What is it about “women troubles” that makes besocked leggings and walks on the beach seem like a good idea?
Note to Helen: when lunching with the devil, use a LOOOOONG spoon. I’ll be under the bridge with some garlic noodles, menacing a Dachshund.
-xo
My fortune cookie last night read:
The liar is never believed, prescription even when he tells the truth.
Dang.
-xo
We consumed our portion of a 30 pound turkey in a home that looked like something out of Yankee magazine.
We had flaming ambrosia and volcanos next to the big fountain at Kowloon while the band played Tiny Bubbles. We gorged on nine-layer dip and tequila, recipe followed by a wake-up call of Rock Star punch (a disgusting mixture of every energy drink in stock at the store 24. Congratulations to my pals for discovering the recipe for anger, generic hatred of mankind and instant colossal headaches.)
We showed Herr W. our side of the Atlantic on this crisp November day in the lovely and salty town of Marshfield.
Then we introduced our foreign friend to Robby the lobster, pictured here steamed.
Now if you will excuse me I have to go slip into a coma….
-xo
Sadly, going to Target is not as high-spirited and monochromatic an experience as the TV ads would have one believe. There are no rockettes or dancing christmas trees, and Mark Mothersbaugh is not hovering up in the front office personally DJing over the PA system. I did not see Isaac Mizrahi either. I believe he is in his lair in Trenton, busy laughing, absolutely splitting a side over all the girls who are hoping “you can have high fashion at Target, really.” You can’t. Please do not embarass either one of us further by pretending it’s true. What are you, a communist? I love a bargain as much as the next gal, but crap is crap. It’s Mom Jeans.
But we still managed to make impulse purchases. How do they do it? I came for packing tape and cat litter, I departed with a fleece throw. I didn’t need a giant Toblerone bar, yet I left with one anyway.
It’s just as well, because I ate a few segments of that for dinner: a new level in culinary incompetence even for us. I thought butter noodles a few weeks ago was the absolute nadir, but I was wrong. We’re moving one week from today, and we’ve gone from eating off paper plates to just not bothering with actual food. Well, we did have some apple pie. That’s half a Cider Jack and half a Harpoon Winter Warmer. Spicy. The traces of apple in the cider will prevent scurvy.
Then I capped off the weekend by working on a particularly wretched DHTML-laden freelance project. It seemed like a great idea back in September, but of course the other parties involved assed around until November, and then the client demanded it be live on the 26th. Because the day before Thanksgiving is such a crucial time for web browsing. Why am I not better at saying no? Oh, right, I’m a whore.
-xxoo
In the midst of some spectacular life upheaval and alternating bouts of work-related wrath and ennui, I’ve decided to regress. Well, first I tried making a chicken pot pie with a dill buttermilk biscuit crust. It turned out to be utterly sublime, and we ate it for 3 days. But now it’s gone, and I am cold and alone, and my pants don’t fit quite right.
Anyhoo, to the time machine. In 7th grade, I had a sorry excuse for a computer class where we were all forced to type for five or ten minutes. Once we all mastered the cut n’ paste commands, there was nothing else to learn in the computing universe of 1989, so we’d play Oregon Trail.
One day there was a mass suicide on the trail, so copies of Where in the World/Where in Time Is Carmen Sandiego were trotted out. The person who solved the most cases in the period won a soda. Sometimes it was a Coke, sometimes it was a Dr. Pepper. I won every single time by virtue of having a basic grasp on history and geography and realizing when I’d already played a case. It was fun the first few times, and then I started giving away the soda to the dumber kids because I felt bad. I’d even screw up on purpose and drag things out intentionally, but what could I do, they were a bunch of baboons.
Oh, and that Chicken Pot Pie recipe is from the Bon Appetit Best Recipes of 2001 cookbook. And I’ll let you in on a secret, I don’t boil a whole chicken, just 4 boneless, skinless breasts. Much easier. Also: when they say “flour your work surface” for biscuit time, they so aren’t kidding. I also served it with a riesling, your mileage may vary.
-xxoo
Recent times have proved most interesting for Lambchop and I. She has been diligently serving a term as an office girl at an Attorney’s firm. In addition to carefullee polishing the handle of the big front door, she regales me with tales of the executive lunchroom and hilarious doings with spreadsheets. She has even stopped screeching “WHAT do you want?” when she answers the phone, instead favoring the dulcet tones of a 1950’s sweater girl. But don’t ask her for legal advice at parties, unless you are a doctor, prepared to examine portions of her anatomy in exchange. Quid pro quo.
Me, I had a birthday. This seems to have altered my previously comfortable role in the MTV favored demographic. All of a sudden I am receiving horrendous tacky catalogs in the mail, things like Orvis, Smith & Hawken, Marshall Fields, etc. If I should ever receive Lillian Vernon, or perhaps Coldwater Creek or J. Jill, I believe that means I am officially a crone. Oh Jesus, I’m only 25. I’m too young to own a photo lazy susan, to wear caftans, those felt clogs!
A photo of some belated birthday festivities, which happened to coincide with Gay Night, hence Kyan’s glowing visage. The cupcakes were purple with pastel stars sprinkled daintily atop. I am not sure why Lambchop is blowing them out, since it’s ostensibly MY birthday; I must have been too busy mincing around demonstrating the hubris of a neophyte chef.
But I did learn one cruel lesson: when Martha says unsalted butter, she really means it. The cupcakes were all hat, no cattle, so to speak.
-xxoo
The last few weeks on the run have finally caught up to your poor lambchop. I spent a lovely day of recovery in the wilds of the south shore with my sick pal Stu. He bought me big sunglasses and I made him a fancy chicken.
Oh my casbah is rocked. Friday night I went to see Rock Bottom, a 70’s cover band. We’re talking mulleted wigs and plaid flares. We’re talking Love Hurts and smoking way too much. We’re talking I am going to stay quietly at home and make paper dolls out of the Times this fine Sunday.
Good times, good times.
-xo
Day Five: At last yonder lies the smog of LA, beyond the infinite snake of traffic. Jim’s new place is very SoCal- porticos, palms, and a pool. I schlepped his stuff inside with the help of some big boys. My reward was to drown myself in likker at a bar in Westwood Village. Afterwards we went to Denny’s. This is LA and so the Denny’s did not have the low rent Country Kitchen decor or a bag of crack beneath my seat (hooray for Denny’s, New Haven!). Nope, it was real swankeroo- all neon tubes, chrome, and red and blue vinyl. The boys were laying out odds on whether their friend, who had gone off with some chick, was going to get any and how and how much. It felt like a scene out of Swingers. Don’t ask me if that’s good.
Day 6, 4am: LA just was not agreeing with me so I called up my Dad in the Phoenix area:
Me: “hey Dad, wanna go for a ride?”
Him:”glllmmmmph.”
But within six hours we were on the road to San Francisco along the Pacific coastal highway. We passed Big Sur in a light fog. We stopped to stand on the beach and watch the green waves break. I stood on a cliff and watched the seals diving.
We stopped in Monterey and Cannery Row. Steinbeck is long gone and a fire swept away some of the canneries, but we had clam chowder bread boules. We stayed in a Motel 6 in Gilroy, the garlic capitol. One cannot doubt the distinction well-applied when one wafts into the town on a thick garlic breeze.
Day Seven-Ten: We hit San Francisco and found a sheltered path to an out of the way beach looking out on the Golden Gate and Bay bridges.
I saw a Chinese fisherman catch a stingray and let him go.
We went over to the piers where the scent of fish and fried clams mingled with the sight of Alcatraz, the bustle of tourists, the green tides, and sailboats. Pier 39 is now solely occupied by sea lions.
I had supper in a Chinatown eatery and my fortune cookie read You will soon be surrounded by good friends and laughter.
It was a sixteen hour drive to Wickenburg, Arizona, where my dad lives. We took a five minute nap on an exit in the California desert. He was confused when he woke up and made an illegal hard right onto the interstate going the wrong way down the on-ramp. And smokey was sitting just a few yards away. He was clearly flummoxed by the overall strategy of my dad’s driving but he liked lambchop’s smile and we got off scot free. I didn’t even have my seat belt on.
I spent the next few days in the Arizona desert, eating jalapeno mac and cheese with my dad and posing with his collecting of antique weapons. He has a Walther PPK, a .357 Magnum, and a bayoneted WWII rifle still notched from the Battle of Berlin. Yee-f@#$%ing-Haw!
After driving back to LA to catch my plane, I eventually woke up in Boston, threw my swimsuit and Barbie beach towel in a bag and took a bus up to Bristol, NH where my friends draped me with lei’s and a coconut bra and sailor hats. We cha cha’d and drank enormous cocktails. We floated on the river all day on giant blow up flowers with floating drink caddies. We watched 70s porn and ate shrimps crusted with coconut and black beans and corn. We went to brunch for bloody marys and eggs benedict. On Sunday, we went to a huge arcade where we could play old atari games but we were scolded for riding the mechanical horses. (We snuck a photo on the bumper cars anyway). But mostly we just swam and paddled up and down the river, drinking, eating fourth of july cupcakes, and laughing till we puked. Lambchop loves the lovely friends!
…and that’s all!
-xo
Our Lambchop hasn’t been the only one hitting the open road, oh no! I took the opportunity last weekend to hit the high seas. Mr. H and I stayed in a swanky hotel in Portland, Maine, complete with an all-glass porno shower stall separate from the tub. We meandered around Portland, where we discovered the chief pastime of the locals is heavy drinking. Then we headed over to Peaks Island on the ferry, a 15 minute ride past WWII gunnery fortifications and inexplicably large houses on private islands in Casco Bay. Mr. H’s grandparents live in a little house on the island, which they bought in 1961 for $750. Average property value on the island is now approaching half a million dollars and up for ramshackle cottages. But they ain’t sellin’, and I’m glad because I like to visit.
Mr. H took some pictures:
Even the housepets on the island are ramshackle.
Godzilla.
A dire warning by the Great Head Light House:
(Ok, it is not really called that. It is called Portland Head Light.)
To the lighthouse.
Oh, as Lambchop so rightly pointed out, this *is* a blog, so I shall also detail my menu: Saturday Lunch: Pot Roast, 4-bean salad minus one type of bean that no one cared for. Saturday Dinner: Shrimp and Lobster Scampi, Lobster Quesadilla. Lots of locally brewed beer. Sunday Breakfast: Seafood omelette, red pepper home fries. Sunday Lunch/Dinner: Lobster Roll, fried scallops (to be fair, this was consumed in Portsmouth, NH), chocolate ice cream with chocolate jimmies. I’ve lived in New England 7 years now, and I can finally wrap my mind around saying “jimmies.”
And parking, let’s not forget about parking, this being a BLOG and all. There is a top secret FREE parking lot in Portland. Portland also features ample meter parking, and the valet rate at our hotel was a scandalously low $10. The locals are friendly, and will chat you up and make fun of the people from New Yawk City. One waitress also thoughtfully pointed out that since the economy is based on tourism and fishing, there is “fahck all” for jobs up that way.
-xxoo
ahh yes, the highlights of our Menu at K Pauls
-fresh hot cheddar jalapeno rolls and molasses walnut bread
-Boudin, a sausage stuffed with rice, flash fried into a crispy patty
-bronzed salmon and oyster with a hot walnut sauce
After supper I rolled around the french quarter, taking the obligatory peek at the Girls Gone Wild on Bourbon Street. I only stayed there long enough to down a cosmopolitan while my friend Jim got roped into playing the washboard with the zydeco band in a touristy bar.
I spent all day yesterday working on getting Jim’s possessions into a truck and getting us on the road (ostensibly the purpose of this whole riot). By “working on” I mean that we rose at noon, had a three hour lunch at a great little out of the way seafood place (spicy crawfish stuffing balls!), hit the drive-thru daquiri shack, and then made our way over to the storage lot. Drive-thru Daquiris! Drinking while driving is perfectly legal in New Orleans, and you will see old ladies pull on flasks at stoplights. Drive-thru Daquiris are brilliant! You can also get shots of whiskey at these drive-thrus.
Carting Jim’s stuff was thirsty work and so our friends sent us off afterwards on a sea of Makers Mark. The killer of the evening was something called a Car Bomb. Its a half glass of Guiness with a shot of jamison in it and a shot glass of Baileys. You dump the shot glass of Baileys glass and all into the Guiness and glug the whole thing down in one go. After that, you start talking mistily about the old country and you take bets like “i bet you can’t eat six saltines in sixty seconds”. And I most certainly can’t and trying really hurt. Well, thats New Orleans for you.
Now its San Antonio or bust.
xo