Modern Love

Last night, Slim mentioned an article he'd just seen in the WSJ about couples who stayed in love long after marriage.

"I think the trick is to get married quickly," he said.

"What's your point?"

"Wanna get married?"

"Okay."

"That was easy."

"Well, I have one condition."

"Wait, I'll get a pen."

"No, you'll be able to remember. It's this: both the engagement and the marriage have to be secret."

"Wait, for how long?"

"Indefinitely. Possibly as long as forever."

"No,"

"Well, then forget it! I have one simple condition and you can't even compromise that much! You're obviously not ready for marriage."

Home of the Bean and the Cod

Speaking of Boston, GK4, former fiance, was there too (although not at the same time.) He called me last night.

"Boston." he said heavily. "It's okay, but they have some nerve calling themselves the Hub of the Universe. It's really laughable."

What else?

Well, I went up to New England to visit my married friends Rose and Ed. Rose and I went to Boston and took a tour of this Victorian house which was only noteworthy for being a well-preserved Victorian house that this eccentric insisted on preserving. In fact, when the city of Boston refused to accept it as a historic site, sometime in the thirties, he just roped the rooms off and gave tours himself, which prompted me to jokingly ask the extremely sinister, pallid guide, 'James' (lit student at BC)if he in fact lived upstairs and was just giving the tours for fun.

"I live in a basement apartment in South Boston," he replied unsmilingly. (We were, obviously, the only people on the tour.)

Then we had to listen to some recordings of the eccentric's extremely mediocre poetry, "Ode to a Worm" and "Ode to a Toad." Am seriously considering offering tours of my Greenpoint apartment: eight dollars, five for students and seniors.

"We know the hours 19th Century servants worked; we know what a bell-pull is; we know how long laundry took on Mondays!" groused Rose after we left. "*I wish they wouldn't assume we were idiots!"

She further added that forelocks like the one that fell across the guide's pale brow make here extremely uncomfortable. "Widows' peaks, too, but less so."

The reason I've been so quiet lately is a series of technical difficulties that resulted in a trip to the Mac Store's Genius Bar (SoHo branch.) The iBook is still vacationing there. It's nothing serious I don't think; seems like when the old charger broke off, the 'pin' thing got stuck inside. In fact, had to restrain myself from just going at it with slim tweezers and now sort of regret that I didn't as I had to endure 'Katie's' incredulity when she saw how grubby and crayon-encrusted my computer was and kind of had to imply I was a pre-school teacher to justify it.

When I was waiting to be called (at the Genius Bar) a very chatty middle-aged woman engaged me in conversation. Seems she is the webmaster for "the actor Woody Harrelson's official web site." (It is highly political and has an entire section devoted to the raw food lifestyle.) I didn't ask how many hits it gets.

One More Thing

I think I may have scored a point with the furious woman at the laundry - the one who wears the Hello Kitty purse.

If you're wondering how I did it: I baked her a batch of cookies. May have temporarily disarmed her, even though they were kind of vile and from this suspect recipe from The New York Cookbook - which is to say, was just the recipe of some woman from Queens, which doesn't mean it's good or anything. Kind of the problem with The New York Cookbook. Have always resented how the bio note calls Molly O'Neill the "Damon Runyon of the New York food world" when obviously that's Ed Levine or someone.

My mom used to say that Charlie and I would be just like the O'Neill siblings: a successful food writer and an all-star baseball player! Didn't really pan out. But at least Charlie smokes a lot of cigarettes. And the woman at the laundromat may not despise me as much as she did three days ago. Which, after all, is really the same thing when all is said and done.

Reading best book ever. Florence Broadhurst: Her Secret and Extraordinary Lives. We're talking secret husbands, grisly murders, constant 'reinvention.' To say nothing of avant-garde textile design.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I should be reading The Ginger Man.

(I hate The Ginger Man. I do I do I do!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Fed Up

Slim's pickiness really cramps my style, kitchen-wise. He won't touch beef, bananas, most fruits, or almonds. He has told me, helpfully, that he'll happily eat bison meat, plantains, and kiwis. So that's all right then.