The Aftermath

So, my MFA auditions were last weekend.

On the plus side, I now know for certain that rejection can't kill me.

First up was NYU, and from the moment I entered the waiting area, I was fairly certain that this was not the place I wanted to be. It was essentially the foyer of a small office, crammed with two dozen folding chairs, each of which contained a bundle of nerves that once upon a time had been a person. I was feeling fairly calm when I arrived, but that level of tension is highly contagious and I was soon feeling the effects. To top it all off, while the person ahead of you is in the audition room, they stick you in a tiny little room by yourself, ostensibly to warm up... but mostly it just gives you a solid four minutes to walk around in a circle and wonder what the hell you've gotten yourself into.

My audition was okay. I fumbled in a few places, but nothing atrocious. I did not receive a preliminary callback at the end of the hour, but based on the vibes I was receiving from everyone else in the holding pen, these were not people with whom I had any desire to spend the next 3 years, so I chalked it up to experience and moved on.

The next day was Yale, which was the day to NYU's night. People were relaxed. The holding areas were warm-up rooms where you could move around and get focused, and--gasp!--people were actually talking to one another! Aside from the fact that the building was absolutely FREEZING, prompting me to wear my wool scarf like a toga in an effort to get my core temperature back into the normal range, the environment was ideal.

My audition went, I thought, as well as it possibly could have. I corrected the mistakes I had made the previous day, and even elicited a chuckle from the auditor at the end of my comedic piece. Alas, once again I did not receive a preliminary callback. Indeed, of the 17 people in my group, only four received callbacks, and they were all men. I guess the quota of women for the day had already been filled.

So... it looks like my hopes of heading to New Haven next Fall have been quite decidedly dashed. Now I look to my PhD programs, and potentially to some MFA programs overseas, which have much later application deadlines. Indeed, I was doing a little research last night and the school in England that I attended for a year of Undergrad, and whose PhD program I adore, also has a 2 year MFA that has decidedly piqued my interest, which means I will have to choose with path I would prefer to pursue there. Decisions, decisions...

There is, however, one decided up-side to my not getting a callback at Yale, which is that the ridiculously attractive guy that I met while waiting to be seen didn't get one either, which allowed us to go out and get a drink, and ride the Metro North back to the city together.

Now, as a rule I generally don't date actors, as often the only thing they are capable of talking about is theatre, and their own triumphs and failures therein. As one of my fellow cast members so aptly put it: "Sex, religion, and theatre. That's about all we're good for."

Likewise, I generally don't date men who are prettier than I am. It gives me a bit of a complex.

That being said... for an actor who's also been through law school, and possesses a sixpack and cheekbones that could cut glass? I just might be prepared to make an exception...

Stay tuned.

The Opposite.

The grad school apps are all in, minus one hard-copy letter of recommendation which may or may not be on its way to me as we speak, and which I'd prefer not to discuss any further lest my head explode;

I've chosen my pieces for my auditions, and have them memorized;

I've submitted my limited-due-to-rehearsal availability to my boss, and she hasn't killed me;

And, oh yeah, I turned 30 last Friday.

So anyway...

I am having a serious actor's dilemma right now, and I'm going to vent to you about it. I know you all aren't actors (or, at least, those of you that I know aren't--lurking thespians, now would be an excellent time to come out of the closet, so to speak), but I'm sure there is some way this situation could compare to one that occurs off-stage, so hear me out.

We've started rehearsing for the show I'm doing in February, and for the most part I am delighted with this particular cast. They're funny, they're friendly, and best of all, they are fucking talented. It's awesome.

With one small problem.

There is a TON--I mean scads, loads, heaps, pailfuls--of sexual subtext in this play.

That's not the problem.

The problem, is that the man toward whom all of my closeted Victorian lust is supposed to be directed... is one to whom I am not in the least bit attracted. At all. Even slightly.

More to the point: he actually creeps me out a little.

He's nearly twice my age--due to my being cast in a role that even my aged 30-year-old-self is a bit too young for--and for whatever inexplicable reason, my body just wants to... recoil... whenever he comes near.

Now yes, I am aware that this is why it's called "Acting," but dear god! How am I supposed to drum up even a semblance of lust when my instincts are screaming at me to run the other way?!

I feel a little guilty even talking about it, even though none of you know who he is--very few of you even know who *I* am--as he is, I'm sure, a very nice man, and I don't mean this to be a diatribe against him as an individual, it's just...

Sometimes there's chemistry... and sometimes... there's the opposite.

This is most definitely the opposite.

I am so fucked.

First Lesson of the New Year:

Champagne and Vodka don't mix.

Actually, I already knew this, but apparently I forgot... leading to some extreme drunkenness on my part, the first UDI of the New Year, and the sneaking suspicion that my co-workers are going to make fun of me at work tomorrow.

On the plus side of life, I've submitted my application to Columbia! The downside of this is that I'm still short one letter of recommendation, even though my professor agreed to write it back in OCTOBER and I've reminded him at least a dozen times since then. Meanwhile the professor that I didn't ask until the middle of December managed to get hers in on time, so unless he's dead or in a coma, there is no reasonable excuse for his not having done it. Also, it makes me look bad.

Now I just need to finish up my CUNY application, select/memorize/rehearse my monologues for my MFA auditions... and rehearse for a play.

No, I'm not busy. Not busy at all...

New Decade, Same Frog

Greetings and Salutations Campers, and welcome to the New Year!

In true Froggy fashion, I kicked off 2010 by getting naked with a guy I'd just met. It seemed the only logical thing to do, really, being that I'm fairly certain we were the only two straight guests at the party. I do, however, wish that I could remember his name... I think I do, but I'm not certain. Not that it matters if I don't, because he lives on the opposite side of the country and my chances of ever seeing him again are slim to none.

The drama-free nature of the year's first indiscretion fully makes up for the debacle of New Year's Eve several years ago, when all of my friends knew that the guy I was flirting with was crazy, and for some reason opted not to warn me, thus leading to THE most painfully uncomfortable morning-after EVER. They did, however, tease me ruthlessly for some time afterward. Nice of them, really.

My only regret is that I smoked a few cigarettes, which I haven't done in months, and I can feel it this morning. Lungs = not happy.

So, while I don't necessarily believe that what happens on New Year's Eve sets the tone for the whole year, at least I've started off on good footing. What can I say? I do learn from my mistakes... I just choose to repeat the fun ones :)

Happy New Year y'all! What sort of trouble did you get into?

Jiggity Jig

Is it wrong that I want to have lunch at Panera tomorrow for the sole purpose of scoping out my ex boyfriend, and potentially making him very uncomfortable?

Okay, okay, maybe it's not the sole reason... I am rather fond of their bread bowls.

I just got back from the Best Friend's house, where I watched the Sex and the City movie with her and her remarkably acquiescent husband (who had his ACL replaced today and was therefore doped up on percoset). In the course of providing me with all the local gossip, she mentioned that my First Love served her coffee at Panera yesterday, where he is the manager, and skeezily hits on all the teenaged girls who work there.

It seems that my stellar taste in men stretches all the way back to the tender age of 13. Hooray for me!

Doesn't stop me from wanting to go check him out. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.

The holiday has been lovely, if a bit of a whirlwind. It seems as if I've spent more time in transit than I have in any one place, and tomorrow evening it's back to the big city to work a double on Wed, and then I'm off again through January 3rd. I'm hoping that on at least one of those days, I get to sleep in.

Two of my four grad school applications have been submitted and my MFA auditions are scheduled. I've finally unearthed my writing sample for the PhD applications, which needs to be re-typed, as well as another contender that needs a little work, but if I have time, I may spruce it up and submit it instead. I'm also waiting on two letters of recommendation, which has me more than a little edgy as the deadlines are fast approaching and I can only send so many reminder emails before my head explodes. Contemplating combing the Baltimore newspapers to see if one of my recommenders has died or is in a coma or something, which are the only reasonable excuses I can think of for agreeing to write a letter back in September, and not yet having done so.

At least I survived the GRE and my scores, it has to be said, are stellar. 740 Verbal, 730 Math, and a 5 in Analytical Writing (which, okay, could have been better, but I'll live), just in case you were wondering...

I've also been cast in a play which will be rehearsing throughout January, in addition to getting ready for my MFA auditions, and figuring out how to rearrange my work schedule around all of the above so that I can still make enough money to pay my rent. I will hopefully be worked into an egg donation cycle early in the month, which will take care of my financial concerns, but seeing as I've been waiting since September, that can hardly be counted on...

In other words, life is about to get intensely crazy... but at least it will be interesting.

Happy Holidays y'all!

Eleven

I am playing a very dangerous game. Or, if not dangerous, just very, very foolish. I've been spending far too much time thinking about someone whom I certainly should not be thinking about, especially considering that said someone is 4000 miles away and likely to stay there.

Confused?

Me too.

The English Ex and I have been talking a lot lately, or IM'ing rather, and amid the usual sexual banter that colours our conversations--I did invite him to come visit me for New Years for the sole purpose of getting laid--there is an undercurrent of... something.

It's trying to figure out that something that is getting me into trouble.

Because that something is probably nothing, or else just very little. Two lonely people who once fancied each other feeding each other's bruised egos via the internet. On the other hand, it feels strangely familiar, like an echo of those days many years ago when he and I were both trying to figure out how we felt about each other, without letting on that there was anything to figure out. The main difference being that, all those years ago, we were on the same bloody continent.

But how many times can a man jokingly ask "Why aren't we married?" without there being just the tiniest thread of a something lurking beneath the surface?

You see, I can live with a tiny thread of something. Sure, in the end a tiny thread will come to nothing, just as all of this will, most likely, come to nothing. But a tiny thread would at least mean that it's not all of my own invention. That the something really is something, as opposed to wishful thinking.

I hope you're not annoyed with my egregious use of the word "something," but really, I have no other word for it.

Gah. What good can ever come of flirting continuously with an Ex who lives on the other side of an ocean? And even though I know the answer to this question is "none," why can't I seem to stop?

The other day I asked the folks on Twitter, "On a scale of 1-10, just how stupid is it to invite an Ex to travel 4000 miles for a dirty weekend? And will that stop me?"

Although I received not a single response, I can answer without a doubt...

Eleven.

And not a chance.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried...

Last night as I returned home around 12:30am (my usual arrival time after work--I am rapidly becoming completely nocturnal) I was understandably surprised to discover that the entire sidewalk in front of my building was blanketed with broken glass. Much more than could come from a busted car window, or even a busted store window. It was as if a glass factory had exploded overhead, and its shattered entrails were now crunching beneath my feet as I made my way warily toward the entrance. The path leading to the front door was similarly strewn with glittering detritus, though here it had been swept up against the walls, like so many leaves in a gutter.

The door to the building was open. I entered, checking my mail as if all of this were a completely pedestrian state in which to find my home, then turned to discover that the floor, and the stairs leading up to my side of the building, were soaking wet.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to scrape broken glass from the bottom of my boots and glanced up at two men standing outside the first apartment.

"So, er... what happened?" I asked casually.

"Fire, on the third floor."

"Um... what?"

I made my way up the stairs, sloshing in water and wondering what I would find on the third floor.

Not much, as it turned out, other than the Super talking to another man, and a smell much like a recently doused camp fire.

I made my way up another flight and on the fourth floor I found what I was looking for: Information, courtesy of the posse of fellow tenants gathered there.

Apparently, there was a 2 alarm blaze on the east side of the third floor, at least three fire chiefs had been through to check it out, and the entire building was without running water because the firemen had hit a pipe somewhere.

Peachy.

After chatting over the drama with the people who'd actually been in the building, I made my way up to my own apartment... to find my front door missing a considerable chunk of paint where it had been pried open--for whatever reason I could not then say--and held slightly ajar by a crappy old umbrella that had fallen from its perch inside and lodged there.

Fearfully, I opened the door, but nothing appeared out of place (or any more out of place than it had previously been, my apartment being a bit of a wreck at the moment) and my cat was, thank goodness, still inside.

I closed the door, checked the level in my Brita pitcher, and got ready for bed. Then it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to check and make sure I could still lock my door, rather than discover a broken lock in the morning when I tried to leave for work.

This was, I must say, the best idea I've had in a long time, because lo and behold when I went to open the door to test the lock... nothing happened.

And by nothing I mean... NOTHING. The knob would not budge. I was, effectively, locked in my apartment.

I immediately called the Super, who assured me that "a guy was going around checking all the doors" and would help me.

Two hours later I gave up, emailed my boss with a heads up that I would most likely be late for work, and went to bed amidst the sounds of hammering and shattering glass coming from below, where god knows who was doing god knows what in the wake of the inferno.

This morning I woke up and called the Super once again.

"Hi, It's Froggy in [Apt Number] again. I'm still locked inside. I need to go to work. Could someone please help me?"

"Oh, oh, yeah. You're locked out?"

"No. I'm locked in."

"You need me to bring you a key?"

"No. No. A key will not help. The fire department broke my door and I am stuck INSIDE my apartment. As in, I cannot get out. I am trapped."

"Oh. Oh! Okay, I'll be right there."

Shortly thereafter he arrived and managed to break my door open, whereupon he disassembled the entire knob/lock mechanism and proceeded to fuck around with it while the increasingly potent smell of day-after-fire wafted through the open doorway and into my apartment, saturating everything, while I amused myself with an entirely-inappropriate-for-reproduction IM conversation with The English Ex (which was, without a doubt, the highlight of my fucking day).

The knob was only half attached and not even remotely functional when an electrician arrived downstairs and the Super left, promising he'd be back soon.

Forty-five minutes later (and already half an hour late for work, nevermind the 45 minute travel time and the fact that I still had no running water and would therefore have to wash my face and apply make-up once I got there), I called him again to remind him that I was still without a functional front door, at which time he finally returned, with another man in tow, and between the two of them they managed to rig my door so that I can at least lock it behind me, but the result is that the entire assembly still needs to be replaced.

I thanked them, raced out the door to work, my bag laden with toiletries, and finally made it through the door 1 1/2 hours late, and 5 minutes before we opened.

Good. Freakin'. Grief.

Oh, and did I mention that, throughout the entire morning ordeal, the lack of water ALSO meant a complete lack of what might be an even more vital necessity? I am referring, of course, to COFFEE.

Now, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am incredibly thankful that it was not my apartment that caught fire, that aside from a pervasive scent of doused camp fire, my belongings are not damaged, and that my cat did not escape during the ensuing mayhem during which I was not present, but still, I can't help but ask...

Seriously Universe? SERIOUSLY??

I think I need a vacation from my life.

Etc.

First things first: Sorry, but I've re-enabled verification words for commenting. After "Anonymous" left what appeared to be an advertisement for Cialis on one of the better posts I've written (which, I might add, has exactly NOTHING to do with erectile dysfunction), I've decided it was a necessary precaution.

Not that I've been writing much lately. Then again, I haven't been doing much of anything lately, aside from work, sleep, and studying for the GRE.

My restaurant was written up in the NY Times a few weeks ago, and for two weeks after the place was an absolute zoo. While it was stressful at the time, my wallet was grateful--particularly now that business is slowing down again. It's not as dead as it was before, but doing the math on tips from this week versus the past two weeks shows that the paycheck is about to drop off again. Significantly. Sigh. Oh you far-off dreams of financial solvency... never, it seems, to be reached in this lifetime...

Other than work, grad school applications and GREs--and occassionally catching up on my DVR--consume the remainder of my conscious hours. Such a thrilling life I lead, no?

Thanksgiving is right around the corner and it looks like I'll be stuck working a double on Wednesday AND Friday, though thankfully we're closed on the holiday itself. I'll probably be heading over to the Lovely A's house to hang out with her and her boyfriend--I'm sorry, fiance, *grin*--who seems to be under the impression that he can cook a turkey in a crock pot. I'll be bringing pie. Then I'll head to PA over the weekend for a belated celebration with the parents, who are kind enough to postpone their own festivities to accomodate my crappy work schedule--one of the perks of being an only child.

I take the GRE on December 2nd (less than two weeks away, and my Math score still needs a boost of at *least* 60 points! ACK!!), after which my primary source(s) of stress will be preparing material for my MFA auditions, digging up my writing sample for my PhD applications (which, of course, only exists in hard copy and is buried somewhere in my apartment) and re-typing it, wondering how the hell I'm going to pay for all of these applications, and writing four Personal Statements distinctly tailored to each of the four programs to which I am applying.

So. In case you were wondering why I've been MIA lately, this is why.

Think if I ask Santa for more hours in the day, he'd help me out?

In the mean time, go read the post linked above and reminisce with me about the days when I actually had the time and mental capacity to write something significant. I'll be right there with you.

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.