Overdue: Casserole Party Recaps

I know I’m long overdue for recaps of the Seventh Annual Brooklyn Casserole Party and the Third Annual Kansas City Casserole Party. But I have to save something for Christmas, right?

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Rheeeee, Rheeeee, Rheeee!

If you couldn’t tell, that’s the stabbing sound I associate with the shower scene in Psycho.

I’m scared to death of knives—can’t even look at them. Forget about medical dramas where they cut into people, I can’t even watch Mario Batali chop asparagus on Iron Chef for fear he’ll take off one of his chubby fingers along with the stalks. So it should come as no surprise that the only two things I ever attempt in the kitchen are cocktails and casseroles. And the one that requires precision requires only this evil thing I call Knife for garnish—and that’s what houseguests are for. It usually goes a little something like this:

Guest: “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Me: “Youbetcha! Can you grab that knife and cut some lemons and limes?”

Guest: “This knife is so cool. Where’d you get it?”

I then go on to explain that this “cool” ceramic knife is the one knife I own. And I don’t even really own it.

A few years back I was dating a very nice teacher I’d met on lavalife.com. He shared my love of Indian food and dared, for our third date, to travel to my Brighton Beach apartment from his on the Upper East Side to prepare my favorite Indian dish, Chicken Tikka Masala. He inquired about my knife situation and thought I was kidding when I admitted I only had one knife that I’d used as a screwdriver so it was missing a tip, in addition to being cheap and dull, very dull.

Long story short (here you fill in your own story that involves absolutely no sex and very little heavy petting), I lost Dan and somehow kept the knife. (It happens to also be missing a tiny bit of its tip because, yeah, I used it as a screwdriver, but at least it’s still sharp as hell.)

Where is this story going, you ask? Well, it is going to tell you that today I just signed with a literary agency where a very cool agent will work to publish MY COOKBOOK—on casseroles, of course. And why am I telling you this? I guess out of a sense of self-pride, and also to give a little hope to people who have given up on that whole you-can-do-anything-you-put-your-mind-to bullshit. Guess what? Turns out it’s not bullshit. A girl who’s afraid of knives is writing a cookbook that might actually be published. What’s next? Authors who can’t write? Stupid presidents? The possibilities are endless. Though I will give myself more credit than W, and go out on a limb and say I can make a better casserole than he can make… a complete sentence?

It’s Fun to Stay at The…

I sometimes feel like it’s a federal offense to not belong to a gym in New York City. Rather, it’s a federal offense to be fat in New York City. While (I hope) I don’t qualify as fat, I’m certainly festively plump and my food baby has been growing at a rapid speed lately — in part, thanks to the fantastic meals my boyfriend prepares and my general lack of exercise. I’m absolutely not going to stop scarfing those meals, either. So, I broke down and joined the gym last night…after taking a class that seriously kicked my ass. Aquarobics and Movement for the Older Adult, here I come! And that class where you pay a little extra for them to massage you sounds fun, too.

Another Straphanger Saved From My Wrath

Anything I can do to keep from riding the subway during rush hours, I do — as much for my sanity, as for my fellow commuters, the ones I consider bludgeoning every day for such offenses as clipping their nails and smelling bad. I’ve even gone so far as to quit my job (but that doesn’t come until later). In the mean time, Water Taxi just lowered their rates from something like $17 to $2 and added service from Dumbo.

OMG, I Can Finally Save the Mushroom Princess!

Fifteen freaking years later, someone finally figured out that a motion-sensitive controller might help those of us who are a little video game-tarded get past level one of anything but Duck Hunt and Clay Shooting. You see, as a kid, I always let the poor Mushroom Princess die, because instead of pushing the right buttons in the correct sequence, I’d flail my arms in an attemt to rescue her from the evil pods. So all you button pushers better watch out once I get my hands on a Nintendo Wii. This flailer is coming for you… but in, like, six months when the line dies down.

Fun With Braces

I was poking around my old orthodontist’s website (don’t ask me why) and found this fun game where you can preview colored brace bands on a metal mouth. Anyone else used to change their bands for the holidays? I once did red, white and blue for 4th of July but then ate too much chocolate cake and spent the next five weeks with red, yellow and blue bands.

A Farewell to Pants

I’d like to share a little of my learned wisdom with my loyal readers: when you spill coffee on your pants during your morning commute and proceed to blame your employer for forcing you to wear pants in the first place, it’s probably time to leave your job. And that’s exactly what I have done. Well, I’m still here through mid-December, but I filed my official letter of resignation yesterday. And hot damn, am I excited to begin my new life… you guessed it: without pants.

Those of you who know me well have probably seen me naked. Not because I’m an exhibitionist or have posed (completely) nude for anyone, but because I just don’t like to wear clothes — especially pants. So, I’ve decided that from this point forward, the majority of my income will come from jobs that don’t require me to wear pants, like writing, and website design — things I can do from home.

Sure, in the beginning, I’ll have to shop a little less and have fewer dinners out, but hey, those activities require pants, so I’m sure the transition will be an easy one. In fact, not wearing pants will probably save me money. Since taking my 9-to-5 job a little over a year ago, I’ve spent hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on freaking pants.

So, on Monday, December 11, my first day of freedom from the shackles of pants, I will be the guest of honor at my own Pants Free Party. Everyone’s invited. Except the fat guy from the Borat movie. That guy should always wear pants.

And I’m Proud to Be a Missourian

Let’s face it: there are many reasons to not be so proud that I’m from Missouri. Number one would have to be our number one claim to fame — Crystal Meth. That’s right, kids, eefers grew up in the Meth Capital of the World, Independence, MO. Then there’s that whole John Ascroft thing. And who can forget all the teen pregancies? But sometimes, just sometimes, I’m so damned proud of my home state that I can barely keep from wetting myself, and right now happens to be one of those times. Not only did my homies elect a Democratic WOMAN to the U.S. Senate, they also voted in favor of stem cell research. Oh my god, I can’t wait for the Michael J. Fox + Claire McCaskill aborted fetus stem cells to grow into the cutest clone baby ever!

Grand Army Plaza is a Giant Vagina

Oh, yes, it is. [Standard Deviant via Curbed]