This Used to Be My Playground

Beta, I shamelessly cribbed these photos from one of your old websites. These photos were taken in Wickford, RI a small village in our hometown. These are lovely shots that make me nostalgic for home. Hey, it's not Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, but it had it's charms, you know?

Oh well, onward and upward. Tonight I attempt to make nice with the neighbors at mixer at a local drinking establishment (Yay Soda Bar!). It would be nice to have friends in the neighborhood, I've almost forgotten what that feels like. Will Cupcake make friends or make enemies tonight (ie will she be able to keep her mouth shut or rely on her old party trick, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind)? Time will tell. I hear there will be some MoHos and Wesleyan kids out tonight. As someone on the Daily Heights message board said, us liberal Liberal Arts kids make great gentrifiers.

Amazing Discoveries

For all the cupcakes in DC land needing a sugar fix, you should head over to Cake Love. Their prices look high but their cakes look delicious, so maybe you should save the visit for a special ocasion. Like when Cupcake comes to town.

Jonathan Ames, who should really replace Jonathan Lethem as my celebrity crush below, publishes /supports a blog called The Literary Dick. The format sucks but the premise is nirvana for a book nerd like me, you can write in about pressing literary mysteries and querries and the on-hand literary dectective (get it) will try to find the answer for you. Aparently it all began with the myth of Henry James' punctured testicle and his resulting asexuality. Fact or fiction? Let's see what the Literary Dick has to say.

We Interrupt This Blog with Breaking Muffin News

This is a blog about cupcakes ... but sometimes it is a blog about muffins.

The green straw oasis has, and presumably will continue to have through the Fall Season, a Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffin. With toasted pumpkin seeds on top.

Do not ask me how I know this.

Tag.

I've been tagged. Here we go.

Seven things I plan to do before I die:
1. Get a tattoo
2. Publish a book
3. Take a trip with my brother, just the two of us, someplace he would not think to go
4. Visit the places in Italy where my family comes from
5. Bring my father a grandchild
6. Turn down a marriage proposal
7. Save a life

Seven things I can do:
1. Knit a pair of socks
2. Take care of a baby
3. Bake a birthday cake
4. Tell someone off
5. Get the attention of a room
6. Be comfortable around death
7. Move to a new place where a don't know anyone, maybe where the language is not even my own, and make a life for myself

Seven things I cannot do:
1. Drive a stick shift
2. Keep my damn mouth shut
3. Break my bad habits
4. Find what I'm looking for
5. Seem to get the guy
6. Do a chin-up
7. Ski

Seven things that attract me to the opposite sex:
1. A guy alone in a public place reading a book
2. A guy with a belly
3. A guy who is handy
4. A Rhode Island accent, MA and NY accents will do in a pinch
5. A guy who plays ball, especially the catcher
6. A guy who can dance
7. A guy who is not afraid to make a fool out of himself for a good cause

Seven things I say most often:
1. "Did you read the blog? It's on my blog."
2. "You've got to be kidding."
3. "Hallo. Hier ist Frau Martira von das New York Buero."
4. "Thank you."
5. "Pop, it's me."
6. "Everybody wants a piece of The Nance."
7. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

Seven celebrity crushes:
1. Ira Glass
2. The Verizon "Can you hear me now?" Guy
3. David Letterman
4. Prince William
5. Martin Freeman
6. Robert Sean Leonard
7. The guy who writes Veiled Conceit

Seven people I'm tagging:
1. Beta
2. BBRUG
3. Vanessa
4. Tiffany
5. Raven
6. Gregg
7. Simone

It's Okay, We're Guidos, So it's not Offensive ...

But if you laugh at this joke, we'll shoot you.

My father has finally learned about E-Mail Forwards. Most days my inbox contains at least two dirty jokes or Photo-Shopped images. I try to ignore them, hoping that if I don't encourage him, this disturbing behavoir will stop.

Today he sent me this:

WHY ITALIANS CAN'T BE PARAMEDICS

Luigi and Salvatore are out in the woods hunting when suddenly Salvator grabs his chest and falls to the ground. He doesn't seem to be breathing; his eyes are rolled back in his head. Luigi whips out his cell phone and calls 911. He gasps to the operator, "I think Salvatore is dead. What should I do?"

The operator, in a calm soothing voice says, "Just take it easy and follow my instructions. First, let's make sure he's dead."

There is a silence...... and then a shot is heard. Luigi's voice comes back on the line, "Okay, now what?

Consumption Junction

Today the action seems to be in the comments section. I am actually touched that people care how it worked out for me with clusterfuck of a door jamb installation. That story gets resolved here.

However, this is no reason not to bore you with what I'm wasting my money on these days. I had an Amazon.com gift certificate so I bought some new CDs: Steven Page's (of the Barenaked Ladies) The Vanity Project and the new Jason Mraz Mr. A-Z. I just loaded these songs onto my MP3 player and if I had to title this mix I guess I would call it, "Songs to Make Bizzy Drive into a Tollbooth". The only thing she hates more than me playing BNL is when her boyfriend and I tag team her by singing Billy Joel, and simultaneously translating it into foreign languages. I'm pretty bad at this game, but the HappyHobo does a brilliant Downeaster Alexa in Spanish.

Last night I watched Pieces of April, which I really liked. Did you know Katie Holmes existed prior to Tom Cruise? I had no idea, but probably only because I'm one of those people who has never actually watched a show on the WB. The cast also includes Patricia Clarkson and Oliver Platt. Bonus: Stephin Merritt of the Magnetic Fields did the music. The ending was really beautiful.

What's in my belly? Teddy Grahams-Chocolatey Chip. Amazingly, my favorite thing about them from when I was a kid continues to be my favorite thing about them today: their little pot bellies with belly button. Only today I dunk them in coffee instead of apple juice.

Chicks and Flicks, Gays and Plays

I saw a whole lotta films this weekend in the good company of my home girls, then saw a new off-Broadway play downtown Sunday night. Some of the humidtity had crept back into the city, so all in all it was a good weekend to sit in a cool dark theater, be artistically stimulated, and chow on popcorn.

Friday night I saw The 40-Year-Old Virgin with SuperSkater. Earlier that day, SuperSkater had announced to her friends that this summer her younger brother had been diagnosed with Testicular Cancer and the family had been dealing with that, so it seemed like the perfect time to go and laugh at someone else's nuts for a change. I know there's been some criticism of this film, but seriously, how high were your expectations? I totally thought it was more than 10 bucks worth of funny and therefore was glad I saw it. Bonus: The 9pm show was sold out, so SuperSkater and I killed time across the street at Cossi where we had some surprisingly delicious pizza. Who knew?

Saturday night I had a date with LaHipster to see The Baxter. When she called that afternoon, she confessed that she felt like double-featuring it, if not tripple-featuring it. I was game. "Have you checked out Cobble Hill Cinemas recently?" she asked.

"No," I said. "What's playing?"

"Grizzly Man..."

"Good Lord, No."

"I take it you didn't see March of the Penguins either."

"No, I gotta say, animal films are really not my bag, especially when said animal mauls humans to death in a documentary by Werner Herzog. Hell no." That's okay, later when I suggested we see The Wedding Crashers, LaHipster confessed that she'd rather gauge her eyes out. So we compromised on The Baxter and Junebug and headed to the IFC Center. Prepared for the double feature, I brought ma big purse and loaded it with fruit snacks and bottled water.

It was my first time at the IFC Center, great theater, really over-priced concessions, like, more than normal. But you do get to watch previews and a short film. The Baxter was good-not-great, too long, but that's my problem with basically every movie that comes out these days. It was good to see a romantic comedy from the point of view of the guy who is always getting jilted. Bonus: captures the zeitgeist of contemporary Brooklyn, Michael Ian Black in ladies' underwear.

LaHipster and I had a gret dinner at a place called La Risottoria that also serves glutein free pizzas and pannis, but I happen to like glutein. My risotto was beautiful. The server clearly thought we were a couple and that I was LaHipster's bitch since he didn't bother to take my drink order, assuming she ordered for both of us. Interesting. LH was intrigued by something called the "Fudgie" on the menu, but when it arrived at the table next to us and she saw it was two large chocolate chip cookies smacked together with some kind of pudding-fudge-frosting spackle she was disguisted. I was intrigued.

Since we had plenty of time we decided to walk from the West Village to the Angelika where Junebug was showing. Junebug (website worth a look) was definately the strongest movie of the weekend. Even though the film was beautifully and very organically set in North Carolina (according to the website a lot of the production staff is local to that region) I found the themes very relatable and very easily transferable into my own universe. Bonus: Alessandro Nivola is hot. Hot.

Here is a column that reviews films and news from the entertainment industry you might enjoy: Everybody Gets Invisible.

Sunday night I had tickets to see Joy, a new romantic comedy about grad students falling in love in San Francisco. My friend LegalEagle attended with me, a friend I have known since middle school and cannot mention without also bringing up the fact that he dared to run against me for Student Council President in the 8th Grade. And lost. However, the joke is on me since he is now on his way to becoming a brilliant lawyer and will soon make far more money than me. But not yet.

Anyway, Joy was pretty good and has the weird distinction of including "Steve the Dell Dude" in the cast. Yes, you know you were wondering what ever happened to him. It is a funny and often touching love story that raises the issue of the fragmentation of queer politics: who gets to set the agenda, who's too gay, who's not gay enough, what's a personal act, what's a political act, and how committment to these issues over the people in our lives can alienate friends and lovers. Of course these same issues can be applied to any minority politics. Bonus: met LegalEagle's girlfriend in a dive bar after the show at a point when I was seriously beginning to wonder if he had made her up. Was very relieved to see that she exists and is very lovely.

Fame! I'm Gonna Live Forever*!

Imagine my surprise when I clicked over to the Daily Heights and found that the little old Cupcake Mafia was quoted on the front page! Yes, they have excerpted my tale of lustful devouring of hot wings. DH, it is an honor.

*Note: in the blogosphere it is understood that the concepts of "fame" and "forever" generally last about 33 minutes.

They Might as Well Superimpose the Bulls Eye Right On my Wallet

I have a dream: that someday I will go to Target and get out of there without spending $200. Hasn't happened yet. Maybe next weekend.

I went to Target on Sunday because I had some very simple needs. Get a three shelf pantry cart on casters (some assembly required), strapless bra, pair of pliers, hand soap refill, measuring cups, salt shaker. How did this end up costing $200?

First I have to admit that I succumbed and purchased an Isaac Mizrahi Table Cloth. But wait, Cupcake. I thought you already purchased a beautiful blue Damask table cloth from Crate and Barrel when you bought your chair pads on sale. Yes, this is true, but my table cloth, by the very nature of the fact that this is were I eat my food, gets very dirty, and I must launder it, and I can't stand to look at my bare table, not even for two hours, so I had to buy a second one to rotate it. Target does not have a great table cloth selection, so I cracked and went with one of those giant, scary Isaac Mizrahi flower designs. Later, when I told my Dad about my purchase of a Glade Plug in with Extra Outlet and Nightlight he said, "It must be nice to have money. Well, you are just single-handedly keeping the US economy afloat. George Bush is going to personally send you a Thank You Note for doing your part." If only my father, or George Bush for that matter, had any idea.

As far as a pair of pliers, all I can say is that there are many, many different kinds of pliers. No one told me that. I purchased two pairs that looked both helpful and bad-assed. Every trip to Target I arrive home with more tools. So I will have a tool kit that could put Tim Taylor to shame. Decorative wall-mounted shelves were on sale. Must have something to bang tools on. Throw it into the cart. My testicles should be descending soon.

Now, I don't usually shop for bras at Target, but I wanted to wear a halter top out Sunday night and I needed a strapless or convertible bra and I just wanted to pick up something cheap. So I made my way to the "Intimates" section of Target and began slogging through mountains of bras. I couldn't find anything in size 40 regardless of cupsize in the style I needed, although I'm sure I could have found some 40s in the the nursing bras section. So, I walked up to two sales girls who were having a discussion. I stood politely off to the side waiting for them to help me. No help was forthcoming, so I just started talking, interrupting what I'm sure was a very important conversation about Brenda's baby's Daddy. "Excuse me," I said, "I'm looking for a strapless or convertible bra and I need a size 40..."
"No size 40. No size 40 left. 34, 36, 38. A, B, C, no D's. There's a few DDs." Halfway through this list I gave the thumbs down and made a farting noise with my mouth because that is how I felt about the situation. I returned to the bras to see if I could find a little gem someone had overlooked, but I was not feeling hopeful.

Two large women walked by me. One was large enough to fit two of me. They were on a quest for a 38C. I couldn't imagine why, perhaps they were building a sling shot. Then I remembered. Most women wear the wrong sized bra anyway! Thousands of women wear bras that are too small for them, hell, for $9.99, a cute halter and one night, I could be one of them.

I can't really tell you what else I bought, some kitchen stuff, but I think I showed a lot of restraint in that area, some comsmetics, handsoap refills, some frozen pizzas, and before you know it, you're at two bills.

The good news is that when you're bringing that much stuff home, and you've already dropped that much dough, it's easy to justify a ride home in a Gypsy cab. This is how we roll.

Another Reason to Love to Hate Gawker

First of all, let me say that I am not a regular Gawker. This story came to my attention from the lovely and amazing Daily Heights. But for those of you who have been following the story about the photo of the half naked couple having sex on a dirty mattress on a Brooklyn street, you know that Gawker originally said that this incident took place in Prospect Heights, my beloved new hood. When the actual photographer wrote in to say that indeed he had snapped that photo in Park Slope, (my former hood), Gawker's comment was "We'd assumed this behavior stayed on the wrong side of Flatbush."

Oh no. You. Didn't. Girl, it's on.

The Baxter

How come I never heard of this movie until I checked the listings at the IFC Center for this weekend? Great cast and it's set in Brooklyn? I'm there. I'm going to try to check it out tonight with LaHipster. Anyone else interested? LaHipster, you should invite the GreatDane as well. She was super sweet.

Has anyone heard anything about this film?

Good Triumphs Over Evil at Rock Center

"Where are all the Dunkin' Donuts?" Catherine asked when she was visiting. It's a good question. Being a Rhode Islander who doesn't know where the five closest Dunkin' Donuts locations are at all times is akin to being a claustrophobe who hasn't taken note of the emergency exits upon entering a crowded nightlub. Without this knowledge, you're just not ever going to be able to truly let go and relax.

Before I moved apartments, I used to take the subway to Rockefeller Center frequently for my morning commute. One day I spied the tell tale orange and maroon detailing and I knew they were putting in a Dunkie's. Joy! But then I switched train lines and I haven't been back to see it open.

This morning I came through Rock Center on a whim and there was the DD in all her glory. I had to stop! Screw my self-imposed budget and sugar limitations. As I approached, my heart lept with joy. There were lines. Three long lines at each register. Next door, yes, next door, at Krispy Kreme*, one lone man waited for service. We are not even going to waste time discussing this fool.

Kitty-corner to the new Dunkie's was a Starbucks featuring two shorter lines. Now, just days before I myself had stood in a Starbucks line. But today, proudly standind in the DD line, I developed a keen hatred for the people in that other line. I began to see the two set of customers as opposite sides of the socio-economic divide, and I was firmly convinced I was on the right side. It was regional, it was classist, and dare I say religious? Yes, I was sure we at Dunkie's were firmly Catholic while the people across the way were Episcopal/Lutheran. Or does it break down as Believers and Atheists? Will the atheists please write in and tell me where they buy their donuts?

Anyway, the point is that business at DD was lapping Starbucks, my small iced coffee and a donut was much cheaper than my usual Starbucks morning grab, and this morning I felt that much closer to my fellow New Yorkers.

*I do enjoy an orignial Krispy Kreme donut, hot off the conveyer belt only, but you pretty much have to accept said donut as a grease bullet about to shoot directly through your system. Coupling one of these delicious laxatives with coffee would actually prove fatal, I believe. Not ideal commuter fare. All other Krispy Kreme donuts, including flavor of the month, which seem so promising, suck hardcore.

This is a Blog About Cupcakes

This is a blog about cupcakes and boy am I glad I discovered this site which includes a brief history of cupcakes. The next time I am in Chicago, I am totally hitting up this sweet little cupcake bakery with its 36 varieties of cupcake. Mint Chocolate Chip? Chai Tea? Chocolate Covered Strawberry? Yes, please. List of rotating weekly flavors here. Anyone in Chicagoland is invited to drop in and send us a review.

Tool Time at the Muffin Tin

Faithful Cupcake Mafia Readers will know that I have been engaged in a brief love affair with my power drill, Bruce. Well, on Sunday we hit a speed bump in our relationshp. I was installing a new door knob and lock in my bathroom door. I had mastered the art of opening this tempermental door, but everytime I had a guest over, the knob invariably came off in their hand. It was getting old. Once I discovered that new door knob kits cost about ten bucks and it would give me an exucse to see Bruce again, I went for it.

I knew installing the knobs was going to be a bitch anyways because of the location of the knob in proximity of the screws, I couldn't get Bruce in there to do the job, so I would be doing the work myself with a Philips Head Screwdriver. But first I had to install the new latch and lock. I don't know what happened, I really don't. Basically, I stripped the heads of both screws before driving them in all the way. Okay, I'll admit. There was some serious forcing of this issue on my part. I though Bruce was maybe just having some performance anxiety and needed a little coaxing. Soon it became clear that no one was going all the way with these screws. When I switched to reverse to pull them out and replace them with new screws, I just did more dammage. Then I picked up the Philips to try to complete the job manually, but they were too destroyed to to respond. Likewise, I couldn't get them out with an unscrewing motion.

Result: my screws are sticking out halfway and my door doesn't seal shut.

Questions: What did I do wrong to strip the screws in the first place? How am I going to fix this? I just need to get these screws out so I can get new screws in. A wrench? A ratchet? The back end of a hammer?

Please, if anyone wants to come over and help with this problem, you can have some of the cake I baked (see above). It's a little dry, but I have milk. Come on, you know you love a challenge. My weekend is open.

Dirty Laundry Readings

This announcement comes from the Princess of Darkness who is one of the organizers of the event. I still don't know if I'm going to be attending. If anyone wants to check this out with me tonight, hit me up.

------

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... Please join us! Jump on a plane, train or automobile on the evening of the 25th, and stop by the Lower East Sideof Manhattan, where we'll be sure to hook you up with the best seat in the…er …laundromat.

Thursday, 25th August at 9:30 p.m. is our "Inaugural" Dirty Laundry Reading, as sponsored by the Annual NYC Howl Festival and Art in Odd Places.

The Howl Festival, now in its third year, is a bohemian affair inspired by the Ginsberg poem (you know the one: "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...") and celebrating those very starved and ragged artists that grew New York up into this glorious and fecund breeding ground for creativity and new thought.

Our first reading will be held next week at the "Avenue C Laundromat" (69 Ave. C, at 5th St.) and will feature Legs McNeil (Please Kill Me,The Other Hollywood, former editor of Spin and Nerve) and Sam Lipsyte (Homeland, The Subjective Steve, and Venus Drive). AND...for the suggested donation of a mere five clams, you'll receive a box of laundry detergent to wash your duds, and a surreptitiously dispensed beverage (you know how laundromats are with liquor licenses…)

We've had a tremendous response to the series so far from the literary community, and future readings will feature both established and promising young New York City writers. Upcoming dates and authors will be announced soon (see TimeOut New York).

So spread the word. If you have any writers you'd like to suggest, or any other fabulous idea regarding location, theme, press, or booze, please let me know.

Catherine Observes New York

"There are so many smells here. I just got a whiff of B.O. AND popcorn."

"Oh man, I have such a stomach ache. I think I drank that way too fast. moan [pause] We're still on for wings tonight, right?"

"Are you picking up what I'm putting down? Are you smelling what I'm stepping in?"

"I can't believe that girl tried to out-Diva you. She wasn't even wearing any pink!"

"I never really believed in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles until I got here. But the sewers are so big! Everytime I pass a grate, I'm whispering, 'Donatello...'"

On the Canal Street Smell:
"I don't know what you're talking about. This is great! Can we bottle this? Does Yankee Candle make a candle in this scent?"

I hope to God this was a non sequiter:
"My parents had to give the cat an enima. I think they love the cat more than they love me."

Me: "Was it just me, or was everyone at that party a couple?"
Cat: "Yeah, including that brother and sister. Yikes."

On the possibility of sharing a bed with her brother:
"Not if it were the last Tempurpedic on Earth."

Trying to eat a muffin on the subway:
"This is the Muffin Hand. I can't touch anything else with this hand. The Muffin Hand must stay clean!!"

At the karaoke party:
Cat: Everyone in this room is so smart.
Me: What the hell do you care? You're the only one with a license to carry.

Waiting on the platform for a subway:
"So, do homeless people really live down there in the tracks like they do in the movies?"

Blog Blahs

I'm just not feeling it today, not feeling inspired to post. If anyone has any thoughts or questions worth exploring that might get the ol' Duncan Hines Moisture Whip Buttercream Frosting coursing through my veins again, by all means send them along.

I think I am just too frozen to write, for the sixth day now I'd have to say the temperature in the office is somewhere in the mid-50s. I feel like Bob Cratchet. Everyday I call Building Management and ask them to please do something about the extreme cold on the 14th Floor; everyday they say they'll take care of it. I'm sure as soon as they hang up the phone the turn the thermostat down one degree. Goddamn passive-agressive building management. Then everyone in the office comes up to me and says, "It's freezing in here! Can't you do something?"

"Please don't make me call again," I say. "They'll only make it colder. I'm on to them."

Cleary the cold has frozen that 3% of my brain that hadn't yet been eroded by sugar.

While I search for inspiration and a flint to start a fire in my trash can I'll set you up with some hilarious quips from Catherine, Queen of One Liners.

Dear Lean Cuisine,

Less Lean. More Cuisine.

Thank you.

Catherine standing in front of a wall of Pez Dispensers at Dylan's Candy Bar, a place whose existence propelled Catherine into a rapturous
ecstasy to the point where she had to keep asking me to hold her back, lest she drop two hundred bucks and acquire the mother 0f all Tummy-aches.

When she entered a similar joyous trance in FAO Schwarz I asked her, "Next time when you come down for a visit can you bring my four year old nephew so I can kill two birds with one stone?" I have to admit, it was a totally bitchin' weekend.

The Return of the Manny

Guess who called last night. Yes. The Manny. Sorry. The manny. See, I hate to disappoint all three people reading this blog, but I think I'm going to have to stop writing about the guy for a while.

Historically, Cupcake's dating adventures conclude in one of two episodes:

1. Guy reveals himself to be major freak and/or asshole
2. Cupcake somehow manages to say the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time which causes guy to flee dating scene like Juice in the Bronco.

I really don't need to introduce Surprise Scenario C) Guy inadvertantly finds this blog, reads what I've written about him, stops speaking to me, won't return my calls, and hires attorney to begin legal proceedings against me. See what I'm saying? So I think I'll just put a moratorium on posts on this subject right now, lay low and see if anything develops.

Of course, as soon as situation #1 or #2 explodes in my face, you can expect a detailed account of it here.

Things I recommend:

Friday night Catherine and I went to see Chicago City Limits, a decent Improv group on West 53rd with a two drink minimum. Cat and I were enjoying the show and limiting our participation to drinking, since we are not really Improv-participators. We followed this behavioral model the next night at the karaoke party (ie don't sing, just drink), but I did go in for a lot of mingling and considering the amount of alcohol that was consumed by me this weekend, it might have been far less socially damaging for me to just get it over with and stand on a table and sing "Baby Got Back". I'm still unsure how much dammage was done at the party, waiting for any reports to trickle in; it's kind of like waiting on election night returns.

Anyway, Friday night at the Improv, there are Catherine and myself, having some laughs and sharing a long table with some young Asian kids, possibly Chess Champions. Seriously, this is not a stereotype on my part. Towards the end of the show one of the players comes out on stage and says she needs a story from the audience about something out of the ordinary, or something weird that happened to somebody recently. No one is jumping in. Finally, one of the girls at our table says that she just got back from a trip to China. So the woman starts asking her questions to find out details about her trip. The girl is being really vague and saying things like, "It's a long story". The set-up drags out, but never really gets off the ground. So, the woman starts again, "How about anyone else? Anyone else have anything strange happen to them? Anything at all?"

Oh for crying out loud. Anyone who reads this blog knows that this whole blog is basically about my odd little life and the cosmic jokes God likes to perpetrate on me at every turn. So, wanting to move things along, I stand up and say, "Yeah, something happened to me. I got stood up on a date last Saturday night by a Polish man-nanny."

"What? You good stood up by a man-nanny?"

"Yes. A man-nanny. A manny."

"A Polish manny?" So she started asking me all about the episode, his name, how I met him, where we were going, and it all came out: how I wasn't even sure if he was straight and how he told me his sister had come into town and that's why he couldn't see me.

"Oh Jesus," said Catherine. "I hadn't heard this story. I don't know you. If anyone asks, I'm with the Japanese Chess Team."

Meanwhile the woman on stage said, "Well Nancy, usually when we hear a story like that, we don't care. But tonight at Chicago City Limits we're going to turn your story into a Broadway Musical!"

And that is exactly what they did. The four-person cast performed a five or six song musical complete with conflict and dramatic resolution all about me and the manny. It ws the best thing ever! First of all, the girl playing Nancy was so great, she should probably take over playing Nancy in real life. And this version was so much more uplifting! It even had a happy ending!

The musical about Nancy and the manny pretty much concluded the show. Yet the amazingness did not stop. As Catherine and I figured out our bar tab, a woman from the audience came up to me and said, "Thank you for a wonderful evening of entertainment."

"What?" said her friend.

"You know," said the woman, nodding and winking in my direction.

"Oh," said her friend. "That guy was totally not worth it. You can do so much better!"

Audience members were actually feeling sorry for me. Catherine was so mortified, I think she began sinking under the table. Later, when she made a break to go to the toilet and I was alone in the hallway, a pretty young European tourist came up to me. "Oh sweetie!" she said and hugged me. "Look," she said to her boyfriend. "It is the little girl!"

Before we left I saw the actress who played Nancy. "That was great!" I said. "You played a brilliant Nancy." What I wanted to say was, "Are you guys avaliable for private events?" Here's what I would like to do. I would like to hire a small band of improvisational actors to live with me for my own amusement. Then, anytime something painful, or embarassing, or humiliating happened to me (average: twice a week) they could recreate the episode with original song and dance and we could all have a good laugh. Maybe until I can afford to keep an Improv troupe on retainer I could form an amateur group with some friends for just this very purpose.

Things I do not recommend:

The alarm went off at 8am on Sunday morning. Had to take Catherine to Penn Station to put her on an early train. Woke up moderately hungover. Not nauseated so much as the headache and the dry mouth. After I I left Catherine* to battle it out with the other Northbound passengers on the Metroliner Regional (*detailed post of our weekend adventures to come) I began stumbling towards the 2/3 train to take me back to Brooklyn when I made the amazing discovery that there is a K-Mart attached to Penn Station.

Despite the hangover I decided to wander in and make a quick trip to buys some pots and pans. Like the alcohol that had yet to wend its way through my body I soon realized I had residual 80s/karaoke toxins flowing. K-Mart was playing a NJ radio station heavy on the 80s hits and I could not help but sing along and dance. Well, perhaps "sing" is the wrong word considering my aforementioned cotton-mouth but I was able to make sounds like "hemmmm" and "huhnnnn" along with Whitney. And I was wearing sneakers, who doesn't love to dance in sneakers? I was trying to be covert about this, but I'm pretty sure at least two K-Mart employees witnessed this spectacle.

After selecting a new door knob installation kit and over the door shoe organizer I went up stairs to housewares. However, my display on the floor below had sapped what very little energy I had to run on. Normally the prospect of purchasing pots would not seem so daunting but I was bottoming out and the task seemed insurmountable. Since I was considering dropping $80, I decided to call my Dad, which I swear made sense at the time.

I got out my cell phone and called home. "Pop, it's Nancy."

"Hey, how are you?"

"Good. Look, I'm in K-Mart and I'm trying to buy some pots."

"You're trying to buy pot in K-Mart? Why are you telling me this? My God, they have everything in K-Mart these days. It's that city you live in."

"No, I'm trying to buy a set of pots and pans. I'm looking at two 7-Piece Sets right now. I just need to know from you whether you think I could get the Non-Stick or the Stainless Steel."

And then my father just started talking. Few of the words managed to penetrate my hangover "...Gourmet ...Savory sauces ... How many? ... Whole chicken... Four quart... Heat-resistant handles..." I decided to use this time to visit another planet. After about five minutes of this my father's voice brought me back to Earth, "Are you there? I'm talking to you!"

"Look Dad, I'm a little hungover. Do you think you could maybe narrow these questions down?"

"Oh. Did you have a good time last night?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I had a good time last night too. Okay, what do you want to cook?"

"I just want to make some Ravioli," I said as tears ran out of my eyes. I could not afford this much needed moisture escaping when I was so dehydrated.

"Okay, how many people do you usually cook for?"

"One," I said hoping we could skip the unsolicited advice about my dating life.

"Okay, are you in the pots and pans aisle right now?" I wanted nothing more to be back in bed with a bottle of Poland Springs until a more reasonable hour, but what could I do? He was helping and afterall, I had called him. When I reached the nexus of having picked up some basics and not thinking I could maintain a vertical position for five minutes longer I said, "Okay Dad, well, thanks for talking me through this."

"No problem," he said. "Go home and make the ravioli. The carbs will help with the hangover, Sweetie."

Cupcake Lexicon

Betty Crocker Hickey n.

Cause: Sucking your fingers too hard in an effort to get all the last traces of cake batter
Result: Self-inflicted, cake-related hickey.

Oh please God, tell me I'm not the first person to have done this.

Catherine is here. Drinking has Commenced.

My friend Catherine, from High School, is a cop in the town next to the one in which we grew up. Her jurisdiction includes the University of Rhode Island of which she is a graduate. She is a member of the Air National Guard and served a tour in Kuwait. That being said, she is one of the most low-key, easy-going people I know. She is terrified of New York.

Catherine arrived late this morning and I had her take a cab to my office. She was already shell-shocked by the ride by the time she arrived and fascinated by the food vendors on the street, what she calls "street meat". As we stood on the corner to cross the street to go out to lunch I asked her how work was going.

"Okay," she said. "I mean, it's not as dangerous as what you do here." I looked at her quizzically. "You could be killed just getting a sandwich. You take your life in your hands every time you cross the street. Are you wearing a vest?" She pauses. "I bet you're rethinking this invitation. Actually, I guess you really didn't invite me. I guess I just announced I was coming." We were standing in Midtown Manhattan. Oh Jesus. Wait until I get her to Brooklyn. She'll be calling for back-up and air cover. So when we sat down at lunch and she asked, "Are you allowed to drink on the job?", I replied, "Actually, we civilians call it networking."

And Now We Come to that Age Old Question:

To date Staten Island or Not to date Staten Island?

Staten Island. If you said to me, "I'll give you 500 bucks if you can get yourself to Staten Island within the hour", chances are that I would not become 500 dollars richer. Most days I don't give SI any thought at all, although Little Brother did recently inform me that Method Man is from there. Thanks for sharing the knowledge, Little Bro.

Ye Olde Match.com profile which still occasionally garners some attention actually just got noticed by a guy who seems normal and interesting and is my age and is showing interest in me. The only catch? Yeah, he lives on Staten Island. So, do I go for it? I guess the real question is, do I pony up the $29.99 to join Match.com again so I can be in communication with this guy? Here's some info: he's 24, works in computers and seems successful, enjoys traveling, reading and music, is half Italian (broke it down between 1/4 Siciliano and 1/4 Napoliano)... what do you think? Keep in mind I am: watching my pennies, regularly misanthropic, the worst dater EVER, pretty much resigned myself to spinsterhood.

Thank you Mrs. Eddie Veder!

I came home yesterday to find a sweet care package in my mail box from real life friend and blog friend extradinaire, EdithVed. She send a cupcake tee shirt and a totally bitchin' mix CD. Thanks, Alli! You rock! I love the pink cupcake tee, although I am a little concerned about how it fits over my, er, cupcakes.

I am stumped.

Frau Foxtrot, who just asked me what my string cheese was (have you ever tried to explain the concept of string cheese to a foreigner? It's more difficult than it sounds.) has become quite a good friend of mine. So much so that I agreed to go to a Speed Dating night with her if we can ever find a place that caters to a 24 year old and a 40 year old (I'm secretly hoping no such place exists). So I was not surprised when she came to me this morning and said she had a question for me, a "private question".

"I was at a meeing last night and they began the meeting by all standing up and pledging alleigence to your flag."

"Not my flag, but okay."

"What do you mean, not your flag?"

"Okay, yes, I guess it is my flag."

"And they all knew the words. I think it is something you learn in kindergarten? Do you think you could write down the words for me?"

"You want to pledge alliegence to our flag?"

"Well, it is very nice, with the hands over the heart, you know."

So I said that of course, when I had a minute I would write down the words to the Pledge of Alliegence because of course I know the words to the Pledge of Alliegence. I started typing in an email:

I pledge alliegence to the Flag
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for which it stands
one nation, under God
[...]
[...]
and to the Republic for which it stands
the maker of heaven and earth
who proceeds from the Father and Son;
with the Father and Son He is glorified
He will come again in glory to judge the living
And the life of the dead will have no end
With liberty and justice for All.
Amen.

What the hell?

Thanks to VerheirarteteBeta for sending me this link. Upon beholding this site, (and let me clarify for all those are are unsure of what exactly we are looking at here, this is a knit pie, someone knit a pie!) one phrase came into my head, "For all those about to rock, I salute you."

Crumpet, whoever you are, wherever you are, I salute you. This is a masterpiece.

Why Does the Canal Street Subway Station Smell Like the Devil's Armpit?

And could it possibly have anything to do with the orange brown liquid leaking from the ceiling?

The Spring Street station is no bed of roses either, but I've pretty much narrowed down that smell to anti-freeze.

Can we get a Bloomberg on this?

PS Check out the links to new Blogs I've added to the side bar.

The Search for the World's Greatest Karaoke Song

And now we are going to tackle a subject I know that many people have strong feelings about: karaoke. If you say it fast it sounds like "hari kari". Or "kamakaze". Or maybe I am just projecting.

I have been invited to a karaoke party Saturday night which I am very happy to be attending withmy friend Cat who will be visiting from Lil Rhody (whole 'nother post). I don't really know anyone besides the host, but he's great, so I'm looking forward to meeting some of his friends because honestly, I could use some new rotation in the play list that is my social life right now, if you know what I'm saying. I'm hoping they're not all Wesleyan clique-y so I don't have to be all, "I went to Smith! I know gay people too! I have white guilt too! We have so much in common!" Because you know that makes me want to puke.

So anyway, I'm looking forward to the party but I am not planning on favoring the crowd with a song. Karaoke is not my thing. I can't explain it. Especailly since as a former performer I spent a lot of time on stage and singing and dancing and acting in front of people. Maybe it's just the word karaoke that evokes an automatic cringe. "Karaoke!" cringe It's Pavlovian.

I did have one karaoke experience at a bar in Vienna. Quite drunk, I did sing with friends including the below noted "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum and "You Were Meant for Me" by Jewel. Not Grade A choices to begin with. But here is the embarassing truth. Granted, I was drunk, but that is no excuse for my behavior: I was a microphone hog! Yes! I kind of knew it when it was happening, but I couldn't stop it. Then, when I got back to my table I remember a friend just looking at me and raising an eyebrow and I knew he knew; I enjoyed that way too much.

So, although I am not planning on singing, that does not stop me from wondering, is there such a thing as the world's greatest karaoke song? I think there are some pretty basic ground rules: you want to sing something the crowd knows, you want to sing something upbeat. I also think that cheese and nostalgia play well in karaoke. Sincerity is out, I think. Songs with long instumental interludes equal death. I think whether or not you can actually "sing" the song is irrevelent in such a situation compared to a) enthusiasm and b) intoxication.

Are there any karaoke fans out there with must-sing faves in their repetoire that I can sit here and pick apart instead of actually putting my ass on the line?

Cupcake's Fast and Cheap Iced Mochas for Fast and Cheap Boys and Girls

1. Brew a pot of Cafe Bustelo or similar dark roast coffee and let it cool. Pour it into a pitcher an refrigerate.

2. In the AM pour coffee over ice into a travel tumbler to enhance subway consumption.

3. Add 8th Continent Chocolate Soy Milk OR International Delight Chocolate Cream Coffee Creamer. Seal Container and shake the hell out of it, visualizing the first major annoyance of the day.

4. If you're feeling particularly bourgeois, you can buy a green straw to stick in your drink.

Even Cupcakes Get the Blues

I was doing a Google search on "Cupcakes and depression" when I came across this story that included the following exchange:

I looked up from the chart. “Tell me about your addiction.”

“Well,” said Melissa, sheepishly shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t eat a perfect diet. Who does? My drug of choice is cupcakes.”

Confessions of a confirmed cupcake addict
The client went on to explain that her “drug of choice” was a famous brand of chocolate cupcake. There was no need for a dealer since she once could purchase her cupcakes at virtually any food or convenience store in the nation.

“How many cupcakes do you eat in an average day?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she remarked. “I’ve been keeping a baseline for the past several months [...] The mean number of cupcakes I eat is 54 a day; the range is from 39 to 68.”

Consumption Junction

Let's face it. I am never going to have $249.99 to spend on an iPod. Never going to happen. As soon as I can mabe convince myself I've got a little mad money to play with, I have an episode like this: I came home last night with some fresh ravioli and some sauce to make dinner. I opened my kitchen cupboards and realized I have no pots. I HAVE NO POTS! Not a one. The old ones I had were so cheap and so damaged I left them all at my old place to meet a torturous end at the hands of the exes. Time to raid the spare change jar. So yeah, no iPod for Cupcake.

So using that funny pink Cupcake logic, I decided to buy myself an el cheapo MP3 player at Target last weekend during my bout of emergency retail therapy. Okay, so it's pink chrome and shows fingerprints easily. And so what if it only has 128mb and holds about 30 songs. Guess what? 30 songs gets me to work and back on the subway. And this little ghetto-fabulous player that looks like it should have a Barbie logo on it cost me $39.99 that includes the player, headphones and software. So choke on that, hipsters.

What's that? You want to know what Cupcake put on her first MP3 player? Well, I suppose if Jesse can give you a playlist, so can I. WARNING: any hopes that you were harboring that secretly, deep down, I was a cool person should be permanently crushed by this list.

Crowded House "Don't Dream It's Over"
Dido "Thank You"
George Michael "Freedom!"
Indigo Girls "Virginia Woolf"
Fame "Fame"
Jewel "Who Will Save Your Soul?"
Avenue Q "For Now"
Journey "Faithfully"
KC and JoJo "All My Life"
Marcy Playground "Sex and Candy"
Naked Eyes "Always Something There to Remind Me"
Pat Benetar "We Belong"
Soul Asylum "Runaway Train"
Company "The Little Things You Do Together"
SWV "Weak"
TLC "Creep"
Toad the Wet Sprocket "Walk on the Ocean"
Whitney Houston "I'm Your Baby Tonight"
Whitney Houston "My Love is Your Love" (two in a row- frosh mistake)
'NSYNC "It's Gonna Be Me"

Cupcake Brings Her Automotive Maintenance Philosophy Into the Workplace

The copier gave up the ghost yesterday at 6pm. Please don't ask what I was still doing in the office at 6pm, a full half hour after I am technically free from my committments here. The copier just stopped ... copying. No green lights, no reassuring humming noises. And yes, I checked the toner, it wasn't that. Since everything that breaks in the office is lain at my feet and since I do 90% of all copying it was clear that this was a problem for me. We only have one copier in the office and I only know so many ways to make copies. Remember in Girl Scouts when we would do grave rubbings? You would go into an old cemetary with some paper and a crayon and rub over the headstones? Cute, but not the way my boss wants to receive the 2006 1Q REIT Forecast, you know? Tell me Boss, how proficient are you with Braille?

I haven't had to do much with this copier in nine months and we don't have a manual on file for it anywhere. So I quickly called the 1-800 number and got a Customer Service Technician on the phone.

"Hi, our office copier stopped working. The little light came on and it just quit. Not the Toner light that looks like a pyramid, the other blinking light. Looks kinda like a log."

"The blinking red light that looks like a battery?"

"Sure, that's the one. Can you send one to fix it? As soon as possible?"

"That's the Toner Drum Cartridge. The light came on and it just stopped working?"

"Well, actually, and this is a little embarassing, but it has been blinking for about a month. Maybe longer. Okay a little longer. But it was working just fine, and I figured, you know, maybe it would just work itself out."

"That's a warning light. It's telling you that you need to replace the drum cartridge before it shuts down entirely. You must have just hit a multiple of 18,000 copies."

I feel like I should be on a commercial with my hand resting on my belt buckle earnestly telling the camera, "Yeah, me and the 1100-D just hit 18,000 copies, but I figure a new drum cartridge will see us to to 36k even through all the end of the year collating."

Cue "Like a Rock" ...

"It" Girl

I have been blog tagged by Leah. I think I've been blog-tagged a couple of times before but I kinda just ignored it because I wasn't sure how to play along. Not that it strikes me as neuroscience, but you know, one false move in the blogosphere and this whole house of cards that I've built could come tumbling down. But since I believe above all in giving the public what they want, I present:

Cupcake's List of 10 Turn Ons and 10 Turn Offs

Turn Ons

1. Responsibility
2. Guys who sing out loud
3. A good driver
4. Kindness
5. Dorks
6. Books
7. Tattoos
8. Baseball
9. A Neighborhood Guy
10. A firm hand on my lower back

Turn Offs

1. The Dentist (stolen from Leah)
2. Tuna Fish
3. Whiners
4. Earings on boys
5. Long hair on boys
6. People who don't eat
7. Devotion to Anime or Christianity
8. White socks with black shoes
9. Impatience with children
10. Guys who stop looking, listening and generally paying attention to you in the middle of a conversation as soon as someone prettier enters the room. Ouch! That hurts!

These lists are not funny. And yet my dating life is hilarious. Go figure.

Proof that God Does Not Want Me To Be Skinny

For the record, I am not a moron. I know that I would do well to eat healthier. And, periodically, this seems like an idea I could really commit to. I will buy only whole grains. I will buy green vegetables and chop them up really small and sneak them into my food. I will cook big meals on Sunday and freeze them so I can eat homemade food all week long. I will cut out all those funky prepared foods and preservatives. I will try to cut back on the sugar for God's sakes.

And then, right when I am at an emotional nadir, after I had been stood up for a date, after my father has spent all Sunday morning calling to ask me, "have you been sleeping all day?" and then to remind me that I'll be turning 25 soon (depends on what your definition of soon is) and that my little brother is probably about two months away from announcing his engagement, as I am wandering the aisles of Target like a shell-shocked veteran, then, then a box of Hot Fudge Sundae Pop Tarts falls off the shelf and lands at my feet.

What can I say? I am weak. And Jesus loves me just the way I am. Really. I think I saw his face in the hot fudge icing this morning.

But Mercifully I have Great Luck With Cabbies

Theoretically, this is a companion post to one I have yet to write and they will fit together seemlessly here. If not, just go with it, okay?

I finally managed to drag myself out my apartment yesterday around 5pm for a trip to Target for some "retail therapy" to see if I couldn't cheer myself up. This was a pretty big gamble- yes, buying things makes me feel good, but battling the weekend crowds at Brooklyn Target is often enough to put me into a tailspin. Brooklyn Target is full of couples shopping for their households: young couples, old couples, gay couples, straight couples, mixed-race couples all stocking up on paper towels, and 50lb bags of kitty-litter, duvet covers, bookshelves, vaginal itch-creme products, ice tea mixes, etc... They help each other: dividing up the list, comparison shopping, picking out throw pillows, each taking an end of the 50lbs of Fresh Step, and I can't help but stare and idealize these domestic tableaux, which of course leave me wide open to be run over by the 9,000 unaccompanied screaming children in Target, wailing, smacking each other in the face and trailing Chuck E. Cheese balloons behind them.

When I force myself to turn away, I invariably encounter a young person shopping for college or their first apartment with a parent who can't spend money on them fast enough- "What about a humidifyer? You need a humidifyer. Oh! Those crates would be so good for storage!" And these dumb kids just stand around, rolling their eyes, embarssed to the max.

"Take it, " I want to yell at these dumb burgeoning Hipsters. "Take it all! Anything your parents are offering, get it now! Who knows how generous they'll be feeling in three years when you're a lot less cute, your student loans are due and your roommate just moved out and took all the kitchenwares with her? Make like you're on Supermarket Sweep and fill that cart!"

This is why a half hour trip to Target ends up taking me 2 hours. Among other things, I have purchased a coffee maker and an ironing board, and without a domestic partner to help me schlep this stuff home, I've resigned myself to taking a cab home. Once you make that decision, you might as well go nuts and start buying the 24 pack of toilet paper. Fruit snacks on sale, two boxes for three dollars? Sure. Pile it in, I'm taking a car home. Of course, I end up spending an obscene amount of money and I still feel ... blue. And, they were out of the over-the-door shoe organizer that I desperately need. Well, this whole trip was a fucking disaster.

My cart is loaded to the max and I take the elevator down to street level. The carts can't leave the building, and I still need to single-handedly schlep my wares from the exit to the taxi rank. I try desperately to do it in one trip but it cannot be done; I ask the security guard to watch my Mr. Coffee and few remaining bags as I head out; I have about 4% confidence Mr. Coffee will be there when I return. For the 100th time this weekend I curse my lack of helpful domestic partner. As I run out the exit, it starts to pour.

A Gypsy Cab driver approaches me and asks if I need a cab. He helps me go back for my bags and we load all of my purchases into his Bronco. I make to get into the backseat. "You want to ride in the back, don't you want to ride in the front with me?" Shrugging, I hop into the front. I'm a friendly girl. "That's it. Roll in the front with me, baby. This is how we do it."
I start talking with my Cabbie who has a thick Caribbean accent. He says something, but I'm pretty sure I've misheard him, so I ignore it. He says it again. "You sound like a Black lady."

"I sound like a Black Lady?" I repeat, laughing. I am highly complimented by this.

"I have this boss. He's Italian, but he acts like he's a Black man."

"Oh, well, that settles it. I'm Italian." I can only imagine how thrilled my father would be with this guy's theory that Italians are emulating Black-Americans. The Cabbie says something else but the only word I can make out is "weed".

"No Thanks, " I say, figuring he has offered to hook me up. Seriously, where do I find these people? I have always prided myself on being able to get on with anyone, I think it's really one of my best qualities. But it always kind of amazes me, here I am, the littlest white girl ever, riding in a Bronco with some guy, I've got a Mr. Coffee and an Ironing Board in the back, there's a raging thunderstorm outside, we're eating mini-Twix bars in the front, he says I sound like a Sista, he's offering me a drug hook-up and now he says, "My boss, he's Italian, but he smokes a lot of weed."

I actually don't know what to say to that.

I get home and we both get soaking wet as he helps me with my bags. I give him ten bucks and he says he enjoyed driving me, he tells me to look for him and he gives me his schedule. I ask his name. I now have two very worthy choices any time I need a ride home from Target.

I spend the rest of the night dancing in my kitchen to The Magnetic Fields and ironing. After my joy ride with Alan, I feel a little less lonely.

Show and Tell.

Okay, it's Friday and I'm not much in the mood for posting around here, but I was cleaning out my desk today when I found a Photo CD from January. So how about a little show and tell? Maybe that will get the creative juices flowing.

This is my nephew Jack. Now, when I talk about my nine nieces and nephews they're not really my nieces and nephews; that would mean Little Brother has nine kids. Little Brother actually has no legitimate children. Or illegitimate children. That we know of. And we are all very thankful for this. These little darlings are all my cousins' children.

I went to visit Jack and his brother Luke last January at their home, far away from New York city in a place where, when I got off the train, I could actually hear ... nothing. Silence. It was so weird coming from Brooklyn that I called my cousin on my cell phone and said, "You'd better come pick me up cause all these trees are freakin' me out."

Shortly after this photo was taken, Jack tired of finger painting the paper and decided it would be much more fun to paint Aunty Nancy instead. I, of course, encouraged this. I let him paint my hands, arms and a little bit of my pajamas. When his Mom saw what he had done, she was scandalized, but I assured her that I had said it was okay. This is because I will do anything to be the cool Aunty. I pretty much had a lock on "cool Aunty" when I thought I was getting the job at Sesame Street, but when that fell through, I had to change tactics.

When I lived at home and visited and played with the kids all the time, they would be excited to see me. When I saw them all last weekend, I recognized that look of far-off recognition cloaked by the more prominent, "Who are you and what have you done for me lately?" stare. Kids do not like to be left behind. Neither do I, come to think of it. Things are further complicated by the fact that my brother will make up names for me and tell the kids, who already have no idea who I am. At Christmas, when Gianni asked him to play my brother said, "I'm pretty tired, but why don't you ask Aunty Sucker? Aunty Sucker will play with you, she never says no!" Which, of course, is true.

Last week at the beach I asked Bell, "Who's on your shirt?"

"Dora!"

"Right," I said. "And who else? Who's that?"

"Monkey."

"And what's the monkey's name?" Bella just stared at me. "Boots! The monkey's name is Boots!"

"What a coincidence!" said my Brother, as he pointed at me, "her name is Boots too!"

"Right," I said to her confused face that had already lost interest. "Just call me Bootsy McSucker."

A Beautiful Day in the Neighbor. Hood.

I left my apartment early today to run some errands before catching the subway. I couldn't help but notice it was a beautiful morning, but perhaps I was over-appreciating it because I knew that in just a few hours the temperature would rocket to 95 degrees. For the first time, I went to the Dry Cleaner's around the corner from my house. The kid behind the counter was very nice. He told me that they would be closed on Monday for the holiday, so if I needed my clothes I should be sure to pick them up tomorrow. Confused, I asked, "What holiday?"

"Korean Liberation Day."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

The other night I was lectured by the guy at the Laundromat for leaving my clothes in the washer too long, but we made up after I apologized profusely. He asked me if I was a new tenant across the street and I confirmed that I was; we chatted a bit. I like his Laundromat because it is clean and you can tell they take pride in keeping up with the machines. He and the other guy who run it alternate between the ball game and some big band music which I like, but when they switch over to FOX News I duck back across the street. I like meeting people in my neighborhood. I figure this way, if I get stabbed on my stoop, I won't just be faceless white girl victim; I'm pretty sure the people at Heights Coffee at least will mourn, "Damn, that girl was a good tipper."

I stopped at a mailbox and dropped in my first Netflix DVD, with about 2% confidence that it would get where it needs to go. My first two DVDs arrived yesterday and last night I watched Dead Like Me Season One Disc 4. Is anyone watching this show? I think it airs on Showtime. First of all, Mandy Patinkin is brilliant and is exactly the tough-love kind of boss/father figure you would want to have if you find yourself undead at 18. I love this show because I am both comforted by the idea that someone releases your soul in the moments before you die and then shepherds you to your next place and yet horrified by the thought that I could remain on Earth after I die and have to get a day job temping. Purgatory = collation.

Already it is clear that Netflix will change my life. Please keep submitting suggestions for what I should rent next.

City Smackdown

Okay, Jesse's right and NYC should definately lose points for dumping our shit, literally, on poor folks in other parts of the country. But lots of people here actually do give a fig for the environment. The New York Times just ran this story about Habana Outpost, an eco-friendly cafe in Fort Greene, Brooklyn featuring "an awning made of solar panels, cups made of a biodegradable corn-based plastic, plates made of sugar cane fiber and tables made from recycled soda bottles". But the piece de la resistance was a bicycle-powered blender - guests could mix up their own drinks using only pedal power!

The only problem? Someone stole the bicycle.

What do you want? This is Brooklyn, for Chrissakes.

Congratulations Bethany and Erich!

It's official. VerlobteBeta is now VerheirateteBeta and my first friends from High School were married it what looked to be a gorgeous oceanside Rhode Island wedding. It's a good thing that I wasn't there beacuse I would have bawled like a baby left unattended in a shopping cart. Weddings make me cry. Weddings of people I don't actually know make me cry. I will probably cry when I go see The Wedding Crashers. Hey, that reminds me, both Dad and Little Brother say I have to see Wedding Crashers. Are there any friends of Cupcake out there who haven't seen it? Give me a call, maybe we can catch it this weekend. But not Saturday night.

I called The Manny last night and asked him out for Saturday night (all without giggling) and, happily, he accepted. Of course, I asked him to go to a new Rock Opera in the West Village with me, which, when you think about it, is probably the gayest date a man and woman can go on. It's not like I opened with, "Hey Hot Lips, the Tractor Pull is in town. Wanna buy me a corn dog?"

Maybe I'll just keep asking him out on progressively butcher dates and see at what point he bails. I'll develop a new system, a modern take on Kinsey. "Well, he was down for Musical Theater, a trip to Pier One, the new John Cusak romantic comedy, and the Home Depot but he pouted when I suggested a Soppranos marathon and by the time I brought up the Mets it was over."

City Smackdown

Introducing a new inter-blog collaboration between myself and some dude named Jesse. Now, I have never actually met Jesse, but he is a friend of a friend who maintains a cool blog (a little heavy on descriptions of what he ate today) who approached me with this idea. We will each periodically post competing anectdotes about our respective cities, New York and Boston, to see which city rocks harder. You crazy kids can fight it out in the Comments. I'll kick things off.

I have to thank Princess of Darkness for bringing this to my attention. This is an apartment listing from Craig's List, I'll copy the text here since you know those CL posts expire after 10 days:

"Great value! Spacious converted 1-BR in Upper East Side on a quiet tree-lined street. Easy access to FDR. Laundry, parking and private basketball court in building. Sounds too good to be true? Here's the catch: it is a walk up. Don't come see it if you can't walk up 81 steps. Also, the toilet is located in the kitchen between the refrigerator and stove. The toilet works fine for #1, but if you make #2 you will need to use a trowel to break your droppings into smaller pieces."

New York: people are willing to battle their own feces with small gardening tools just to live here. Beat that.