Meanwhile back at the ranch

So, some other stuff happened. Like, the Kentucky Derby happened. That is notable only because Confetti Jesse came to Brooklyn to go to a party and I crashed the party and we met for the first time in real non-blog life. I found him, as James Lipton would say, "delightful".


At midnight everyone sang "My Old Kentucky Home" and we watched a tape of the Derby that had been run earlier that day, and even though I had bet on a horse, I still had no idea who won. It was that kind of party. It was a good party if you ever wondered what it was like to stand at the convergence of hipsters and frat boys, enjoy dodging randy bisexuals and don't mind the odd domestic dispute. The best part was blog friend Jesse and my old college chum Edith Veder, whom I hadn't seen in ages, but who is still successfully organizing zombies in Beantown. She's a keeper. I remember when the personal hygiene, or lack thereof, of E-Ved's boyfriend became a "house community issue" in our dorm - now she likes bankers. Boy, that makes me laugh.

Fortunately a seed was planted in Jesse's head about emigrating to New Jerk City. I've always said what this city needs is more zombies.


Another thing that happened at this party is that my cell phone was drowned in two inches of bourbon when someone spilled a mint julep into my purse. Neither the phone or my SIM card was salvageable, so if I haven't spoken with you recently, there's a good chance I lost your phone number. You should resend it to me. And tell me a joke.

Do Germans understand the concept of pinatas?

Yes, just don't forget to factor in the six hour time difference.

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.

My Moggy is Leaving

It's true. LaHippster, one of my best friends in Brooklyn, is moving away. And, to add insult to injury, she's moving to Northampton a place I left three years ago with no intentions of looking back. First SmartyPants and FribsinCharge set up there and now Hipster is fleeing to those hills. Hey, why don't you guys all move in together and have babies and sing Girl Scout songs and do all my favorite things? Are you trying to hurt my feelings? Mission accomplished. Well, you'll never get me to move back, so quit trying. Maybe if the Popcorn Palace was still in business ... but no. *sigh* Looks like it's about time for me to get a Zip Car membership.

On Friday night LaHip had her going away party.

Don't be fooled by my jovial buzz;
I am actually quite displeased about the whole situation.

To console ourselves, the Great Dane and I traveled to the Red Light District to try to drown our sorrows by window shopping for Dutch prostitutes, but all that was on offer was Cleveland hipsters.

Some guy I had gone out with once who never saw fit to return my emails, showed up with a lady law student and gave me the toddler blink blink wave. But it was the Hipster's big night so I decided to drink through the awkwardness. Truman and I agreed that LaHipster, she is our sun, and without her reflected light and her celestial body to orbit around, we are concerned for the fate of New Jerk City and the future of Brunch. Some time around 2am the diehards all said we would make an effort to see each other real soon which was most likely a lie all around and then we stumbled out onto Smith Street, leaving only the skeleton crew to get up to one more round of Brooklyn shenanigans.

We Carved Pumpkins

One Sunday night I went over to the GreatDane's for a pumpkin carving party and I brought DerMan with me because he had only heard about carving pumpkins in children's story books and wanted to see what it was all about. He had also taken a trip to Boston recently and seen some jack-o-lanterns sitting on stoops and became obsessed with photographing them, thinking them to be quite rare. The Great Dane knew how to throw a great pumpkin carving party: she offered hot mulled cider spiked with rum, snacks heavy on the sugar, plenty of candles to light up all the pumkins, prizes for the best designs and she let us make a mess of her apartment. It was lovely.












Some of the party guests asked DerMan questions of dubious intelligence such as, "Do you have Halloween in Germany?", "Do you have pumpkins in Germany?" and "If you have pumpkins in Germany, but you don't carve pumpkins, what do you do with them?" But DerMan got in a few beauties of his own. One girl brought a white pumpkin which she carved like a mummy (awesome). DerMan wanted to know how she got the pumpkin white, asking if she peeled it.




I attack the pumpkin with my usual finesse.




I didn't bring a pumpkin to carve, since I just figured I would assist with DerMan's. Also, I am terrible at carving pumpkins. Real crap. We didn't carve pumpkins growing up because knives are sharp and the cupcake children were spazzes and also my father was never crazy about getting his hands dirty. We did a lot of decorating pumpkins by other means, paint, glitter, glueing shit on, etc... Then my mom would usually make my dad carve one jack-o-lantern for the porch but we weren't allowed to help with the carving. Knives are sharp. Then some punk kid from another neighborhood would smash the pumpkin. If we were young enough, we would cry. Good times, good times.

I am skeptical, but resigned.

So I basically handed a knife to DerMan and appraised him of the steps of carving a jack-o-lantern. First, you cut off the top of the pumpkin so you can reach in and clean out the insides. DerMan surveyed the pumpkin from all sides, made his typical "hmm mmm" noises then asked if f there was a ruler so he could measure an even circle. I told him to "stop being so fucking German and get cutting."

DerMan loved his jack-o-lantern and he photographed it the way a proud father would photograph a todler in the snow. The other party guests said it was very good for a first attempt. We won the prize for best carved basketball. DerMan schlepped his pumpkin all the way back to midtown along with the candy the GreatDane gave him that he was supposed to bring into the office to share. Then he sent his photos to everyone he knew in Germany. All in all, it was a Festivus miracle.