mexico midgets!

How cute are these tomatoes? My mom had bad luck with her tomatoes this year because of a drought, but these li'l buggers survived. I much prefer them to cherry or grape tomatoes because instead of an explosion in your mouth, it's more like a gentle pop, and the flavor is perfect.

inspired by ephesians

It is good to have friends with day jobs.

Thanks, Ellen.

the holy trinity

On Wednesday, in an attempt to calm the cat and make him more attractive to potential adopters, I had him de-balled. The vet told me that in order to prevent infection I should replace his litter with newspaper for a week. I did as I was told, because what the hell do I know about taking care of cats? When I came home from work last night and was watching TV I was feeling extra sympathetic for the little eunuch. I invited him onto the bed with me, and he walked on my stomach/chest region as usual to find a comfy spot. His paws were wet and sticky. Let's just say I took an extra shower yesterday and immediately reverted to litter, at the risk of an infected feline crotch.

This afternoon the cat, presumably still a little sick from the whole experience, puked up a mound of wet food and I stepped in it with my bare foot. It actually made a squish noise as it oozed up between my toes.

Then tonight after I got home from work, the cat was toodling around in the litter box and then scratching at his food bowl. I went to feed him and noticed that he'd apparently kicked out a fresh piece of poop and then he'd stepped in it, smashing it into the ground.

All I can think about right now is the movie Labyrinth. Oh how I wish I could just call out to the Goblin King and David Bowie would come from wherever he may be and take the cat far away from me.

for the "why didn't i think of that?" files

*The 5-pound burger with 54 toppings. I want these dudes to be my new best friends. I especially appreciate the choice of "honey wheat bun." It's all in the details. When I was living in Ithaca, there was this sub shop Shortstop that everyone talked about, and once I finally tried it I got a sandwich there every day for lunch. If I had a car, I would drive four hours to Ithaca twice a month to get a fucking Shortstop sandwich. I never strayed from my turkey and provolone on whole wheat toasted with mayonnaise lettuce tomato cucumbers and sweet peppers, but I bet beautiful things could've happened had I checked all the dozens of options on the order card.

*The to-do list book. Every year in high school I'd use the planner we were given at the beginning of the year diligently for the first week of school. And then I'd chuck it, abandoning all my sincere but naive good intentions. Somehow, though, when I got to college I became addicted to carrying a little notebook with me everywhere to write down academic and social engagements, chores, and things I wanted to do or acquire. Despite being a very irresponsible person, I've managed to save all of them, and looking back and reading my daily lists is a total trip back in time that I'm sure will provide hours of entertainment should I ever reach old age. The psych major in me loves peering into the lives of others, and this just sounds like a fun-as-hell project that will make this chick some money.

*Literary Hot-or-Not. Though I did the internet dating thing for a very brief spell before I discovered blogging to kill time at the office, I've only once met up with someone who contacted me on Myspace or Friendster. He was a published novelist, and he had posted the standard black and white dust jacket pictures. Totally cute. We made plans to get some drinks, and, being me, I had lots and lots of drinks before meeting him for more drinks. In person he was not at all even remotely attractive. But I was drunk, and then I did coke for the second time in my life because he gave it to me (and I was drunk), and then I almost slept with him (oh the mature self-restraint!), and then I woke up in Carrol Gardens or somewhere really far away from Midtown, which is where I had to be to work at the hedge fund at 8:00 that morning, and I showed up in my going out clothes and was too fucked up to even care, and I stared at my computer for an hour before I had to go home sick. Amazingly, it was a whole month after that until they fired me. Then the writer sent me tons and tons of ridiculous, unsexy dirty text messages that, coupled with my uncooperative and cold responses would've made the greatest post in the history of this here blog had I not been too lazy to compile the conversations before my phone auto-deleted all the texts. Point being, those black and white author photos are not just deceiving, they're dangerous.

s.o.c.

Nope, still not a cat person. Anyone want a little black kitty cat with big green eyes and big bat ears and constant distressed "why aren't you playing with me motherfucker?" meows that will drive a mostly sane person to almost total insanity in a matter of days? I've been living with this thing for three weeks. I do like him but he gotsta go.

Last night at work I broke two glasses in separate incidents in my first thirty minutes on the floor. Then halfway through I quite royally fucked up the check for a large party. And then after work I couldn't bear going home so I hung out with a coworker downstairs and set a paper towel on fire, on purpose, but I'd accidentally produced a flint-like device and couldn't blow the danged thing out, which sent the backwaiters and manager running downstairs to find the source of the smoke-smell, and I quickly attempted to explain myself and when I got to the top of the stairs the first and only thing I saw was Rachel Dratch sitting at a table and looking at me with disdain, and then I went home and smoked eight thousand cigarettes (okay, just two, but I felt like smoking eight thousand.) Work reminds me of grade school. No matter how superior a job I do, I'm constantly getting myself into trouble in some new ridiculous way. It's strangely comforting, actually. Like I haven't lost myself, or something. Woooah didn't intend to go there.

Anyway, I'm supposed to go to Mexico a week from today, but I think I want to go to Wisconsin instead. If passing up the chance to lie on the beach and learn to scuba dive in Mexico for eight days for the chance to mow my parents' lawn deep in the heart of Dairyland isn't a sign of craziness, I don't know what is.

Also, I have never seen the trailer for Snakes on a Plane, nor do I know anything about it whatsoever, really.

Bellevue here I come.

i love dorks

Even though I disagree with his approval of girls wearing formal shorts and leggings, I've come to check The Sartorialist just about every day. His earnest obsession with fashion minutia is endearing. And, sometimes, pretty hilarious:

[In the post from which the following excerpt was taken, TS highlights the exact times in the Hitchcock film North by Northwest when Cary Grant demonstrates the superior wearing of a grey suit.]

Chapter 2 02:17
The Jacket
- With one dramatic but subtle sartorial gesture CG set himself apart from all the other men in the scene. What is that important single element? look at that shirt cuffs/jacket sleeve proportion!
Not one other guy in that scene is showing ANY shirt cuff and Cary is showing ,like, 3/4 of an inch. So much white that I didn't even notice until half-way through the film that he was not even wearing a pocket square.

God, I can't even remember the last time a shirt cuff to jacket sleeve ratio was so perfect it made me forget all about the presence or absence of a pocket square. You go, Mr. Grant.

oink

Patience has never been a virtue I've possessed. So last night, my visiting little sis and I scrapped our plans to make dinner and went in search of Pies-n-Thighs. It's a confusing setup. There's a little alley on South 5th with folding tables sporting red and white checkered tablecloths. Then there's an open door to a kitchen and not much space for the waiting customers and three white-aproned ladies who run the whole operation, from bussing tables to cooking the food. And then there's a huge, dark, empty bar that's connected to the kitchen and smells like Lysol.

We hailed a white-aproned worker. "Do we just, like, sit down?" "Have you ordered yet?" She gestured toward the kitchen. "Aaaaah, ok." We went into the kitchen and glanced up at the menu board--one of those black ones with slats where white plastic letters can be arranged, just like at the establishments I called "restaurants" while growing up in Central Wisconsin. I ordered the pulled pork sandwich and when asked what side I wanted, I saw a pile of green beans covered in hardboiled egg and bacon, pointed, and said, "That." My sis ordered the grilled cheese with a side of green beans (we've had some jealousy issues). After a little more confusion regarding how to procure beer (you get it from the bar in a plastic cup, and then you can take it outside) we sat happily at our table.

We had fun watching other people making similar rookie mistakes as ours while calming our growling stomachs with Brooklyn Lager. I was already anticipating my next visit, when I could feel superior to everyone who's never been there before and is justifiably confused. Anyway, one of the white-aproned girls brought out our food. Of course, it was delicious. The pulled pork was super spicy but tamed by the finely chopped coleslaw and pickle slices it's served with on a bun, the green beans were cold and crisp and not overpowered by the surprisingly sensible amount of egg and bacon, and the grilled cheese was extra-grilled and extra-cheesy. They messed up and brought my sister french fries instead of green beans, so we eventually got both. (On a side note, I never understand why people get upset when restaurants err. It almost always means you'll get something for free.) Anyway, after finishing two beers and joining the clean plate club with everything except the fries (we came close though,) my stomach was so full I could barely breathe but my sister managed to convince me to get some pie (twist my arm!). My blueberry was great, and her raspberry peach was even greater. Pie is not a food I ever really seek out, and I rarely even eat dessert anymore (booze usually kills any sugar cravings I may have,) but I think that just changed.

The whole shebang (minus beer, but that was from the bar) cost us $21. We tipped my new favorite ladies $12. Between lunch, eat-in dinner, and takeout, I plan to have tried everything on the menu (fried chicken, battered catfish, mac 'n cheese...) by the end of September. Everyone needs goals, right?

we have the same coffee order

The other day I said I didn't know why I moved, but I do know why I moved. The place is mine all mine, it is the least I've ever had to pay for rent, and because it was formerly occupied by my friend I didn't have to go through the whole apartment search process. Effort is for losers. Also, after seven years in Manhattan, I thought it might be interesting to live elsewhere. Ever the adventurer, I moved just across the East River and can still walk to work on the Lower East Side. Anyway.

My neighborhood is odd. It's the Deep South of Williamsburg, a buffer zone between the hassids and the hipsters. Unlike Williamsburg Williamsburg, my little area down by the river is largely unincorporated, so there are none of those New York conveniences like running down to the deli for a Power Sandwich (OMG have I never told you about Power Sandwiches?? Someday, my children, someday.) at 4 a.m. and the subway is a hearty 10-minute walk away. The only place to get coffee in the morning is a quaint faux country store/cafe/restaurant, and I can often make it there seeing just one or two people out and about.

But, of course, times are a-changin'. There are two new condo buildings going up on my teeny tiny block and one already in business up the street, and I've spent a lot of time wondering who the hell is going to be living there. I enjoy a nice river view and organic produce as much as the next gentrifier, but if I had enough money for a condo, I'd get one with more direct Power Sandwich access is all I'm sayin'. So who the hell is going to be living there?

Back to the coffee. So, obviously, all fifteen people who currently live in my immediate vicinity get their coffee at Marlow. One morning there were film crews all over the place outside, so I wasn't terribly shocked when a C-lister took the place behind me in the coffee line. I was a little suprised, though, when I saw him again the next day. And the next day, when he carried his iced coffee with soy milk and designer dog into the condos across the street. Say hello to my new neighbor!

UPDATE: EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I read about a restaurant called Pies-N-Thighs when it opened up whenever-ago. I thought to myself, I would like to go there, and then I thought that I would never bother to go find it in the hinterlands. I just discovered that it's, like, practically in my house. And check out that winning endorsement for their pulled pork. I can't even begin to describe my love for pulled pork. Can't wait to reconnect with my Fat Jeans.

like a moth to a flame

So a fair amount of celebrities representing all letters of the alphabet come to my restaurant. I usually don't write about them because they don't usually do anything terribly interesting, and also I am a New Yorker and therefore way too cool to care about such things (did you know Lucy Liu is only, like, 4'8"? and Jacquetta Wheeler smokes 56 cigarettes per hour? and David Lee Roth thinks we have the best espresso in New York?)

Anyway, I'm used to seeing people I see on TV in real life, but I had a new experience the other day. I'd just finished my marathon Project Runway catchup with Ellen, culminating in the doggie epidsode. The next day as I approached the restaurant, whom should I see in the window but Angela! It took me a while to process who she was, because I think she looks a lot like (a less hot version of) that chick from Crossing Jordan, and also because the show's still going on. I'd always liked to imagine that reality show contestants were kept on some secret island, witness protection program style, until the final episodes had aired.

I tried my darnedest not to stare too much, but her baggy plaid patchwork clownpants proved a force to great for my eyeballs to resist. Some of you will be pleased to know that she was not sporting any of her "signature rosettes," though I did not get a good enough look at her nether regions (thank heavens) to confirm the absence or presence of her other signature, the intentional butt panel that conveys that sexy just-peed-my-pants look (scroll a li'l).

My GOD I love television.

damn, you-know-who!

Diapers, poo, ball gags--all run of the mill fetishes compared to 37-year-old Martin's. Behold, the sender of the creepiest Myspace friend request I have ever received. Confused? Check out the FAQ.

signs

I really have no idea why I moved. I had a nice apartment in a cool neighborhood with good roommates and a ten-minute walk to work. Now I live in a dark basement with crazy roommates (more on them to come, I am sure) and a ten-minute walk to the subway that will take me to work. But I think I made the correct decision.

Yesterday morning, before the big move, I received a text from Ellen informing me that the alcoholic homeless man who lives on my stoop was passed out, his pants and the ground smeared with his own feces, with twenty-some flies dining on his poopy ass. "Congratulations on your move to Brooklyn," she said. If that's not a sign from God, I don't know what is.

What I'm hoping isn't is what happened later on in the day. So I am now in charge of a little black cat named Walter. I am, unequivocally, a Dog Person. But I like this particular feline, and so far his attempts to bite and scratch me have been on the playful side. Anyway, last night, his first in my care, he managed to get himself into the boiler room through a hole four feet off the ground in the padlocked door. I think he was in there meowing for about nine hours, finally emerging on his own volition after several failed rescue attempts. Phew. Anyone know how often you have to feed those things? And what the hell is catnip, exactly?