Apron Anxiety

Tried to fit two days into one again. Didn’t work out so well. Lost it on a wretched saleswoman at Barneys who wouldn’t take back a couple untouched sweaters that I bought thirty-fucking-four days ago, instead of “thirty.” People who use the word “store policy” are the absolute worst. I’d out the girl, full name/description right here so everyone could join TeamAlyssa but I’m worried that tomorrow I’ll wake up less vindictive, she’ll be ruined and I’ll be sued. But F-U Barneys girl with the bangs!!! Oooh I really hated her. And oh brother, did she hate me right back! She couldn’t stand me from the second she saw me. That happens sometimes.

Long day. But it’s always this way before a big trip, isn’t it? Romantic Paris in 72-hours! A long, harrowing Tuesday will make high tea and higher thread counts all the better. And let’s be real: life’s really not so bad.  It really isn’t.  We’re planning book parties and press events and all sorts of am-I-dreaming (?) decisions. This sparkly story about me ran on Zooey Deschanel’s blog, and come on, just look at the top of the blog!! THANK YOU T.S., my butch Brad Goreski, who helps me sell books and not kick-box my computer. (Did I mention that I still can’t believe any of this is happening?!)

By the way, it should go unsaid that I went to another Barneys and got my way. Wouldn’t any of us?

Next up: Pareee!

Here’s the “Best Meals of 2011” story I mentioned.

Photo by: Jen Gotch

What was your best food memory this year? I have to answer that for a magazine article. First thing that comes mind (having nothing to do w/ the photo above/I just like it) is a fresh out-of-the-oven almond croissant from Almondine, with a café au lait, sitting alone by the water, after days of stress, sleep deprivation and a sad, empty stomach.  But perhaps that’s too simple. Tell me yours…

Forgive my slackerly behavior…

The last few months have been the busiest, and I think maybe hardest, of my life! Honestly, the next time the universe shows its sharp edges, remind me that I survived July-October of 2011. But barely!

Finishing the book, combined with starting this torpedo-like job, plus the usual NYC warfare, was collectively so much more lethal than I ever imagined. Weeks of euphoria cut with sleeplessness, insecurity, ego trip, celebration, isolation, an overload of scintillating and scary new people all (justifiably) judging…

From the chefs to superstars to colleagues to friends to more than friends…some of whom I loved for hours or hated inexhaustibly; who shared strong words and stronger whiskey; who took my breath - and my judgement - and once, my trust - away. Thank god it all happened during Breaking Bad and raspberry season, otherwise I would not have survived.

I really do like my new job, even though I want to die every time I realize that I can’t visit the ocean without “getting approval” or spend Tuesdays at the movies just because my body says so. Outside the office: I love my shorter hair, my wonderful wench of a city, the fact that I get great tables at showoff restaurants, and empty seats on busy subways.

There are certainly days when I’m sure I’d be happier in a simpler silhouette than this. Get married/have babies/be normal. Or at least some scenario that involves an occasional good night’s sleep. But more often, I’m thinking that I actually want to live harder, faster, freakier. Run away/fuck the rules/find bliss. But that’s the inner-battle I’ve always had, and maybe, probably, you do too. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here…

Whatever! Who needs restaurant recommendations?

Autumn found us, work started, Irene came, 9/11 stung, edits ended, friends were made, romance was had. I’ve experienced extraordinary meals, sheer exhaustion, a disastrous flood, a naughty night out, a shit-ton of expensive oysters, dirt cheap (and crazy good) Cambodian num pang, and awkward encounters with Alec Baldwin and Owen Wilson. Love working at Grub Street, dream job, but my free time is precious like never before. It seems I have only a matter of minutes for non-work related pleasure. So I choose wisely.

On the tenth year anniversary of 9/11, a day that has forged my childhood friends together forever, because of the loss of one of us, I roamed around SoHo, avoiding the news and televised tributes. I appreciate it, but Bloomberg has nothing to do with my wounds. So, I grazed the streets, ate croissants, kept it light. At night, I had a press event at Prune. Everyone tweeted and gossiped, and the scene was pretty fab, even by my jaded standards. After the meal, I wanted to walk off dinner. These days, walking everywhere is my only hope for non-obesity.

Somehow, I ended up at Washington Square Park, lured by a large group of weirdos twirling in slow-motion to some music. Inside the circle was a straggly but intense jam session. I’m still not sure if the musicians were famous rockstars or local homeless. But the music. Oh! It was transformative. Especially on 9/11.

The first song I heard was Sittin’ on the doc of the bay. One of my favorites (and so nostalgic!). And then, Love is All You Need, and even some Lionel Richie, which was a trip. But when a gypsy-faced man, with a deep, heartsick voice, led us into Chris Isaak’s I wanna fall in love, I lost it. At three o’clock in the morning, I sang, sobbed and swayed alone, but not, in the park. Like a lunatic, a lost girl, and a New York City survivor, I let it all go…

The world was on fire; no one could save me but you…

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