Panic in the Sky with Chile Pie

The only people more sick to death of our wedding, besides Doyle and I, are our parents.  And probably you, by the end of this post.

D and I had our small wedding and reception in New York, so we could celebrate our nuptials OUR way, you know, hedonistically and with our bestest, most insane and funny friends and close family.  And it was fabulous.

BUT, we wanted our parents to be included in planning wedding fun, so we gave them the dubious honor of hosting separate wedding receptions for us in their neck of the woods.  You know, for their friends and our extended families.  Brilliant idea, right?  Except that this has turned into the cross-country Wedding That Won’t Die. 

Yum Kippork

I know it’s not politically correct.  I don’t care.   Pork is delicious and deserves it’s own holiday.  We didn’t deliberately schedule our pork party to coincide with Yom Kippur, it just kind of happened.  I originally wanted to call it Pork-a-Pallooza, but our friend David came up with Yom Kippork and things just spiraled from there.  If you are offended by this then you have to grow a bigger funny bone and start praying for my soul because this post is not going to get any more PC, I promise you.

When the Sky Makes You Drool Just Like Pasta Fazul, that's Amore

Plane trip!  We’re on our way to New Mexico for the third leg of our Wedding That Won’t Die.  Five days of parties, bonding with members of my new family, getting up ass early to watch 400 hot air balloons rise into the air, AND going up in a balloon myself.  Just me, my darling husband and someone whose name is probably something like “Fuzzy”.  Romantical.

Doyle and I get to the airport, check our bags and while getting ready to head over to our TSA groping session, my husband hands me my boarding pass.  I glance over it, and immediately I can feel my ass start to clench.

Happy Boozy Birthday Cake to Me

Wow, thanks for all the birthday love you’ve been sending me, people.  I mean, I know that my family knows my birthday and all, but for those of you who are strangers to my eyes and just popped out of the ethers to wish me a happy birthday from Russia or Sweden or some other country I’ve never visited, to you I say:

Thank you! And who are you, how did you find me and how the hell did you know today was my birthday?  What other pertinent information do you have about me?  Social Security Number?  Birth Certificate copy?  That school picture of me in eighth grade with those pink John Waters’ nightmare glasses?

HOWWHATWHYWHENWHEREWHO?

Silence! of the Lamb Salad

Hey, guys.  I wrote this to you on Sunday, but I just finished it today because on Sunday Bloody Marys took precedence over you, ok? Sorry.  Perhaps I should work on my parenting skills, in case I ever spawn.

Well, I suppose this time is as good as any to say hello again, considering that I am unwilling (but mostly unable) to detach my ass from this couch after last night’s debauchery session with friends in the East Village. 

We began the evening sensibly enough, with big earrings and tall boots, and dinner and theater, but you know how sometimes things happen and WHOOSH all of a sudden it’s 5:00 in the morning?  Yep, it was one of THOSE nights.

Exploding Face-Melting Black Bean Soup

I finally pulled my new pressure cooker off of the shelf today to give it a whirl.   Partly because I keep hearing about how much better home-cooked beans taste than canned beans and my curiosity was piqued, and also because it was a rainy, dreary day in Brooklyn and a pot of hot bean soup just sounded good. 

But, dude, this pot is INTIMIDATING.  It comes with a 72 page instruction manual, which is really 10 pages of instructions and 62 pages of HOW NOT TO KILL OR MAIM YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY WHILE COOKING WITH THIS POT.  Seriously, this devil manual said things like  “Here are some helpful hints to avoid scalding” and “children should not be in the presence of the pressure cooker” and “do not let any of your friends borrow this pot if they have not read this manual” because if their face melts off the manufacturer will not be held responsible. 

What. The. Fuck.