Thought for Food

Nineteen years ago today my dad married Shelley. I don’t have any photos of them together on that day — but perhaps it’s fitting I post one of her and me. I may not have taken vows or signed a certificate, I may not have even been in the double-digits yet, but it was as important a day for me as it was for them: it was the day we became a family.

If my nerves were any indication — I stood by my dad’s side during the ceremony, biting my nails to the quick — I understood that they were doing this in part for me, that Shelley was making a lifelong commitment not only to my dad, and that I would bear responsibility for the success of their partnership and our family.

It wasn’t always easy — it took me a few years before I was comfortable with Shelley adopting me — but that day marked the beginning of the greatest commitment I’ve made in my life to date.

I’ve said it before but it bears repeating: I learned all I know about love from them. I thank them for that lesson every day I wake and see this wonderful, complicated person whose life I share. I thank them every time I speak or see or think of my beautiful Gena, the product of their love, the missing piece.

Thank you! And congratulations.

Tell me that doesn’t make you smile.

The best part of The Bachelorette finale last night was when they played this song right after Roberto asked and Ali said yes and then I, a bit tipsy from several glasses of finale-party rose, scooped Wilkes up and paraded him above my head like Simba. It’s his song, you know. In silly moods, M. puts it on and we dance with the little Lion King (he loves it, lemme tell ya).

And the best moment of today was when I got an email from him (M., not Wilkes — though how cool would that be?!) saying he’ll miss me ‘til he sees me (in a few hours) and, ‘til then, a song for me.

Elton just speaks to my very soul, y’know?

When I want to annoy my boyfriend I order a Ketel One martini, extra dirty. (Vodka is sooooo uncouth; a proper martini is made with gin and has a lemon twist; and extra dirty just means “make it so salty I can barely taste the booze.” Not that vodka has much of a taste – the very reason cocktail geeks disdain it. It is, as Mandie reminded me I taught her, just a vehicle for alcohol. (“My dear,” she said, “that is the entire point.” Touché.))

Anyway. On Friday evening at Flatbush Farm, a dirty Ketel One martini was all I wanted. It wasn’t to annoy M.; he wasn’t there (not that I had reason to). Guess I just wanted to get crunkkkkd. (And for the record, it was salty as a salt-lick and positively dripping with uncouth booze and utterly, absolutely glorious.)

The pizza special at Otto: bracingly bitter arugula pesto, spicy peppers, pungent garlic, mellow bufala ricotta. Eat with your lover (or forfeit all kisses for the night).

(That’s mine, there.)

07.20.2010, 9 pm. East 8th Street.

When we were helping to set up for Noble Rot’s Bastille Day celebration (photos) we got a parking ticket. It was my fault. I was in charge of feeding the meter and I had trouble finding anyone who’d break my $10 bill. (Can you believe they still use coin meters on the Upper East Side? So backwards. I hate it there and that’s not just the parking ticket talking.)

It was one of those “no, wait, I have the quarters right here!” situations. So frustrating. I assumed the ticket was $100 — but I didn’t check because the meter maid told me if I leave the ticket in the car window I wouldn’t have to pay the meter. (Gee, thanks.)

I was grumpy, of course. And when I told M., he was even grumpier. We got in a mini-tiff which ended in me stomping to the nearest Chase, withdrawing $100, and thrusting it at him dramatically. “I don’t want to hear another fucking thing about it,” I said, “I’m buying your silence.” His face softened, he gave $50 back, and we went on with the night.

A couple hours later, hot and buzzing from the crowds and endless uncorking of bottles and pouring of wine and music and questions and crowds and heat, I realized how happy I was to be by his side through it all.

“You know,” I said, “it’s 50 bucks. That sucks. But I would spend 50 bucks to hang out with you any night.” He gave me a big smile and smooch and hug. “Me, too.”

And the best part? The ticket was actually $65. A bargain!

Night Ranger, “Sister Christian” // via hipsterdiet

My boyfriend’s hand-to-heart, sweat-dripping-down-the-brow, speaks-straight-to-his-soul karaoke song.

He has told me seven or eight times that it’ll be on Rock Band 3.

Seven or eight times.

I’m too nerdy for my hat, too nerdy for my hat, what do you think about that?

No seriously. We are really dorky. This is what we did Friday night and during the Germany/Uruguay match on Saturday. It was awesome.

It’s meant to be.