This has been a week of New York and weddings and old friends and trying to not melt away like a pat of garlic butter on top of the most amazing, fall-apart, silky-rich streak I have ever had in the history of my life, complete with a basket of the most perfectly-salted, crunchy yet yielding frites that make you want to drop dead immediately so that you never ever have to put another thing in your mouth ever again because nothing will ever top that, not even close.
What the fuck am I talking about? Okay. Let’s start over. This was a week in New York, and now it is almost done. It was exhausting and amazing and irritating and so fucking hot I want to go off on another goddamn tangent. I have been overfull and kind of wishing for death at least three times, but importantly, and excitingly, I’ve been overjoyed a million to the power of a million more times than that. I think I might be a little loopy, too, because I am not making a whole lot of sense.
I am going to talk about the wedding, but it seems still too close and
immediate and fresh. I need to talk about my beautiful mother, who
looked gorgeous in seafoam green and who made me mad every time she’d
whip off her glasses for a picture, as if we don’t know what she looks
like in them, which is lovely. I need to talk about the dancing, and I
have really got to tell you about my baby brother, and maybe start
crying again when I haul out all my dusty clichés and rotten, moldy chestnuts about him being All Grown Up and a Man, Now. I am going to
tell you how proud I am of him, too. You might not want to read that
column, Ken (he gets so embarrassed).
There is more food to talk about–my brother is a pastry chef, did I
tell you that? He is a pastry chef at an amazing restaurant, and we ate
ourselves sick. We have also had patty melts, grilled cheeses, hibachi
grill (don’t ask), samosas, chickens, cheesesteaks, cheesecakes, and
somehow, we still have not managed to feed our faces with the holy
grails we came wanting to see–the pizza, the pastrami, the hot dog
right off a cart. We are failures. We have all day today! But still, we
are failures who will be eating a cheese slice on the fucking plane.
There are more failures, which I don’t want to talk about at all. I
don’t like that part, with the way I haven’t run, and forgot to take my
vitamins, and was only reminded about my crazy pills when my head
started to get spangly. I made some really food bad choices and a
couple of bad mistakes in trying to schedule everything I wanted to do.
I’ve been really selfish–it is Guy’s first trip to New York, and over
and over, I feel like I’ve fucked everything up for him and he hasn’t
gotten to do anything at all because I suck so much, and there have
been points where I was pretty sure everything was going to end in
tears, but oh.
We’ve been here a week, and there’s something about being in New York.
Even if we had been lying on the couch all week, trying to not expire
from the heat (the fucking, fucking heat), it would have been worth it.
There is an energy and a vibe and a feeling of being surrounded by this
great, big beating heart. And also no one has tried to have me killed
for bringing my hippy dippy California shit over the border. Staying at
my brother’s place has made me feel taken care of; seeing my old
friends has made me remember how lucky I am, which is something I like
to be frequently reminded of, and being way too fucking hot has
reminded me that oh my God, I love San Francisco and I made the right
choice when I moved there. And eating myself sick has reminded me that
I am kind of stupid, and maybe I shouldn’t do that.
We’re going home tonight! I can’t wait to go home. I am so, so sad to
be leaving. I kind of miss soy milk. I’ll tell you all about it.