Saturday, January 9, 2010

only the lonely.

"way to go, lesbian."

that's what jb said to me at seven yesterday morning upon surveying my artfully styled dark trouser jeans. really. no "good morning," no "how did you sleep?" no greeting whatsoever. jerk.
for christmas, in lieu of a real gift, he'd made me some ugly, bullshit collage that 1 i totally hated and 2 helen had started to chew on and i'll be damned if that little bitch has to have exploratory surgery after eating some nonsense this fake-ass basquiat poseur tried to burden me with. what, was walgreens out of chia pets or singing billy basses? goddamn it!

*please don't ever buy me anything. ever. PLEASE. i implore you. unless, dear reader, you know me and my impeccable (read: SNOTTY) tastes very well. or you have a killer sense of humor and it's a funny gift. really. i don't need anything. and if you refrain from purchasing something for me, you will save me the trouble and humiliation of showing you what an ungrateful bag of ass i am. because bitches don't give you surprise ipods and laptops, and they don't really pay enough attention to your habits/likes/tastes to get you something you like. i got some amazingly good loot this year, and all from conscientious people (read: people who actually love me, like my greenes and my hickses) who keep their eyes and ears open around your girl. no, bitches usually regift you some weaksauce nastiness they got but couldn't sack up enough to throw in the trash. or they run out to whereverthefuck and grab whateverthefuck is cheap and holiday-ish. blah! because even if my last-minute omigodididntknowiwassupposedtogetsomethingforthatbitch gifts are dope. i run to kiehls or lush or h20+ or some shit. not the dollar store.

i'm a fucking asshole. sowwy.

you know what i like the most? CARDS. not cookie cutter mailing list not even signed cards, but cards bitches write in and tell you how much you mean to them. i'm the most card sendingest bitch on earth. i fill up all the space with hilarious witticisms and i draw little dorky pictures and shit and tell you how much i love you and how pretty you are and all that good stuff. and you know that i mean it because it's there, in print, right in front of your face.

and if you know me you know i have a HUGE aversion to committing anything, particularly something potentially damning, to paper. bitchass and i talk all the time about voicemails and text messages and the kinds of things we say therein. don't you hoes watch judge mathis?! it makes me cringe down to my socks every single time the plaintiff or whatever is all, "well, bitch, i got yo' ass on TAPE!" and the crowd goes "oooooooooh!" and titters excitedly as she procures a little tape recorder from her purse and proceeds to play the message in which the defendant did in fact admit to smashing up her pontiac before threatening to do it again. dummy.

i don't tell anyone when i do something lowdown and dirty. you'll never read any menacing notes writ in my delicate hand, neither admission of guilt nor recognition of wrongdoing. there isn't a bitch on earth who has a text message sent from my phone that says a damn thing i wouldn't cop to in court. i'll swear on a stack of bibles that i sent every single "fuck you sideways" text hair beats off to, but never in a million years will someone tell a judge "she texted me she would pay for it!" or "listen to this voicemail where that bitch threatened to kill me!"
eff that.

"what?!" i exclaimed, incredulous, stamping my feet on the train platform and curling up my fingers inside my big woolly mittens. "what's wrong with my pants?" i glanced down at them.

he smiled. "oh, nothing. i was just wondering what time softball practice is tonight."

"dude! these are SO not lesbo pants!"

(pause.) "where do you clip on your tool belt?" ahahahahahahahaha! (that's how he laughs, like a fucking hyena. idiot.) "can i hitch a ride? is there room for me in your pickup?"

"oh, fuck you. you tragically hip asshole."

"aren't you hanging out with some dude later?" he asked, all snotty-like.

"yes. so?" (pissed!)

(another pause.) " don't want him to find you appealing in any way? i get it! i mean, i guess. once bitten, twice shy..."

at this point, i was rolling my eyes so hard i thought they really might get stuck that way, as my mother had threatened all through my adolecense. "first of all, fuckstick, it's not like that. second, i am awesome and hilarious no matter what kind of pants i happen to be wearing--"

"mm, hmm. RIGHT," he interjected.

"shut the fuck up, you troid. third, i've been bitten 742 times--"

"your fault, dummy. you pick stupid dudes."

"don't interrupt me. stupid dudes pick me. and i keep giving love a chance! AAAAND, it's the universe's fault for sending me its less-than-palatable inhabitants. i'm like a halfway house for shitbags. lots of my ex-homies have gone on to do much better things. and you should feel bad for me! fourth--"

"oh my god! fourth?" he shook his head. "fuck me. i never should have said anything."

"next time, don't. and these pants were ninety bucks!" i grabbed his head and shoved his face down by my butt. "see?! look at that stitching!"

jb stood up and straightened his jacket (hipsters refuse to wear actual COATS, no matter what the thermometer says) and looked around to make sure that no one standing near us on the platform had noticed that brutal display of assholery. i thought the argument was over (how could you not win after stuffing someone's face in your butthole?!) and it appeared to be, as he set his lips into a firm little line and closed his eyes against the blowing snow.

revelling in my victory, i edged away from him to get closer to the heat lamps and chuckled into my gaiter. (another sapphic accoutrement, i'm sure.) dudes always want to talk shit and can never back it up! jagoff.

my train came before his, and i squeezed his elbow goodbye as i went to step in. "have a good day, you fucking monkey," i said sweetly as the bell signaling the imminently closing doors tolled.
he opened his eyes and smiled. "hey sam?" he called.

i stuck my head out. "yeah?"

"was that ninety bucks before or after you added the carhartt coat?" he exploded into peals of laughter and high-fived the complete stranger grinning beside him. DICK.


so the point of this post, you really thought my lesbian pants were the main event?, is that i haven't posted a recipe in a while and somewhere along the way i said i was going to do more of that. dang!

winter is awful, though i don't mind it that much. i fucking loathe being hot and sticky and gross and sweaty. double yuck. even in bed! it's the worst of the worst. i like looking at snow; it's so pretty on the sidewalks and the lampposts and the trees. the city looks like a movie set or a greeting card or something. everytime we get a big snowstorm my heart gets a warm rockwellian fuzzy. doesn't snow make everything seem all quaint and genteel?! i love it. for a split second i want to make snow angels and build snowmen, then i realize how lame that is and get over it. but everything looks so perfect and clean and fresh and new, before hulking snowplows dirty it all up and dogs piss and shit in it. before it soaks through your "waterproof" boots and leaks through your "weatherproof" window treatments. before you slip and fall in it or freezer-burn your tender fingertips.

i hate both waking up and going to bed in the dark, but other than that i like that winter is an excuse to be all snuggly and cozy and bundled-up. my current issue is that i have no one to spoon with except my ridiculous snatch of a cat and, if you've met her, you know that she is hardly the cuddly type. while i would rather have the human equivalent of a mug of hot chocolate lounging in my bed, i am forced to tolerate that little furry terror and whatever books and magazines i fall asleep reading.

but in the spirit of making lemonade out of these rotten lemons, i have taken a new approach to winter nesting. embracing the solitude, if you will. and i'm going to tell you how you can, too. this is for girls, because fuck dudes. i mean, seriously, with a rusty wrench. and you would just try to find some dummy to do it for you anyway, so PSHAW. it's a recipe in two parts: the first part for your body, the second part for your belly. and this is what i do almost every single night when i get home, and since i'm so totally rad i know you'll want to do it, too.

part one
-a small humidifier
-a c.o. bigelow frankincense candle
-a glass of pinot noir (i am especially fond of smoking loon)
-a chunk of lush soap, preferably noubar or sultana of soap
-a bottle of johnson and johnson lavender baby oil
-carol's daughter sage and shea foot butter
-soft pajamas and big, padded slipper socks

this is pretty self-explanatory, is it not? start the humidifier, light the candle. drink some wine. lukewarm shower, lather up the soap, rinse it off. wine. oil up and get in your jammies. more wine. grease up your feet and get in your socks. more wine. get your sexy ass in the kitchen.
finish bottle of wine.

i like stews and soups and hearty pastas in the winter. i made this one the other night. it's easy as shit, and delicious. and you can eat it if you have crohns or stomach cancer or whatever the fuck i have going on inside. because it takes so long to cook, you might want to do the cooking part before the shower ritual. i dunno. whatever you like.

part two

-2 lb leg of lamb, cut into bite-sized chunks
-1 head of garlic, separated into cloves
-12 oz can pitted black olives in brine, rinsed and drained
-3 oz carmelized onions (from a jar)
-4 tbsp capers, rinsed and drained
-2 tsp ground cumin
-2 tsp ground ginger
-1 750 ml bottle of cheap red wine

i don't know why some people have such a problem with lamb. i mean, i really don't. is it because mary had a little one? or because jesus is a lamb or something? oh who cares. it's gorgeous. and so tasty.

1 anyway, oven at 300.

2 put EVERYTHING into a big pot that has a lid (i use a giant le creuset cast iron dutch oven and that works quite nicely), pouring the wine in LAST. give it all a good stir.

3 bring everything to a boil, then put the lid on and toss that bad girl into the oven for two hours, or until little lambykins is all soft and tender. i don't know, go watch sex and the city or snapped! or something else sad and girly while it cooks.

i always make a pilaf or couscous or quinoa or something equally plain-ish while this shit is in the oven, then i fill a big bowl with the grain and ladle the stew over when it's done. i get in my bed armed with ipod, magazines, books, remotes and whatever else my solitary ass might require as a distraction, and i eat as much as i can before slipping into a coma. i dream about all the hot dudes i could be cooking this for, and then wake up with helen's claw in my eye.

boner appetit.