5 Nov

That’s all I can say. Holy shit. Right? Like what the fuck? Did this week just exist?  Where are we on the spectrum of this subsiding a little bit, because I’m so just exhausted/overhwelmed/heightened/dfgohajsldfkjsfogasldkfj that all I want to do put on some Uggs and go to an Islanders game and have a beer and then go home and go to sleep and have my cat Kitty sleep by my feet. Does tomorrow start feeling a little normal again?

I am lucky. Nothing was destroyed. Nobody was hurt. I didn’t miss any prime time shows or DVR recording. Starbucks opened relatively quickly and they weren’t out of my favorite drink. I have power and I don’t need to submit any insurance claims. I am lucky.

But that in no way means I can’t complain.

I feel like I haven’t written in like a week! Because I haven’t! Wanna know why? Cuz I’ve been too busy dealing with all you cold, hungry,cranky,  gas-zombified powerless peeps. You have kept my restaurant so crowded with your sitting-forever-because-the-house-is-so-fuckin-cold-so-you-cause-a-3-hour-wait antics that we ran out of all the food 4 nights in a row.

So since you’re SOOOO CURIOUS ABOUT MY TOTALLY SUPER EXITING LIFE, here’s a little rundown:

Pre-hurricane Day: Harry and I decide that our getaway to Shelter Island for the night ain’t a great idea. We are devastated, because we were really looking forward to hitting up one of those super scary haunted houses out east even though I’m totally too much of a chicken to go inside. As I have never shopped for hurricane supplies, I prepare most interestingly for the storm, and I spend more at the grocery store than I have ever spent in my entire life except when I did Hanukkah at my apartment when I lived in the city and insisted on purchasing the entire cold cut meal at Zabar’s (I left Harry to order at the deli counter so I could “fill-in” and he got a pound of Genoa salami and that’s how he became the laughingstock of my family for not knowing about Hebrew National. Talk to him about it sometime). I spend my money mainly on multiple varieties of ramen noodles, off-brand peanut butter, Milano cookies (hid that shit) and a case of shelf stable milk. I justify this ridiculous purchase by reminding myself that $15 of that was cat food so it really wasn’t all that much. I conclude my night by refereeing a sword fight between my 9-year-old Stepkid and my 2-year-old naked Babygirl. Cabin Fever begins to set in.

Hurricane: My day consists of watercoloring with my Babygirl while Harry and my stepkid nap, putting purple and navy glitter on a dozen masks while my babygirl and Harry and my stepkid nap, and watching Mary Poppins 3 times while Harry and my stepkid nap. We lose power for 2 hours, but Harry is napping so he misses that. Harry kindly wakes up and cooks dinner for me, the kids and Ryan The Work Husband. Harry tells me he’s going to take a drive to check out the waves. I tie him to a chair. I also notice that the severed hand we had hanging from the shingles has blown away in the storm.

First Day After Hurricane: The hand surfaces on the lawn next door. We’re all pretty psyched. Harry wants to take a family drive, because the winds have died down to 50 MPH. We go check out the restaurants. The lights are out at my restaurant but on at the other restaurant so Harry drops us back home and goes to work, leaving me inside with the kids for the 3rd day in a row. Even though there’s power, I am still not doing well. I’m going deaf, covered in fucking glitter and all the Play Dough in the house is now one big glob of purplish-brown. It is not yet Halloween so I have no Fun Size candy bars with which to drown my misery. No offense, kids. I spend naptime glittering more masks, not even sure if the Bat Mitzvah will go on because the kid will only have a party if there’s a T-Shirt airbrusher, and the airbursher needs a functioning outlet for sure.

Halloween: Still no power. Harry goes to work, leaving me with the kids one more jolly time. Today we make sculptures out of all the unused candles I bought, eat Cup O’Noodles with our fingers, (“Because that’s the right way. It only burns for a few minutes.”) and go to Chili’s for a surprisingly delicious lunch. (That is the last nice thing you will most likely ever hear me say about Chili’s, although I think I like the nachos.) He comes back in time to go trick or treating with the kids even though I believe Halloween might have been cancelled. I can no longer take being home. I try to convince Harry to allow me to open the bar and sell warm beers and “European style” room temperature vodka cranberries by candlelight. I will throw an impromptu Halloween bash. He calls a babysitter and instead we go to Dave and Busters to play Trivia with Ryan. I’m totally the 3rd wheel. Also I’m not dressed like a prostitute. What an odd Halloween…

Day After Halloween (we’ll still refer to it that way even though it was called off or whatever): Pre Bat Mitzvah day. I spend the entire day with a hot glue gun in one hand and a waitress pad in the other. We have sporadic business as a result of our next door neighbors being a Hess station. I walk over to try and bribe the Traffic Director Hess dude with a cheeseburger or a steak. He obliges. I get gas with no wait. I think I’m the luckiest gal ever until I get a phone call from the T-Shirt Airbrusher. She can’t get gas, she can’t get to the party. I panic. I beg. I hold my breath. I sell Hurricane shots for charity. The restaurant is so crowded that I have blocked it from my memory permanently, but I believe there were 4 different families who brought a deck of cards to play while they took up my tables for 4 hours at a time. It was endearing (also, LEAVE ALREADY!). I feel like I haven’t hot glued enough and that I’m going to fail at being a world-class Bat Mitzvah Planner. I leave the restaurant at 1am after erecting the Bat Mitzvah girl’s name in an arch made of 3 foot gold balloons. Harry and I devour an entire (fresh and AMAZING) pizza from Little Vincent’s.

Bat Mitzvah Day: Spotify recommends that I listen to Christmas music so I spend an hour listening to Fiddler on the Roof instead, just to fuck with it. 15 minutes before the party begins, there is a car accident right in front of our parking lot, courtesy of the Hess line. I maintain my composure, even though I haven’t yet taken a Xanax, but I do nearly get in a fist fight with a 250 pound thuggish guy. I yell at him that he is ruining a little girl’s Bat Mitzvah and she doesn’t get this day again. Ryan walks in the middle of the 5 lane road to direct very handsome. My skirt doesn’t have pockets so I don’t have my phone on my to take a photo. It’s fucked up that men’s clothing all has pockets. The police spend the afternoon in our parking lot. Lovely. Airbrush chick shows. So does the hot dog cart, photo booth and VJ (oh yeah, fancy shit). The party goes off without a hitch, except for the fact that most of the guests didn’t have enough gas to get to the party, and that I forgot to order a challah so they did the prayer over a loaf of sourdough bread instead. Also the DJ plays an uncensored version of Grease Lightning, during which John Travolta screams “Well you know that ain’t no shit/I’ll be getting lots of tit.” And Gangnam Style, which is right about when the 10-year-old sister learns how to air-hump an imaginary horsey. Bat Mitzvah night arrives and I spend the night wrapping all of my regular customers in wool blankets and rubbing their shoulders.

Today: It’s the most wonderful time of the year! – I just love wearing opaque tights and inappropriately short skirts! I want to go shopping in the kids department but  there’s simply no time! I can’t walk in my office without stepping on a pack of peacock feathers or leaving a footprint of glitter. My pile of things to do has reached the ceiling but it doesn’t matter because the today is the first day of Long Island Restaurant Week (total ploy brought on by one very smart PR company, but we’ll discuss that another night…) and I have to design and print the menu, and also program the computer, which takes a day or two generally speaking. pen my Party Room as a warming/football/charging/wifi station. I offer free candy (Bat Mitzvah leftovers, so naturally it’s all blue and purple) and coffee. One person comes and she works for me. Still counts, I’m a hero.

Tonight, worst part of the whole week: I ask the guys to just make me some sweet potato fries just as the kitchen is closing. I fantasize about throwing some ketchup in the tin and snacking on them while I watch Homeland. Happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness. But then an hour later I go to leave and THE FUCKING SWEET FRIES ARE NOWHERE TO BE FOUND. I pout and throw a medium size temper tantrum. I have been wearing 4 inch boots for the past 4 days and I’m THISCLOSE to going home and getting into bed. But not without sweet fries. I remember that Wendy’s has them now. I go to Wendy’s. They don’t have sweet fries. I go to McDonalds. They don’t have sweet fries. I call my Work Husband for sympathy (Harry doesn’t realize the severity of these scenarios, so I have to stick with Ryan when it comes to caring). He tells me to go to Burger King. I go to Burger King. Burger King is closed.

The moral of the story is: You are so lucky I’m back to writing again!

On a serious note, the best contribution you can make to the Relief efforts right now is to donate blood. Many drives were cancelled as a result of the storm, and much blood was lost as well. My mom told me that my blood pressure is too high so my blood isn’t good enough for them, but you should ignore my mom and just do it. She’s just weird. Supplies, food, clothing and money are also being collected at a ton of locations all over the area. Best place I’ve found to look is your local Patch.com site.

And leave the lightest Ecological Footprint you possibly can. And stop beating people up in the gas line. And listen to country music. And don’t forget about the Pop-up on November 28th.


One Response to “HOLY SHIT.”

  1. Michelle Joni November 5, 2012 at 1:28 am #

    In the midst of blogging 7 hours straight, this provided a much-needed break and smile. You KNOW how much I love glitter.

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