Tartlets, Shmartlets

Sixty tartlet shells

Rum pastry cream

Framboise pastry cream

Lemon curd

Blueberries

Strawberries

Blackberries

They were the cutest things at the party, which actually made me feel like a shmuck. So I hid in a corner until it was time to go home. Maybe I should have taken my sisters suggestion and done cupcakes from a box.

An Open Letter To M

M,

Since one of my posts deepened our drama, I'm putting this one out there as well.

I can totally understand why you feel I was being cruel/unnecessary. But please know, it was not with intent or to make you feel that way.

I'm sure that doesn't lessen your feelings of betrayal any, but I promise you, I would NEVER purposely hurt you. Even if we were not friends anymore. Doesn't mean you wont still get hurt, but I did/do/will always hold you in a very odd place in my heart.

Theres a lot of stuff that came up before leaving that would make me say and still think what I did, but I'm not trying to do the "I'm right and you're wrong" or "you're right and I'm wrong" thing either. You ARE under a huge amount of stress and having lifestyle changes. That affects ANYONE'S coping skills and behaviors. Same for me.

I know you said you were fine after our phone convo, but obviously, I wasn't, and to an extent still am not. It's a matter of different perceptions to words/actions/situations and to the intent of them, or lack thereof ( I am so confusing myself now). Point is, friends or not, in any relationship both people can start taking others for granted. I'd hope we've gone through enough that we're more like family ( but possibly without the hairpulling or wedgies, and PLEASE don't pin me in a corner and try and smooch on me like my drunk brother did) .

So maybe we'll get over this. Maybe not. Either way, please know you are very much loved by me, even if you hurt me/piss me off, and even if you hurt me/piss me off and don't think you have or should have.

To anyone reading this for pug/ghetto/medical dramas, well, this post may not be interesting to you. But as I told M, it's still a personal diary/writing exercise that happens to be very public. And it's still written because it's for me.

Oh, Just Shoot Me Now

MONDAY: Movers arrive in NYC. There is lots of sweating involved. Mommy drives me to DC.

TUESDAY: Movers arrive in DC. I set off my new alarm system multiple times, scaring myself and the puglets senseless. I go set up a new bank account and realize I've left my drivers licsence in NYC while closing THAT bank account. Luckily, this means instead of going to the DMV to renew said lost licsence, I drink many iced coffees while locating the whereabouts of the lost ID and arranging to have it mailed to me. Whilst locating lost ID, I check the balance of the NYC account I was forced to leave open since my landlords have yet to cash my July 1st rent check, and find they have still not cashed it yet tried to cash my August 1st check which they claimed was lost in an office fire, forcing me to put a stop payment on it and issue a new check.

WEDNESDAY: I visit my new doctor, who is thoroughly impressed with all my Itis-es and doles out appropriate referrals and prescriptions. Mommy and I hit many huge chain stores looking for apartment stuff, like towels and flatware, when I realize I can't purchase any of these items because I dont have a debit, PIN card, checks or much cash yet, and have no idea what size lamp I actually need until I've unpacked the many boxes now stacked in my kitchen and living room. The pugs start to love the back garden, and I experience the joy of multiple mosquito bites. I didn't know ghettos had 'squitos. I'm used to rats and roaches, and just so I don't forget the roaches I realize some have hitched a ride to DC in my moving boxes while trying to find out exactly where I packed the clean sheets. Now clean sheets with roachie germs

THURSDAY: The pugs are shuttled to the new vet, I do phone concults for the desserts I'm catering on Saturday, make my shopping list for Friday, and try to recall in exactly WHICh box my pastry implements are located in. My little brother shows up completely drunk to say hi to me, crushes me in a bear hug, and traps me in my apartment for many minutes bawling and kissing me and telling me what a horrible brother he's been, how he's so glad his family is all here now and I've agreed to make his wedding cake, what a wonderful sister I am and how screwed up our family is. We go up to my parents house where he passes out on the sofa, I get some dinner, and my parents go to drive him home before he pukes. Once back, I make myself scarce before the alcholic family drama insues..the one where the alcoholic parents try and decide if the alcoholic child is truly alcoholic or just stupid, and I laugh in nervous hysteria once safely back in my apartment, whilst reminding myself this is why I ran away in the first place. Oh, and he totally did puke while in the car, apparently.

The phone line has been turned on, at last, and I open emails to find a "Dear John" best friend breakup letter citing references from two posts down. WOOHOO! This day keeps getting better!
I LOVE moving!

Saying Goodbye, Saying Hello

All I know about bitter sweet is when it refers to chocolate.

I do know this is hard.

New York was always the place I was fighting to get to. I had my bags packed before I graduated high school, trying to get as far away from my po-dunk midwestern town and my destructive, insane family as fast as possible. Since I didn't have a passport, it was either California or New York. Winning a scholarship to atheater school here helped me make that decision.

A year into school, my body started to self destruct and I crawled back home, defeated, with odd things coming out of every orifice and some really strange rashes. I spent the next two years living in my parents basement, shuttling to doctors, trying to ignore the community college pamphlets my mother shoved under my door when she wasn't busy counting my medications to make sure I'd taken them.

Eventually the rashes and odd orifice objects subsided a bit, and I promptly packed my bags and medicine botlles and ran away to NYC again, leaving my parents words of "You'll never make it..you'll never be well enough to do anything" rolling with the tumbleweeds. There was more schooling and auditioning and working and trying to be independent self esteem building.

And then at another point, more parts of my body started disintegrating and relocating and becoming posessed by ancient demons, and back to Hicksville I went..seemingly for good. Eventually I learned how to force my body to submission, or at least medicate it into some stage of behaving. I started baking at a local joint, something I'd done in NYC to support myself between acting gigs ( needless to say, I did more baking than acting). I studied school brochures, this time for learning alternative medicine and healing, but that little voice in me kept telling me " Go East, Young Woman"

So yet again, I ran. Determined this time no matter which part of me spontaneously combusted I wasnt going to let my body define me..or make me live in my parents basement!. The last 5 years in this apartment, my mom got crazier and drunker, and slowly better. I stopped the parental interrogations and just sent them my medical bills instead. 9-11 sent me into a tailspin, and I decided to actively to pursue my life and my dreams instead of believeing that at some point my spleen was going to fall out, so why really bother?

And now I'm going back to my family, something I swore I'd never do. But this is the first time I chose to do so, and wasn't forced into it. Yes, my many kidney boo-boos influenced that choice, because after years of having no emotional support system..and claiming I didn't need one..my family was healthy enough to provide me a good one. This time there are no strings, no threats,
no failed dreams. I've accomplished more here, and in my life, than I ever really expected. And starting a new chapter isn't filling me with dread, but excitement and anticipation.

I'm sure I'll get sick of my parents ( I'm renting the apartment attatched to their house, but as they keep exclaiming.."It's NOT the Basement in Po-Dunk!") and my sister and her husband in the suburbs,, heck..even my little brother moved their last year! But they know me as a grown up now, and are actually in awe of my career and accomplishments.

I'm still changing all the locks right when I get there, though.

Things I've Learned Of Late

Pugs get cranky when they have packing tape stuck to their paws

Sometimes Blind Pugs have freak outs when they can't locate woobies or toys that have been packed or throned that have been thrown away, and then you have to rush them to the animal ER.

Rushing to the animal ER is fun when you've closed out your bank account that very day and just have a wad of cash and a bank issued cashiers check.

having four loads of laundry left to do when you only have enough change for 2 loads means you pack a box while Febreze-ing every layer

having 'arguments" with friends while experiencing something that tops the stress lists, except for deaths in the family, are really unpleasant, especially when they think you're mad over an air conditioner, rather than an ongoing pattern of behavior at a really freakin bad time

Moving really sucks.

These Are The People In My Neighborhood, In My Neighborhood....

The countdown is officially on, and I'm still procrastinating. I've got at least half the apartment left to pack, plus cleaning and the removal of various furniture pieces heavier than endtables or Girl Pugs throne.

I've been scouting out some of the less threatening addicts in the 'hood for furniture removal..however I seem to keep running into them while they are thorughly stoned and therefore not making much progress. I live in a very poor neighborhood, and am a minority here, so when I moved in 5 years ago I quickly learned that becoming friends with certain addicts and characters actually improved my safety. Suprisingly, I met all of them because they liked my pugs. Just goes to ahow a Rottweiler is not always the best choice for safety!

The first was Big Scary Drug Dealer, with his Big Scary Drug Dealer Dog, a huge black chow mix. Girl pug attempted to rip out BSDDD jugular, which caused BSDD to laugh and BSDDD to just look mildly amused. Then she fell in love with both of them, which was reciprocated. BSDD will squeal "Here, Pug Pug Pug!" in a high falsetto when he sees her approach, which sends Girl pug into fits of wiggling. Being Pavlovian, she now also associates the lookouts " Cops are coming" series of whistles with BSDD, which can cause problems while he's working and she wants some lovin. Other than her sluttish response to the lookouts whistling, this kept me safe when coming home from work after 3 am. I'm not about to ask him for any help, though.

Then there was J, who seemed to live down the block, and was often found passed out in the shade of my building on hot summer days. J generally roamed about all day looking for a hit, and whacked his comrades upside the head if they decided to hit on me. J dissapeared about two years ago, and I assumed he had died. Two weeks ago he reappeared, clean and sober and almost completely unrecognizable. He's not in the area much these days, trying to avoid old habits, but everyone he whacked upside the head before still knows to keep their distance.

Girl and Boy pugs favorite is W and his cohorts, who keep vigil at the corner bodega. W has been here forever, and first introduced himself to the pugs and myself by exclaiming " Yo, dat's the dog from Men In Black! Yo Frank!!". He took to calling them Frank and Mrs. Frank, and when Girl pug hears his gravelly voice she lunges at the end of her leash looking to get a belly rub. W is kind of like the neighborhood ambassador..he knows everybody and everything. He's supposed to be scouting for manual labor for me.

One of my favorites is the neighborhood transvestite, who after 5 years I still am not sure of his name. He's a frequent recipient of my cast off clothes, and if I ever lost Boy Pug I would be sure to find him sitting on T's lap. We first really met T on Sept 11th, 2001. I was bolting home with the pugs in tow while the Twin Towers were burning, and T was on my block crying " Oy mami, the sky is falling! The sky is falling!" T is still struggling with sobriety, and many of my evening walks find us on his stoop, the pugs being stroked while he rehashes his weekly dramas. T has an old back injury, and his friends are HIGHLY suspect, so I havent mentioned the moving furintiture saga to him. i will tell him once it's out, in case he wants to claim anything.

And finally, theres B. B seems to be my age, maybe younger. When you look at him you can still see who he once was, and how deep into a personal hell he has fallen. He and his "wife" are the epitome of a crackhead couple. Often she's angling for tricks while he's wobbling down the block, trying to drink a beer. I always really liked B..even while high he was always very kind and liked to pet the pugs and ask me how my day was going. He was also the one most firmly entrenched in addiction, and the one I worried about most. B would do things like perform surgery on himself after his jaw was wired shut after an accident, using pliers to snip the wires himself. Today while dragging the pugs down the block we ran into him again. We stopped to chat and B revealed he's been sober for 35 days..and was grinning from ear to ear. Having a family history of addiction, we yapped for a while about meetings and family roles and recovery. I was so tickled about seeing him sober and happy I had to call M at work and tell her. I don't think I'll ask B for help, simply because his "wife" is likely to think I'm hitting on him and try to cut me, or she'll figure out some way to rob me blind while I'm not looking.

The Jenga-Tetris Rent Stabilized Monster

"Are you throwing anything away?"

" Mom, I've been living the past five years in a ahoebox. If it's still here, it deserves a chance to survive in DC"

Yesterday I moved out an end table. I could feel the eyes boring into me from the third floor acrss the street. Back up in my apartment, peering from my window, I saw one of the firebugs from the halfway house across the street lugging it back into her building.

Today, my broken printer and the other end table went outside to enjoy the weather. 15 minutes later I lugged down a few bags of my 'Who am I kidding, like I'll ever have a job where I need to wear a silk shell" clothes and brought them to the church across the street. The printer was still there ( probably doesn't make good kindling). The end table wasn't.

"I got your tables!" I hear coming from above me. The firebug is leaning out her window waving.
I squint against the sun and look up. " I'm gonna be moving out the matching coffee table in a few weeks. I'll yell at your window when I do. She grins, displaying her three prettiest teeth, and dissapears back inside.

I've got three seperate box piles going now, and have reached the stage where you want to cry, burn it all down, or take a shower every 15 minutes. Each round of box paccking require me to carefully dislodge items from the patented "Big City Shoebox Apartment Organization Disguised as Decorating" and with that, new plumes of dust and tufts of pug hair are dislodged and float about. This ticks me off. I've vaccumed three times in the past two days, and am very tempted to use all those rolls of plastic sheeting and duct tape purchased a few years ago to make myself a "Moving/Packing Suit."

As incredibly painful as it was..it was time to get rid of Girl Pugs throne. I need that wall for storing packed boxes.

The throne is a blue and white checked Queene Anne armchair, gotten at an auction for 7.50 six years ago in my old midwestern town. I was living on the top floor of a hundred year old house then, and while waiting for my dad to come help me lug it up the stairs, Girl Pug plunked her butt in it and claimed it as her own. I put a dog cushion and a red chenille throw on it, and this is where she lounges, laying on all the toys she's chosen to hide from her blind brother.

To prevent uneccesary drama, I put her and Blind Boy Pug in the bedroom while I huffed and puffed and threw the throne down three flights of steps. Once on the street I look up at the apartment slowly being redecorated with my stuff. She leans out the window.
"You want it?" I yell.
"Too big!" She yells back.
Too big for what? It's got plenty of cotton ticking coming out the bottom. Maybe it would catch fire too quickly. I dunno.

So now I've showered again and have set up the fluffy parts of the former throne on the floor. Of course Girl Pug is looking terribly distraught and sitting in my clean laundry instead.

Queen Packing Slug Supreme

August 15th

But I have 5 boxes packed! I do. I packed a jillion cookbooks, my culinary school binders, my petite four pans and my offset spatula, my back issues of "Food Arts" and "pastry Art and design", my ancient Kitchenaid, my ice cream maker, my microplane grater, and my Series Of Unfortunate Events books.

Thats some progress, right?

Happy Happy Joy Joy

I am now officially unemployed!

My last night was Friday. I got cake, and wine, and cards, and tried my best to slack off and take naps in the walk in.

No more 120 degree plus work days, no more mildewed shirts, no more snapped underwires and Gold Bond powder on my forehead for heat rash!

Next up...packing for the move, and trying to figure out how to sleep like a normal person again. When 6 pm has been ones 6 am, this could prove difficult.

Going Away Party For One

So..though I've yet to officialy hire the moving company, or pack, or start getting rid of certain yucky pieces of furniture, I've been antsy about my upcoming move, and attempting to try and do something about it. Kind of. there's this awful unsettled anticipation when you are about to embark on something new, but have yet to close out the current chapter.

So last week I bought new shoes..and they're SPARKLY!!! My closet is filled with black brogues and funky Mary Janes, and my work shoes are well worn Merrils or something else quite sensible. I usually avoid buying shoes, as years of wearing Converse with no socks or chinese slippers and years of working on my feet ( and being a wee bit more than slightly chunky) have left me with some enormous footsies.

But last week M and I went shopping..as she finally HAS a job ( as I'm getting ready to quit one) and is starting to plan a move out of her parents house ( as I am planning on moving back to the nest) and of course, being attracted by shiny objects and totally unsensible at times, I found myself in a huge shoe department. And suprisingly, all the cute sparkly shoes FIT!!

So I know have my "mermaid shoes", my "if they were red instead of green they'd be ruby slippers" shoes, and my metallic embroidered " Oh my god i have to call my snotty sister, it has a KITTEN HEEL" shoes. Because, of course, instead of paring down before a move, i must aquire more stuff.

Having no boxes yet to pack anything in, I've rearranged my closet and placed my nice " if I wasn't a baker and actually cared if I looked grown up" clothes into bags for donation to some worthwile charity. I threw out all the old bras with broken underwire, which I just found several of strewn on the street as I took the pugs for a late night walk. And..I've been clearing out the cabinets.

Which means I found alcohol. All opened but barely used.

Despite the fact my beer consumption at work this past year has bested all beer ever previously consumed by me, I'm not a drinker. I just look like one. Seriously. Yet I have several bottles of vodka given to me by a previous cowroker, when i was managing a snooty bakery. She either thought I must drink like a fish because I had that job, or SHOULD drink like a fish because I had it. There's also a huge bottle each of bourbon and rum from my holiday baking.

Now of course, I'm thinking moving open bottles of hard liqour would be a no-no, so what am I to do?

All i can say is right now I'm running out of mixers, and I haven't even made a dent.