Q. Where in the Lower 48 is Cupcake?

A. If you guessed Florida, you're right!

What am I doing in the land of retail sprawl, identical coral-colored condos and the ubiquitous early-bird special? I have no idea. No, wait, it's all coming back to me. Pop is borrowing a friend's condo for a month and he invited me to come down. His girlfriend couldn't make it, and we didn't want him to be all alone, so I agreed to come down for a few days, even though Florida is basically my idea of hell. Of course, it turns out Pop has nearly as many friends down here as he does in Rhode Island, plus, anyone I am related to who is still alive stops down here, so there is plenty of company for Pop. Sometimes I think my brother, who graciously allowed me to volunteer for this mission, is smarter than he lets on. Anyway, I and my head cold flew down to St. Myers on Saturday.

When I first arrived, we drove around looking at monster condo developments, each one sporting a vaguely European name and each one more ridiculous than the next. The residential enclaves, which run from trailer park to Country Club, are broken up only by mega-malls and strip malls boasting the same crap as back home, this time packaged in pastel colors. I felt miserable and went to bed at 8:00pm. However, the next day we got out on the water and by Monday we were on the beach and I started to realize this wasn't so bad. I went swimming in the Gulf of Mexico. Everyone gets a sea shell!

We also had the opportunity for a lot of father-daughter quality time and had the following exchanges:

Cupcake: Put on some sunscreen.Pop: I don't need sunscreen.

Cupcake: You need sunscreen!

Pop: I'm Italian! Have you ever heard of an Italian getting skin cancer?

Cupcake: You've already had one melanoma!

Pop: That was a fluke!

On the terrace, overlooking the green on the 2nd hole of the golf course

Cupcake: That fountain is very noisy.

Pop: It's relaxing! It's like being in a jungle listening to a waterfall. You've got some nerve! You live in that filthy city. How quiet is it in your neighborhood? How many sirens have you heard since you've been down here? How many gunshots?

Cupcake: Meh.

Cupcake: I'm not used to riding in cars anymore. I'm getting car sick.

Pop: You don't think you'd like to have a car again someday?

Cupcake: Not while I live in New York.

Pop: You're never going to leave that city!

Cupcake: Of course I will. I won't stay in New York forever.

Pop: Look! You're in paradise and you hate it! You're a New Yorker now! You actually miss that hell hole!

Cupcake: I liked the beach.

The problem is, Florida, feeling my psyche wavering, now will not let me leave. I was supposed to fly back to New York tonight, but my flight was canceled because aparently it is snowing in New York. It hasn't snowed all goddamn winter, but now there's ice, and Jet Blue won't go. Come on, Jet Blue! All the time I've spent defending you and now you're going to strand me in Snowbird Central? A bunch of sunburnt New Yorkers jonesing for the pollution of home were thrown into a panic, and the next flight home I could get was Wednesday afternoon. Then, to compensate me for this inconvenience, Jet Blue lost my bag. I called my father who was having a pleasant dinner with friends and he suggested I take a cab back to his condo, but I couldn't go anywhere until my bag turned up. My father says people in Florida are so friendly, and you know, they were very friendly as they told me, no, there were no flights to New York tonight; no, I couldn't get a voucher for a cab; no, they couldn't find my bag. I returned the favor of this kindness by not biting their faces off, even though that is what I really wanted to do.

Finally, I found my own bag and got in a cab. We drove back to the country club in the rain, and miraculously I navagated around to our row of identical townhouses. Pop had given me the code to the garage door opener so I could let myself in. I pressed the numbers and hit enter. Nothing happened. I looked at the number on the unit again. The rain picked up. I entered the code again. The keypad flashed, but the door did not open. I began to curse the whole of Florida, from Katherine Harris to Tallahasse. I took a step back, dragging my bag behind me. The number on the building was all shadowy, I realized I was at the wrong building and was grateful some senior cop in a golf cart hadn't hauled me off to wait for my family in the shackles at the guard house. I grabbed by bag and walked down the non-existent sidewalk in the rain until I came to the right building. I called for a pox on Jet Blue, the TSA and Jeb Bush. Finally I let myself in to an empty, luxury condo.

I'm annoyed I have to use another precious vacation day. I guess this incident could be redeemed if I can manage to win some money at the dog track tomorrow before leaving this farcical excuse for a state.

Party Countdown 2007

I woke up at 8:00am on Saturday, the day of my party, to the sound of scary Jekyll/Hyde neighbor yelling in the hallway about how the upstairs neighbors were making too much noise, so he called the cops on them the night before. Apparently the cops showed up at 4:00am. Scary neighbor's young daughter was with him for the weekend and he said she hadn't gotten any sleep at all. It was unclear to me from my position safe in my bed to whom Jekyll/Hyde neighbor was directing this 8:00am rant, but this is a very bad way to wake up on a day when you are throwing a party.

My FreshDirect delivery had come the night before. This tower looks a lot more impressive than it actually is when you consider that FreshDirect has the habit of packing one item per box. The delivery was mostly beer and mixers and some prepared hors d'oeuvres. I wish I saved the boxes to make a cardboard box fort, but alas, this is one of the drawbacks of living in a small apartment.

I was still stymied by the number of people who had not RSVP'ed at all to the evite for the party. Evite makes it so amazingly easy: you just click yes, no or maybe. There is even a "maybe" option so exactly zero commitment is required from you as a guest. I checked the weather forecast and heard that neither snow nor rain was predicted until very late at night. When you have a birthday in the middle of winter and the weather calls for freezing rain on the night of your party, you can kiss half of your guest list away right there.

I opened my front door and saw a box of flowers for me. Who could they be from? They were fancy Todd Oldham flowers too! They were from LaHipster. The card read "Roses are red, violets are blue, I hope your cupcakes don't taste like goo." LaHip lives in Assachusetts now, so she couldn't come to my party. I called her to thank her for the adorable flowers. "Did you invite this person?" she asked when we talked about my guest list. "What about this person?"

"Um, no," I said.

"Why not?"

"Well, he blew me off, and I didn't think to invite those other guys."

"But it's a party and everyone loves a party. What about this person and this person? Did you invite them?"

"No, oh God! Why didn't you call me and remind me to invite these people?"

"Well, I didn't want to tell you how to run your party."

"But I need you to tell me how to run my party! That's what you do!"

I went across the street to the bakery to pick up my cake afraid that I had made a terrible error with my guest list. But for some reason, the bakery only accepted cash for payment, of which I did not have enough on me to ransom my beautiful birthday cake. I ran around for an ATM choosing to go to the Washington Mutual because they don't charge ATM fees for non-WAMU customers, however I got charge a buck fifty anyway. But at least I was able to take my cake home. I specifically chose a bakery located across the street from my apartment because I figured the odds of me dropping the cake on my way home would be severely decreased if I only had to cross two corners. The cake survived the voyage.

I went to Medusa in Park Slope for a hair cut and talked to my Pop on the phone. I told him that the worst part of having a party in my opinion was cleaning my apartment. We were both thinking the same thing: yarn. It's like I told Pop, if I want to be a crazy yarn lady and surround myself with balls of wool in the privacy of my own home, that's cool. It's just that I'm not ready for other people to know that's how I live. Pop suggested I purchase a leaf blower, empty out my whole place and just start from scratch. He was also concerned that I planned to break open a pinata in a city park at midnight. He thought that would probably violate several ordnance's and he said he'd call back on Sunday to see if I was in the joint and if he needed to wire bail. Then he gave me some parting words of wisdom. "Don't get drunk, because you vomit. You vomit when you're sober. And, you know, don't be too upset about turning 26. You still have about five good years left. It's all downhill after 31."

I went to the liquor store to buy some white wine for mix into the punch and some hard alcohol. When I got there, there was a man "demonstrating" a new liquor he invited me to try. It was called Biscotti, I think, and tasted just like a biscotti. So I got to start drinking before I had even cleaned the bathroom sink. First he poured it for me neat, then he asked if I would like to try it in coffee. He had a Box o' Joe from Dunkin Donuts. If I had more time, I would have asked him to marry me. Of course, I was running way behind. I am late for everything I do, so it made sense that I would also be late for a party I hosted in my own home. As I ran around at home in my underwear trying to clean the apartment, set up the table, start heating up food and get dressed myself, I starting praying that no one would come at 8:00pm; then I realized it would be great if someone came at eight, because I could make them fold my laundry or send them out for ice and tonic. I began to get nervous because I had so much booze in my house and I am not the kind of person who likes to sit alone in my house and drink. There was only one thing left to do: hope that some thirsty people showed up.

Unsolicited Criticism of Your Christmas List

Every year, Pop and I wait to see what Little Brother is going to put on his Christmas list. We anticipate its arrival with a mixture of dread and excitement. One never knows exactly what will be on the list, but you can be sure it will be extensive, expensive and seemingly random, including at least a few items that to my mind at least, no fully formed adult person living outside of beer commercial would request. This year Little Brother sent us the list quite late in the season, so we're doing a bit of scrambling to make the prince's dreams come true. I thought I would post my thoughts on LittleBro's list, but then I thought that perhaps Little Brother doesn't want his wish list to be made a matter of public record, so below I present my itemized critique of Little Brother's Christmas List, omitting of course, the actual list.

1. Who? What?

2. Don't you own enough of these things? Are you actually participating in the NBA draft next season?

3. What brand, level of quality are you looking for? Never mind, I can't afford these any way.

4. a) The British or American version? Which season? Wait, were you aware that before there was an American version, there was a British version?

b) You realize that you were the only person watching this show in prime time, right?

c) Right.

5. Since when have you been a homosexual?

6. Having a nice brand of vodka to offer guests in your home is a nice touch. Learning how to actually spell "vodka" is a prerequisite for the classy element I feel you're striving for here.

7. Done and done.

8. Well, I don't think they make men's dress shirts with horizontal stripes.

9. Size info? You are one size to me: "uh, guy. Guy Size."

Your offer to add to the list in the next few days if you think of anything else was very considerate. How would you feel about a Starbucks gift card and some gently worn paperback novels, excellent candidates for re-gifting?

Here's what I put on my Christmas List this year:

A 4GB iPod Nano, pink of course
A set of full size flannel sheets in purple tones or pale blue
The Knit Picks Options Knitting Needles Set

Does anyone else want to share what's on their list this year?

Rockin' the Suburbs

Excerpts from my outing with Pop on the day before Thanksgiving, as Daddy's Little Helper.

Dave's Supermarket, 11:30am, Ingredients for apple pie, last minute items

"Someday when you and your brother host Thanksgiving, you'll see how expensive it is to prepare this meal! It costs so much money. And the turkey was only forty-seven cents a pound."

"So let's not do it next year. We can take the money we would have spent, and make a donation to a shelter. Then we can just stay home and have a macaroni dinner." It killed me a little bit to say that. I love Thanksgiving and I love some of the special foods my father prepares on the holidays, like the Italian Wedding Soup and the Sweet Potato Casserole.

My father looked at me like I had just decided to give the turkey a prostate exam right there on the check-out line. "Oh Nancy. Shut up. Why don't you go out in the parking lot and hug a tree?" The woman behind us in line starts to laugh. "Look, even that woman is laughing at you."

"I'm pretty sure she's laughing at you. You know why this line is taking so long? It's because the people are actually stopping to talk to each other. Look! They're exchanging recipe tips!" I swear, it was the day before Thanksgiving, every cash register had a line a mile long and the woman checking out was telling the 75-year old cashier about how you can stick rosemary branches under the chicken skin while you're roasting the cut pieces. "This shit would never fly in New York!"

"No, that is because we are civil to each other here, not like in that horrible cesspool of a city you live in!" Then I wandered away to investigate something called "Pesto Clouds" in the freezer section and when I came back some woman was asking my father a question. He tried to answer her and she took it as an opening to start a whole bemoaning conversation. He said something else to dismiss the question and as he turned away, still with a smile on his face, he said "and no one gives a shit, lady," probably loud enough for her to hear. Nice, Pop. Very civil.

Linens N' Things, 12:30pm, Thanksgiving Table Cloth

After spending more time than was really necessary picking out a table cloth, we took it to the register and my father paid for it. That was all we bought. One table cloth. Out of habit, I said to the check out girl, "We don't need a bag for that."

My father gave me a death look. "We'll take a bag," he said.

As we walked away I said, "Are you happy? You got your bag? Was that too much for you to carry without the plastic bag?"

"I'm not walking out of the store without a plastic bag. People are going to think I stole this tablecloth."

"No one is going to think that! You have the receipt right in your hand."

"Shut up Nancy! he pretends to be me Hmm, should I hug this tree, or that tree over there?" he says, pointing at the two anemic looking trees in the parking lot.

"What is wrong with you? What do you do with all these plastic bags? I'm not even that green, but even I can see how wasteful it is."

My father takes out his cell phone and pretends to dial, "Hello Al Gore, it's Nancy. Are we hugging trees today? Is today tree hugging or saving the ozone layer? I need to know."

"And you drove here! All you have to do is carry the tablecloth from the store to the car, and then from the car to your front door. It's not like you have to schlep whatever you buy allover the city like I do. Why don't you just bring a tote bag from home?"

My father gives me super megadeath eyes. Eyes that say, I am not going to carry a totebag like some homosexual. "Where's my car?"

"Over there!" I start walking towards it.

"That's not my car!"

CVS 1:30pm, Two boxes of chocolates

We bought a box of Russell Stovers candy and a box of After Eight dinner mints for the table before the pies. "Let me buy the chocolates," I said at the counter.

"No," said Pop. He paid for the items and the woman put them in a bag.

"Excuse me," I said to the woman behind the counter. "Could we have an extra plastic bag?" I didn't even look at my father because I didn't want to see his death look.

"Sure," said the woman cheerfully. She did not think it was strange I needed two plastic bags for two small items. If I had asked for three bags, she would have handed them over without batting an eye. "Extra bags for everyone!" I yelled to Pop as we walked away.

"Shut up, Nancy. They are going to find your beaten and bloody body in the parking lot. Do you realize that we have to survive in the same house until Saturday?"

"But you love plastic bags!"

This is why Pop considers it a blessing a curse when I come home for a visit. Isn't that right, Pop? He's probably reading this blog right now. He asked me to bookmark this site for him on his computer when I was home. And then Little Brother taught him how to use YouTube. But that's a whole other story.

What have we learned?

Friday was my last day in the office at Die Bank. So, how was the close of my two year career celebrated in the office celebrated? My two year tenure in which I highlighted helpful subway routes, was constantly called in to fix Microsoft Word margins, crawled around on the floor to rewire the phone system and set up printers, generate lists of helpful German train station vocabulary, constantly fought with travel agents and vendors, oohed an aahed over someone's birthday gift for his wife, sucked up to Germans, sucked up to Americans, listened to everyone enumerate the finer points of their Iced Tea preference for the kitchen, cleaned up after exploding toner cartridges and rest room floods, planned team outings and booked lunch reservations the likes of which I would never be invited to; after all the expense reports, the pots of coffee, the call screenings, the translations I thought would kill me, what did I receive on my big day? Nothing. Business as usual, folks.

Now, I need to clarify that my German co-workers took me out for dinner after work at a nice restaurant that I picked out (Zarella's on 2nd Avenue) of their own initiative and on their own dime. And I am very grateful for this gesture. However, as far as the office doing anything to recognize my efforts on their behalf or my departure: nothing. No lunch ordered in. No cake. No Hallmark card. No "let's all go into the conference room and take a minute to say goodbye to Nancy." Nothing. At 5:25pm as everyone made to grab their coats and dash off to catch the train, I got a hand shake or a hug, depending on the coworker, and everyone wished me well and said to keep in touch.

Now, I understand that this is a job that I quit. I didn't retire after 25 years of service, I'm not going out on maternity leave and I'm not moving to the other coast. But you may recall that we had that program where we would get a credit analyst from the home office to rotate through our office for a month, and at the end of four weeks, we would all go into the conference room and have a glass of wine and say goodbye to the guy. And sometimes, if they really worked him to the bone, they'd even present him with a gift. So what? No freakin' cake for little Nancy?

So, Cupcake was a little, how do you say? Pissed off. No one even asked me to lunch on Friday. Some people already had appointments and some were too busy to go out. 'Fine,' I thought, 'I won't eat a thing, then I'll have a nice empty stomach for those margaritas tonight.' But as the afternoon wore on and it became apparent that I wasn't even going to get a greeting card tossed my way, my blood pressure started to rise. "Come on," I said to the Memp (= man temp and my new spiritual guru), "let's go hide in the kitchen so everyone has time to set up the conference room for my surprise going away party."

"About your going away party..." said the Memp. "Do you remember when you told me about when your dog got put to sleep and the Vet sent your Dad a card that said not to be sad, because Mandy was waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge?"

"Yes, what's your point?"

"Well, your surprise party is waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge."

"Interesting. So what you're saying is that when I die, I'll be reunited with my dead Shi-Tzu and I'll get to have my going away party? Hey, that makes me feel better. Wait a minute! You're an atheist!"

So, what have we learned, cupcakes? Well, when someone at your job tells you, "We're like one big family here," that's probably true, if you come from the kind of family where everyone is considered expendable. Every time I've ever had a job that I've liked and I've used the family analogy, my father has corrected me, "That's your job, your family is your family." And, of course, the old man is right. I guess if you come from a strong family unit, it's only natural to project that institution on other areas of your life and likewise, if there is something about your family you'd like to change or escape from, every new social grouping is a chance to start again. Especially in New York work culture when you're away from your own family and you spend more hours per day with a group of strangers, hands down, than you do with your own self-chosen friends. Sometimes my Pop gives me bad advice, but sometimes he gives me good advice like when he told me this four years ago, "Never love your job, because it will never love you back." There's the core tenet of the Tao of the Temp right there.

Happy Thanksgiving, I'll be home soon.

Now I'm Just Cutting and Pasting Emails From Dad

This email was in my inbox yesterday, subject line "luggage", no salutation:

While preparing for my trip to Atlantic City I discovered that I do not have a
suitcase that I can use. I had to go out and buy a suitcase for the trip. We had
so many cases at the old house. Do you and [Little Brother's full name] have 3 or 4 suitcases each at your apartments?? What happened to our cases?????? This is only one question out of many concerning missing items from my belongings. Do you remember the missing food processor. It just disappeared.

A confused father.

To begin, I have three suitcases at my apartment. The two red ones I purchased from Overstock.com when I moved to Brooklyn in anticipation of my first business trip. I also have one suitcase of dubious quality, I must say, that my father purchased me when I was in high school and I was going to Germany for the first time. I also own one LL Bean duffle bag that I purchased in college. These suitcases mostly come in handy for moving apartments. So if I have one piece of the family's prized luggage collection, this is the time where naturally all heads swivel in the direction of LittleBrother. LittleBrother was not copied on this email. This is typical. This is how communication works is my family, which is to say, it doesn't.

And let's not forget the food processor, shall we? My father insists that a small food processor went missing from his home sometime within the last five years. This was not a large, high quality Cuisinart, but something small that was good for mincing and dicing that my father most likely purchased from a television infomercial. Anyway, one day he couldn't find it and suspicion was naturally cast on his two children. I started getting calls in Brooklyn about the food processor. Then, when I went back to Rhode Island, I was confronted face to face. Now, I have acknowledged that there is an outside chance I took it. I don't remember it, and I haven't seen it since, but when I was packing to move to New York, it could have ended up in a box. That was January 2004. At that time, I was running around my father's house with about 3 days to pack up everything I own and co-ordinate a move to the Upper West side of Manhattan. My father stood there picking up things saying, "What about this? What about these brass candle sticks? You're going to need candle sticks." as I tried to figure out how I was going to cram everything into an Enterprise rental minivan. The whole thing is kind of a blur. However my father insists that he would not have offered me his beloved mini-food processor and I really don't think I took it.

[neck swivel] Little Brother? Now here is a far more likely candidate. LittleBrother lived in apartments his last two years of college and he lives on his own now. Also, this is sad, he does way more cooking than I do. And while I only had that one shot with the van to pack up everything and go, go, go LittleBrother has a car and travels home frequently. He could be loading up the car under the cover of night and be smuggling things out since 2003 and we would be none the wiser. His apartment is already decorated with half of my father's stuff anyway and MY LAVA LAMP and so on and so on. Still, he also maintains that he does NOT have the food processor. "Okay," says Pop. "If my children tell me they did not steal my food processor, then I believe them, because my children would never lie to me." Then he gives us a look that tells us he believes the exact opposite is true.

If I had to guess, I would say that my father has the following has the following fantasy surrounding his own death: My brother and I will be in the funeral home, saying a tearful goodbye over the open casket and then after we give the okay to the funeral director to close the lid, my brother will turn to me and say "Hit it." I will reach into my big purse, pull out the food processor, plug it into the nearest outlet, plunk it down on top of the coffin and we will gleefully begin pulverizing carrots chanting, "Sucker!" and "We really got the Old Man good!"

Still, like OJ pursuing the "real killers" my father must make a show of attempting to track down the food processor. Did he offer it to another family member, I suggest? What about the cleaning woman? No! That's nonsense! Why would Pop do that? He loved that little chopper! He used it all the time! Am I trying to trick him? Am I trying to make him think he's going crazy? The money is safe from me, I won't get a dime!

I'd like to believe Dad, but he makes it kind of difficult when we have phone conversations like this:

Pop: Where are you?

Cupcake: I'm in a cab. I'm on my way home from the airport.

Pop: The airport? Where did you go?

Cupcake: The wedding! Smarty's wedding was this weekend! [...] It's nice to have a day off to relax.

Pop: You're not going to work tomorrow?

Cupcake: Tomorrow is a holiday?

Pop: It's a holiday? What holiday is it?

Cupcake: Listen. Tomorrow is Columbus Day.

Pop: Tomorrow is Columbus Day?

Cupcake: Look, I know you're retired, but are you also retarded?

Pop: When you're retired, every day is Columbus Day.

Cupcake: Well, when's the last time you turned on the radio, or opened a newspaper?

Pop: Why don't you shut up, Nancy?

Cupcake: Are you the Unibomber?

Have fun in Atlantic City, Pop. Hope you win big!