A shameless plug for BabycakesNYC.

So it turns out that I might have a minor case of OCD. It so happens that I will become totally focused on one thing and become unable to do anything else...like make my bed, or work out, or apply my eyebrows in the morning. The last couple of days I have been so totally immersed in gluten free/vegan baking that the rest of my life has taken a rather disastrous turn. Just this morning I left the house and realized that I had been so involved in thinking about the double chocolate chips cookies I was going to make later that I had neglected to brush my teeth OR my hair. Thank heavens I keep a full bathroom kit at work.

This preoccupation is significant for two reasons. One, since I've been stripped of all wheat and dairy privileges, I've been not unlike the street urchin who presses his filthy face up against the glass, looking longingly in at the family tableau within that he will never be a part of. I pass bakeries with a sigh, look on as people eat ice cream and frozen yogurt with the wounded air of a child who has been denied her favorite toy. And once in a while I transgress, eating a cupcake or a cookie and then spend a day or two on the floor writing in such intestinal agony that I'll spare you the details of what transpires only to say that God was kind when He bestowed us with air freshener.

The second reason is that I've always eschewed baking. I love to cook, primarily because there are few rules, and even those can be bent. The rigors of baking have always offended me. I'm supposed to be the bossiest thing in the kitchen, not this book that is telling me only to use TWO TABLESPOONS of vanilla. What if I don't want to? This attitude resulted in flat cookies and bread that my mother used for a door stop for years. My sisters were both accomplished bakers and so I let them, lending a hand when the bowl needed to be licked and then disappearing conveniently until things actually came out of the oven.

Then, last week, I happened upon a cookbook that I think I might marry. I've been stuck to it since Saturday and SWEET HOLY MOSES! The things that are coming out of my kitchen! Not to mention the fact that I've been making friends with things, like, measuring cups! and spelt flour! and coconut oil! And now my trousers are tight, but I've been able to enjoy a chocolate chip cookie for the first time in my adult life without the agonizing stomach cramps that usually followed consumption. The extra time on the treadmill is well worth it considering a whole culinary world is opening up to me that had been padlocked and duct taped shut with the word "VERBOTEN" spray-painted across the front in red, graffiti type letters.

So this is where I have been. And I promise, next time you see me, I'll bestow you with the fruits of my labor. You'll never miss the butter or flour, I promise. If you are a fellow suffer'er, I can recommend this book/bakery with the highest of accolades. Happy baking!

http://www.babycakesnyc.com/

The tranny danced wide

So. I went to Zumba! last night as I do every Monday night. I've been very excited lately about attending the Monday class because a REAL TRANNY has been showing up with startling regularity which is SO EXCITING. Actually, the proper term for her might be transexual, as I do believe she is post op. I assume this only because she wears pants so tight that I'm worried about her ability to breathe and there is no way even the best tucking job could hide what a man is packing. There has been LOTS of surgery (and a very well done weave). The eyes, the nose, SWEET MOSES THE BOOBS which would put an eye out if you fell into them. She has yet, though, to do anything about the Adams apple that bobs up and down as she talks with a voice that is still lower than any woman that I know. It's distracting, this particularly male piece of anatomy that stares at you from a unnaturally female face.

I first spotted her a few weeks ago. She was vogue'ing in front of the mirror which was perplexing since most people sort of slouch into class and plop onto the floor to reserve their bit of space. She, however, posed in front of the mirror with great focus, pursing her inflated lips and moving this way and that. I sidled up behind her for a better view, and immediately grabbed my phone to text my friend something appropriate and mature like, "OMG U are going to be SO UPSET that you missed class! THERE IS A TRANNY!" My friend was, in fact, upset. The tranny wiggled her nonexistent hips. I updated my friend. The tranny executed a high kick, which didn't go as planned as she stumbled back and directly into me. This too, was reported, "Bish almost just TOOK ME OUT with a high kick! This class is going to ROCK!"

And indeed, it did. I decided to dance next to the tranny. For research purposes. Given her elaborate warm up routine, I was expecting her to bust out some serious moves, Tabitha and Napoleon style. It would appear, however, that her expertise didn't move past posing in front of the mirror. The tranny spent most of the class dancing to music that I believe only she could hear. I've never seen someone move in such a manner that I can only describe as both painful and spasmodic. She hit me twice while spinning while the rest of us squatted and kicked me twice while the rest of us spun. It was confusing and I left feeling deflated and very much in need of some ice for my limbs and a whiskey and someone to hold me. I texted my friend, "Tranny = hot mess. Hope she comes EVERY TIME. In pain. She kicked me. I love her."

So for the past few weeks I have kept my distance, dancing several rows behind her (when she has shown up...it's random but class just isn't the same when she's not there) and to the left so that she is still in my eye-line but out of flailing distance.

Last night, however, she flanked me.

I had claimed my turf, which is important given that class is packed and I need space to get my proverbial groove on. The music started and two songs in I felt something smack the back of my head and I turned to the right to see the tranny dancing next to me. I don't know how she crept into that spot, but I smiled and moved slightly to the left. She commenced some random arm gestures and followed. Perplexed, I moved forward. She pursued. The hour went on like this, with me billowing around the room like some flustered paper bag and her right behind, taking out her Monday's frustration on my shins and upper arms. Granted, I don't think she was doing this on purpose. As you dance, you sort of peripherally keep an eye on people and gravitate in whatever direction the group and your surrounding people go. So I understood. There was just no where to flee to, so I endured the onslaught and was relieved when the hour was over and I could return home and nurse my bruises.

But what I was recalling the entire time was this scene from Will & Grace, which was one of my favorite shows. Will and Jack were at a club and Jack, seeing someone he wanted to talk to instructed Will to save his spot on the dance floor. Will protested and said, "How the hell am I supposed to save you a spot?" to which Jack replied, "Dance wide, Will. DANCE WIDE." And then he demonstrated what he meant by flailing wildly so that no one would get near him thereby ensuring himself enough space. Being a good friend, Will danced wide, and I often think of this when I'm at a club. I thought of it last night after the tranny had hit me in the shoulder for the third time.

Because the tranny dances wide. VERY WIDE.

After class, I was gathering my things and the instructor came up to me and said, "You looked in pain through class...she hit you?" (I'm approximating his accent here. He's not retarded.) I laughed and said, "Yes, she seems to have her own thing going." He replied, "Yes...no rhythm. She dances like a white man. Which she was. So it makes sense."

CONFIRMED. And that's when the week took a turn for the awesome.

Things I Do Not Understand - Foundations

Sweet fancy snickers, it's Monday already? It would appear that since this was the first weekend in for-eh-EH-var that I didn't have a million and one things to do that it sped by with warp speed. I'm just getting ready to settle in for a Friday night movie and already here we are at the start of another week. WHAT?

I'm starting to realize what it means to be an adult. I spent Sunday morning cleaning out gutters in my town home complex...well, I didn't personally clean any gutters but I offered up encouragement and directions to those who were. This falls under the category of KNOW THY STRENGTHS. And I'm best with two feet on the ground and telling others what to do. Fact. I was in the middle of instructing my neighbor where to throw some leaves - NO TO THE LEFT! - when my OTHER neighbor called me over and said, "Jen, do you think the foundation should look like this?" My first instinct was to say, "I don't know. Let me go check with my dad." I think those words actually started to fall out of my mouth and then I realized that she was asking ME. As though I would have anything profitable to offer about foundational integrity! HA! I mean, we didn't float away in the last storm, so I'm assuming it's solid! High five! Let's have some drinks! What I did do was lean over and look at the area she was talking about while cupping my chin and going, "Hmmmmm...I'm not sure that looks right. Should we call someone?" Because when in doubt, PASS THE EFFING BUCK.

She stared at the spot in question for a bit and then said, "Maybe." Relieved, I went off to hold a ladder for someone and wrestled, as I often do, with the fact that I'm a homeowner and therefore responsible for things such as roofs and foundations and sprinkler systems. This makes me want to fall to the ground in horror as I feel like it was just last week that I was paying rent for the first time and calling my mom to say, "HA! I can make it on my own! Oh, would you put dad on? I can't figure out how to plunge the toilet." The sad thing being that I'm 33 and I still can't unclog a toilet properly. I just cover my eyes with one hand while stabbing at the bowl with the plunger, praying that it doesn't turn inside out and douse me. Because that happened once and I still haven't recovered my ability to feel, or love.

Why are we talking about this? Oh yes...adulthood!

Which isn't all that it was cracked out to be, right? But there are some good things. For instance - sex! And we're now allowed to stay up late and watch bad tv! And sex! Or eat 12 Tootsie Rolls in one sitting without my mother stabbing my in the back with her bony finger saying, "THAT IS TOO MUCH SUGAR!" (I did that on Saturday night, and it just so happens that it IS too much sugar.) And all of the sex!

Anything else? No? I know, I can't think of anything either.

Sigh. Happy Monday people. I'm off to go and boss around some clients.