I did one of these the night before I moved to Greenbelt (and promptly had my car stolen) in 2003. Just like then, it\’s a Friday night, my friends are djing tonight but I don\’t feel like going, I\’m spending the night alone and moping, and I\’m fucking hating on Belle & Sebastian.
We all know that packing up an apartment at the end of a failed relationship is a really sad thing, right? Well, I\’ve encountered something even more sad, except in the pathetic sense. Dr Maude and I had lots of kitchen gadgets like a suburban couple, all crammed into our tiny alley kitchen. A small sampling: toaster oven, espresso machine, coffee bean grinder, fry daddy, rice cooker, industrial blender, hand mixer, electric kettle, more pots and pans than I know what they were for, copious hand tools, a martini shaker, vodka chillers (set of eight), ice cooler for table, schooners (set of four), pint glasses (set of six), shot glasses (more than 12), martini glasses (four left), high balls (seven left unbroken), etc. etc. A bbq set for outdoors, an indoor grill thingie, a huge load of knives, a fucking lemon zester (of all things), four bottle openers, an espresso set, a six-piece Asian serving set for sushi, a tiered sushi display, um… stuff. All this kitchen stuff. You know what I know how to use out of all of it? The toaster oven, the blender, and the electric kettle, which are the three items that I came into the relationship with. The rest of it looks like grown-up toys, like it might as well be rocket science. Like, when I try and use it, I burn things.
When I turned 19 and moved back to Pittsburgh, I had a wet bar in my apartment. I rarely cooked there, but I did invest in a full bar set and in that rather expensive industrial blender. I know how to use all twelve settings. I can make a frou frou to end all conceptions of fluffy drinks. You don\’t want to mess with my concotions. Only thing is, I never really bothered to learn how to make much of anything beyond the bar. I kind of got into the habit of living like a… (diva/alcoholic/stereotype). I\’m thinking of Cher\’s character \’Rachel Flax\’ in \’Mermaids and Patti D\’Arbanville\’s character (\’Amber Vallon,\’ \’Rayanne Graff\’s\’ mom) in My So-Called Life. Those women felt that the best foods were those that went best with cocktails: appetizers and desserts, and hence, never bothered fixing entrees. One thing I really enjoyed about Australia was that they call starters \’entrees\’, so I got to feel like I was telling my mom the truth when I said I was eating healthy. \”No, ma, not just salads and finger foods and sweets, actual entrees.\” But steak and berry flavors just don\’t mix very well, and I\’m not a fan of wine or beer. (What\’s that, water you say? Shhh! I\’m exaggerating a bit for effect of course, but shush.)
The Chief and I were shooting the shit about my newest pet peeve passion, Maureen Dowd. He wants to bring the phrase \’martini bitch\’ into the common vernacular and use it about ladies like herself, etc. I almost spit out my Tom Collins when that e-mail came through, though, \’cos if we start using \’martini bitch\’ like it\’s a bad thing, it\’ll be a badge of pride down in Adams Morgan in only a matter of weeks.
I have so much booze in my apartment at the moment…and no clue what to do with it all. I\’m listening to the Benevento Russo Duo (\”Bronko\’s Blues\”), and quite frankly, I feel like just barricading the door, cranking up the volume, turning off my phone, and hiding until something gives in. Me or outside? Don\’t know which it would be, but I\’d kinda really fucking like to find out.
