Tonite (11/30) my super-talented friends Debra and Jannese both have pieces in the "I Heart Coney Island" group show at Artez'n on Atlantic Ave. You should stop by. Say hi. Look at some art. Have a little snack. It'll be fun.
Okay, so it's only for one week, but the Cincinatti City Beat re-ran a New York Press column I wrote about spending the holidays with a non-festive partner. Please click on it and read so the editors realize they should make me a permanent presence in Ohio.
In other holiday news, my friend Sarah is a nurse in Paterson, NJ. Each year she rounds up some of her young patients who are about to have a very dismal Christmas, gives me their info and I make sure that Santa doesn't forget about them. If anyone feels like contributing, I set up an Amazon Wishlist with a bunch of toys and things I think the kids would like. But I'm no expert so if you have some better ideas, please email me. The kids descriptions are after the jump. Prepare for a tugging at the heartstrings—one of the little girls uses a rolled up towel for a doll. Oy vey.
Physically speaking, Anthony Bourdain is totally my type. Tall, skinny, big-nosed and wise-assy. Unfortunately, he's also become extremely annoying and so I somewhat reluctantly put the kibosh on my crush. (I've heard through the grapevine that he's devastated, poor guy.) Lucky for me, just as my ardor for Bourdain was fizzling, my attentions were captured by another fancy chef. Gordon Ramsey.
While not as conventionally good looking as Bourdain—more bulldog than babe—a Kitchen Nightmares marathon on BBC pulled me over to his side. I don't even normally like blondes.
A few years ago, five friends and I all broke up with our loser-ass husbands and boyfriends over the same month-long period. We were out drinking and commiserating one night and decided that we should all get tattooed to commemorate our collective wising-up. Maybe not the sanest idea, but it was a really fun day and I love my pretty pink flower. And for the most part, I still love the other women who are similarly marked, though three of them scattered to other parts of the world and I hardly ever see them. One of the flower girls remains one of my closest friends and the last, well . . . if you can't say something nice, whatnot.
Because it has turned into more of a reminder of things and people I'd rather forget, I recently decided it was time to get my flower altered (doesn't that sound kind of dirty?). Fear not, I won't be covering it with a frolicking unicorn or an ankh or some played out Celtic design. Instead, my friend, the fantastic Matt Payne is going to enhance it. There'll be more flowers and some branches and falling petals spread out across my shoulders. Considering my age, financial situation, the state of my teeth and uncertain housing future, it's a about the most frivolous thing in the world to be spending money on, but what the hell.
Not everyone's so lucky. Little Mamacita here, doesn't have anywhere to go this Thanksgiving. My friends Jannese and Debra rescued her, but can't keep her for several very valid reasons. I met Mamacita and I can vouch for both her cuteness and sweet disposition. I'm just going to let Jannese tell you what's going on. If you can help, please contact her at the email addy listed after the jump:
What you're looking at is Mabel the Cat inspecting my first-ever crochet project. In case you can't tell, it's a scarf. It's supposed to be all the same width, but this is my learning curve. It's also too short and rather itchy.
My crafty friend Jannese very patiently taught me how to crochet, but this atrocity is all me. Miss Mabes took one look and told me not to bother with the kitty coat I'd promised to make her.
I promise to write about something other than myhousingwoes later today, but I just needed to share that while the other tenants and I have lost a lot—telephone, cable, peace of mind—we've also gained something these last couple days: a gas leak.
Yep, for the past several days Keyspan has been digging away in front of our building, trying to discover the source of a gas leak. The fire department has been by several times too. Maybe seven or eight weeks ago I might've been worried about something as potentially deadly as a gas leak that nobody seems to be able to locate and fix, but now I just can't get it up to be too freaked out. Though walking out into a gas cloud is definitely not fun.
Yesterday, on my way out the door, I stopped by the now-ground-to-a-haltwork site to snap a couple pictures. I was stopped by a tough little lady who asked if I was connected to my landlord. I told her I was one of the tenants whose phone and cable service she'd ended and she started ranting about how it wasn't her fault that they were ripped out—Verizon should've known because she'd called to warn them.
Please note all the hanging wires in the photo. I told her that while not having TV, internet or a phone was irritating, it wasn't as bad as having my building collapse. She told me there was no way that was going to happen and that her guys knew what they were doing. (Apparently they don't know how to put on hard hats though.)
I asked her how they could've left phone wires dangling across the street all night. Surely at least that was her fault. Nope. Then she started blaming my landlady for my lack of phone. Now I'm willing to blame my landlady for a lot of crap, but she wasn't up on my roof, ripping wires out.