Coffee/date etiquette

So, you start seeing someone and it's like . . . who pays for what? do you split? do you take turns? i don't get it.
i'm seeing a young man and i think, upon seeing my apartment, he decided i have more money than i actually have. or maybe we're just taking turns. for instance, today, we went to get coffee. and the starbucks girl saw that we were together and charged us together and young man only had two bucks in his hand. i handed her cash for both and waved his bills away. but it's like how do you know? when in doubt in these situations, i either offer to pay for me or i just pay but the guy's in sales. and has a job where he TRAVELS. surely he has more responsibility and thus, more money.
i sound like an asshole.
soy lattes are good.

Hopped up on Thin Mints

I did many fun things this past weekend, including skipping Easter mass on Sunday.
The highlights:
= splitting a box of Thin Mints with Shannon Flynn while we took turns doing our best Terry Schiavo impressions (going to hell in handbaskets we are)
=bought a Lodge castiron Grill Pan (including tax, $23 at Williams-Sonoma)
= grilled lambchops for Papa Weeyums using aforementioned Grill Pan

recipe is very easy: chop up tablespoon each of rosemary and thyme and two large garlic cloves, mix with a little olive oil, salt, pepper and a tad of cayenne pepper. marinate chops for a few hours. then grill. i recommend a spattercover thingy. Papa Weeyums topped with mint jelly which I found appalling.

I don't recommend the film "Lovely and Amazing" unless you want to hate yourself, your life and your mother.

His name is Dave. And he is lovely.

Okay, so you have to scroll to the bottom of the page to see a small pic of him. A much larger poster of him hangs at my desk. Several people in my office came by my cube to tell me: "Katherine! He's in reception! Find a reason to go out there!"

And so I went. There he was, Dave Lieberman, in all his loveliness. I asked the receptionist for new hire applications. Dave, engrossed in another conversation, turned to look at me. We held eyes for a moment. It was magic.

Of course, he's Jewish.
And 23.
And the next hot thing to grace Food Network's kitchens. Already has a couple books and hit TV shows.
I love him.
He will be mine.

Dad and sushi

My sister and I are exposing Papa Bear to sushi for the first time this evening. I think he'll be very confused:

Raw fish, Kad?
Yes, Dad.
And ya dip it in dis sauce, Kad?
Yes.
And dis green stuff, Kad?
It's wasabi, Dad. Mash it up in the soy.
With da chopsticks, Kad?
Yes.
I need a glass of wine, Kad.
No.
Medicinal purposes, Kad.
No.
Fo your poor fodda, godlovehim.
Dad . ..
Well, you're drinking, Kad.
I don't have a blood clot in my leg, Dad.
No love. I get no love.
And I'm not on blood thinner. Mr. Brown, stop licking your ass.
Kadrin! Da language!
Well, he's licking his ass, Dad.
Mr. Brown! Have Kad clean out ya rear end, precious.
Jesus.
Kad!

Just for the record.

None of you are getting distracted by that pesky little conflict in Iraq are you? I mean, sure thousands of innocent lives have been lost over there but we've got a retarded woman dying right here in Florida. Let's not forsake the tard.

(He called me) Roasted Chicken

Sometimes guys actually call when they say they're going to. And the perfect thing to take one's mind off the call that may never come? Cooking, of course. And I think I'm slowly coming up with the list of essentials one needs to cook almost anything.

So far it includes: olive oil, Dijon mustard, garlic, flat leaf Italian parsley, lemons, celery, low-sodium chicken stock/broth, onions and carrots (not baby carrots). And any kind of chicken. Stand by as the list gets updated periodically.

(He called me) Roasted Chicken:
Chicken parts: thighs, drumsticks, etc. Maybe use one of them fryer packs.

In bigass pan (13x9), whisk together about 1/4 cup Dijon mustard, 1/2 cup of balsamic vinegar, 3 minced garlic cloves, salt, pepper and the juice of one lemon. (zest the lemon first. you'll use it later. Then, roll lemon before cutting/juicing, it helps release the juice). Then whisk in a lot of olive oil (1/2 cup perhaps). Taste it. If it tastes good, you're set. This is essentially homemade Balsamic Vinagrette. Put chicken in, turn to coat, cover and refrigemarinate overnight, turning when you think about it.
Roast in 400' oven for about 45 minutes. Put chicken on serving plate. Pour drippngs into saucepan, bring to boil and let thicken/reduce for 5-10 minutes. Make sure you get those crunchy brown bits, too. Pour sauce over chicken. Sprinkle with zest of aforementioned lemon and some chopped parsley.

This is great the next day. Very juicy/flavorful. For sides, roasted vegetables: asparagus, cherry tomatoes, etc. I just put a couple thighs on top of a spinach/tomato/mushroom salad. What I like most about this recipe is that it takes little to no thought/effort and I often have the essentials in my pantry/fridge.

Well, fuck you, too.

Sometimes in life we're overly nice to people who, looking back on it, simply did not deserve our kindness. Supposely it's nice to be important and more important to be nice and somewhere inside of me I believe that's true. But there are plenty of people in this world that the dumb fucks of the universe deem important who I seriously doubt are "nice."

Funny. You find ways to make yourself feel better. I'll just go get a pedicure tonight to take away some of this sting. I'll tell myself I'm a better person for being kind to someone who was dicking me over. I'm a bigger person for staying seemingly silent and indifferent in the face of flagrant rejection/stupidity.

And yet. There is the urge.

The urge to call the ex and demand to know why he backed off. What he was too big of a pussy to tell me.

The urge to call the ex-friend and call her a fat, selfish, fuck who doesn't deserve anyone's respect or adoration.

The urge to call the Donna . . . actually, no, that one really didn't last long enough to warrant any sort of real lingering resentment. Think he's too dumb to actually comprehend it, too.

The urge to call Penquin's head of HR and tell them that one of their employees asked me "what it felt like to be a failure" during last summer's job interview.

The urge to tell the next fat, unfunny, unintelligent slob who hits on me to fuck off, can't you see I deserve more than you?

And then I realize, for the most part, that the person I'm most angry at is me.

Breffest w/ Ron

Breakfast conversations with my father as of late go something like this:

Cut to:
Mr. Brown humping Kath's leg

KATH: Mr. Brown! You know the rules! No licking, no humping!
DAD: Mr. Brown! A disciplined dog is a happy dog in a happy family.
KATH: What the hell?
DAD: Kadrin! Don't use such language around ya poor fodder, godlovehim.

Mr. Brown resumes humping.

KATH: Jesus Christ!
DAD: KADRIN! It's the holy day!
KATH: Dad, St. Patrick's day is not-
DAD: Mr. Brown! Kad, you better take him out.
KATH: I don't think I want to be alone with him, quite frankly.
DAD: Mr. Brown, behave! Or snip snip!

Mr. Brown shudders.

KATH dons jacket and such.

KATH: Come on, M.B. Let's go.
DAD: Take two bags.
KATH: Two?
DAD: It might be a double.
KATH: Jesus.
DAD: Kadrin!

Look to the cookie!

One of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld. I just ate a black and white cookie and it was, dare I say it, fanfuckingtastic. With it I'm enjoying a Belgian hot chocolate which is better than the bulk of most sex I've had. Realize I'm being redundant but I want to stress how good this chocolate is and how bad . .. never mind.

On that note, did you know that chocolate and coffee truly go hand in hand? Put a little instant coffee in your next batch of brownies. It's fantastic in homemade hot chocolate, too. Most tiramisu recipes involve dipping the lady fingers in strong espresso to soften them up a bit before putting them in the dish as one of the layers. Point being, a little coffee adds a certain depth of flavor to chocolate. Coffee bars are huge in Amsterdam as well as coffee and marijuana go very well together. And what tastes really good after smoking up? Not dick, that's for damn sure. Chocolate. While exceptionally stoned during my college days, I ogled a vending machine: "I wish I could blow this thing so it would shoot a wad of Snickers in my mouth."

Look to the cookie!

You might be an adult if ---

1) You congratulate your girlfriends if they're preggers
2) Your Christmas wish list for next year looks like this:
Teakettle
Kitchen Aid stand mixer
Food Processor (prob bigger than mini prep)
Non-stick omelet pan
Pastry Brush
Meat mallet
Apple corer
Melon scoop
Mortar and pestle
Meat Thermometer
Husband/Live-in lover of either sex
3) You meet a co-worker who went to your college. There is no way in hell you two were there at the same time. Because your freshly graduated days are at least five years old.

Every single one of us the devil inside

I'm both exhausted and filled with a quiet rage. A freelance chick in my office helps fill in the gaps three days a week while we interview folk for currently empty positions. She's a friend of my boss and they're peers career-wise but she fancies herself my boss as well and does her best to confuse issues under the guise of being "helpful."

Example A: Yesterday's computer issue.

Kath (entering boss's office where Lisa hovers, a loud bird with big hair): Hey, Michael, I-
Lisa: My computer -
Kath (shooting menancing look): Yes?
Lisa: Sorry.
Michael (staring dejectedly at screen, throwing hands in air): What have they done?!
Kath: I just talked to the Help Desk. Let's call them together.
Michael: No, I just need to know-
Lisa: I can't get on my computer either.
Kath (menancing look to Lisa): Michael, I know. I just talked to them but rather than be the go-between, I thought it might be best -
Michael: (pressing keys with wild fury) I don't want to talk to them. I need to send this email.
Lisa: I can't get on my computer.
Kath: I know. I was getting Michael access to Tony's files which are on the computer you're using. (in the silence of my heart: dumb cuntbitch)
Michael: Why do I have two Microsoft outlooks?
Kath: Tony's account is closed so they're simply transferring everything to you.
Michael: Well, they better open it back up.
Lisa: He only needs Tony's Word files, Katherine.
Kath: (in the silence of my heart: you condescending whore. your huge hair resembles Cher's in video hit "If I Could Turn Back Time," complete with sailors and crotchless leotard) I know.
Michael: You know what? I really just need to send this email.
Kath: Well, when you're done, let me know. And we'll call the Help Desk from your phone. It'll be most efficient.
Michael: I don't want to talk to them. I want to know what's going on with my computer.
Lisa: You know what? I'll call them.
Michael: Yes, you call them, Lisa. She (pointing to Kath with hurry) doesn't have to do anything.

The wisdom of Deborah Gibson

Although I sleep supremely poorly at my dad's apartment . .. for many reasons: it's the same four-poster I grew up with (memories of barely pubescent humping of said poles abound as well as my earliest attempts at rather painful intercourse) and said bed has a brand new and shockingly hard mattress . .. Dad's poodle, Mr. Brown has taken to spooning me . . .

point being, in spite of these factors, I had really nice dreams last night.

I dream, almost every night, of my ex-boyfriend and our mutual ex-friend who set us up. As far as I know, they're still friends and I haven't heard from either of them in over six months. Losing them at around the same time was a double blow that sent me into the throes of depression. Even now, realizing that they're both douchebags, I recognize that they were a big part of my life for a couple years and it still amazes me how much life can change. And what dicks people can be.

Last night, in my dreams, they begged for my forgiveness and said and did all the right things. My ex, who in life was obese with shocking quantities of back hair, was svelte, well dressed and articulate. Swore that he hadn't dumped me for anyone else. No one could ever take my place. The former friend promised to quit working on her own pathetic drivel to fully support any artistic endeavor of mine. Her friends, who in life also dumped me, swore the same. Can you ever forgive us, Kath?

I woke up happy. Even after I realized it was all a dream and the daily thought crossed my mind that NYC is far too small a place for me not to run into and be reminded of every person I've had some dealing with, good or bad, in the last five years . . . it gave me hope that, perhaps in sleep (the cure-all) our hearts, like everything else, have time to repair. To mend. That just as nightmares can fuck with our heads long after we wake, good dreams can do the same. I may never have peace or closure from those who have hurt me but I can move forward wiser, albeit embittered, into other friendships, relationships and value the good ones I have that have withstood the test of time.

Fuck, I'm tired, though.

BAM!

Just sat in a taping of Emeril Live. Sat in the VIP seats. 2.5 glasses of white whine. I mean whine. Wine, damn it. Wine. Am a bit tipsaroo at the old workplace. Emeril is nice. He makes good food.

At last!

I figured it out. That sweet, odd smell in my bedroom? Regret.

Yep.

During Mass this past Sunday, my favorite priest who greeted me warmly with a resounding "HI THERE!" as though we were old friends when I walked in shivering a few minutes late, discussed Lent as a renewal of our divinity. Recognizing our worth and value as sons and daughters of God. I can't remember the last time, if ever, Church moved me. And God knows I haven't been to confession in at least ten years. But I started to tear up.

Describing the Samaritan woman and how Jesus, a Jew, asked her for some water while he rested at the well, Fr. Whatshisname reminded us that we are not our sin. Our mistakes, our failures, our misjudgments . . . are not us.

When mass was over, we walked out, shaking hands with the priest as we made our way back out into the cold.

"God's peace," he said.