Ending in OH!

My friend Goldenboy will be more than happy to tell you about the Birthday Curse of Luvviepuffaroo which took place on many a July 3rd over the earlier years of my life.

We've known each other since our mid-teens (or, as he always says, "around six years now, right?") and so he's actually witnessed some of the worst of my birthdays such as my then-boyfriend having an epileptic seizure on his way to my house (20th birthday), me trying to run away from home (18th birthday) and the one where we had a huge fight down on South Street Seaport (19th birthday). But our favorite cursed birthday will always remain my 22nd birthday. Who could forget it?

Goldenboy and I had gotten all decked out and hit our favorite nightspot, The Duplex. We were regulars back then, actually hitting the place around twice a week and participating in all the shtick that went on. (I'm sure there's new shtick that goes on now, but I haven't been there in ages, sad to say.)

Some favorites over the years: The commemoration of Diana Ross' rainy 1983 concert in Central Park consisting of an all-bar sing along of Ain't No Mountain High Enough while the bartender sprayed water into the air. Amy the waitress/lead singer doing Vikki Carr's It Must Be Him, Cher's Dark Lady, and in later years, the waiter (a/k/a Straight Boy from From Jersey) doing Elton John's Levon. It was in that tiny little space that I got my first taste of doing the "doot-doo, doot-doo"s on one side of the bar, as the other side of the bar sang "I got you babe". We were all one big stage show back then.

This is also where (and when) Goldenboy and I solidified our love of Steve and Eydie (Steve and Eydie!). Yes, I admit it: we both played tapes of them in our cars for many many years. (Still do, GB?) Where else but in the Eydie Gorme catalog would you be able to find the big, blousy broad song "What Did I Have That I Don't Have?" I'd have aged myself 3o years back then just to be able to sing that song with the same tonality that can only come with life experience, large quantities of scotch and a decent amount of time in the presence of Sinatra ...

It was on the night of my 22nd birthday that Goldenboy and I stumbled out of the Duplex (more drunk on cabaret itself than on beer) at a little after 2 a.m. and decided to have a sit-down on someone's stoop to keep the momentum going. We stared up into the night sky and began singing I like New York In June ... (yes, it was July, but we were giddy) ... when we were approached by two guys who came up to us so directly that we thought they lived in the building. We skootched to the side of the stoop to let them up but were met with a "gimme your money" and the revelation of a gun under the one guy's jacket. This is when Goldenboy gave his simultaneous translation of events to me ... a line which we repeat often and (trust me) which is now delivered with a lot more mirth than it was that night: "Oh Shit ... We're Being Mugged!"

Yes, indeed, we were being mugged. We didn't struggle, there was hardly a tussle, the non-gun wielding mugger even gently removed my watch from my wrist with all the care of a mother laying her toddler down to sleep. They took Goldenboy's wallet which (naturally, he's Goldenboy) he got back the next day. (I think he'd lost the same wallet 4 times and it always found its way back to him.)

Anyway, this was the birthday that broke the camel's back and Goldenboy vowed to never spend another cursed birthday with me again. You know, in a good way ...

For a few years I bought into the curse (my 25th involving a [never-told-me-he-was] married general manager of a pharmaceuticals company ... and an elaborate plan that devolved quickly into a brief encounter and a migraine headache ... I'll leave it at that) but then at 26 I went through a "hey, I'm in charge of my own life!" type revelation and decided the only person who could make my birthday curse keep rearing its ugly head was me. I've had really really great birthdays ever since.

When this year rolled around I knew I wanted to plan something special with Quibbit. It wasn't just a milestone birthday, but one of those that ended in 0 (or, you know, OH!) so I really wanted to have a great time. After getting engaged we'd originally made plans to visit a friend who lives in Washington State, spend some time with her family, then spend the big day in Vegas. Unfortunately, when Quibbit's mom got sick we abandoned our plans, deciding to put aside time to spend with her for her birthday which was just a few days after mine. Sadly, she passed away far too quickly.

As it often happens when someone dies, there's this huge reminder to live every day fully, celebrate every milestone grandly, and look on the bright side whenever possible. (Yes, I'm humming the tune from Spamalot, aren't you?) So in a last minute decision, and with the help of my family, Quibbit and I decided to spend my birthday in Atlantic City.

I hadn't been there in years, and even then, only once, and just for the day. So I was really looking forward to having a few days there to really take in the sites. Everything, from where we were staying to what we were doing was a surprise, so every moment was another delight.

Quibbit had gotten us a room at the Courtyard by Marriott, and the room was beautiful ...

... and was right near the Resorts Casino, and the Taj Mahal, both of which we could see from our room.

My Big Birthday morning began with Quibbit waking me with a song, and not one, not two, but three cards. They'd all been set up on the bureau during the night by him, and the cutest one was the flying piggie card, set next to the piggy bank I'd brought along for the trip. (I usually save up quarters in a retro little piggy bank to spend on slot machines. Slot machines don't take quarters anymore. Still, who couldn't smile when looking at a little retro piggy bank?)

We spent the day walking along the boardwalk, visiting the different casinos, playing the penny slot machines, with a little stop at the Tiffany & Co. store in Caesar's Palace where we went ahead and purchased our wedding bands (which we'd already picked out online).

Quibbit had made lunch reservations for us at the fabulous Cuba Libre restaurant in the Tropicana Hotel (the staff even put a candle in our little dessert -- prearranged by Quibbit) and then continued making our way to the other end of Atlantic City to Harrah's Casino where we took in a performance of The Wedding Singer.

Having never seen the movie I can't vouch for how true it is to the original plot, but I will throw in that I enjoyed it more for the 80s culture than anything else. (Yes I admit, while it wasn't my scene every weekend, and I was far from being anywhere near the Michael Alig crowd, I was definitely one of those who frequented Tunnel, The Palladium, and a few others that went quickly by the wayside.) Quibbit, who's own teen years were spent in his small Michigan town (population 3000) couldn't quite picture me as one of those high haired, neon and fish netted bustier wearing gals skipping around on the dance floor. But I was! Some times it amazes me how differently we grew up.

Quibbit, ever the romantic, squeezed my hand tightly during the song "I Wanna Grow Old with You" (I wanna make you smile whenever you're sad // Carry you around when your arthritis is bad // All I wanna do is grow old with you // I'll get your medicine when your tummy aches // Build you a fire if the furnace breaks .... So let me do the dishes in our kitchen sink // Put you to bed when you've had too much to drink // Oh I could be the man who grows old with you).

We ran outside after the show to see the fireworks (which, for some reason were going off on July 3rd) but we'd missed them by around 20 minutes. So we spent the rest of the night wandering around town till we made our way back to the hotel.

July 4th was a wonderful day too ... relaxing and fun, with just enough to do, but not too much to get done. We walked around 6 miles, from our hotel to the Absecon Lighthouse, then back to the hotel and on to Caesar's Palace with the obligatory stop at Fralinger's for Salt Water Taffy, fudge and other candies for my loved ones back home.

We headed back home on the 5th, full of sun, fun, and me ... with a new OH! at the end of my age. With so much change happening this year, it was nice to spend this milestone birthday happily, and to bring home a bag full of taffy and some great memories.

Even though The Birthday Curse of Luvviepuffaroo has long since been defeated, I'm always happy when I can add another stellar celebration to the plus side.

Wedding Day - Not Just a Party and a Piece of Paper

Quibbit and I went to see the Sex and the City Movie last week, and the next day I said to him "I'm sure glad I watched all the SATC episodes in syndication ... I don't think the movie would have made as much sense to me if I hadn't. You really needed the context of the series to understand the impact."

Quibbit replied, "I think the movie was understandable either way. You're not so much talking about knowledge, as you're talking about appreciation".

Wow, he'd just said a mouthful.

I think every New York woman who has ever poured out her heart onto a computer screen while living in a yes-it's-cramped-but-it's-so-centrally-located! Manhattan (or Manhattan adjacent) apartment has fancied herself a Carrie Bradshaw of sorts. Everyone, of course, except Sarah Jessica Parker herself who admits to having no sense of fashion and never wearing heels in her own life. I bet if she took the quiz she'd find herself mid-way between a Miranda and a Charlotte.

Anyway, this isn't about the Sex and The City movie (except tangentially) (Although is it still necessary for me to say "spoiler alert?" Well ... I don't give the entire plot away ... but for the purists: Spoiler Alert). As I was saying, this isn't about SATC. This is about weddings vs. marriage, the difference between your best friend and the one who understands you best, and, as Quibbit says, the difference between understanding something vs. really appreciating it.

I haven't posted much about my upcoming wedding for a few reasons. The chief reason is that Quibbit's mom's death took up a lot of space in my heart, and made anything associated with the wedding very bittersweet. It's really difficult to plan such a joyous occasion knowing that someone you love will be missing.

The other reason is that I'm just not a Bridezilla, and since I'm an events coordinator for a living, this is really not something I need to document appointment by appointment, step by step and decision by decision. (We're having black magic roses in the bouquet! We're getting an antique Rolls Royce limo! My dress has a colored panel! Ugh, there are a thousand wedding blogs that deconstruct every dang element. If you want to hear drivel like that, please ... have at it.)

Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I've never had this cadre of women who surrounded me -- in fact aside from a few short bursts that occurred in my mid-twenties, once I passed college I never had a group of friends at all. Or, to clarify a "group of friends". I have a lot of friends, and a solid number of friends I would put in that close circle, but we don't all hang out together the way Carrie and her gang do. Partly because for a long time I lived in a few different worlds and a lot of the women I held dear didn't really mix. Sure, they got along well when we'd gather for the milestone birthdays, but as far as a "Hey, I'm hanging out with the girls" type thing, well, that just never was my life. I'm more of a one-on-one type friend.

When I got engaged it made sense, emotionally, to ask my oldest friend to be my Maid of Honor. Not because I didn't value other friendships just as much, but more because she and I went through many watershed moments together, and there wasn't a big thing that ever happened to me that I didn't share with her. For most women, it makes sense that your sister, or (in my only-child case) your known-her-since-birth friend should automatically take that spot next to you as you stand up before everyone and declare to love one man for the rest of your life.
But it makes more sense if that woman who stands in that spot of honor not only knows the gravity of the day ... but appreciates it. As Quibbit says, it's understandable either way, but there's a difference between knowledge and appreciation.

After 4 months of being my MOH, but being more MIA than MOH, Ookanuba decided to admit that there was somewhere else she needed to be on my wedding day that took precedence. She'd been weighing the choices heavily, but ultimately -- to me -- if there was a choice at all, then there really was no choice. Her debate was succinct but heartfelt: "I've been here for the last 30 odd years, and I'll be here for the next 30 odd years ... it's really just one day."

She's right. Technically, it is just one day. Just like the day you're born is just one day, and the day your loved one dies is just one day, and the day you get a promotion is just one day. September 11th was just one day. In a very factual, clinical, scientific distillation -- these are all just days that line up one after another, and things happen as they happen.

Similarly, Shakespeare was just a man. The Sistine Chapel is just a building. The Olympics is just a game. You can reduce anything to it's basic element. But then there wouldn't be heroes, landmarks, shrines, or holidays, or dreams to aspire to. Money is just paper. Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.

I once heard something about the concept of faith ... that for those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not -- no explanation will do. If you don't put sacredness in this one day -- there is no magic phrase I can conjure that will make you do so.

I possibly would have understood the other side of this debate better if it came as a reality check on how I'd become carried away with the day and the glitter and the shine and the distraction. Or if I realized I'd put more preparation in 10.18.08 and completely ignored the preparation for the days that follow -- the actual marriage. But I'm not 25 anymore -- I don't have it in me to be distracted by what's born itself out as the window dressing. I love a good party. But I love a good life with a good partner even more. And Quibbit and I have been preparing for Marriage, Capital M much more than wedding ... small w.

As Carrie said to Mr. Big -- "It's just us ...". While Big saw Carrie making their day into "a circus" (big dress, huge guest list, coverage in the tabloids) she just saw the joy of celebrating the thing she'd wanted for so long. Quibbit, of course, is no Mr. Big. In fact, he's always been more Aiden than Big (as evidenced by the fact that he even WENT to see the SATC movie with me) -- so he knows it's just us. We haven't gotten lost in the details. We've been reveling in them, and (when they get overwhelming or odd) discarding those that don't work for us. We're not doing anything because it's 'how it's done'. We're doing everything because it's how we want it done.

Ultimately a wedding day is not just another day but with a big party. Marriage is not just a piece of paper. We are all the architects of our own relationships, nothing says that anything needs to follow a certain routine in order for your relationship to mean something ... to have validity, and to have gravity. But if you do chose to get married, your wedding day is the moment you take a step that solidifies something important to you; your love for one person that is so strong that you vow to partner with them for all that life has to offer be it curve balls, celebrations, milestones, upheavals or just the daily grind. A lot of people have been fighting for a long time to have the choice to sign that piece of paper. Tell Ellen and Portia that it's just another day. Tell every other same sex couple who want to pledge their love for each other in front of their friends and their family that it's just a piece of paper.

Taking someone else into your world as a mate is taking on all that they are. Their failures become yours, their successes become yours, and vice versa. It's not just a big party. It's not just a random day.

But I'm the type of person who celebrates anything -- it's part of the reason I went into the events management industry. Because I love gathering people in a room and creating a joyful energy that builds and builds, that binds everyone together and that creates a magical experience. Why WOULDN'T you want everyone one you love to gather in one big room, celebrating your happiness with you -- and making it theirs too? Why DOES everyone jump up, silly as it always is, the minute those first notes of NEW YORK, NEW YORK are played, and self-deprecatingly (or often just drunkenly) release themselves over to the ritual of the faux Rockettes kick line? Because it's a ritual. Because it's a common joy. Because, for a moment, we're all in each other's paths and we're all part of something bigger than ourselves. Now, if we all do it for a 30 year old Frank Sinatra tune, why wouldn't we do it for 2 people in love? (And, for the record, NY NY is not on my "must play" list. But I begrudge NO ONE their moment).

Back to why I even want to get married: Quibbit is the one person in the world who was able to strip away the hardened, cynical, sarcastic layers that had formed around me and make it okay to be vulnerable. He made me soft enough to be able to fall, because he'd always catch me. But he also made me strong enough to catch him when he stumbled. Loving Quibbit has been the most amazing journey I've ever made, and marrying Quibbit is the most amazing road map to a lifetime of future journeys. I don't want my MOH to just know that, or to understand it, but to fully appreciate it. So, as shocking as it -- I had to realize that Ookanuba can have knowledge of what a wedding means to her -- but not the appreciation of what it means to me. Neither of us is right, and neither of us is wrong -- again, we are all the architects of our own lives with the gift of working with our own rules. However, in order to participate as an Honor Attendant in someone else's momentous day, you DO need to be on the same page about what it means. You don't need to agree about the dress, the flowers, the choice of music, the limo, the venue, the cake, the shoes, the first dance, the color scheme, the wedding favors or the seating arrangement. The truth of the matter is, I don't particularly care what anyone thinks about the choices we've made for our wedding day. I care that Quibbit and I are happy, harmonious, always striving for growth, always working to be the best people we can be individually, and the best couple we can be together. We enhance each other, but we don't substitute each other for what we've already put in place be it friends, hobbies, or interests. We don't compromise for each other, but we do cooperate with each other. We communicated, we trust, and above all -- we make life happy for each other.

I waited an awfully long time to meet the love of my life, and I'm grateful that I'm a full-blown adult going into this marriage. Our relationship is the culmination of everything I'd set in motion alone for years. Why WOULDN'T I want to celebrate something so powerful? Every couple is unique unto themselves, and only the two people involved knows what goes on between them.

I've been lucky enough to be blessed with friends who are smart and understanding. When I called up Di to ask her if she'd step in as my MOH ... she agreed wholeheartedly, completely understanding that being asked second doesn't make you second choice. She'd unwittingly been my stand in MOH for all these months anyway, and someone who is precisely the person I know respects this huge step I'm about to take. I'm actually grateful that things worked out as they did, a feeling a peace came over me the minute all the pieces fell into place.

So ultimately, our little quartet is harmonious again -- Quibbit and I standing up for each other and promising to love, honor, and support each other ... and our two Honor Attendants who believe in our love, and the commitment we're making to our love, and our life together. Two wonderful people who believe in supporting us the way we choose to do it because they don't just understand us ... but they appreciate what it means to us.

Not just a party.

Not just a piece of paper.

Not just another day.

While I Was Out -OR- On Becoming a Grown Up

I knew I wasn't a baby anymore the day I could put my own socks on; I'd always had a little trouble getting them over the heel.

It was the early 70s and I was getting ready for kindergarten, sitting in the middle of my parent's bed … a song about a girl named Ruby was coming out of the tinny clock radio The shadow on the wall // Tells me the sun is going down // Oh Ruby don't take your love to town … and I was straining to get my heel into my sock. My finger was wedged, the sock was tight and cutting off circulation. I was yelling for my mom to come do it for me, come slip on that sock with that magic way she had. Then all of a sudden … POP. My foot was in. I was done. The song was still playing. I was absolutely amazed at my new powers. When mom came in to ask why I was yelling I told her about Ruby. She walked away like it was any other moment, like any other day … but it wasn't. For this one small thing, I didn't need her anymore. Some rites of passage are easy.

The other kind … the hard kind … well, that's the rite of passage I've been going through for the past few months. It's hard to write a blog that centers on frivolity when your days are centered on trying to figure out what life is all about.

Throughout my whole relationship with Quibbit I'd been distracted by how sick his mom Cindy was. She'd been diagnosed with breast cancer just a few months after we'd started dating and by the time I made it to his home town in Michigan for that first visit she greeted us in a wig – all her hair gone from radiation and chemo. Still, her smile was wide, and her eyes were bright with excitement at meeting me. Her huge heart made it easy to forget her wig ... and what having to wear one really meant.

When she went into remission it was a short victory and then it was a long un-victory as she realized she hadn't beaten this awful disease at all. She had, of course, hidden the worst from the ones she loved best, and by doing so ripped the band aid off quickly in the end, when it was too late for anyone to understand what was happening with enough time to make sense of it. Although, really, no amount of time would have ever been enough to make sense of it.

As time went on Cindy's illness was around me all the time, you couldn't take about her without thinking in terms of months or years … well, really just months. She called Quibbit one afternoon with concerns about how all TVs would have to be digital in 2009, but all I could think was ... "Will she be around long enough?" Every day, little things like that popped into my head. When setting a wedding date we chose the fall, just 8 months away ... hoping of course but still wondering Will she be around long enough?

I called Cindy optimistic to the point of delusion. I couldn’t tell if she really didn't find her illness all that daunting, or if she just recognized it and then decided to forget that she recognized it. (I think it was the latter; Cindy had been a nurse for all of her adult life. She had seen. She knew.) Whichever one … we found out about the cancer spreading to her bones and liver in an aside during a regular conversation. She might have been talking about an eye exam.

When we found out about the brain tumors we decided to go visit for Christmas. The fact that it took forever to get there was more tragic than a loss of time. For Quibbit, who saw his mom so infrequently, it was a loss of the balance of his mother's days.

Sitting with her one morning as she laughed gaily about this and that, serving up a breakfast that seemed to never end, she seemed particularly alive, in a way that only a dying person can seem. Her zest was unwavering, and she pulled out every ounce of herself in that trip, knowing that even it wasn't the last Christmas with her son, it was the next to last. How do you reconcile a visit that is saturated with the fact that this may be the last time that everything is normal?

Two months later, when Quibbit and I got engaged, Cindy was thrilled -- of all the parents, she was the happiest and the one looking most forward to having me as part of the family. When we called her on the cab ride home that night he joy leaped through the phone lines.

When my mom and dad spoke with her on the phone a few weeks later, Quibbit had high expectations of everyone getting along and laughing about things they found they had in common. He expected the conversation to go on for hours; of course I think it squeaked by at just under 5 minutes. Granted, everyone was a virtual stranger and miles away, not expecting to meet each other before the wedding, and not expecting to see much of each other after that. I think Cindy would have liked that to have been different. I think she would have liked a lot of 2008 to be different.

During the phone call my dad asked her if she was coming to the wedding. Unsaid were things like "if you're well enough to travel" … and of course anything past that.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said.

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Late April Quibbit was on the phone with his sister and suddenly the truth came out; there had been doctor's visits and the news was bad. Three months, if nothing went wrong, three months for Cindy to live. If nothing went wrong.

Quibbit, always so calm and good, always the one to talk me off the ledge as I let things spin out of control, sat in his office and went numb; he never asks me for anything but that day he asked me to come get him and take him home.

We sat in a diner near my house and talked about what his sister had said; what was true, what was conjecture, what was speculation. Cindy had insisted that the news had been mis-conveyed – that three months was a worst case scenario, not a best. If someone could change anything with sheer force of will, this would have been one of those times.

There was a lot of crying. A lot of dark moments, a lot of existentialism. How do you reconcile your life when you're told you've got 3 months to live? How do you process that information? How do you admit that you're not ready? How do you say goodbye?

So much of the wedding plans were done with Cindy in mind; I wanted her to have a trip to New York that not only showed the excitement, joy, and rush of the city, but also one that reflected the life her son had created so far away from their little Michigan town. I wanted her to see how we lived. I wanted her to know.

We planned to go there for Mother's Day which fell on Quibbit's birthday this year, but then got a call. Things were bad. The liver cancer had turned Cindy jaundiced and she was being rushed to the hospital, 2 hours away. The doctor advised that if we were going to go … we should get going. We arrived on Sunday, May 4^th.

On May 8^th I sent out this note:

Last night, on May 7th, at around 9:00pm Quibbit's mother Cindy passed away. As many of you may know, she had been battling breast cancer which eventually spread to her liver, bones and brain.

Quibbit had gotten a call just 2 weeks ago that his mom's cancer was advancing very aggressively and that a new tumor had been discovered in her brain stem. The prognosis was 3 months.

Quibbit and I made plans to visit Cindy for Mother's Day, but by last weekend phone calls from his family confirmed that Mother's Day might be too late; so we arrived here on Sunday night instead.

Cindy was at Saint Mary's Cancer Treatment Hospital in Grand Rapids, just a few miles away from where Quibbit's married sister lives. The first night we got there Cindy was weak but still very engaged, and so happy to see us. We were able to show her photos from the night Quibbit proposed to me, and share some stories with her. She was tired, but happy. Still, we were told that the cancer was advancing rapidly, and we could see signs of that.

On Monday night Quibbit and I held an Intention Ceremony at Cindy's bedside; the Pastor came and did a blessing on our intention to marry, and we closed it with Cindy's blessing and a shared prayer. It broke our hearts to know that she wouldn't be able to make the trip to New York City and enjoy the wonderful party we're planning. It meant a lot to her to be able to participate in our marriage, and we were so happy to be able to do a ceremony before she began to fade even more.

On Tuesday Cindy was transported to the Faith Hospice, also in Grand Rapids. The space was beautiful, peaceful and filled with a caring, comforting staff. By the time Cindy was settled in she was only able to speak in short sentences.

The family gathered around her, sharing stories, singing her favorite hymns, sometimes being quite in the dark, and sometimes having joyful, lively conversations for her benefit since she was always so social and loved a good gathering. Even though she was now only able to indicate "yes" and "no" with some noises, she was still able to respond with laughter when I told a funny story in a broad southern accent. Hearing that laughter meant the world to me, and showed just how strong her spirit was, despite how weak her body was growing.

By yesterday it was clear that she could only hang on a few hours longer; Quibbit had sat beside his mother's bed all night long, comforting her, giving her whatever she needed and sleeping when he could. As we took turns keeping vigil it was hard to see her growing weaker and weaker ... hard to know that she herself was going through a period of transition which was frightening her. We all did what we could to make the journey easier for her.

By last night Quibbit and his sister were singing the hymns Cindy had picked out for her funeral, and she was facing them ... her breath shallow, her eyes unfocused, but her spirit finding comfort in the sound of her children's voices. It was some time during their singing that she quietly passed away. And while this happened far too quickly than any of us would have wanted, and while the end was very difficult and uncomfortable, I think that she went as gently and as peacefully as any of us could have wished.

It's been hard to get back into the swing of things since coming back home.

It's been hard for me to weigh what matters and yet of course, everything matters. I've been swaying between true sadness and loss and not wanting to plan a wedding at all -- to the other extreme of wanting to have the most joyful, celebratory, huge event of all, because that's what Cindy would have wanted. And ultimately, every day that we're here, alive, at peace, and fully engaged in everyone and everything around us is a day to celebrate.

Things like keeping up with a blog, at least in these last few months, have seemed as insignificant as putting on socks in the morning. And yet, I remember when putting on my socks alone was a huge victory. It was the first thing I remember doing without my mom. And I can't help but see this as another milestone, the tougher kind, but one nonetheless that has always been inevitable. It's meant to be this way -- you do one thing without your mom, and then another, and another, and eventually you must accept having to do everything without your mom.

So I'll put on my socks, and tomorrow I'll do it again, and so will Quibbit. And one day soon, when I walk down that aisle and see Quibbit waiting for me, I'll see his mom sitting in that first row, beaming at us, blessing us, and loving us as much as she can. She may have walked out of the room for a minute, but soon enough she'll join her heart with ours and celebrate all the wonderful gifts we've been given while we're here. And she'll be as beautiful as ever.

Let It Go -OR- A Tale of Buses and Bitches

Some times you just have to let things go. But before you do, you just need to vent a little bit about it. Like on your blog. I'm not naming names ... and the reason for that will be clear by the end.

I'm an Events Planner (among other things) for a pretty large company that just got acquired by an even larger company. Pretty much the hugest, hottest company there is at the moment. My department alone has 250+ people and my job is to make sure they're happy. That can mean anything from ensuring there are bottle openers around for any one of our impromptu parties (Screw caps? On beer? Whattaya, crazy?) all the way up to planning wedding-sized meetings which include table seatings, favors, (Or, in the case swag. And yes… I prefer the old school "swag" over the bastardized schwag, though either one will do) menus, agendas, and the list goes on. I take my job very personally. I take my events very seriously. And when something goes wrong, I get pretty mad.

A few weeks ago I took over 100 people on a day trip to Hunter Mountain. I gave out great ski hats done up in our company colors with our department logo stitched on the front. I ordered generic energy drinks made up with our department logo to hand out on the bus. I stuffed (with help from volunteers) over 100 Ziploc bags with the hats and drinks, some sunglasses (also branded), and assorted snacks ranging from the healthy protein bar variety on up to the Pringles-Pop Tarts- Froot-by-the-Foot variety. I arranged everything with Hunter from the lift tickets to the rentals right up to the 3:00pm open (premium) bar and all the food we could eat. I even had some all-veggie options for the vegetarians … and provided kosher meals as well. Really, I couldn't have planned better. What could have gone wrong? Well ...

At 6:24 a.m. the morning of the trip Quibbit and I pulled up to the front of my office building where we were all to assemble, excited to start the day. I was only a touch concerned to see that there were no buses waiting for us. Showtime is usually a half hour before departure – and we weren't leaving till 7:00 so we had a cushion.

At 7:15 the first bus finally arrived. It was being driving by a "man" I will refer to as Idiot Bus Driver. This ugly, abhorrent man had actually been our bus driver last year – when I'd called a whole other bus company. Like hair club for men, Idiot Bus Driver isn't only a bus driver, he's also the president. Of this other company that just happened to be contracted out by this new company I'd called. He was like gum stuck to my shoe ... I couldn't escape him. The second I saw his face my stomach dropped. This was going to be an awful day. And we were already half an hour late. Meanwhile, the other bus was MIA.

Luvviepuffaroo: Where's the other bus?
Idiot Bus Driver: He was right behind me when I was on Canal Street. Maybe he got lost.
Luvvie: Can you call him?
IBD: No. I try. His cell phone don't work.
Luvvie: Do you guys have walkie-talkies?
IBD: Huh..? Wha..? (grunt of some sort)???
Luvvie (to Quibbit): Uh-oh.

I kept calling the bus company -- who had contracted this job out to Idiot Bus Driver … but they had no answers for me. To add insult to injury, every time I called their number I had to listen to this endless loop of "we here at XYX Bus Company promise you the BEST service … blah di blah blah". When I finally spoke with them they were as useless as Idiot Bus Driver.

Finally Idiot Bus Driver decided that he would drive to the last place he'd seen the 2nd bus. Quibbit stayed in IBD's bus (along with 50 other people) and kept in phone contact with me as I stood in front of my office building with the 50 remaining people.

Turns out the 2nd bus driver was stalled on Canal Street because he didn't know how to work the bus and had locked some mechanism some how. Um … okay. We finally all hit the road at 8:00 … and went smack into that really great Manhattan traffic everyone's always so keen on.

At 8:30 we were finally through to Jersey (and like 2 miles from where we started) when Idiot Bus Driver pulled the bus over "for gas" and proceeded to go into Dunkin Donuts for breakfast even though his damn bus had been idling outside our building for 45 minutes in clear view of a breakfast stand selling egg sandwiches, bagels, donuts and coffee. This took another ½ hour. We FINALLY hit the road 2 hours later than planned. People from my company who'd chosen to drive on their own were already at Hunter, and meanwhile we could still see the Manhattan sky line.

The day went okay, though, and everyone had a good time, but then, just to justify my Xanax prescription … On the ride home for the last hour of the trip as people were trying to sleep Idiot Bus Driver argued loudly with someone on his cell phone. At least we fared better than the poor folks on the other bus -- their driver (the guy who'd been stalled) couldn't tell the heat from the air conditioning and froze everyone on his bus. The next day people on both buses referred to the 4 hour ride home as a "nightmare".

Now, see, who do you think has to take the fall for this? I have to manage it, handle it, deal with it. While it was everyone's problem, it's really only MY responsibility. It's a terrible feeling to arrange a great day on the slopes for everyone but all you hear about the next day is how the buses were late, badly driven and "nightmarish".

I wrote a note to the bus company that listed, in detail, everything Idiot Bus Driver had done wrong. They didn't respond, but what they DID do was forward the note on to Idiot Bus Driver. Why would they do that? Because they didn't know that the President of the Bus Company they had contracted out was also the Idiot Bus Driver. I later got a nasty note from Idiot Bus Driver calling me a "maron". Um … okay.

Anyway, this thing went on and on. Way too long to explain. My days were spent fighting with the bus company while still explaining to everyone I saw in the halls that I was doing everything I could. People don't like to let things go. And there are a few kvetches here who have schadenfreude that goes on for miles.

Ultimately I wasn't contesting the whole fee … I just wanted our tip back. I filed a claim with Amex, and then the bus company threatened to go after me (and my credit) personally. When I consulted our legal team here they told me it was true -- I could get sued. And I'd be out on my own at that point ... they couldn't do a thing to protect me.

Lawyer: Is this really worth the 272 dollars?
Luvvie: I guess not.
Lawyer: Then just pay it and don't use them again …
Luvvie: (dejected). Okay.


Now, here's where I take a little detour, but it all comes back together in the end.

Last night I went out with Hammer of Israel for cocktails, to make up for the Celebrity Autobiography night which he had to miss. We don't see each other much, but it's always fun when we do catch up.

Over a melange of cocktails at Thalia he proceeded to wow me with a bunny-boiler story that curled my toes.

I mean, in essence, it started out the same as most stories, boy meets girl (on line) boy dates girl (in person) boy gets stalked by girl (a little in person, a lot on line).

She did a number of things than involved hateful emails, then felt bad, then wrote contrite emails, then felt evil, so wrote hateful emails. (There's more, very much more, but this is not really my story to tell ... it's just tangential to my story, so that's all I'll say about it.)

Look, who among us doesn't feel like doing something evil after a breakup? Even those breakups we've initiated. While my breakup with Hammer was pretty benign I've had other breakups that weren’t. And sure I fantasized about dragging their name through the mud and ruining their good time forever. Everyone FANTASIZES about it … but past the age of 17 we don't actually do anything about it in the real world. That's what those voodoo dolls are for.

So, fast forward to today. I've got the lawyer telling me to just let this thing with the bus company go. Yes, they behaved badly. Yes, they never apologized. Yes, they threatened to attack my credit personally. Yes, all I wanted was a phone call and some resolution. Yes I was annoyed that I never got closure. But really … did it matter?

I went into our VP of Finance's office. He'd been championing my cause from the beginning – not only with this, but with every thing I face with these events. I call him Bad Cop … as in "I need to get this fixed … be my bad cop?" I explained what the Lawyer had said. I explained that right now, what with getting married and looking for a place to live I just really didn't need this strike against me. Especially when really -- this was the company's money.

Bad Cop: Okay … then let's drop it. But I think you should write one last note telling the bus company that you work for (this large corporation … Name Here) now … and you could have swung a lot of business their way but now, for 272 dollars, they're throwing all that away.

But you know what it suddenly sounded like? It sounded like a girl saying "You could have had a great thing going with me and now because you decided to be an ass you're losing it!"

I shook my head.
Luvvie: No, Bad Cop … I don't think I wanna do that.
Bad Cop: Then write to the website that lists them on their site as a reputable company, and tell them to blacklist them, and explain how badly they treated you.

But suddenly that sounded like going onto someone's social networking site page and telling everyone that this guy who broke up with you was trash. Maybe the guy is only trash where you're concerned, and fine to everyone else. And maybe this bus company is really pretty okay … he just sucked when it came to dealing with me.

Maybe it was hearing all of Hammer's stories last night ... and then hearing how juvenile I sounded every time I tried to write a note to the bus company. It all came out sounding the same. "You hurt me, and I want revenge!". So I took the high rode. Not by bus, though ... at least not by a bus driven by an Idiot Bus Driver.

You don't need to GET revenge to HAVE revenge. The cliche would have me believe that living well is the best revenge.

But you know ... it is.

I Will Collect You and Capture You

If my life were a drinking game everyone would have to drink whenever I said "I'm completely obsessed with…". And my oh my, what a drunk little crowd you'd all be! I'm completely obsessed with being obsessed. (Go 'head ... drink!)

I even worn Calvin Klein's Obsession for a bit, then quickly moved on to Contradiction and have settled in to a nice relationship with Truth (Discontinued at perfume counters but still available at perfume warehouses. Always nice at Christmas. And my milestone birthday is coming up ...) with a splash of CK One and CK Be thrown in there sometimes. And I've been wearing Euphoria lately, ever since Ookanuba came to my house smelling like the best smell I ever smelled. It doesn't smell like that on me. Damn her and her conductive body chemistry! So I'm also obsessed with Calvin Klein perfumes.

Being an only child and then a single woman who (up until 2.5 years ago) never had a man around for more than 2 days consecutively gave me a lot of time to give into these things. Here's a short list of things I have been obsessed with in the last 30 or so years … Trust me, there's a redeeming ending to the blather so enjoy the ride till the Public Service Announcement kicks in.

This commercial and this one, and this parody which spawned a 20 year loop between me and Goldenboy that's in no signs of stopping.

Mae West (which started at the age of 4 and resurges every few years when her movies get transferred to DVD or another book gets published about her).

Random Movies

I watched All That Jazz so many times in a row that I actually broke the VCR tape. I watched Truth or Dare so many times that I could repeat every unscripted line that was uttered and had long discussions with my friends about whether or not Madonna showered that one time after she got off stage or if she just had her makeup reapplied. And whether she every REALLY got that letter from her friend asking Madonna to be godmother to her unplanned child.

Books

John Irving's Cider House Rules, Pearl S. Buck's Pavilion of Women , Sheila Ballantyne's Imaginary Crimes, Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, Nancy Winters' The Girl on the Coca Cola Tray, Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind, Gore Vidal's Myra Breckenridge … all read at least 4 times each, in some cases started over again right after I read the last page ...

Stephen Sondheim
See Sweeney Todd post ... and every other post. He's in there. Like the way spinach is in a brownie baked by Jessica Seinfeld. I may not have mentioned him by name, but he's the puree baked into every bite of Luvviepuffaroo's food. He's the main ingredient. He's the whole freakin' souffle!

Salad Toppins

I created the ultimate sandwich recipe based on my love of them. It is as follows:

1. take some bread (your choice – I don't care)
2. take some filling (your choice – still don't care)
3. spread on some type of condiment (your choice – just choose something)
   
4. sprinkle liberally with Salad Toppins
5. top off with Frank's Red Hot Sauce

I have done this with every combination of bread, meat and condiment I could think of so far and trust me … it's a hit every time. EVERY TIME.

I have been obsessed with lists:

Names I'd never NEVER name my child: Abigail, Blanche, Cora, Deidre, Ernabelle

Movies Titles that are just first and last names: Annie Hall, Barton Fink, Dolores Claiborne, Erin Brockovitch, Mary Reilly, Donnie Brasco, Ed Wood, Stella Dallas, Michael Clayton

Movie Titles that are only first names: Anastasia, Carrie, Harvey, Rebecca, Marny, Marty, Rocky, Rambo, Christine

Funny Names that sound like phrases: Helen Back, Paige Turner, Ben Dover, Wendy Winblows

But my most useful obsession (what … these aren't useful?) is recycling.

I'll recycle anything. If it's glass, paper, plastic, or aluminum I'll wash it out and put it in the little waiting room I've designed for it (what your people call "a bag") before it goes on to that great Recycling Train in the sky (um ... garbage truck). Little glass bottle filled with foundation? Recycle! Trial sized shampoo bottle? Recycle! Magazine blow-in cards? RECYCLE! The ritual I have for paper alone is enough to take up a whole Saturday morning.

But I'll also recycle other things ---

I donate, I pass along, I leave outside, and I swap. Just recently I help organize an afternoon at the New York Cares warehouse where I and 12 of my co-workers sorted some of the hundreds of thousands of donated coats that were waiting to be distributed to needy New Yorkers.

But wait! There's more ... If you know nothing about it I highly recommend you check out Swap-O-Rama-Rama which is probably the coolest way to get new clothes and clean out your closet at the same time. People are surprisingly generous with their quality items too … Everything isn't so much old or out dated as much as something the owner outgrew or got bored of. I was a sorter at the one in Williamsburg where one man came with a huge amount of stuff his father had bought before he died … great shirts and ties and even socks, all unused and all in Quibbit's size (very fortuitous … my baby is a tall man!) SCORE! Quibbit got an entire work wardrobe that day and I got a fuzzy warm feeling in my closet.

Probably the best part of all of it is that whatever is left over is donated to local shelters so nothing goes to waste. There's always a swap happening somewhere near you, so watch the skies and wait to see when that Swap-O-Rama-Rama bird flies over a warehouse near you! You'll be glad you did!

In the meantime, pardon me while I go recycle some coffee cans ...

People of the World!

It was around 1996 or so, and I was out of work and kicking around Boston, MA – Andover to be exact. My childhood friend M (of M+M) was living there and had gotten into a car accident that left her pretty injured. She was home, convalescing and in need of some company. Having just been laid off from my job at Sport Magazine I thought it would be good to go hang out with M and nurse her back to health … or at least just make sure her mail didn't collect by the door.

M had a little 8 year old nephew who tossed out barbs like a half pint Truman Capote, arched brow, bitchy inflection and all. He was more than just precocious – he was flat out spooky. Yet when he wasn't commenting on your appearance or explaining why you were wrong about whatever it was you were talking about, he was cute as hell -- a lot like that kid that makes up the "half" in Two and a Half Men, but with a biting sharp tongue that could cut you down in one syllable. I loved him. My favorite exchange with him occurred the afternoon I was deciding to get a set of fake nails applied. (I was bored and unemployed, and this was the 90s).

Luvviepuffaroo: Should I get regular length nails or really long ones?

Half: Get long ones. And when you have them, wave your hands around a lot. Point to things. You DO want to get a man, don't you?

Oh yes, Half ... I sure did. So I got really long claws -- almost unrealistically long. And I got them painted a dark shimmery blue ... like the finish on a car. Hey, this was the mid-nineties. It was actually pretty cool. For the mid-nineties.

That afternoon Half and I took a walk around downtown Andover, and I decided to try out my nails on unsuspecting men. We went into a record store and I saw a rather cute man (not a kid … no a fully grown MAN) behind the counter.

"Oh look," I said, pointing, "you have that new Spice Girls song. I can't get it out of my head!"

Man (Smiling, and handing it to me): Is this what you want … what you really really want?"

Luvviepuffaroo: No … tell me what I want, what I really really want … (wink, smile, laugh until ...)

Half (shouting): You HATE that song! Why are you buying it! You're an idiot! You said you'd NEVER buy that song!

I glared at Half, tried to smile at the guy again … but the moment was gone. I sheepishly paid for my very own copy of Wannabe, then dragged Half outside. Once we were out of the store's sight line, I started screaming.

Luvvie: Don't interrupt adults when they're flirting! People don't always say everything they mean! YOU TOLD ME TO GET A MAN!

Half: If you were flirting, why didn't you POINT to things so I would know!!!

Luvvie: I did point to things! I pointed at the Spice Girls cassette single!!!

Half: But you hate that song!

Luvvie: I know! But it was the first thing I saw! And I could point to it! And I had a funny comeback for his joke!

Half immediately turned into the little boy he actually was, and his little eyes filled with tears, and I hugged him and brought him to Starbucks to buy him a special hot chocolate.

And that was the last time I remember even thinking about the Spice Girls who quickly fell off of my (and most everyone else's) radar. The only memorable thing about them is that I coined my most favorite line ever when Won't and I were discussing Gerri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell's decision to break out on her own.

"I predict a very long career for her," I told Won't, "... a very Shelley Long career."

The other memorable thing is all the tabloid fodder lately what with Scary Spice doing the whole "you my baby daddy" thing with Eddie Murphy and Posh Spice doing the whole "not gonna smile, not gonna smile" thing with everyone else.

So imagine my surprise when a co-worker told me she had an extra ticket to the Spice Girls reunion show at Madison Square Garden! More: Imagine my surprise when I shocked myself by agreeing to go. I'll be honest, the only reason I went was curiosity. HOW did they look? HOW would they sound? WHO would be in the audience? WHERE were we sitting? WHAT the hell?

From the very opening notes of Spice Up Your Life last night I was on my feet and screaming. So were about a million 15 year old girls who'd taken the train in from Long Island and were dressed for a party -- that took place in 1985. I never saw so many gold belts, high hair and glitter in one spot. Who'da thunk it -- Spice Girls have a rabid following among the young and badly dressed.

The concert was oddly energizing and fun -- yes I stood up for most of it -- yes I wiggled around as much as the high haired badly dressed teen next to me.

I was all "Girl Power!" and "Spice up your Life" and "Yeah! Posh!" for almost 2 hours. I learned 2 things -- 1) If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends and 2) that sentiment doesn't mean as much once you're past your teens.

The really funny thing was, I couldn't help remembering so many years back when I was walking around with 2 inch long dark blue shiny nails, pointing to things, hoping to attract a man. And now, so many years later, I stood waving my hands about, pointing to the sky, my dark blue sapphire and diamond engagement ring sparkling for all the world to see -- or at least all of Madison Square Garden.

The Spice Girls were now Spice Women, they almost all had children ... and I finally had my man (she says, as she points to the right ... there he is!)

Happy Valentine's Day!

I never hid the fact that when Quibbit and I met he was making 10K a year and living in the spare room of the writer he was working for as a personal assistant dash personal slave. I didn't care about his net worth when I started dating him. I only saw his amazing eyes, his beautiful smile, his enormous capacity for love (and loving me) and I saw how no one on the planet understood me the way Quibbit did. He noticed things about me that I thought were deep and buried … but he saw them as if they were shining right out at him.

We'd been dating around 3 months for our first Valentine's Day. Having no money doesn't mean you can't be romantic and Quibbit proved that. On our first Valentine's Day my sweetheart picked me up from work with a rose and a bag full of thoughtful presents and a home made card.

Luvviepuffaroo: Did you paint this yourself?
Quibbit: Yes.
Luvviepuffaroo: And this thing here… um … did you draw a MONSTER in the middle of the heart?
Quibbit: That's the sun.
Luvvie: Cuz it looks like a monster.
Quibbit: It's the sun.
Luvvie: Really? I mean it honestly …
Quibbit: The sun.
Luvvie: Why is the sun in the middle of the heart?
Quibbit: Because my love for you is as big as the sun, and it fills up my heart ...
Luvvie: I'll shut up now.

He then walked me across the Brooklyn Bridge and we watched the sun go down from the top of the world. When other women talked about the flowers and cards they got, I replied, "My Boo gave me the sunset …". And, you know, they were all a little jealous.

By the next Valentine's Day he'd broken free of WriterGuy and was working at a large publishing company. Ever thoughtful, Quibbit gave me a beautiful present from my favorite sudsy store (LUSH), a wonderful dinner, and got me tickets to Company because he knew that it was my first Stephen Sondheim album and best-loved Stephen Sondheim soundtrack. He sat in the audience that Valentine's night with me, holding my hand tightly as I tried not to make it obvious that I was crying profusely all through "Being Alive". Has a truer love song every been written?

Someone to hold you too close // Someone to hurt you too deep
Someone to sit in your chair // And ruin your sleep // And make you aware
of Being Alive
Someone to need you too much // Someone to know you too well
Someone to pull you up short // And put you through hell
And give you support for being alive - being alive

Make me alive, make me confused
Mock me with praise, let me be used
Vary my days, but alone is alone, not alive.

Somebody hold me too close // Somebody force me to care
Somebody make me come through // I'll always be there
As frightened as you of being alive
Being alive, being alive

Someone you have to let in // Someone whose feelings you spare
Someone who, like it or not // Will want you to share a little, a lot of
Being Alive ...

Make me alive, make me confused
Mock me with praise, let me be used
Vary my days, but alone is alone, not alive

Somebody crowd me with love // Somebody force me to care
Somebody make me come through // I'll always be there
As frightened as you to help us survive
Being alive, being alive,
Being alive, being alive.

The first time I heard Being Alive I was 13 years old and madly in love with Dustin Hoffman's Benjamin Braddock because he was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend. All my notions of love came from Broadway or movies but at least Sondheim was giving me a warts-and-all manual for what I was to expect. I knew that someday, someone would sit in my chair and ruin my sleep and take over my apartment (not to mention my life) and would annoy the hell out of me but not half as much as he loved the hell out of me. I started dreaming about him at 13 but it took another 25 year until he was sitting with me in the dark, in that theatre, letting me crush his hand as everything in my life came full circle.

Quibbit knew, as he had always known, as he knows still, that he makes me aware of Being Alive, and that that is the biggest gift any one person can give.

So it just makes sense that this Valentine's Day, 2008, during dessert, Quibbit got down on one knee in the Beekman Towers restaurant, overlooking all of Manhattan, and told me that he would love me forever. And then he put a ring on my finger and asked me to marry him. And it would only make sense that as much as I'd always known that Quibbit was The One, and as beautifully as we fit together, so perfectly that there was never any room for doubt, and as much as none of this came as a complete shock, I still couldn't stop crying, or hugging him, or kissing him. Because now I KNEW. And being able to KNOW is just an amazing feeling.

We laughed and laughed and kissed and kissed and finished dinner in a rush, desperately excited to jump out into the world. We went out onto the roof top of the Beekman and looked out over all of Manhattan, and all its lights glittered and shone below us, but none so brightly as my sapphire and diamond engagement ring.

As soon as we could we left and got ourselves to Central Park where we got into a horse drawn carriage and took the ride around the park, and even though it was cold and I needed to huddle under the blanket I also really needed to see my ring in every kind of light and so held it up for the whole ride so that I could look at it.

We called our parents and cabbed it home, and everything was giddy and joyful and almost painted, with every line of everything jumping out at me and vibrantly alive, moving and shimmering and more dimensional than it had ever been. And I almost couldn’t understand that it could be this different, or this breathtaking, or this wonderful, or this true. But it was, and it is.

And it will always be …

Another Fave Five brought to you by Luvvie's Zagat's

Steakhouse Edition

Early on in my parents' marriage my dad celebrated Valentine's Day by gifting my mom with a huge heart filled with sausages and deli meats --and she was in seventh heaven. I came across the home-made heart in my parents' basement as a child and (after being told what it had been filled with) had suggested Dad go out and fill it again ... this time for me. He'd laughed, and I'd stared at that empty container longingly, envisioning the cuts of meat that had filled that heart shaped box, all those years ago. You see, I inherited my mom's un-sweet tooth, or as I like to call it - the Meat Tooth. And the Meat Tooth is relentless.

My dad's a true Italian and for him no dinner is complete without that primo piatto of pasta. In fact, after he's polished off the traditional Christmas lasagna my dad often pushes back from the table and announces that the dinner is pretty much done for him. Sure, he'll pick at the honey-glazed ham, or the stuffed turkey, or the crown of lamb (for which I made such stunning little white hats) or whatever my mom has whipped up in her kitchen, but really, he's done and we all know it.

On the other hand, my mom loves to tell the story of when, early on in their courtship, she would often join my dad and his mother for a home cooked steak dinner. Her future mother-in-law was thrilled to watch the way my mom attacked her meal, polishing the bones with vacuum cleaner like gusto. "My parents always said I should have married a butcher" mom would joke to her future (accountant) husband. Years later a good friend of hers actually DID marry a butcher who worked for Schaller & Weber and brought boxes filled with assorted liverwurst, gelbwurst, bauernwurst, knackwurst, leberkaese, westphalian ham, and landjaeger every time he was invited to the house. He was like our crack dealer, and he kept us well supplied for years.

Mother's Day became a hunt for a Meat, Meat and More Meat dinner to assuage the Meat Tooth. We'd spent more than one mid afternoon dinner in a less than full steakhouse while the waiter invariably remarked "huh ... we're more of a Father's Day place ..."

It's worked out great for my parents who are going on 45 years of wedded bliss; they've developed a Jack-Sprat type relationship and between the two of them there's always a clean plate.

I have vegetarian friends, and I even have hardcore vegan friends, and I love them all dearly. They love me too. And we all just avoid the issue of how enslaved I am by the Meat Tooth, as I share a meal with them at one of the many vegan restaurants which pepper Manhattan and which I do, indeed, frequent. I'll enjoy my seitan meal -- who wouldn't? But, like Richard Burton and Liz Taylor ... or Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, Meat and I are powerless to keep away from each other. Though I do get the sinking feeling that I love Meat a little more than Meat loves me.

So my 2nd installment of Luvvie's Zagat's Fave Five is devoted to Steakhouses who serve that meal which will always be in my heart, even when my heart is stuttering its last beat as I die from an overdose of my beloved Meat.

Ben Benson's
123 W 52nd Street

New York, NY 10019

Cross Street(s): 6th + 7th Avenue

212-581-8888

Neighborhood: West 50s

Cuisine: Steakhouse

Luvvie's Zagat's Review: Most Masculine of those I've been to, which is saying a lot * Standard fare, nothing shocking

Luvvie's Partner in Crime: Mom + Dad

Luvvie's been there: A Handful of Times

Ruth's Chris Steakhouse

148 W 51st Street

New York, NY 10019
Cross Street(s): 6th + 7th Avenue
212-245-9600
Neighborhood: West 50s
Cuisine: Steakhouse
Luvvie's Zagat's Review: Don’t bother saying "So and So from the radio show" sent you * They just go "Yeah, yeah, So and So … we know ..." * It's not like they give you a "You mentioned So and So!" Discount * They don't
Luvvie's Partner in Crime: Mom + Dad
Luvvie's been there: Once

Smith & Wollensky

797 3rd Avenue

New York, NY 10022

Cross Street(s): 49th Street

212-753-1530

Neighborhood: East 40s

Cuisine: Steakhouse

Luvvie's Zagat's Review: Big boys with their big steaks * Lots of testosterone here * Supposedly THE place, but they all think that * Size matters eh?

Luvvie's Partner in Crime: MEN

Luvvie's been there: A Handful of Times

The Palm

837 2nd Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Cross Street(s): 44th + 45th Streets
212-687-2953

Neighborhood: East 40s
Cuisine: Steakhouse
Luvvie's Zagat's Review: Dang, could there be yet another place to get meat in this city? * Really old, really good, but the best part is the ambiance * You come here to eat steak, so eat STEAK * But for dessert have The BEST VERY VERY BEST chocolate cake in the universe* It tastes like a 1950s housewife is making chocolate cake in the back room

Luvvie's Partner in Crime: Gallucio Family
Luvvie's been there: Once

Old Homestead

56 9th Avenue

New York, NY 10011

Cross Street(s): 14th + 15th Streets

212-242-9040
Neighborhood: Chelsea

Cuisine: Steakhouse

Luvvie's Zagat's Review: I always order the rib-eye * Taking a knife to this huge succulent slab of love is like slicing through to another place and time * You literally can imagine yourself shrunk down and living inside this steak for the rest of your life
Luvvie's Partner in Crime: Mom + Dad

Luvvie's been there: A Thousand Times

So go now, grab your bib and your steak knives and your big pants and Go Get Some MEAT!