Feeling the holiday spirit, I decided to whip up some tasty goodies to nibble on July 4th. My menu du jour was:
- Tomato Salad
- Baked Eggplant
- Sourdough baguette
All the previous were delicious, by the way. But the purpose of this post is not to boast of my culinary prowess. Rather, it is to expound upon an unpleasant task I had to perform BEFORE prepping the above foodstuffs: cleaning out the refrigerator.
Since I have more time at my disposal (and have a lower threshold for abject filth), I perform most of the household cleaning. I do not want to suggest that my husband does nothing; he does some work— just not as much.
I am by no means a poster child for stellar home economics myself; when one of our cats throws up I usually wait a little while before cleaning it up. I do this because more often than not one of our other cats will come along and eat it. This apartment is a little ecosystem and why should I be so presumptuous as to tamper with it— especially since if it means there is less work for me to do? I ascribe to the Tom Sawyer work ethic: why whitewash a fence if you can trick some rube into doing it for you? Work smart, not hard.
The previous having been said, yes I was a co-enabler of the horrors you are about to behold. But— and this is a BIG BUT— I am not the only person in this household to blame. Capiche?
The last 2-3 weeks I have been insanely busy. My husband, however, recently took seven days off.
Question: What happens when Heather is running around like a madwoman because she has to work extra hours and has no Internet or telephone service?
Answer: Nothing. And by “nothing” I mean our refrigerator continues its transformation from a place of nourishment into something more akin to Chernobyl.
Tuesday, July 3rd, 5:30 p.m.
After a whole day of procrastination I finally got the wherewithal to confront my enemy: several months of festering foodstuffs. I was assisted and/or anesthetized by several glasses White Zinfindel. To do such an onerous and repulsive task completely sober was decidedly NOT an option. The following rogue’s gallery of rotten food should help you understand why. (If you have the means, please play “The End” by the Doors while viewing. — Ed. Note)
Estimated Age: Three Months
Getting my husband to eat vegetables is a bit of a task. For this reason I will occasionally put rice in my tomato salad as an enticement. The white stuff in the above salad is not rice.
Estimated Age: Four Months
is was Nigerian Bean Stew. I got the recipe from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian Cookbook. Since I only make this dish during cooler, wet months (because it bears a strong similarity to chili), I estimate its age to be four months.
Estimated Age: Unknown
…don’t you make make brown rice blue…
I have no friggin idea how old this is. When I threw it into the garbage can a puff of blue dust tickled my nostrils. Scrumptious.
Estimated Age: Probably three months
I couldn’t find a “eat by” date on this container. This made me a little nervous, as rotten dairy food makes one helluva stink.
*Whew!* It’s just a bunch of rotten onions. Judging from how coursely they are chopped, I can safely state that this is my husband’s handiwork.
Estimated Age: Three— possibly four— months
Of all the rotten food I sorted, this one by far smelled the worst.
When I was a kid my parents had some friends who had a son my age. These people also had a teenage son who would occasionally be charged with babysitting the two of us. Big mistake.
One time he sat us at his grandparent’s house in California. Both his grandparents had emphysema and would cough up lung cookies into a coffee can. One time, when I was left alone with this sadistic motherfucker, he shoved my face into this can. I mention this story because the above goo reminds me of what I saw.
The previous is only a selection of the revolting substances I handled last Tuesday. There was more. Much, much more. When my husband arrived home I stood in the kitchen, seething. Upon noticing that I had cleaned out the refrigerator he said:
…I had been meaning to do that but I was waiting…
“FOR ME TO DO IT!” I bellowed.
Nothing else was said.
And on that note, dear readers, I too have nothing else to say. Save perhaps that I have left a “present” in the refrigerator for my husband to find. I won’t say what it is, but I will tell you it is six months old.
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who are jonesing for a little audio entertainment while you barbecque might want to listen to the first installment of my “sound-seeing tour” of Greenpoint over at Mikeypod. Check it out. I hope you have as much fun listening to it as I had doing it!
Filed under: Area 51
I learned about this web site recently. It’s pretty cute, do check it out. Even though Julie (Miss Heather’s all-time favorite shop cat) has retired to Kensington, the Greenpoint shop cat scene is still going strong. I came across one such working class cat today. And this is one feline you do NOT want to fuck with.
Go ahead and report her… but only if you feel lucky.
Well, do ya punk?!?
Question: If you live in Williamsburg and have your bike seized by the NYPD, what do you do?
Answer: Throw together an illucid art project making light of your plight and put it on Bedford Avenue.
See the above object? When I was an art teacher I would see at least one example of the above “Naked Barbie Doll Genre” per semester. Usually more.
Which is why I found students such the New Jersey Andrew Dice Clay Clone a breath of fresh air. Sure, all he did was paint insanely large breasted women and refer to his fellow students as “busted rubbers”* but at least he was entertaining.
*Although I couldn’t say so at the time, I agreed with him.
Filed under: Area 51
You know, I used to roll my eyes and gag at the thought of parents buying their twenty-something children $1,000,000 condominiums. When I read that New York Times story about that broad whose mother insisted upon buying her a nice new couch to grace her brand new luxury condo I was apoplectic. I found myself uttering:
What the fuck is this woman’s problem? Can she not be trusted to select and purchase her own damned couch?
Now jump to last weekend, when I found the below attempt at hipster homemaking on Driggs Avenue.
These kids really need help.
Can you find it in your heart to dial the 800 number on your screen? You will receive a letter in the mail with a photo of a hipster that really needs you. For the cost of a cup of coffee a day you can feed a hipster and teach him (or her) the lost art of Home Economics.
Or how to call Fresh Direct.
P.S.: Speaking of homemaking, check out this new blog called Brooklyn Nester. It’s nice to know there is (another) woman out there who has realized that the Chuck Bukowski lifestyle and Brooklyn housewifery are not necessarily incompatible. All I’m saying is I strap on one before cleaning out the refrigerator. It’s like fucking Somalia in there: chaos reigns.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I am plowing through my new(ish) Jenna Jameson book, How to Make Love like a Porn Star. It’s a really fun read; once I pick it up an hour or two will pass before I can muster enough self-control to put it down. Although I am certain the fact that I am raging pervert has something to do with my rapt fascination with this book, I have to concede that Ms. Jameson’s story is an interesting one and she tells it well. I like this woman— there, I said it.
In keeping with the spirit of fallen women, I have pulled a particularly choice offering from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle archives this week. It is entitled “High Life in Greenpoint” and dates from from July 11, 1871.
HIGH LIFE IN GREENPOINT
Two Shop Girls Horsewhipped by a Rich Man’s Son.
ONE OF THE FEMALES A FORMER VICTIM TO HIS WHILES.
While the fact is well known that Greenpoint is one of the most dormant localities, as regards the gathering of general news items, it is also conceded that for scandal and gossip of the baser sort, there is not other single ward in the city to compare with it, the authority for which assertion is not based wholly upon brief articles which have appeared in weekly publication, an owner of which is a resident of the Seventeenth Ward, and is therefore assumed to be a competent judge.
At 5 o’clock on Saturday afternoon, a genuine sensation transpired within a short distance of the Tenth street ferry slip, which was no less than the inhuman application of a lash whip, commonly used on road wagons by Pierre Smith, the scion of a wealthy family whose father Mr. Thomas C. Smith is a proprietor of the Porcelain works in Eckford Street. The particulars of the unmanly act as related by witnesses, and one of the victims, exhibit a cowardly spirit on the part of young Smith, stamping him as void of the first principles of genuine manhood, and for that reason unworthy the respect of his fellows.
THE FEMALES ASSAILED
were Miss Rachel Kenny, of No. Washington Street (now West Street), and Alice Mooney, a resident of No. 136 Franklin Street, Greenpoint, both of whom earn a livelihood by their industry, at a shop in New York. The one last named, who is a handsome brunette and an intelligent young woman, was some four years since employed at the establishment of the Senior Mr. Smith, and became intimate with the young man to whose persuasion she yielded, under his solemn promise of marriage. She found out in time that in trusting young Smith, she was leaning as it were on a broken reed, as he failed and utterly refused to be bound by his word of honor, compelling her to appeal to the Courts for the support of their child. This course of proceeding, instead of mollifying Mr. Smith, enraged him only the more, but up to the time of the last affair of the horsewhipping, he had managed to control his temper whenever chance threw them together. At the time of their coming face to face on Saturday, the two girls were on their way home from work, and in passing along the sidewalk, beside which Smith, in company with two fashionable female acquaintances, was seated in an open wagon, they directed an unflinching gaze upon the occupants of the buggy, especially at the young man.
THE WHIP DRAWN
Without a word being uttered by either party, Smith, as alleged, drew the whip and with an effort lashed it across the shoulders and hand of Miss Mooney, at the same time, as he claims, unintentionally striking her companion on the left cheek, cutting into the flesh, from which the blood flowed profusely. Smith at once drove on board the ferryboat, taking passage to New York, and thence to Central Park, among the beauties of which he soon doubtless entirely forgot the two poor girls whom he had so recently maltreated. At all events this seems probably, as when conversed with upon the act he coolly dismissed the matter with the remark that the women were bad characters, who made a practice of insulting him whenever they met, and that having the whip handy, in the moment of excitement he had lost his temper and struck regardless of consequences. Considering the obloquy heaped upon her, Miss Mooney, strange to relate, still seems to be
INFATUATED WITH SMITH
regardless of the great injury and slight upon her by him and his family, by whom the girl is apparently held in utter contempt as a prospective relative. After the encounter and departure of the buggy containing Smith and his two friends, the young women went to the Seventh Precinct Station, where a complaint was lodged against their assailant, whose arrest was not effected until this morning.
THE HEROIC SMITH,
accompanied by his parents, both eminently respectable, and greatly grieved at the predicament their son was placed in, as also by his counsel ex-Justice Chauncey Perry, appeared before Justice Voorhies today to answer to charges of assault and battery with a whip preferred respectively by Miss Kenny and Miss Mooney, who were represented by Mr. H. B. Davis. In pleading to the complaints a distinction was made on the ground that the assault was a single act and for that reason one complaint should be entertained. Smith plead guilty to striking Miss Kenny and upon the decision of the Justice to entertain the complaint of Miss Mooney, the accused determined to contest the action of the examination of which was adjourned until Thursday next, when judgment will be rendered on the plea to the charge of Miss Kenny. To this course Mr. Davis made strenuous objection, as also to the reception of a bail bond for the appearance of young Smith on that day from the father, both of which were overruled, and the prisoner let go on the qualification of Mr. J. C. Smith in the sum of $200. Mr. Davis was proceeding to denounce to be the influence of
MR. SMITH’S MONEY BAGS.
when he was summarily cut off by the Justice and requested to take his seat. With an apology to the Court for the utterance, which Mr. Davis said he did not intend should apply to the magistrate, the irate counselor took his seat, and in a few moments the score of interested Greenpointers left the courtroom in a body commenting upon the different phases of this latest scandal in their midst.
Whoever thinks the good old days were any kinder or gentler than today clearly didn’t live in 19th century Greenpoint as woman. Yikes.
Filed under: Area 51
As some of you may be aware, I am coordinating this month’s blogger meet-up which is to be held right here in the mighty Greenpoint. Here are the deets.
When: July 22 (a Sunday) 2:00 to 5:00 p.m.
Where: Casa Mon Amour, 162 Franklin Street
What: There will be a $10.00 fee to attend. This will cover the cost of Beatrice (Casa Mon Amour’s owner) opening the restaurant on a Sunday, it will also purchase you as assortment of tasty Dominican kibble to nibble on such as…
- Chimol (it’s pretty much the same thing as Pico de Gallo)
- Shrimp Ceviche
- Rice and beans
- Baked Chicken
- Mixed Green Salad with homemade vinaigrette
Who: Anyone who is interested in attending. You need not be a Brooklyn blogger or blog about Brooklyn to attend. If you, for example, blog about Long Island City, photoblog your kidney stones— or both— you are more than welcome to attend. Kink and quirk are perfectly acceptable; I want diversity. (Like I have any right to pass judgment on someone’s eccentricities anyway…)
Kevin “The Man” Walsh is scheduled to give a presentation about North Brooklyn to get everyone in the Greenpoint spirit. I have a couple of surprises up my sleeve as well. It should be a lot of fun.
Those of you who are interested in attending can R.S.V.P. via email at:
Be sure to indicate in your email if you are interested in eating shrimp, chicken or straight vegetarian fare so I can ensure there’s enough of the right food for everybody.
Filed under: Area 51
I rarely go to Manhattan anymore. Now that I think of it, I rarely leave Greenpoint for that matter. But when I do leave the confines of the Garden Spot it is usually for one purpose: to buy clothes.
One of the perks of having discretionary income is being able to replace my tatty-ass and ill-fitting apparel with brand new rags. Duds that are intended to look distressed, not ones that have been rendered into such a state by repeated wear and tear. Although Dalaga and Alter have nice wares, the overall pickings in Greenpoint are pretty slim. At least to women who don’t want to look like 80′s Eurotrash hookers they are, anyway.
When I need a fashion fix I go to (where else?) Williamsburg. This is what I did yesterday and I found a couple stunning examples of Billyburg chic in the process.
I found this guy dining at North 6 yesterday afternoon. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to wear a shirt like this. The fact that he saw fit to share his special gift with anyone who happened to be strolling down North 6th Street is downright hardcore. I like this guy. I was tempted to ask him where he got this shirt, as I think it would be the perfect thing to wear at my sister-in-law’s wedding this fall. Now onto the ladies…
One thing I have grown to utterly despise of late is people talking on their fucking cell phones. The invention of this device has transformed people (whose manners were already marginal) into self-absorbed assholes. Listening to a woman talk at length about her boring life while strutting around like she’s Miss Thing makes an otherwise quiet and relaxing walk pure unadulterated HELL.
Unless of course she is walking around with a price tag hanging out of her shirt— in which case it takes every iota of restraint I have to keep from pissing my pants while I laugh at her.
Thank you Williamsburg for giving me, a lowly gal who lives in Greenpoint, the gift of laughter. You seldom disappoint.
And that is why I love you.
Filed under: Area 51
When I awoke today— at noon— my husband gleefully ushered me into the living room. “We have Internet access!” he exclaimed.
To wit I replied:
You’re shitting me.
My husband is full of (sh)it. I learned the aforementioned fact the way all nice girls do: after getting married. I inspected our hub and lo, the light was on! I have been crying against the dying of that light for the last five days.
After emailing people like it was going out of style and taking my buddy Mikeypod on a walking tour of the Garden Spot, I sojourned down Berry Street. Between North 6th and 7th Street I found traces of someone else’s I.T. trouble.
I have no fucking idea what this person is talking about. But I hope the aforementioned “Cocksuck
er” ships the right disk soon. Nonetheless I find it very sweet. Indeed.