the slack daily

Me! Me! Me!

• I could cut and paste it here, but that would require work.  Check out why I won't see Sex & the City over at Antisocial Networking.

• Check out the Slackmistress Appreciation Society!

• I got my Nerd on and met many fabulous people at TweetUp LA.  It's the first internet event I've attended in years where I knew not a soul. (Well, except for the one that's allowed to touch my butt.)  Pictures forthcoming.

• Little-know Slackmistress fact: I hate fast food breakfast.  But Tomas may change my mind when he encounters the Southern-Style Chicken Breakfast.

Back from Vegas!

My husband wraps up the weekend (and the year) here.

Now on your first anniversary, you might be prone to taking a snapshot at dinner with the waiter; handing your camera to a stranger to catch you hand in hand; you might partake of the Venetian's gondola rides and purchase a portrait of you cuddled against your loved one.

Will and I?  We took photos of the in-room entertainment:

MySpace Shots:

And oh yeah, tacos:

A very special thank you/shout-out to the SlackParents, who generously paid for our room and dinner at the Four Seasons' Verandah restaurant where we had our wedding reception.  Thanks, SlackParents!

50 Weeks of Marriage...

...and this is what passes for a fight in my house:

Me [walking in the door at 5pm after seeing my friend L.]: Hey, honey.

Will: Did you have fun?

Me: Yeah, we just caught up and went to Ernie's Taco House.

Will: You went to Ernie's?

Me: Yeah.

Will: I didn't know you were going to eat!

Me: It was three o'clock!  We were hungry!

Will: I can't believe you had tacos without me!

Me: It was a quesadilla.  Anyway, remember last week? 

Will: What are you talking about?

Me: You had a burrito while I was working. 

Will: I don't--

Me: You went to Los Tacos while I was at the Adoption Fair!

Will: I-- oh.

Me: So what do you want for dinner?

Will: NOTHING! ...or tacos.

All in the SlackFamily.

Saturday, 2:34pm.  Duke's in Malibu.

SlackDad: We've been here before.

Me: A couple of times.  We used to always come here when you guys visited.

SlackDad (opening menu): What did I get last time?

Me: I think you had the Shrimp and Crab Louie.

SlackDad: Did I like it?

Me: I don't know.

SlackMom: You won't like it.

SlackDad: How would you know?

SlackMom (reading menu) : It says that it has egg, tomato, peppers, avocado, black olives, and shellfish.

SlackDad: So?

SlackMom: You don't like egg, tomato, avocado or black olives.

SlackDad: What are you getting?

SlackMom: I'm getting the Coconut Shrimp.

SlackDad: That looks good.

SlackMom: Why don't you get that?

SlackDad: Don't tell me what to get! I'll get what I want!

SlackMom: Okay.

Waiter: Can I take your order?

SlackDad: I'll have the Shrimp and Crab Louie.

After lunch...

Me: How was your food?

SlackDad: It was good.  But I think next time I'd get what your mom got.

SlackMom: /headdesk


...

I'm honored to have the slack daily included in the"Life" section and The Post-Apocalyptic Workout in the "Health" listings at Guy Kawasaki's new project, Alltop, which he's described as a sort of online magazine rack.  Make sure to check out the other Alltop sites (including friend-o-slackmistress Citizen of the Month!)

Happy Birthday...NOW EAT YOUR SOUP.

Today is younger slackbrother j.'s birthday.  He turned 30.

This is weird for me, as I'm five years older and still not totally convinced he can drive.  Or vote.  Or legally purchase alcohol.

This was meant to be a post on the odd nature of seeing your siblings grow up, the oh-so-tangible nature of time as evidenced in another human being who you have known from the very moment they came to be.  But instead, it's going to be the story of what happened at his birthday dinner.

Younger slackbrother j. do something low-key and cheapish, so we agreed to meet at our favorite Chinese Restaurant, which is a few blocks away from the Detective Agency.   The place was packed, but there was a small table in the corner next to a window.  We grabbed menus and the waitress came by to take our order.  Will loves Egg Drop Soup, so he ordered a large bowl for the table.  The waitress shut her notepad and ran off.

We figured she was busy and would return to take our drink order.

She returned a few minutes later with a big bowl...or Hot and Sour Soup. 

I'm sorry, Will told her, we didn't order that.  We ordered Egg Drop Soup.

You didn't order this? she asked.

No, we ordered Egg Drop Soup.

Oh, you'll like this.  She began to ladle the soup into smaller bowls and handed them out to us.

I'm sure it's good, he continued, but we want Egg Drop Soup.  That's what we ordered.

Okay, she replied, but you eat this first.  I'll bring you a half order of Egg Drop Soup.

Will looked at me, confused. But I don't want this.

I interjected as politely and clearly as I could.  Ma'am, we ordered Egg Drop Soup. 

The Hot and Sour is good, she told me.  I won't charge you.  You'll have the Hot and Sour.

Her Jedi Mind Tricks weren't going to work on me. I vowed to stay strong.

We want Egg Drop Soup.  A full order of Egg Drop Soup, so there'll be some to take home.

Fine.  Egg Drop Soup.  She sighed and left.

Will turned to me.  Since when did ordering become a negotiation?

Thankfully the rest of our meal went off without a hitch.  Except I discovered later that the Egg Drop Soup didn't make it into the bag of leftovers we took home. 

(Neither did the Hot and Sour.)

Happy Birthday younger slackbrother j!

Happy Gnu Year!

120 bacon-wrapped dates
+
103 parmesan & pancetta stuffed mushrooms
+
45 garlic crostini with peppered beef & horseradish cream
+
36 spanikopita
+
18 people
+
11 bottles of bubbly
+
3 pitchers of pomegranate-ginger champagne cocktail
=   
1 amazing party

(and 1 exhausted hostess)

The rest of the photos can be seen here...

A Fond Farewell.

If you don't follow me on Twitter, you missed the events of yesterday which went something like this:

Will: Let me know what I can do to help out [with the New Year's Eve party prep.] 

Me:  Mmmkay.

...

I: print out recipes, take inventory of the liquor cabinet and the pantry, create lists and head off to multiple grocery stores.

Will: watches football on the couch with Daisy.

...

Upon my return from the grocery store:

Me: Honey? 

Will: What do you need?

Me: Can you do me a favor and drink the rest of this beer?  I don't have room for it in the fridge.  Oh, and eat this cheese.  And these cookies.  And there's like the smallest bit of gin left, can you just polish it off so I can toss the bottle?

Best. Wife. Ever.
...

I should be writing about the past year, but hell, I spent the entire year writing about it.   I have some Big Plans in store for 2008, I've got garlic crostini to bake and mushrooms to stuff and bubbly to chill, so you'll have to wait...'til next year.

Big love,

the slackmistress

My Girl Likes To...*

Last night, I asked Will: You know what makes me sad?

What?

Last year, when I had my Halloween Party, you didn't come.

You didn't invite me!

So?  I still can't believe you weren't there.

I wasn't at your birthday party, either.

Yeah, what gives?

We had met online but not in person - that wouldn't come for another month - but he promises me that during this time last year, he was proclaiming his love for me to whatever IMfriends would listen.  I had considered inviting him to the dinner party I threw right after Halloween, but I thought it might be weird inviting him to a dinner with six people he'd never met. 

Thankfully, we met a few days later and I wised up and invited him to my next party.  And the next one.  And the one after that was our engagement/housewarming party.  Which tells you two things:

a) I move fast.
b) I like to throw a lot of parties.

Party season is once again upon us, starting with my birthday and rolling into Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year's.  Then there's my mother's Russian Christmas party, and then Valentine's Day, and then a couple of family birthdays, and then my friend R's wedding in Hawaii that we're saving our pennies for, as it coincides with our one-year anniversary and we're trying to finagle it as a Belated Honeymoon (I know, crazy.  Can it be done?  I'll tell you when May rolls around.)  The fact is that I've got the party-throwing fever.  It's been suggested to me that I turn it into my own little business, part-catering part-event planning, but while the party-throwing fever is amazing in theory, in practice it starts with that little red flush of excitement and ends with me being a shivering, shaking, achy sweaty delusional mess.  And yet every time it's over...I want to do it again.

Parties are also pricey, so minus Thanksgiving (SlackParents are coming to town!) I am keeping my visions of bacon-wrapped dates and honeyed goat cheese with figs and prosciutto-wrapped smoked mozzarella and antipasto plates to a minimum.  But a girl can dream...

*To those of you born in the 80s/90s: Before Eddie Murphy liked did Disney Remakes and ran a Good Samaritan Cab Service for Tranny Hookers he was funny and also cut an album. 

Whine with Dinner.

Last night, chaining the parking gate at work, I noticed some black marks near the driver's side bumper on the back of my car.  Odd, I thought, and rubbed at it with the corner of my t-shirt.  The black stuff came off, only to reveal...

A SCRATCH.

Two, to be exact.  I blinked once, then twice.  No one had parked within a ten foot radius of me at work.  from where I stand at the front desk, I can see my car, so I was sure to notice someone running into it.  No, it had to have happened at home, as I park on the street.  As I drove back to the Detective Agency, I rifled through the past couple of days in my mind.  That day I parked a block away and the same 1953 Chevy that had been there when I left the car was there when I picked it up.  I got rock star parking in front of my building before that, and I vaguely recalled a dark sedan being parked behind me.

I got home and pulled into the driveway.  There's some parking in back of our building, enough for three cars.  Two belong to the neighbors and one belongs to Will.  He had offered me the space when I moved in, but he leave the house at 7am and doesn't get home 'til 6pm and the last thing I want him to have to do after a grueling day and a long-ass commute is look for parking. 

I brought my car home from the place that I got it painted in January of 2005.  I guess it's somewhat impressive that it took two and a half years to sustain a single scratch.  But after the last few weeks, I was furious.

I'd just like something unexpectedly good to happen for a change, I grumbled.

I stomped in the house and poured an impressive glass of wine.  While other girls' moms were teaching them how to crochet and make limp cookies their EZ-Bake ovens, SlackMom was teaching me things like it's okay to have alcohol as a meal provided there's some nutrition in it.  Take the bloody mary: you've got tomato juice, olives, and celery.  And some places will even throw in a piece of pepperoni.  Fruits, veggies, and protein, it's a completely balanced meal.

However, SlackMom would not have recommended doing it on an empty stomach, which is precisely what I did because by 8:30pm all I had had was a piece of string cheese and a handful of almonds since I had spent the entire day writing and then ran off to work.  So while I lounged on the couch, Mr. Boy assembled dinner.  And brought it to me.  And poured me more wine.

And y'know what?  It was unexpectedly good.

(However, if I find the bastard who hit my car, I will punch them in the throat.)

Scenes From a Marriage, Part 3948239423.

Every afternoon before I head out to work, I do two things:

1. take a shower
2. take off my wedding and engagement ring

Okay, I also put on clothes and walk the dog, but the above two are the Important Ones.  Showering before work is pretty self-explanatory, but the removal of the wedding rings was a decision I made after my first shift solo at the gym.  While part of my job is sitting on my butt greeting clients and checking them in for class, the other part entails cleaning up after them after they've left.  Lugging seaty towels, taking out trash and recycling, and then fifty-four bikes need to be cleaned and oiled, which means a lot of yanking (hee) on handlebars and seat adjustments.  I didn't want to crack either ring while I was struggling with a pair of handlebars or a sticky saddle.  I told Will my reasoning, and he agreed that it was the right thing to do.

Last night I returned home around 9pm and completed the cycle by:

1. taking a shower
2. putting my wedding rings back on

Y'know, I said to him, it's a good thing you trust me.

Why's that?

Because every night I take a shower, take off my wedding rings,  head out of the house for four to five hours, then return home and take another shower and put the rings back on.

So?

So I could be doing gang rape porn or something.

...

I never thought of that, he replied. Thanks for putting that image into my head.

I kissed him. Baby, you know that the only one I want to be gang raped by is you.

And that's why I married you.

Then we sat down to dinner, which was what I am now referring to as Tag-Team Ribs:

Pork ribs that were prepped with a dry rub (hee) and baked by me, and then slapped on the grill later by Mr. Boy.   Avec baked beans and asparagus.  They are even better than they look.  I think I won the Husband Olympics.