Just Another Day.
Yesterday. Edited fifty recipes for the book, less than half of which will be used…with my mother reminding me, nonstop, to credit grandma for the salad dressing, and not to forget the life-altering lemon cake she served sixteen years ago. Wrote/published three stories for Grub Street on Michael White, Ludu Lefebvre, and the sweaty success that was Meatopia. Some dramatic work stuff happened. Some double-dramatic personal stuff happened. And just when I thought life couldn’t get any noisier than the crazy psychos on the RHONY reunion (which sadistically I watched to unwind at 2am?!?!), my fire detector decided to throw a FIT at 3am. I live alone, I’m NOT handy, and I had no idea what to do. It was only a low battery, of course, but the screeching refused to stop, and I couldn’t figure any of it out. Thanks to an all-night doorman across the street, who starred in the leading role as “my husband” for five minutes, I was able to unhinge it from my wall, only to leave the loud, little fucker in my lobby until daylight. When I saw my super this morning, after zero hours of sleep, he took one look at me and laughed. I’m glad someone can.
