Pieces of Flair

I haven't waited tables in over ten years. But every once in awhile, I'll wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare where I'm in the weeds. And then, my station gets hit again.

Waitressing was my 'Nam.

...and I was definitely in the shit.

Little Surprises

When I found out that my second baby was a boy, I was terrified. I only ever imagined raising girls. I could never have imagined the joy of being startled by finding this in the shower.

You are Beautiful.

*The following link is NSFW (assuming that boobies are frowned upon by your place of employment): The Nuproject is a collection of nude photographs shot by Minneapolis photographer Matt Blum. If you like the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty, you'll appreciate this. There's nothing erotic about the images. But come to think of it, if you find them erotic, I actually think that's fantastic. 

As much of a feminist as I think I am, I can almost never turn off that judgmental and particularly self-critical voice in my mind that only sees flaws.  I've recently started watching HBO's Girls. I love that the show makes me so uncomfortable. It's as painful as reading the journal you kept when you were in college. But honestly, what makes me most uncomfortable is how completely comfortable Lena Dunham is being naked. Constantly naked. She's not perfect and she's not covering up or turning over. It makes me cringe and then it makes me feel sick for cringing. But I cannot imagine any point in this life or the next in which I would ever have the nerve to play ping-pong completely naked. 

A girlfriend & I recently had a conversation about "good complements". Gentlemen, take note. "You look nice" is the limp handshake of complements. It means you found the soap. You used a comb. That outfit was properly ironed. The correct answer is "You are beautiful." 

"You are beautiful" is intrinsic, unwavering. Up five pounds? Sinus infection? Bad hair day? You might not look nice, but you are beautiful. We might argue, but we still love to hear it. So keep it up and one day we might believe it enough to play ping-pong. 

Priorities

When I bought this Simplehuman kitchen trash can, it cost more than my sofa. Ok, second-hand futon. That was maybe 10 years ago. 

It made me sick to spend good money on a trash can. You should be able to just tell the cashier that you intend to put garbage inside it and she should let you take it for free. But it was going to be the last kitchen trash can I'd ever buy, so I went with the "best". And it was likely the nicest thing in my kitchen at the time.

So when the little bastard broke, I did what any reasonable grown-ass woman would do: I went through the five stages of grief, lingering in the Anger stage far longer than healthy. When I moved onto the Bargaining stage, I went Macgyver on it. After various failed attempts, I drilled a velcro tab into the lid to keep it closed. It worked! My trash can's little Hitler mustache was completely effective---for awhile. When we moved into our current apartment, the contractors had left behind a large, heavier-than-you'd-think dustpan. Perfect! That was two years ago. 

You might think that a woman in her 30's, a woman with two children, is an adult. You might think.

For Your Thighs Only

It's another rockstar Saturday night: Skyfall and a large box of Hot Tamales. Hot/Hotter/Hottest. [I'm only into Hottest. Which is about as extreme as cinnamon Dentyne.] The candy, a trophy for today's baby shower game victory. Who's the bigger badass? Dutch beer drinking James Bond? Or the bad mothershutyourmouth who bested a bunch of organic craft-loving Mormon mommies at a game of "Name That Baby Food"?

My Funny Valentine

Go ahead. You know you want to watch it.

Has there ever been anyone who is more of a Master of the Absurd, while also a heartbreakingly beautiful observer of the human condition than Steve Martin? If you haven't read Steve Martin's Shopgirl (I said READ, not watched the movie), do yourself the favor of reading the passage below.

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The Conversation (from Steve Martin's novella, Shopgirl)

The Conversation consists of one involved party telling another involved party the limits of their interest. It is meant to be a warning to the second party that they may come only so close.

Again, Mr. Ray Porter takes Mirabelle to La Ronde. They sit at the same booth and have the same wine, and everything is done to replicate their first dinner, because Ray wants to pick up exactly where they left off, with not even a design change in a fork handle to break the continuum. Mirabelle is not speaking tonight, because she works only in gears, and tonight she is in the wrong gear. Third gear is her scholarly, perspicacious, witty self; second gear is her happy, giddy, childish self; and first gear is her complaining, helpless, unmotivated self. Tonight she is somewhere midshift, between helpless and childish, but Ray doesn't care. Ray doesn't care because tonight is the night as far as he is concerned, the night where everything is going to come off her. And Ray feels compelled to have the Conversation. It is appropriate tonight because of Ray's fairness doctrine: before the clothes come off, speeches must be made.

"I think I should tell you a few things. I don't think I'm ready for a real relationship right now." He says this not to Mirabelle but to the air, as though he is just discovering a truth about himself and accidentally speaking it aloud.

Mirabelle answers, "You had a rough time with your divorce."

Understanding. For Ray Porter, that is good. She absolutely knows that this will never be long term. He goes on: "But I love seeing you and I want to keep seeing you."

"I do too," says Mirabelle. Mirabelle believes he has told her that he is bordering on falling in love with her, and Ray believes she understands that he isn't going to be anybody's boyfriend.

"I'm traveling too much right now," he says. In this sentence, he serves notice that he would like to come into town, sleep with her, and leave. Mirabelle believes that he is expressing frustration at having to leave town and that he is trying to cut down on traveling.

"So what I'm saying is that we should be allowed to keep our options open, if that's okay with you."

At this point, Ray believes he has told her that in spite of what could be about to happen tonight, they are still going to see other people. Mirabelle believes that after he cuts down on his traveling, they will see if they should get married or just go steady.

So now they have had the Conversation. What neither of them understands is that these conversations are meaningless. They are meaningless to the sayer and they are meaningless to the hearer. The sayer believes they are heard, and the hearer believes they are never said. Men, women, dogs, and cats, these words are never heard.

They chat through dinner, and then Ray asks her if she would like to come to his house, and she says yes.

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***Steve, You're brilliant and I adore you. I aspire to have but a small fraction of your silliness as a comedian and your intelligence as a writer. Between us, that Pink Panther thing never happened.

Willkommen Good People of Germany!

Dear Germany,

This website has been visited by over a thousand of your countrymen since yesterday. I have no idea what search words you've misspelled, but regardless of the reason, I'm glad you're here! Please make yourselves at home. If you'll just give me a chance, I think we can all agree that I should be your next Hasselhoff.

I'll let my writing speak for itself, but there are just a few notes I'd like you to take into consideration:

My great-grandfather was from Cologne, Germany. No lie! And I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for all of the American dummies on Twitter who have unknowingly besmirched Cologne through their illiteracy:

The truth is, Germany, I appreciate you. 

Thank you for Oettinger, Kromabacher, Bitburger, Warsteiner, Beck's, Hasseroder, Veltins, Paulaner, Radeberger and Stenburg. 

Thank you for Bratwurst, Knackwurst, Liverwurst and for the origins of the glorious New York City Dirty Water Dog. Thank you for hamburgers. 

Last but not least, thank you for this guy:

I'd also like to take this moment to extend my heartfelt condolences to all of Germany, but specifically to the Gloop Family. Rest in Peace, Augustus. I know you're in God's Chocolate Factory now.

Alles Liebe und Gruesse,

Veronica Martinez Calhoun

C.I.L.F.

I just spent the last two weeks 100% sans sugar, bread or booze while in phase one of the South Beach Diet (which is hilariously named for a location where I doubt anyone has ever been sober for two weeks). Shockingly, not eating crap is a legit weight loss plan. Who knew?!

NICE. JOB. ME. I spent the majority of the day in unforgiving pants that didn't leave marks... so I'm feeling preeeetty cute today.

After the kids were asleep, I decided to indulge in a long soak in the tub and leaf through the giant stack of untouched magazines & catalogs that keep my toilet tank warm. Amongst the Pottery Barn Kids catalogs, you would (likely not be surprised to) find my magazine collection of "Angry Liberals Monthly" and "NYC Hot-Spots I'll Never Go To". What may surprise you, if you are familiar with my collection of Old Navy Career Wear, peppered with very few actual designer pieces--- cast-offs from my BFF's impressive wardrobe, is that I am a closeted Vogue reader.

I also secretly love walking through Saks Fifth Avenue. There. I said it. I sincerely believe that spending $1,700 on a purse is the absolute height of moral depravity, but that doesn't mean I don't like to go to a pretty store and pet the nice Pradas once in awhile.

So I was reading this month's Vogue, the Official Bible of Anorexia, when ironically I came across "Sugar High" by Jeffrey Steingarten, which is simply a love letter to THE coconut cream layer cake. If you're up for a challenge, here's the recipe.

Good luck & sweet dreams!

***You'll note the recipe calls for the use of a hammer. A goddamn hammer. Sexiest cake ever.

K-Paul's Coconut Cake

From the Prudhomme Family Cookbook

Coconut filling:
About 3 3/4 pounds fresh coconuts, or enough to yield 4 cups plus 
2 tablespoons minced coconut meat, in all [be sure to reserve 
coconut milk to make the glaze]
2 1/2 cups heavy cream
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 pound [2 sticks] unsalted butter
1 tablespoon cornstarch dissolved in 1 tablespoon water
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Cake:
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1/2 pound [2 sticks] plus 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened and cut into chunks
1 cup evaporated milk
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Coconut-milk glaze:
1 1/2 cups reserved strained coconut milk [or a mixture of coconut 
 milk and water]
1/3 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Frosting:
2 [3-ounce] packages cream cheese, softened
1/4 pound [1 stick] unsalted butter, very soft
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon evaporated milk
1 [1-pound] box powdered sugar, [in all four cups]

For the filling: 
Drain the milk from the coconuts by carefully making a hole in each 
of the three eyes of the coconuts with a clean, new, and large nail, 
an icepick, or a sharp, very sturdy knife point. Strain the milk 
through cheesecloth or through a fine mesh strainer lined with a 
paper towel and measure out 1 1/2 cups; if necessary make up the 
balance with water. Refrigerate until ready to use. 

Break coconuts into small pieces with a hammer. Peel the pieces and 
remove the brown inner skin attached to the white coconut meat. Rinse 
and drain coconut meat well, then process it in batches in a food 
processor until minced. You will need 4 cups minced coconut for the 
filling, plus 2 tablespoons to garnish the top of the cake. Set aside.
[use leftover coconut as a snack or in another recipe.]

In a heavy 5 1/2 quart saucepan or large Dutch oven, heat together the 
cream, sugar, and butter over medium-high heat until mixture reaches a 
boil, stirring frequently. Add the four cups of minced coconut, stirring 
well. Cook until mixture reduces to 5 cups, about 15 minutes, stirring 
almost constantly. Remove from heat and stir in the cornstarch. Place 
pan over high heat, and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Add the 
vanilla and cook and stir about 1 minute. Remove from heat and continue
stirring a few seconds more. Cool slightly, then refrigerate until well
chilled. Note: filling will decrease in volume as it cools. Once it is
chilled, measure yield and divide by 5 to determine amount to use between 
cake layers. Keep refrigerated until just before ready to use.

For the cake: 
In a medium-size bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt; 
set aside. In a large bowl of an electric mixer, combine the sugar and 
eggs; beat on low speed until smooth, about 1 minute, pushing sides down 
with a rubber spatula. Add the butter; beat on low until mixture is 
creamy and light colored, about 3 minutes. Beat in the milk and vanilla.
Gradually add the flour mixture, about 1 cup at a time, beating after 
each addition just until smooth and pushing sides down as needed. Then 
beat on high speed for about 1 minute more, pushing sides down.

Spoon equal portions of the batter [a slightly mounded 1 cup] into six 
8-inch round cake pans that have been greased and lightly floured. 
Spread batter out evenly in the pans. Bake at 350 degrees F. on the 
middle rack of the oven, 3 layers at a time, until centers spring back 
when lightly pressed, about 18 to 20 minutes. Remove from oven and let 
pans sit about 5 minutes, then loosen sides of cakes with a knife and 
remove layers from pans to a wire rack. Bake the 3 remaining layers. 
If re-using the same pans, first wash, re-grease, and lightly flour 
them. Meanwhile make the glaze and frosting.

After the cake layers have cooled about 15 minutes, glaze one layer 
by brushing glaze over the surface and on the sides with a pastry
brush, a little at a time and using one sixth of the glaze [about 
2 1/2 tablespoons]. Make holes in the cake with a paring knife so 
glaze can sink in. Immediately [before glazing another layer], spread 
one fifth of the filling on top of the glazed layer, extending it to 
about 1/2 inch from the edge. Then place another layer on top and 
repeat procedure of glazing and spreading on filling until all the 
layers are glazed and all but the top layer have filling spread on 
them. 

Let cake cool thoroughly, then frost top and sides. Sprinkle the 
remaining two tablespoons minced coconut on top. Let sit 1 hour 
before slicing.

Coconut-milk glaze:
Combine the coconut milk and the sugar in a 2-quart saucepan and 
bring to a boil over high heat, stirring occasionally. Continue 
boiling until glaze reduces to 1 cup, about 5 minutes, stirring 
frequently. Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla. Pour into 
a glass measuring cup and use glaze as directed in the recipe. 
Makes 1 cup.

Frosting:
Combine the cream cheese, butter, vanilla, and salt in a medium-size 
bowl of an electric mixer; beat on high speed until creamy, about 
1 minute. Turn speed to medium and beat in the milk and 1 cup of 
the sugar, pushing sides down with a rubber spatula. Beat in the 
remaining 3 cups sugar, 1 cup at a time, mixing until smooth before 
adding more. If the frosting becomes too thick for the mixer, do the 
last bit of mixing with a spoon.
 

Loving Your Inner Megalomaniac

I watch TLC’s medical anomaly shows like “The Man with the 500 lb. Tumor” or “I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant With My Own Twin” not because I’m twisted (I am) or because they’re the modern freak show (they are). I watch them to be prepared for when the statistical impossibility happens to me. I'm also 100% genuinely surprised when I don't win MegaMillions.

The pursuit of a professional life as a performer requires the innate predisposition for delusions of grandeur not found in the general population. We always knew we were different. "Normals" give serious thought to what is and isn't "likely". But it's never really been a consideration for us, has it? The truth is, we know that odds don't apply to us.

I can still remember the first time I heard the notion that most Americans have the simple dream of an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. I was just a little girl, but I thought, "That’s the most depressing fucking thing I’ve ever heard”.  

When I was in high school, nearly everyone took typing class as an elective. I declined because I was never going to work a mundane 9-5 office job. I was sure of it. It seemed like a fate worse that death to be a Secretary--- unless I could be Loni Anderson on WKRP in Cincinnati. And dumb as 14 year old me was, I knew I was no Loni.

[Smash-cut to 2013: A kid born the year after the release of Police Academy 6: City Under Siege, now calls me his Executive Assistant. Whatever. 3-fingered typing gets the job done. Hindsight’s 20/20.]

I’ve always loved the line from On The Road, where Jack Kerouac said “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”

I don't know who paid Kerouac’s bills, but I do know he never had to sit in a cubicle, stifling yawns and scheduling internal prep discussions re: the upcoming Commonplace Things Meeting--- all the while being slowly suffocated by nude-colored pantyhose and pretending not to hear a coworker’s insipid personal call and/or fingernail clipping. The trick is to do your day-job…don’t let your day-job do you. Also, on the first day make someone your bitch.

"Are you still trying to be an actor?" a Normal asks me. Translation: “Would you say your dreams are fully dead or only partially dead?” (It’s my second favorite question, after “Have you been in anything that I’ve seen?”). It’s easier just to keep your secret Bat-identity to yourself. People who grew up wanting to be Bruce Wayne simply don’t get it.

You’re the kid who had a shitty day at school, then came home to perform Stand-up for the family dog. 

You might have eaten your sandwich in a bathroom stall, but you were a one-woman Karaoke bar by night. 

You will never be “done” because being a performer is not just something you do. It’s something you are.

Hart Broken

Hottest Girl in the Office just quit. I love to see her go, but I hate to watch her walk away, as it erodes my self-esteem.

Let's Get Physical!

I'm always in awe of people who exercise without music. Why on Earth would I want to be alone with my thoughts while the only one that I'm capable of is: "This is fucking miserable!"