Hint: He's my boyfriend, I'm me, and we look a lot like this:

Black-eyed pea salad? Check. Parsley potatoes? Check. Baby bella mushrooms, green beans in tomatoes, and braised fennel. Check and check. And yet, something is amiss.

Oh, Tofurkey. Yes, that's it. I'm missing the MAIN COURSE because my dag-nab oven decided to break on Thanksgiving.

All that could be boiled, braised, or fried was offered to the Gods of the stovetop.

Under pressure and a few stifled tears, I still managed to pull off Thanksgiving. I aint no holla-back girl (This is true, as I rarely, if ever, holla back)! Main course be damned, it's a side-dish Thanksgiving!

Herein, Erik contemplates fennel. What's it all about, anise?

It's not shaped like a Turkey. It's shaped in a ball... like a roast! I feel gipped. I didn't buy a Toroasty!

Or... did I?

Despite the round turkey with vegan beet-derived lactose, I'm feeling really good about the impending meat-free, wheat-free, lactose-free Thanksgiving.

For example, I'm now adding Hearts of Palm to my warm black-eyed pea salad... in addition to sun dried tomatoes. This stroke of genius that came to me in a flash when I looked directly at a jar of Hearts of Palm in the grocery store.

Hearts of Palm in a jar? Who wishes they lived in Forest Hills now?

I'll be french-cutting mon haricots vertes and slow-cooking them in tomato sauce until they become those tangy, gooey string beans that you get in Greek restaurants like "Greek Corner" or "Greek Kitchen" or "Peter's Greek Kitchen".

Last minute deciszh: I'm skipping the squash and making jasmine rice with red lentils instead. Sorry, squash lovers! You're welcome, squash.

Did I also mention Goat Cheese Brie on Italian Herbed Spelt Flatbread crackers?

Oh no? Read it and weep.

I'm still wary of the vegetarian gravy. It just seems to scream a polite, muffled, "Oh no, this is good. It's... good. Ehem." but when in doubt, add mushrooms.

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

The shows have been going great so far, yes they have! And the best part is, there's still another chance for YOU to come.

Dont miss:

The Target Demographic in "Extra Pudding"

(It's a sketch show, but it is funny)

With
Kyria Abrahams! (From Jest)
Jay Bois! (From The Big Night Out)
Dan Newbower! (From VH-1)
Benari Poulten! (From School Ties)
Jason Reich! (From The Daily Show)
Erik Seims! (From Lit)
...and introducing Shirley Jane Temple as Miss Lulu Parsnips.

- Saturday 19 November, at Juvie Hall.
- 8 PM
- $8 (yeah, I know, but we gotta rent the hall)

Juvie Hall is located below the Gene Frankel Theater at 24 Bond Street, between the Bowery and Lafayette Street. (Take the B, D, F, V or 6 to Broadway Lafayette/ Bleecker Street.)

The first time I was on stage, I was eight years old. It was in church, only Jehovah's Witnesses don't call it a "church", because churches are pagan, what with their pagan crosses and pagan colorful stained glass and pagan talk of "loving all peoples". We called our church the Kingdom Hall, which admittedly sounds like something Peter Jackson had built for the Lord of the Rings set. At the time, it was just the place our parents took us to fidget and learn about the end of the world for a few hours.

Technically, the first time I was on stage was at age five, when Mom-Mom forced me to do my impression of Carol Channing singing Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend in the Community Room at the Douglas Manor retirement complex. But since I was coerced and ran away in tears before I ever got to the phrase "quite continental", I'll discount that initial attempt at stardom.

Rather, the first time I was voluntarily on stage was as part of a program at our Kingdom Hall ("It took 40 tons of New Zealand Burberry wood to build the set for Gondor's majestic Kingdom Hall"). It was called The Theocratic Ministry School, and was supposed to help you learn public speaking. The "school" was essentially a Jehovah's Witness open mike night, only without that hairy veteran who takes his pants off.

We called our presentations "giving a talk". A few months in advance, you'd be given a thin slip of paper with a topic for your talk, such as Obeying God Rather Than Men or The Hope of Mankind's Jubilee or my favorite, Everlasting Life on a Paradise Earth. Is It Just A Dream? - a rhetorical question which was a huge Jehovah's Witness theme. It seemed that every other week there'd be a sermon entitled Living Forever - is it Really Just a Dream? Why, yes. Now that you mention it, it is. In fact, it's not just a dream, it's THE dream. Remember the guy whose face melted in Indiana Jones? Ever read Tuck Everlasting? Not only is it just a dream, it's probably the leading dream cliché, right below "I wish I were flexible enough to felate myself!"

A brother can give his talk from the podium and address the congregation directly, but the women, being the lesser of God's creations, are not allowed to teach men (I mean, unless it's about shoe shopping, am I right or am I right people, women love the shoes?) So we had to perform little sketches where we gave our talk facing another woman instead of the congregation, as if we'd both unwittingly stumbled onto the stage and begun having a private conversation about the prophecies of Daniel in front of 80 people who were kind enough to stop their service and listen to us chat for a spell.

The sketch-talks would go like this:

"Oh, hello Sister Easily Stumbled. I noticed you've been missing some of the Tuesday Night Book study meetings lately. Is this because you feel overwhelmed by the weight of Satan's world?"

"I do feel overwhelmed, Sister Spiritual. To tell you the truth, lately I am just not sure that the Jehovah's Witnesses are really the one true religion."

"Oh, Sister Easily Stumbled. Of course Jehovah's Witnesses are the one true religion and all other wicked religions will be destroyed at Armageddon. Now let's turn to page 47 in the Jehovah's Witness published 'You Can Live Forever on a Paradise Earth' book to see why."

After five minutes, the brother in a green polyester leisure suit who had been ominously eavesdropping from the corner of the stage, would grade you in front of the whole congregation. He'd say you did a good job, because everyone always did a good job. This wasn't about actually learning, it was about indoctrinating, and you can't brainwash people by telling them they need to enunciate and work on eye contact. You hit them on the head with a love brick.

Some people gave great talks, the kind you made sure not to miss, saying something like, "Oh, did you hear that Brother Rondeau is giving a talk on proper dress in the field ministry? That should be a doozy!" And much like an open mike, some people did the equivalent of airplane jokes and an impression of Jack Nicholson singing The Oscar Meyer Weiner Song.

The most awesome thing about kids is they will believe whatever we tell them. Somebody told me that Jehovah was going to destroy the earth in a fiery Armageddon and that I needed to tell this to strangers in order to be saved; to which I said, "hook me up!" I was eight years old at the time, and thought the best thing in the world was that the guy who invented the toilet was named Thomas Crapper.

I was a creepy and precocious eight year old, with sky-blue eyes that could have been made of glass and set into a cupie doll. I was the child who tugged on your jacket and asked if you wanted to watch me spell a hard word, like antidisestablishmentarianism. I read Little House on the Prairie and invented a family of magical animals named the Oz-ee-fahs. You wanted to punch me in the face.

The elders of my congregation had to interview me to see if I was worthy of being on the school. They asked me if I knew how to read, to which I no doubt rolled my eyes and said "Duh! Of course!" and then spelled "schadenfreude". They asked me why I wanted to be in the Theocratic Ministry School and I said it was because I loved Jehovah.

An eight year old, no matter how precocious, doesn't really have the kind of self-reflection to say "It's because my parents told me this is what I'm supposed to be doing. I am eight-years old for christsake. Also, did you know the guy who invented the toilet was named Thomas Crapper?"

I don't remember what the topic of my talk was. No doubt it had something to do with never dying on a paradise earth with lots of friendly animals and baskets of fresh fruit and Jesus everywhere. But the plot of my talk, the arc - was going out for ice cream.

We sat on stage at a rickety faux-wood table, myself and my elderly sister who I was "educating" in the ways of the one true religion. I was dressed to the nines, in a white wicker hat, a lace dress, and other 8-year old fineries which stopped just short of a cigarette holder and a monocle. I began with a premise. "Before we get ice cream, let's chat about God" then told "Sister Older" her why Jehovah’s Witnesses were great and why all the homos and Jews were gonna die by God's hand. Then I got to the big finale. I cocked my head to the side and crowed, "Now let's go get that ice cream!" Everyone in the audience laughed.

I got off stage and sat in a grey, metal folding chair and began to cry. I put my wicker hat down over my eyes so no one could see my tears. I cried uncontrollably for several minutes, while damn "Sister Older' sat with her hands folded in her lap. When she finally realized what was going on, she thought she was the one who had made me cry, something which would be echoed years later in every boyfriend I'd ever have.

Of course, I was crying because everyone was laughing at me, when I hadn't intended anything to be funny. I had simply finished tying up a perfect piece. It began with ice cream, it ended with ice cream. Wasn't this some sort of literary convention? After all, the first time I was on stage, I was eight years old. I made people laugh without trying. The last time I was on stage, I tried to make people laugh and no one did. Next time, I'm doing an impression of Carol Channing explaining why Jews will die at Armageddon. Now let's go get that ice cream.

The last show was tons o' fun, only, as always, there weren't quite enough people there to warrant the awesomeness that was us.

So please come to:

The Target Demographic's "Extra Pudding"

With
Kyria Abrahams!
Jay Bois!
Benari Poulten!
Jason Reich!
Erik Seims!

We've got 45 minutes of sketch comedy for you tonight at 9pm in Juvie Hall. $5!

A big, luxurious, full-length production of “Extra Pudding” will take place at 8:00pm Saturday November 19. $8!

Juvie Hall is located below the Gene Frankel Theater at 24 Bond Street, between the Bowery and Lafayette Street. (Take the B, D, F, V or 6 to Broadway Lafayette/ Bleecker Street.)

As such:

anthropomorphic taxidermy.

Jessica Rollins didn't feather her hair this morning. She didn't use Clairol or Aquanet or a curling iron, and now I have something to talk to Jessica Rollins about.

"Jessica! Why didn't you feather your hair today?"

I look around to see who else will join in. "Her hair isn't done! I mean, am I right or am I right here, people? Who's with me?".

I can joke with Jessica Rollins, starting a conversation because we have something in common today - a deep, spiritual understanding of why hair can never be flat.

"Uhm, because I'm going to get a haircut today?" she answer-asks, spinning back around in a tan chair attached to a kidney-shaped desk.

"Oh. I see."

Jessica Rollins didn't do her hair today because she has a hairdresser's appointment this afternoon and doing her hair would be redundant. End of conversation.

Hey, who's with me here, people?

I do my hair every morning. I flip my head upside-down when I blow-dry it, and it is awesome. One morning, I will do my hair so awesomely that people will like me.

I finally convince my mother to buy me a pair of stirrup pants. "This is the year," I think, jumping up and down in front of the tri-fold dressing room mirror. "This is the year that everyone is going to like me."

Born: 1974. Year of the the stirrup pants. Beware the tiger and monkey. The fringed ankle boot is your friend.

The back of one's hair is not exceptionally important. It is understood that you already have a perm, and that you blow dry upside-down. This part of the head is fairly self-contained.

But the bangs - bangs need special care and attention. The hair in this area should be similar to salad tongs - split into two vertical halves, hardened and poised to scoop out the front of your brain.

Jessica didn't feather her hair this morning; didn't roll the bangs up with a round hairbrush and simultaneously spray Aquanet and hairdryer-heat in order to affect a perfect cockatiel plume today. Jessica's hair is flat today, but Jessica is still more popular than I am.

Jessica is friends with Jane. Jane is a Seventh Day Adventist, has red hair - flat hair - which she keeps in a braid. She has freckles, and a fraternal twin brother. Jane is kinda in a cult too, and when I find out that she is not only religious, but exceedingly religious - the first thought I have is, 'how does she have so many friends?’

On the first day of school, I wear my grey cotton stirrup pants with scrunchy pink leg warmers. My hair is in a perfect Judy Jetson ponytail atop my head, my bangs are thin, hard wisps of plastic. I cannot wait for people to like me this year.

At school, I'm never beaten up or pushed into a locker. No one throws spit balls at me or puts ink on my clothes. I am ignored. I long to be noticed long enough for someone to tape a Kick Me sign to the back of my grey and pink stirrup pants, to touch my skyscraper bangs the way they touch Crystal Burch's.

I want people to admire the kevlar mass that is my hairstyle, yet I am not even complimented on my matching jean outfit. It consists of an acid-washed shirt, an acid-washed jean jacket with knit shoulder detailing and leather collar, a pair of acid-washed lycra stretch jeans, and - somehow - a pair of veiny blue acid-washed socks.

When I try to crack a joke, people don't laugh. I don't get called pretty. No one saves me a seat for anything. Inexplicably, some kid starts calling me "Sheila E." This isn't exactly an insult, but since I don't know what she looks like, or perhaps because of his intonation, I take it as one. I'm pretty sure he actually meant it as one, too, failing immediately at Snaps years before they were ever published in book form.

Still, Jessica Rollins' hair is flat and mine is huge.

For several weeks, I sit at a lunch table with three creepy girls. Since they're awkward, badly dressed, and overweight, I figure they'll accept me.

Helen, one of the girls, wears her greasy hair pulled back in a headband, and the plastic teeth draw shiny lines straight back from her forehead. She walks hunched below her heavy backpack. I think she is smart, although she's not in any of my classes. I'm in the "1's" classes, the AP classes, but I've never seen her in any of them. Her almond-shaped eyes and curved shoulders cause her to look like she suffers from Downs Syndrome, but I don't see her making blueberry muffins with the Special Ed kids in the cafeteria either. Helen does not feather her bangs.

I draw a picture of a skull for biology class, and I share this picture to ingratiate myself. Helen draws her own skull and, holding the Trapper Keeper in front of me so that I cannot see, says, "Hey, does anybody want to see a shitty picture of a skull I drew? It's really shitty, anybody wanna see?"

I start sitting by myself. Me, my skull, and my awesome bangs.

And 20 bucks burning a hole in my pocket.

I mean, I've had worse. I wouldn't say it tasted bad, or putrid, by any stretch. I just don't know if was worth $18.00.

One of the shimp was a little cold.

The noodles were unevenly shaped and did seem, perhaps, hand-made. I'll give it that. You didn't have to slog through the chewy, Yellow #5 colored tubes you get in storefront take-out places; places where posters of lobster sauce accompanied by dewy lilacs and rain droplets hang above their counter. Rain droplets. As if Panda Yum had an unexpected thunder shower during the photo shoot and decided to forge ahead photographing the glazed pork and its flora.

If pressed, I would define this plate of lo mein as decidedly "all right".

I guess I should have known better than to eat one block away from the UN. They must feed a lot of high-powered diplomats from foreign countries rich in oil and exports. Diplomats who leave saying: "I don't think that lo mein was quite worth $18.00" in their language of choice.

Note to self: I don't think that lo mein was quite worth $18.00.

Perhaps if it came with soup, I would feel differently. Who, really, is to say?

I'd also like to mention that the plate came very expediently. It's as if they had a few leftovers in Tupperware and, as my mother would say, "zapped it in the micro". I sat down not 5 minutes ago, and already lo mein is on my table? Dinner made it here before the tea did. If a restaurant can get your shrimp lo mein to you before even water has boiled, perhaps that is a red flag. An $18.00 red flag.

Speaking of the tea, I don't mean to lead you astray. The Lo Mein itself was not priced at exactly $18.00. The entire bill (before tip) came to $18.00. When the check came, I joked a little in my own head. I said to myself, "Heh heh. I bet they charge me for the tea. That'd be funny. If they ch-"

So what I really should have titled this is: "I don't think that lo mein and those 3 cups of jasmine tea were quite worth $18.00."

I really don't, you know.

I hope I don't come across as trying too hard to "rant". I'm not of that ilk. I couldn't never be a VH-1 talking head, I don't know enough about pop-culture to deconstruct it. And even if I did, I'm still not offended by the shoes which people choose to pair with certain outfits ("How dare she wear that dress while I'm not in the same room with her? I mean Christ Jesus, already!"). Honestly, most things is life don't phase me much. I'm pretty laid back. Got my mind on my money and my money on my mind and all that.

But this lo mein thing...

Maybe I'm being touchy. Maybe paying 3 times the price of a normal Chinese lunch special is nothing to be phased by. Maybe I'm just not goddamn New York enough. "Go back to Rhode Island - cheap lo mein-wanter," they'll cry! And I will go.

Once again, I would like to make it clear that it was in no way an unsavory plate of Chinese food. It was adequate. Additionally, I am in no way saying that YOU would not find this plate of lo mein to be worth $18.00, I am simply stating my own opinion on this. Yours may be different. I ask you not to take offense. If I have upset you in any way, please feel free to adress this with me at lomeinpossiblynotworth18dollars at gmail dot com.

Please don't miscontrue this, but I've got an itching feeling that, maybe, just maybe, my lo mein wasn't quite worth $18.00 plus tip.