundry at the weekend, or drop it off after work one day and pick it up the next (another bonus of being gainfully employed: the option of paying someone else to do your laundry for you). When unemployed, however, there is no pressure to get your laundry, or anything else, done today, because your schedule for the next day is equally open.

I am running dangerously low on clean underwear.

This constant availability begets a very vicious cycle that winds up with me sitting on my couch in my pajamas, frittering away the day on the internet, bookmarking job postings but never actually getting around to applying for them because, naturally, I can always do that tomorrow. There are two colleges within the five boroughs that are looking to expand their adjunct staff. All I need to do is write a cover letter, double check with my usual references that they don't mind being referenced, and then send off the letter with my CV.

Have I done it yet?

Give a guess.

I seem to fall into ruts like this fairly frequently, and I wish I could figure out how to break the cycle. I am, in general, an active person. When I'm sitting here on my couch ignoring my ever-expanding Google Reader (I promise I still love all of you, really I do) and opting instead to refresh my Facebook home page every 5 minutes to see who's updated their status and whether there are any new quizzes for me to take, there is a part of me that is edgy, restless, and irritated, wishing I was doing something productive with my time.

Which is usually when I get up and bake something. We're not even going to talk about how much weight I've gained in the past few months.

Maybe it's the weather. Last week when it was beautiful all I did was sit in the park for hours at a time and read, which is not technically productive, yet I felt good about it. Felt that I had accomplished something.

Why is it that laziness out of doors promotes a sense of active engagement, whereas laziness on the couch promotes a sense of sloth? Other than Vitamin D intake, what is the actual difference?

I have no conclusion for this post. Bitching about my irritation with myself did not bring me to any startling resolution--not that I thought it would, mind, but it would have been nice.

I'm sick of feeling dissatisfied. I just wish I knew what to do about it.

I Can Hardly Believe It But...

... I joined Twitter.

http://twitter.com/LovelyLlama

Leave no mental stone unturned.

Gotcha!

I am convinced that Insomnia is the Universe's way of paying me back for some indiscretion that I have yet to commit--and I can only hope that, when I do, it is fucking worth it.

So, rather than letting the Universe sit smugly by while I get increasingly more irritated at my own inability to achieve a REM state, I will instead relate an entertaining conversation that took place earlier today.

I was at the new job, sitting around with a few other waitresses shooting the shit whilst waiting our turn to practice some special method of scooping ice cream. As often happens when a large number of people are all embarking on a new path of employment, we began swapping tales of previous jobs and the shit we'd had to endure while employed thereby.

The subject, predictably enough, turned to lecherous bosses.

"So I was temping at this hedge fund, right around the corner actually..." I began.

"Oh, which one?" Asked one of the other girls. We've all worked pretty much every job known to man.

"Brentwood Advisors, over on 66th." **

"Oh, okay, go on," she said, and I proceeded to share the story of a going away party that took place when I'd only been working there for a few weeks, where I happened to get far drunker than advisable with some of the younger guys from the firm, and how one of them, when he walked me down to get a taxi when I realized I was tanked, proceeded to stick his tongue down my throat. Twice. Meanwhile he had a girlfriend, who called him, like, 5 times a day, which I knew, because it was my job to answer his damned phones.

"What was his name?" The girl asked.

"Errr... Jason.... something. I don't remember his last name." I finished up my tale, describing the incredibly irate drunken email that I sent (to his work email address) when I got home, and the retracting email I sent the following morning saying that, in light of keeping things professional, perhaps it was best that we just forget the whole thing.

As the tale of awkwardness wound down, the girl who'd been asking all the questions smiled and said,

"I am now going to blow your mind with what a small world this is... His name is Jason Smith, and his girlfriend's name is Stacy. I know, because I worked there too."

Well let me tell you, my head damned near exploded as I struggled to control the surge of laughter that overtook me (not to mention the relief because for a moment I thought she was going to turn out to be either the girlfriend, or a close friend thereof).

As I got myself back under control, she proceeded to tell me that, when she'd first started temping there (a few years after me), she'd been shocked to see him because several years before that she'd answered his Causal Encounters ad on Craigslist (once again while he was with the same girlfriend, to whom he is now, incidentally, married)!

I must own that I was relieved to learn that the guy was simply a sleaze, and that I had done nothing to encourage him to molest my tonsils while I was hammered.

There is, however, a moral to be learned, which is this: Be careful what stories you tell in New York City, because no matter how big you think it is, everybody knows everybody.

It's like high school.

With cocaine.

Scary.

________________
** Names and locations have been changed to protect the guilty. And what passes for my reputation.

Recap

I was supposed to go to a picnic yesterday, but was deterred by the 90 minute travel time (each way) and the imminent threat of a drum circle. Instead, I opted to loaf around the house for a few hours and then pack up my stuff and hike up the giant hill to hang out in the (much more crowded than usual) park.

As I lay on my back, absorbed in my 80th re-reading of "Pride and Prejudice," I was startled from my reverie of Darcy-lust by a frisbee which winged unexpectedly across my field of vision, knocking the book from my hands and sending it flying across the grass.

Now, had this been a romantic comedy, perhaps starring Amanda Peet as the anything-but-ingenue female lead, the perpetrator of this act--played by a Ryan Reynolds, or perhaps even an on-break-from-Fringe Joshua Jackson--would have loped easily to my side, grinning charmingly. Witty banter would ensue and, before the sun had set, we would be well on our way to purchasing a duplex in New Jersey or, at the very least, have made plans to meet later for dinner/drinks/raunchy sex.

Instead, the man who ran over (whether he was the thrower or failed-catcher, I could not say) was of only average-ish attractiveness, and while he did retrieve my book and inquired after my general well-being, offered only a profuse apology (no banter or other demonstration) before he returned to his game, and I to my book.

My life, clearly, is not a chick flick.

While the remainder of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, I did discover one down-side to going to the park alone: nobody to watch your things should you need to go in search of the bathroom. (See, again! If this were a movie, the Ryan/Joshua frisbee thrower/misser would have offered to watch my things as repayment for hitting me, and then perhaps left some cute message in my notebook, or programmed his number into my phone, during my absence.) Rather than leave the park--almost immediately upon arrival--I decided instead to hold it... for two hours. And then stop by the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few things for dinner.

Needless to say, by the time I finally mounted the last of the 5 flights of stairs leading to my apartment, I was in a considerable state of discomfort. All in all, however, it was not enough to tarnish the overall pleasantness of the day.

On the whole, my long weekend was relatively uneventful. Went out with friends (and spent far too much money) for a friend's birthday on Saturday night--rolling home around 5am to discover that, when totally schmammered, the 24-HR McDonald's is every bit as irresistible as I'd imagined it would be--and paid for it (though not as dearly as expected, owing, most likely, to the afore-mentioned McDonald's) on Sunday morning. There was a bit of work scattered throughout as well, but really, nobody wants to hear about that.

And there you have it.

Not, perhaps, the plot of a Summer Blockbuster--or even a Lifetime Movie of the Week--but enough to keep me from feeling like a total loser.

Works for me.

Mental Chiropractics

I need a serious attitude adjustment.

In an hour or so, I'll be heading downtown for my third day of training for Waitressing Job. Today we're learning the Bar, and I'm already annoyed because they've told us we'll be pouring with a jigger. I know how to free-pour properly, and I find jiggers slow, tedious, and messy, particularly if one is in a rush. Thus, I am pissed off before I even get to work, a pattern that has been in effect for, oh, years... particularly when related to the service industry.

It is, in fact, the reason I got out of the industry in the first place.

[tangent]
Holy shit, there is an aeronotical insect ballet taking place in my livingroom. I really need to get screens for my windows. Right, back to the issue at hand.
[/tangent]

I stopped waiting tables 4 years ago because it made me miserable, made me not only see the worst in people, but expect it, which is an attitude that is so very much not in line with my usual outlook on life. So I quit... and went on to be a personal assistant--definitely NOT the way to go when trying to restore one's faith in humanity. But I digress.

The bottom line is: I was skeptical when I took this job, but I need a job. Specifically, a job that pays more than Unemployment, which this one hopefully will. It is an act of necessity, but does necessity dictate that I must be miserable for the next few months?

Yet there I sit in training, the restaurant won't even open for business until the end of next week, and I can practically feel the negativity oozing from every pore.

Is there such a thing as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for New York City waitresses?

This restaurant is very, shall we say, "High Concept." It has an extremely limited menu and a very specific way of doing things. On one hand, this is fabulous. It makes my job that much easier not having to memorize 5,000 appetizers, or worry about swapping out sides and holding the mayo/onions/etc. Yet every time a new piece of information is introduced, I immediately find myself imagining the customer who is going to raise an enormous stink over the fact that we don't have ketchup, and therefore refuse to tip me.

It's very similar to a few years ago when the shit was hitting the fan with The Evil Ex Roommate. She flew off the handle and treated me so horribly at the slightest provocation that no matter what I did or did not do, or before she had knowledge of either, I would imagine and steel myself for the tirade to come.

I took so much abuse--from my roommate, my customers, and even my former employers--that I've come to expect it. Which is, um, bad.

Or perhaps it's less an issue of PWSD (Post Waitressing Stress Disorder), and more the fact that I am essentially bitter that, after spending 4 semesters and nearly $100k on a Masters Degree, I'm right back where I was 4 years ago: waiting tables and struggling to keep financially afloat--which is essentially a gigantic kick in the ass and an indicator that, perhaps, I've been wasting my time (not to mention my credit rating).

Regardless of the cause, what I need to figure out is: is there any way I can turn this attitude around, give the service industry (and myself) a clean slate and start over with, if not exactly a positive, then at least a neutral outlook?

Or have I simply made my bed, as they say? ...And now I have to work in it.