Small Things

I want hors d'oeuvres. I want white coated servers coming by with teeny tiny hot and sometimes cold things on silver trays. Little baby quiches with one tiny shrimp on top. A little square of filet of beef on a Roquefort smeared toast. Lovely unidentifiable but wonderful things wrapped in flaky pastry. (Reading the Dean and Deluca website isn't good for me at all.)

This, of course, is due to my entirely peculiar upbringing. Since my parents started living apart when I was three, my life was spent on weeks with Mother and weekends with Daddy. It never occurred to Daddy that I wasn't some sort of small adult, so there were a lot of nights when my dinner was at a cocktail party...with those lovely wonderful child-sized morsels (and a gin-soaked olive out of Daddy's martini - sweet dreams, kiddo!).

This has come to mind (aside from Dean and Deluca) because I have just had dinner with my gal pals from Chicago in an Irish joint on 46th Street called O'Flaherty's, where I had bangers and mash, which is something I adore. To all you oblivious Americans out there, bangers and mash is low-class British Isles food, and it tastes just wonderful. It's sausages in brown gravy with lots of nice onions on a huge pile of mashed potatoes, and it is comfort food raised to the nth degree. Admittedly it's a weird thing to be eating on a late summer night, but I love it with a passion and go for it whenever I see it. Its proper place is in a pub on a cold wet day with a pint and a good book to read. (Now that I think of it, a pub with a pint and a good book to read is just about nirvana anyway.)

But as I was scanning the menu, I looked over what they said were "starters." You know, ten chicken wings isn't a starter...it's a full meal. Cheese fries, ditto. And I just love the "combination plate" that all these places have - a few wings, some fried mozzarella sticks, some fried squid, some fried other things. Are there actually people who start out with this and order something ELSE? No wonder obesity is a problem. I often, in fact, confronted with a menu that says things like "32 ounce porterhouse steak" or "six pound lobster" just order a salad and an appetizer...my midsection may be somewhat middle-aged and flabby, but there still isn't enough room in it for all that, for God's sake. A 32 ounce anything is about four meals, and a six pound lobster will give me more than enough bites that I can save QUITE a lot for lobster rolls and a nice lobster salad (and a really neat midnight snack).

Other than my nice night out with the girls, I have absolutely nothing to report...no jobs, no cash, no hope. This is getting A. boring, and B. terminally depressing. I would try to sell my body, but unfortunately, at this stage of the game, I think science is the only thing that might want it. Since this requires that the body in question be dead, I don't think so. Actually, now that I think of it, the kind of client who might want a living saggy-ish 63 year old body is kind of a disgusting thing to think about too. A cougar, I am NOT.

I don't understand this whole cougar thing anyway. To begin with, it just seems kind of pitifully desperate of women in their fifties and up to go hang out at a bar (however upscale and expensive) to try and pick up young men. I mean, eeewww. And exactly what kind of young men would you get that way? If they don't have any success with women their own age, why on earth would you want them to begin with? I am deeply confused.

On the other hand, I just ran into a old friend on my way home who is about five years my senior, and I am quite casually fond of the lady - but my God, she looks 90. And she's not even 70 yet, I don't think! I may be a bitch, but I feel much better now. Well, you know, given the fact that I'm usually taken for 50.

What the hell. I'm broke, but I look good! (This may, of course, be due to the fact that starvation is REALLY good for exposing one's cheekbones.)

Love, Wendy