I have become a person
Posted by: Liz
I have become a person who breaks up her week by reality shows. Reality shows and "Alias." Tonight is "Apprentice" night and all should celebrate in it's glory. Seriously. Right up there with ANTM.I know they have whole cookbooks and stuff dedicated to making pasta from scratch, and I know there are lots of grandmas and Martha Stewarts who have special pasta machines, and I know that it is considered an art up there somewhere with creamy risotto, and souffles that don't fall.
But what the hell. I made some KICK ASS risotto last week, so what's a little potato gnocchi? J and I were feeling ambitious and took on that little project last night. Honestly, we didn't even categorize it into "project." It was "quick dinner." The recipe was like, mash some potatoes, mix in some spinach, an egg yolk, and some flour. Make some balls, boil the balls. Five minutes here, ten minutes there and BANG there's some top notch potato spinach gnocchi.
I have never in my life put anything more disgusting and less food-like in my mouth than these repulsive balls of mush. They were exactly like eating hot gobs of paper mache paste with lawn clippings. It was a sad moment. We had to dig to the back recesses of the cabinet and find some dried pasta to eat for dinner. There is little more disappointing than working really hard on a nice dinner and having it turn out like utter poo.
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Let me be forthright about
Posted by: Liz
Let me be forthright about my invite to this Paul Auster party last night. We got an invitation at the office addressed to Agent Who Left. Since I am in charge of the mail it is up to me to decide if the mail is really supposed to be for our agency or if it needs to be specifically redirected to Agent Who Left. Sometimes the line is fuzzy. Fuzzy with the words “Paul Auster.” And I have to make an executive decision. In the case of “Paul Auster” I executive decided my way to the party.Also keep in mind that I thought I was going to a church. I thought this because the invitation only gave an address and I googled it and the address for “Beautiful Temple” popped up. This beautiful temple, however, turned out to be the publisher’s house--an attractive home in the middle of SoHo with a spiral staircase and lots of art on the wall. And you know how you’re supposed to be fashionable late to things? The reason for that is because when you are on time, you walk into a publisher’s house and the only people there are the publisher, the editor, the publicist, the bartenders, and Paul Auster. And it’s a little awkward.
The publicist made a point of finding out who we were. I mentioned the agency and she said, “Oh, so you must know Ms. Editor!” and we smiled and looked over at Ms. Editor and had to say, “Oh, hi, um no actually. But uh nice to meet you! Hey.” And the publicist narrowed her eyes and said (rather suspiciously), “Hmm, well the invitation lists came from several different sources. Haha.”
Haha…whew! Ok, where’s that wine! Poor J, who doesn’t drink, had to grapple with discomfort on a sober level, whereas I had the aid of alcohol to begin the smoothing over. Ms. Editor got me a glass of wine and (oh no) started chatting with us about who we knew. I mentioned the agency again. “Oh! So you work with Agent Who Left!” doh! “Oh, actually she left to start her own agency.” Ms. Editor was clearly shocked. “But I just had lunch with her last week!” This was the moment when it couldn’t have been clearer that the invite was meant to go to Agent Who Left. Luckily, Ms. Editor seemed flummoxed by the fact that she somehow managed to lose track of AWL, despite having seen her a few days ago, and our awkwardness cancelled each other out.
Then the publisher came up and pointed his finger at me. “I know you!” Clearly, he did not. “Oh, haha, I’m not sure. I’m Liz, nice to meet you.” He was insistent, “I’ve seen you around at these parties maybe.” Parties? Plural? “Uh, maybe! Small world. Haha.” He looked me over once more and again said he was sure he knows me from somewhere, and ambled away.
About this point, more people started flooding in, so we could lose ourselves a little in the crowd. After the first glass of wine, I started to relax. The whole thing was sort of a funny New York moment, with Paul Auster standing in the corner (dark and brooding) and big ups in the publishing business swarming around. We did find ourselves talking to a couple of nice guys from Grand Street who admitted to being sortof party-crashers themselves, proving you gotta seize these opportunities as they come up.
The publisher gave a nice speech and everyone toasted Paul and clapped. We were about ready to leave, but we couldn’t do so without first introducing ourselves to the man. This seemed simple enough, but as we edged our way closer I began to panic a little, trying to think of something nice to say. What wouldn’t sound clichéd and dumb? Oh god, nothing! We stopped a couple feet away and conferred while Paul entertained a woman in front of us. Suddenly it dawned on me that he had written my favorite song for One Ring Zero’s author project . Goldmine! I shook his hand, mentioned the song and, people, he lit right up. “You like my song?” He tapped the blonde woman on the arm, “Hey they like the song I wrote! How about that!” It was perfect.
J later explained to me that this was because all authors, deep inside, want to be rock stars.
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It's goddamn snowing again. But
Posted by: Liz
It's goddamn snowing again. But I'm going to the publication party for Paul Auster's new book of collected poems anyway. I hope he's as dark and brooding in real life as he is in his pictures. Some people love Paul Auster and own all his books and write his name all over their English class notebook and set up his books so the author pics on the back jackets stare at them at night, yet still decide to go to school instead of meeting the man himself. These people will be sad when Paul says to me, "I am looking for true love. She should be intelligent, love The Apprentice, know how to take back a cider, and have shiny blond hair. Also her name should rhyme with Brista." Because I will have to say, "Ooo, geeze. Well, 'Kelly' doesn't rhyme with Brista, but here's the best I can do on such short notice."Also, if you're into doing fun things with fun people (Roddy Doyle, Nick Hornby, Dave Eggers, Jonathan Safron Foer, John Hodgman) and you live in NYC, you should come to this lovely fundraising event.
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Hmm...whose definition of "sexy" are
Posted by: Liz
Hmm...whose definition of "sexy" are we working with here? --------Also: Family Heirloom is actually
Posted by: Liz
Also: Family Heirloom is actually my great grandma's ring! That clears up a lot of that. My Aunt Dianne gets the ice cream. --------Hey, my brother has joined
Posted by: Liz
Hey, my brother has joined our ranks! He'll tell you how it is being a 21-year-old gay kid living in Denver and working at a beauty supply store. --------Anyone want to play Guess
Posted by: Liz
Anyone want to play Guess the Family Heirloom? Awhile ago, I went down to Tulsa to visit my grandmother and all my dad’s extended family. These trips are always fun because it is interesting to watch the weirdness progress on that side of the family. It is not like everyone’s quirks dull with age or even remain stagnant. Instead they grow. Each time I visit there are new family secrets revealed to me and I am usually left gape-mouthed, trying to piece together my family’s history. There is a lot of guess work, confusion, denial, and “don’t tell anyone else” mutterings around the history and always has been, mostly because the amount of information anyone volunteers is miniscule or heavily veiled. So really, in order to find out anything you need: an awareness that things aren’t falling into place, a curiosity to figure out why, knowledge of who would give you the information, and finesse to coax it out of them. Let’s just say that it took me until I was 10 or so to question why my grandfather was living with my grandma’s sister.In any case, last time I was there, my grandmother went through some of her jewelry and offered several pieces to me. I took a seed pearl necklace with matching bracelet, and this ring. I should probably say I was really drawn to it for innate reasons, but the real reason was that the Louis Vuitton multicolor bags had just hit big in New York and I was all into how sping-like the ring looked. (Do I own any Louis Vuitton? No. Do I own any designer bags? No. Do you particularly like these bags? I mean, would you even buy an imitation one? No…I don’t know why I made this association and was subsequently drawn by it. I live in NY; sometimes these things creep in through osmosis.)
My grandma was very helpful. She couldn’t remember where the ring had come from, who had given it to her, or what its significance was. But for me to be careful with it, that it was made from real stones. So I took the ring home, loved it for several months, then lost it completely. I was so torn up by this that I went into a state of denial (it’s inherited!) and wouldn’t think about it. But lo and behold, it showed up at the bottom of a toy basket a couple months ago, to my overwhelmed excitement. So, my curiosity has been piqued all over again.
My theory is that it’s a birthstone ring, each stone representing a child. But my dad e-mailed me his sibling’s birthdays and I can’t make it all match up. There’s a January, 2 Marches, a June, an August, an October, and a November. The November is what’s really throwing me: there’s no orange stone. In any case, if anyone wants to hazard any guesses as to which months belong to which stones, I’ll buy the winner some ice cream. Assuming I ever verify it. Also, that's black lint attached to the ring in the photo, not finger hair. I didn't inherit that.
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Morning conversation with myself Hey
Posted by: Liz
Morning conversation with myselfHey Liz, what’s for breakfast?
Well, there’s oatmeal in the cupboard if you want it.
Hmm, yeah…s’oatmeal s’okay…
I guess you could always have some yogurt. You’ve got that in the fridge.
Yeah, s’yogurt…hmm.
There’s also the—hey! What are you doing?
Huh? What? Who?
Is that…that’s a reece’s easter peanut butter egg! You’re eating a peanut butter egg for breakfast!
What? No, I…okay, yes that is exactly what I’m eating. And you know what? I’m going to have
another one after that.
Irresponsible! Unhealthy!
Ok, y’know what? I’m going to stop justifying this to you, self. I know that you know that you love
the salty chocolatey goodness as much as I do. Because I am talking to myself. Which I am
now going to stop. So I can eat another egg.
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To all the Pinky fans
Posted by: Liz
To all the Pinky fans who have come to visit from Jimmylegs: hi! I wish I was a bit more, how do you say, technologically inclined and, what’s the phrase, hooked up to the internet at home. Then I would post lots of pictures and you would have instantaneous gratification. But you have to wait until I take pictures, save them on a disc, have J e-mail them to me, set up some remote Yahoo pictures site, and load them up there. So it may be awhile yet. Perhaps this is a good thing because this will allow Max and Pinky a little more time to purchase their best friends necklaces (Pinky wants “Be Fri”) and learn how to meow “BFF,” which, trust me, will be adorable. Right now they’re more like Camille and Joanna, basically accepting the other’s presence, but with the occasional screech at one another. This morning I got it in my head that I needed a picture of them together, but Max kept wandering away, so I made J take the picture while I physically placed Max next to Pinky and held him for the shot. Did I get a Sears quality portrait with a Starry Universe background? No, because Pinky turned and punched Max in the face. Like I said: time may be a good thing in this case.When Max smells up the place, his new name becomes Stinky Peterson. I will do my best to avoid all the Stinky and Pinky jokes. But it will be hard. Also Pinky sits around a lot with her eyes closed, giving her a slightly Rene Zellweger look. See! Aren’t you glad I don’t have Photoshop and cut and paste abilities! There would have been all kinds of famous people with cat heads or cats with pop star jerseys all over this page.
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This morning's query letter of
Posted by: Liz
This morning's query letter of the day wanted me to know that "Gay couples are no longer myths and are, if anything, multiplying daily. Gay characters are now regulars on TV and are enjoyed, accepted and appreciated. This perhaps, explains the reason for such a growing interest in them and their culture." The author then expressed his hopes that he has "excited and titillated you into near frenetic action on my behalf ."And while, I'm sorry to say, I wasn't titilated into near frenetic action over this query, it did leave me wondering when the last time was that I had been titilated into near frenetic action over anything, and what exactly that would involve.
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After much agonizing about Max's
Posted by: Liz
After much agonizing about Max's well-being and long run happiness as an only cat--and thanks to Abby and her prodding e-mails filled with links to this cutie--J and I took in another cat this weekend. Her name is Pinky and she looks just like Max, but with gray where he has black. There is something oddly satisfying about having similarly colored cats (I think this goes back to my childhood when I would daydream about how cool it would be if I knew some identical twins whose only difference was their eye color.) It's like having a matching set. They are both young enough that they should eventually get along fine and play nice with each other, but right now they are much more interested in exchanging growls and hisses. Pinky spent her first day alternating her hiding space from under my bed to under my dresser, but is already starting to come out and interact with Max. They vary their roles when deciding who gets to play it cool. Sometimes it goes down like this:Pinky: I feel like chilling out for a while. Maybe I will venture onto this windowsill for awhile.
Max: CRAZY BITCH! THAT'S MY WINDOW--GET DOWN GET DOWN GET DOWN!
and sometimes it goes like this:
Max: Hmm, she's kinda cute. I think it will be fun to pounce on her tail playfully.
Pinky: Touch me again and die, tuxedo boy.
Soon, however, I imagine it going like this:
Pinky: You look just like me, but with black. I love you, let's play.
Max: Yes, we are a set. After playing, lets cuddle together in a ball of multi-tonal tuxedoed cuteness.
Pinky: Okay!
or, less anticipated, like this:
Max: You can tell they're asleep by their breathing. You go knock stuff off the shelves in the living room, I'll take the kitchen, then we'll both tear across their heads yowling.
Pinky: Right on! Then let's take really smelly dumps.
Max: I love you.
Time will tell.
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Here is a fun test
Posted by: Liz
Here is a fun test on detecting fake smiles (thanks Eva!) I did pretty good: 16/20, and the ones I got wrong I had a feeling I got wrong right after I picked them (I'm perfect is what I'm trying to say, here). But seriously, I got about 5 pictures in before I realized you're supposed to press the play button that makes the people smile and had to start all over. I thought it was funny that they weren't really smiling, but only smirking a bit. Also, the whole exercise is good for a smile...it's like looking at babies laughing: you can't help but smile back. Except for the lady (?) at the end that looks like a serial killer. She made me go: uhhh! in a surprised manner. --------J and I stayed up
Posted by: Liz
J and I stayed up late last night watching the dog show and America's Next Top Model, which are pretty much the same show with different mammals. Except the dogs exhibit a certain grace and dignity that the women don't seem to have, and of course the dogs' runway walks don't have to be done in high heels. Also the judges announce the dogs' personality traits before they do their thing, while the models do their thing and then the judges announce their personality traits.Although, last night Top Model took a page from Westminster and decided to bring in a psychic to do readings on the girls, which played a little like the introduction of different breeds. "Camille: you are standoffish, bossy, and self-centered. But makes a great hunting companion. Known for her lustrous, shining coat." This whole segment cracked me up because they brought out this woman and all the girls gathered around and then seemed positively SHOCKED that this psychic woman--a woman they had NEVER IN THEIR LIVES MET--could tell them revealing things about their personalities and home life. They actually came away from their readings and said things like, "It was so eerie! She got me EXACTLY!" Um, girls? Remember when you signed up to do a nationally syndicated reality television program and had to furnish resumes and background information and conduct extended interviews in front of camera crews and numerous producers, all of whom you see on a daily basis? And then maybe think about who supplied your "psychic?" $20 says she is an intern on the show and Tyra is testing her on how well she has been paying attention to the progression of the show.
The big shocker of the night was (not whatsherface admiting she has lupus--again, not really a secret when you're telling the whole film crew about it every day) Shandi blurting out that she once had a drug problem. That was brought to a head when she was arrested for burglary. Damn, girl! I just thought she was a soft-spoken little nerd girl waiting to blossom. No, she is apparently a tough girl rebelling. (Sad moment: the psychic/intern asked Shandi if she ever gets hugged. Shandi says no and immediately starts crying--real, heartbreaking crying, not Katie Crybaby Bawlly Whinebitch crying--and NO ONE hops up to hug her! Finally the runway guy comes over to embrace her, but for heaven's sake people. You dudes are COLD!)
I did not intend to give a whole recap of last night's show, but these things happen and no those of you with lives or no TV can enjoy what the rest of us addicts have been drinkin in. And honestly? Haven't even scratched the surface.
I'm a sad, sad reality tv whore. Except for Fear Craptor. And My Big Fat Obnoxious Show. And some others.
Ok, really I'm leaving now.
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So it's finally happened. My
Posted by: Liz
So it's finally happened. My yoga teacher has left the gym and is starting his own studio. Good news: studio will be close by in Park Slope. Bad news: it will possibly be way more expensive than I can afford. It won't open until March, so until then I'm in yoga limbo. I thought perhaps they'd give us a good substitute for his vinyasa classes at the gym, but no, we got some lady who is trained in "forest yoga," which as far as I can tell is a super-Americanized/aerobic/cotton candy version. But it's not yoga, it's like yoga-product. We did crunches. She kept referring to the "sweet spot" when we stretched (wow, do I hate that phrase. A lot.). We used balled up fists! She encouraged droopy necks! She kept pronouncing "exhale" with a lot of emphasis on the last syllable: "and, exHALE!" We did a pose called a dolphin pose. We did a pose which--and I am not kidding you--she called half-dead monkey pose. I was very upset. I felt like dad was introducing us to brand new girlfriend and I hated her for thinking she could step into my life and replace what I love with her squats. My Monday night classes--my wonderful, beautiful Monday night classes--look to be a thing of the past. Only two and a half weeks til March, okay Liz... --------Wow. This may be the
Posted by: Liz
Wow. This may be the worst attempt ever at making a food product romantic.The writing really takes a turn when they inform you of the "rind that blooms naturally as the cheese ripens."
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I just answered the phone
Posted by: Liz
I just answered the phone to one of those pauses, indicating the sales call at the other end. But I stayed on the extra half second and heard, "Yeeaah! That is what's UP!" before she hung up on me. Is this some new sales tactic? Or are they just getting back at me for hanging up on them during the pause all those other times? --------Did I forget to mention
Posted by: Liz
Did I forget to mention that besides living in a serene house on a farm by a lake that my friends were also just getting over the stomach flu? Hmm, well they were and they managed to...pass it on to me, yea! So I spent Tuesday night regurgitating chunks of tortellini into the toilet (oh hey, AWESOME, Liz) and all of yesterday battling stomach cramps, sleeping, and watching bad daytime TV. (Although I have to admit, bad daytime TV has gotten much better since the last time I had to watch bad TV. Bad daytime TV now includes TLC, which gives me lots of stories made for women sitting at home during the daytime: A Makeover Story, A Baby Story, a Wedding Story. [Sometimes J gets huffy about The Learning Channel and yells at the TV: "What does this have to do with learning?!"] But the babies being born was too much for my emotional-barrierless sicky self and I started crying, so I had to watch Disney's Recess instead) Anyhoo, co-worker was sick too and boss was away, so the whole office closed down. Just like that! That's what happens when there's only three people to an operation, I guess.Lucky for me, I got the abbreviated version of the flu, so I was in top form today and dying for a real meal. And guess what I got? My very first expense-paid lunch with an (assistant) editor. Very fun and very grown up. What's great about publishing is that people in the business a) like to drink and b) like to eat food. Drinks and lunches abound in my field, so I think I've found a good home. I'm also working on some exciting work projects of my own at the moment. Details to follow as progression allows.
Reason of the day J is A#1: To cheer me up while I was lying in bed feeling cruddy, J grabbed Max by the armpits and stood him on his feet, and the two of them did a synchronized dance to an adapted version of Hey Ya (something like Cat Ya). heh heh
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Poor Paris... Notice of a
Posted by: Liz
Poor Paris...Notice of a recent book deal in Publisher's Lunch:
Creative Director of Barneys and author of Wacky Chicks, Simon Doonan's NASTY: Squalid Memories and Tawdry People, a cultural memoir covering everything from tarts, bleach, toothless people, Paris Hilton, canine rape, blind and mentally defective relatives, sadistic menopausal educators to gender dystopia.
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Ok, do you all have
Posted by: Liz
Ok, do you all have your handkerchiefs out? Willow is moving away. To Ireland. For at least six months. Sure this is all fun and games and exploration for her, sure she'll get to start sentences with "When I lived in Ireland..." and be able to make offhand remarks about the differences between the ways Americans and Irish handle flatware, and look back wistfully at her Irish boyfriends, but I will be here in New York (which is not Ireland) and will no longer have her company. And I will weep bitterly and sadly at my loss.On the other hand, she gave me her nice wool coat, sexy strappy heels, and warm down comforter to use while she is away. So there's that.
We rented a car (yea 25!) and drove up to Massachusetts so she could store her stuff with our friends up there. They live in Great Barrington on a farm with a lake and a baby, so it's a bit of an escape from ol' New York City. They treated us right and made us root vegetable ragu and tucked us into a squishy futon bed. I did not know, prior to sleeping in this bed, that "futon" does not only apply to thin, uncomfortable mattresses that fold into couches, but to a variety of mattress beds, some of which are extremely warm and cozy. Prior to being tucked in, we stayed up late doing the reminiscing thing and telling embarrassing stories about each other, including:
Once, Willow ate a handful of garlic powder on a dare and smelled like garlic for weeks. Another time, as a sugar-deprived child of a hippy household, she secretly scoured her friend's kitchen cabinets for treats on a sleep over. Seeing a huge tub of frosting, she scooped herself up a giant dollop and shoved it in her mouth. Only it wasn't frosting, but crisco, and she scrambled around the kitchen in a mad frenzy of embarrassment and horror, trying to get it out of her mouth and not be detected by her friend's family.
Once, Joey was wandering around his house eating a hunk of cheesecake out of his hand. Later that day he was using the bathroom and noticed a piece of white, flaky substance on the counter. Assuming it was a cheesecake crumb from earlier, he popped it in his mouth only to discover it was not delicious cheesecake, but a chunk of deodorant. Which instantaneously dried out his entire mouth for hours.
There was a giant brunch the next morning and Willow and I felt like the lesbian couple because everyone else at the party had a significant other and a baby or two. Joey had taken me on a little snowshoe jaunt around his property before breakfast (fun!) and my legs were really feeling it. I drank a ton of coffee in anticipation of the ride home and then ended up a mess at the super bowl party back in the slope: dead on my feet, but unable to fall asleep with the caffeine surging through my blood.
And of course, I had Janet and Justin to keep me awake during half time. And scanning the ads in my New Yorker, I realized the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding--it was for a good cause!
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Re: Janet and her breast
Posted by: Liz
Re: Janet and her breastOk
a) we're not stupid
b) the song ends with "I'll get you naked by the end of this song."
b1) and Justin ripping off a piece of JJ's clothing
c) if no breast was intended, why was a pasty present?
c1) Krista just e-mailed me with her disbelief: "whatever, I don't believe it! She had a pasty on. I said that same thing to Scott and he said he thought we always wore pasties." haha
c2) I am wearing a pasty on my right breast right now
c3) Just like always
Conclusion: The sight of a bare breast was just a little more shocking than CBS expected and they quickly went the retract/ignorant
OH NO, UPDATE! Kelly unearthed this unfortunate article, complete with close up pics. Beware people at work, the boobing and tip are all revealed. With not a pasty at all, but a "solar" NIPPLE RING. ew! There is still no way this was an accident.
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