Home on the Range

Not to leave any of you high and dry, but I’m going upstate where the buffalo roam, so to speak. I haven’t been home since early June. My parents are beginning to think I don’t love them anymore. So away I go, back to the country from whence I came. I took Tuesday off work so my mom and I can have a big day in the city. And then I’ll eventually get back to this old thing. Because I have stories, like the one about the Milk, the one about Swimming, and the one about my Mouth, which may or may not overlap with the one about the Barefeet. See you in a few…

Like a Real Deep Sharpie

I don’t have a tattoo. It’s wild in New York to say that. Even worse? I don’t have any piercings. None. Not even my ears. So a part of me, and god this is foolish, always feels like a virgin. The other parts of me just feel afraid. Not of pain, no-no, nor of some made up Jewish law, but of permanence. There is nothing I fear most.

We Never Did Too Much Talkin’ Anyway

Open Question: Is it possible to listen to Bob Dylan sing “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” without feeling bitter?

I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind, you could have done better but I don’t mind. You just kinda wasted my precious time. But don’t think twice, it’s all right . . .

Snow Red as Strawberries in the Summertime

I walked down 14th street with my arms weighted down by grocery bags when I passed a crazy man. Wait, you ask, what gives? This could be any Tuesday afternoon! Yes, except this one was the happy sort of crazy, and just happened to be belting out, “Deck the halls!”

Not yet, crazy guy. Don’t rush summer.

But here, in the spirit of gettin’ jolly in the late-August, is my new favorite holiday song: White Winter Hymnal by Fleet Foxes. The last minute piano solo is sniffle-inducing. You’ve been warned; grab tissues first.

Fleet Foxes – White Winter Hymnal

3am

It’s after 3am. I can’t sleep. I’m not even trying. I’m worrying, you know, of all the stupid shit I’ve done and not the ramifications of anything but my own self-worth. These late lonely nights are always tinged with regret, aren’t they? And sadness?

I don’t act sad anymore. I wear my new-found happiness like jewels.

So what. My bed is a warm cocoon.

To tell you the truth, I am all alone and wondering why I let him in my bed last week. I would rather not let him in at all then have these few impassioned nights that leave me emotionally and physically drained. I meant to say just physically. I don’t let anyone know where I emotionally stand anymore. I try not to be stupid. I don’t act sad anymore.

The last time I stood my ground emotionally, he walked. I walked, too. It all felt queerly symmetrical, the exit consistent, the blame escalating into a stalemate. But he walked first, you know?

It all leaves me, and I do mean leaves me, feeling frustrated and vacant.

Vacant — that’s a lie. The city is churning and heaving and masses of people spill out around you quick, like a middle school diorama of real life that’s been dumped on you, little paper buildings and even smaller paper people fluttering through your fingers.

It’s enough, I tell myself, to stay awake all night, hanging onto your pillow, breathing in the white noise hum alone.

I always wanted to be a food critic!

Buddakan. It’s just overpriced Asian-fusion in the has-been Meatpacking. Why was I there? Oh, come on. You know it wasn’t my idea and you certainly know I wasn’t footing the bill.

The four of us sat down in the lush and cavernous interior to be greeted by a huge ass bird candle centerpiece. It was so big I couldn’t see my friend, or the waitress who came over to chat with us. Pushy and rather annoying, she used a pedantic voice when explaining the “family style” approach at Buddakan and suggested at least four entrees and four appetizers to share. Normally I would have rolled my eyes at so much food, but because I wasn’t paying, I enthusiastically concurred.

I also insisted on ordering drinks.

I went for the “Fate”, which I felt like a moron ordering. However, the elderberry-pineapple-prosecco combo proved to be a delicious one. Throw elderberry in anything and I am a happy camper. My friend’s play on a gin and tonic also won me over, but it was not so memorable that I can remember what it was called, or even what the “play” was.

On with the apps!

The duck and foie spring rolls were an interesting way to serve up such fatty and succulent delicacies; which is to say I can’t believe anyone outside of wd~50 would fry foie. Passable at best. The pork belly, served dimdum style, was a bit stringy for my liking, and just not as rich as I prefer. You know, that fat should be so moist, but it was on the gummy side and tough to chew. The chili beef tartar was delish, but it’s hard to ruin a tartar if you’ve got quality goods. And finally, we all loved the frog legs, wok sauteed and covered in a ginger sauce.

By the time the appetizer plates were cleared away, we were all starting to feel it. Now it was time for four entrees? Oh god. First thing’s first: Get rid of that fucking bird candle centerpiece — which a waiter did, patronizingly asking me, “Do you want to bird to fly away? Say the word, say the word, this bird will fly away.” Yes. Get rid of that fucking bird, asshole.

Okay. Entree times. We tried to mix and match, but definitely went meat heavy, starting off with the short rib we had heard good things about. Thumbs up, but nothing too special. Next out was another meaty delight, this time the veal cheeks, prepared over lo-mein noodles with pickled apples. This entire dish was fantastic, and for the record, I had never had veal before. Unfortunately, I’ll now be ordering veal cheeks. Oh, don’t hate on me, I’m sure I won’t be able to afford it anytime soon.

We followed the heavy meat dishes with rice with Chinese sausage, which was a pretty food fried rice, but at the end of the day, just fried rice. Hard to ruin. The pièce de résistance of dinner was the Three Crab Delight which blew our minds. The most delicate and sweet pieces of crab were served over more crab on top of crab. I can’t explain to you how wonderful it was: I tried to hawk most of it but was soon overthrown by the other half of the table.

So by this point we were ready for a trip to the vomitorium, but no, we went for dessert, which were all actually phenomenal. The highlights were  my blueberry tart served with mouthwatering corn (yes, corn) ice cream. Also a big winner were hot, fresh donuts with ginger ice cream. Clearly I am a sucker for kooky ice creams. The chocolate thing was also good, but I am over chocolate, and the other dessert was some thick white something covered in meringue. Eh, I can take or leave meringue.

All in all, the food was pretty good. You know, give me a yummy cocktail and throw down some gourmet offerings like foie and crab and pork belly and I’ll be smiling no matter what.

But! I have had much, much better without all the pretense, without the attitude, and without the lame bridge and tunnel crowd.

Sorry, Buddakan. Meatpacking is offish over.

Skinny Love

Last week was stressful. I walked miles and miles around the city, drowned my sorrows in salads, and went to sleep hungry. It was all worth it. When I stripped down to my swim suit Friday night, I looked fantastic.

Fast forward to Monday night. After a weekend of non-stop partying, I have actually put on six pounds.

How is that even possible to do on a five foot three frame? I will tell you: hamburgers, chicken, hot dogs, chips, salsa, bread, french fries, hoagies, carrots, Fluff, coffee creamer, Honey Nut Cheerios, pasta, vodka sauce, cheese, english muffins, eggs, fistfulls of sunflower seeds, Funyons, and even more hamburgers.

Also: vodka, tequila, beer, wine, and the wretch-inducing jagermeister.

I need to purge, I know. So I hatched a plan: this week I would go back to business, feasting on lettuce and air. Of course, I had a burrito the size of my head today. I don’t need to be in a swimsuit until Saturday’s pool party. So that buys me one extra day…

Oh, and if there was any question that my body consciousness has made me mad, there shouldn’t be. Losing weight can make a girl bat shit crazy. Consider the bat shit hitting the fan.

Now it’s just vacation.

At one point on Saturday, we laid on the beach covered in lakewater and sand, our bodies burning pink, our lips exhaling smoke, our liver processing more and more alcohol that was coating last night’s drug binge, gorging on hamburgers, when my friend said:

I miss this.

There was silence.

I miss this too, I sighed. This used to be our life, now it’s just vacation.