I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Mike started this whole gringo-fied Mexican food lunch trend, and I had to continue it. Like him, I bought a rotisserie chicken and started to think about what I could put it inside to make a simple meal.
Then the clouds parted, and a deep voice like that of James Earl Jones, but more judgmental, boomed, “Chimichangassssss….”
Umm… Okay.
Oh, blast. I’m starting to feel like I’ve created a food blog. This is not a good situation for me, a person who thinks of food mostly in terms of “ewww” and “meh,” with the highest rating being “good.”
For me, life is more about burning calories than consuming them. I mean, I still cut the crust off my sandwiches.
Last night I ate lobster with a companion. I shook the claw tentatively and squeaked, “Can I name him?”
I’m that person.
Remedy Diner last Sunday morning.
Lower East Side. Drunk, happy, sleepy. Empty streets. A skittish sun.
Turning Tricks at Remedy Diner from Amanda Green on Vimeo.
Some of the most interesting comments I receive are about teaching in NYC. Longtime readers (or people who’ve read the About page) know that I started blogging to chronicle my first two years as a middle school teacher in Harlem.
Those first two years turned out to be my last two years.
It was an experience I don’t regret, but it showed me that I didn’t want to stay in the education field for myriad reasons.
I remember the first time I shopped at H&M on a trip to NYC. The chain doesn’t exist in Texas, so when I wore my new, affordable duds, everyone asked where I got them.
And you know what I said?
I said they were from Sweden.
Project MAMM marches on, though the last few weeks have been difficult for Mike and me to coordinate due to scheduling and laziness and the love child of them both - procrastination.
And you know who’s been the bigger advocate of the program? I don’t want to say I’m the more committed member of the team or anything, but yeah. I’m Tiger-Woods-in-a-sex-addiction-treatment-center committed.
Minus the disappointed, ass-kicking wife.
Actually, I’m also my own disappointed, ass-kicking wife.
A piece I wrote called “The Accidental Chubby Chaser” is in this week’s NY Press.
Here’s an excerpt:
A few dates into what would become our relationship, I determined that the look John gave me was a sort of hungry admiration. Not that he ever let himself get too hungry. The guy had never met a cheese plate he didn’t like.
You know how people sometimes like to sleep where George Washington slept?
Or eat where Al Capone liked to eat?
Or see a movie where Pee-wee Herman busted a nut?
Well, I don’t have access to those famous spots, but uh, I have a catsitting gig for a few weeks. I’m subletting my apartment while I’m in another neighborhood Will and Grace-ing it up with a good friend. (I’ve lived alone for almost four years now, and I’m really excited to have a temporary housemate).
The apartment is a one-bedroom near Central Park North. I can sublet it on a daily, weekend, or weekly basis from March 8 to March 26 for $150 per day. This is way nicer than a hotel room and more affordable.
Last time I blogged about the universe farting in my face, commenter extraordinaire Sherri mentioned that I was begging for more. I mean, she’s read The Secret. I just read some blog posts by people who read it and then made fun of them, you know?
I’m not the informed person here.
Well, guess what? The cosmic force that propels The Secret - a coalition of goddesses or Allah or Bill Cosby or something - is real.
The Northeast has been pounded by snow in the last few days. NYC is no exception, though it hasn’t endured power outages or NBA-sized snowdrifts or anything.
Not like New Hampshire or Vermont or those other places that currently look like white blobs from space. Now those are hairy-chested states that can open beer bottles with their teeth!
