Tater Tart

What is unfunnier than a writer writing about not being able to write?  A writer using the excuse of being unable to write anything good by figuring out what to make for her annual Easter Party!!!!

No offense to my good friends at work, but I almost jumped out the window at the sheer glee of dying in a bloody heap outside of the CFO’s office and right in front of the Thai Truck last week as I was forced to sing the Sex Pistol’s version of “God Save the Queen” in a fake English accent.  In all fairness, I did chose the song, but it was only because I was afraid if I didn’t pull something out of my ass quickly, we would have to do a tribute to The Monkeys (RIP, Davey).  One of my colleagues had returned from London with an absolute addiction to tea sandwiches.  No one knows why this is, but I think he was accosted by a bunch of hooligans in Pimlico and forced to ride the Green Line (Go Green!  Go District!) eating tea sandwiches dressed as Posh Spice.  

He called me one day and said, “Jen, I don’t know why, but I fucking love tea sandwiches.  I can’t stop eating them.  I have to have tea sandwiches ALL THE TIME”.  It was like dealing with an old school opium addict.  So we did what any good colleagues would do and we threw him a tea sandwich party.  We mainlined that cucumber sandwich right into his veins.  As he slumped onto the floor, drooling slightly out of his mouth, he said, “thank you.  I fucking love cucumber sandwiches” and died. 

I probably could have survived this, even though he is a very old and dear friend, but it turned into a “proper English tea” with frilly table cloths and games.  So I did the best I could and called my band, “Jenny Rotten and the Science Pistols”.  I really would have preferred to sing the Toy Dolls, but since no one knew the Pistols, they sure as hell weren’t going to be able to do a decent rendition of “Spiders in the Dressing Room” or “Dougy Giro”.

Remember that movie from the 1970’s, I think it was a drug scare film, where the kids smoked PCP and tried to run through the glass window of an office tower and it broke and they died?  I tried that, but we are only on the first floor and I was only on Earl Grey, so I just got a bump on my head and tried again.

Since I am a quitter and unable to even kill myself properly, I just wrote an Anti Corruption policy and promised to do better at my next party.

Easter.  Glorious Easter.  A true gift, a magical wonderland, a place of bunnies and rainbows and chocolate and chickens and Spring and flowers and bunnies (I am really into the bunnies – do not mess with the bunnies) and experiments in food.

I have been a vegetarian for 26 years (you are welcome, Morrissey and I think it was totally dickish for you to convince me to become veg and then not rescue me from high school – do you know how awful that place was?) and all of my friends have food allergies or only eat things from within 50 feet or that have been blessed by Durga – so throwing a party is always a challenge.  

The gluten free folks are the hardest- last year I did mac and cheese, but it got too dry.  I am still going to keep the long rice salad (bean thread – no gluten!), but have decided instead of mac and cheese, to develop something I have been thinking about for a long time.  Tater tot pie with no meat, no dairy and no gluten.  I am pretty sure it is going to have to involve Cajunized tots with a vegan gumbo (where do you get file around here?) that you can scoop out.  Of course it will taste much better if it is warm enough for everyone to dress like sluts so we can play hockey bunny in the street and start our egg hunt.  

Oh!  And this year?  Team activity- Peep Dioramas depicting famous hair bands (or no hair bands).

Tart-tastic.  It better be.  

Confessional

Forgive me blogger, for I have sinned.  It has been four months since my last post.  I have a really good excuse – work is eating my brain.  It already had holes in it from the 1980s, so it probably wasn’t that hard to get in there and sop up the last bits with a nice slice of Cibatta. 

I love to travel and this whole thing started because I kept going on these amazing adventures and wanted to tell my friends about the beautiful, grotesque, absurd and holy things I saw.  I still can’t believe the juxtaposition of the sacred and profane, the innocent and the wicked, and the terrible beauty of hope in a hopeless time and place.  Which brings me to Westfield Mall in Culver City, California.

After the epic travels of the past two years (India!  Australia!  Indonesia! Hawaii – which doesn’t count because I grew up there), the only trips I have taken recently are to our LA office.  I am a pretty aggressive driver, but the idea of driving in California freaks me out (because I think that is where Tina learned to drive and she makes me look like an elderly woman in an ’79 Buick that can’t see over the dashboard), so my world is limited to my depressing hotel, the lab and whatever I can find to do at Westfield Mall, which is in walking distance to both my work and hotel.

I am not much of a mall rat.  If I have to get something, I run in, grab it and go before the overstimulation of people and things vying for my attention sends me into a seizure.  For this reason, I can never enter a Costco and no one will ever get a Christmas present from me again.  But when I go to California, there just isn’t much to do rather than analyze the offerings at the local Target.

When I had employees in California before, they were in Orange County and the woman I reported to had a French Pedicure which I thought was weird because you toenails would have to be long enough to have two colors on them and that seems a bit gross.  Plus everyone had frosted blonde hair and wore pastels, so I felt like a complete outsider with my “I used to be a goth and can’t stop wearing black” attempt at corporate wear and chipped toenail polish.  Culver City is different, though.  People seem more normal there and by normal I mean there is actually some diversity in the place.  Meaning it isn’t like the Real Housewives of whatever.

This post doesn’t even make sense to me, so don’t worry if you are confused – I just needed to get back into the habit of writing.  After making some big lifestyle changes, I figured it was time to get back on the horse.  Get the rat through the snake.  Lasso the broncho.  Prime the engine.  Write.

I have gone out dancing the last two weekends (rocked it tonight, Lara!) and it feels so good just to lose yourself in the music and dance.  Especially to trance – it is a truly spiritual experience to dance through your exhaustion and come out the other side in a meditative state.  Until someone has to put on breaks or dub step and ruin my vibe, but whatever.  I did notice a new trend the past two weeks, however.  It seems that people have stopped wearing pants.  I mean that everyone (under 30, female and skinny) seems to be dancing in their underwear and GoGo boots.  I don’t recall this trend from the rave days.  We were all in hoodies and ratty jeans and sweaty Sketchers.  Now it is all sparkle pony hot pants and Elton John’s shoes.  Maybe it was always like that, but now I am sober so I actually notice.  I don’t know.   

Today was a good day – the garden is thriving, I caught up with some old friends and met some very interesting new people.  Tomorrow I am going to have to brave Target to start getting ready for Easter.  I know it is still a month away, but Hop, Bock, Chirp, Meow XII (my annual Easter party) is the crowing jewel of the spring party season.  Hockey Bunny will certainly be making a comeback as will Linda’s secret quiche recipe.  And it is the only day of the year I get to hop around in bunny ears eating chocolate and tossing a small, fuzzy stuffed bunny to Tina with a lacrosse stick while shouting “car!” as we play in the street. 

Now I will say my Hail Marys and sleep - all is forgiven.