The Tragic Tale of the Sneaky Jalapeño...or...The Post My Mother Doesn't Want You to Read

Beware the jalapeño. Though it is little, it is mighty. And sneaky.

Last night, Dean and I made pizzas for dinner. Individual sized pizzas, so we each had our own toppings. Dean is not a fan of mushrooms, so I loaded them on MY pizza, and I am not a fan of jalapeños...and will never touch them again.

I do a lot of chopping in our kitchen, while Dean does most of the cooking. True to my job description, I chopped our toppings, including the jalapeño, and as I chopped, I told Dean the story of the last time I chopped one of those little buggers. I’d been wearing contacts at the time, and found out the hard way that touching the jalapeño, and then touching my eyes was a bad idea. I went on to tell Dean that I’d tried everything to get the pepper oil off my hands: I soaked them in milk, I doused them with bleach, I washed, rinsed, and repeated- to no avail.

As we were enjoying our pizzas, I happened to wipe my mouth, and the sudden burning was a pretty good clue that once again, I’d fallen victim to the sneaky, injurious jalapeño. I did my best to avoid touching my face for the rest of the meal, and then we settled in to watch “Raising Arizona.” (“Turn to the right.”)

And then, I went to the bathroom.

You never stop to think about just how one goes to the restroom. The actual gathering of the toilet tissue, the folding, the...using. One never really has cause to think about just how much of the tissue’s surface is actually touched by our hands. Or how much of our body is touched by the tissue. I’m here to tell you, you’d be surprised.

I came out of the restroom, sat back down...and that’s when I felt the burn.

Apparently, the oil from the seeds is transferrable. As I sat there writhing, Dean suggested I take a shower to try and wash it off. Even though I’d washed my hands multiple times without benefit, I thought it was a pretty good idea, and figured it couldn’t hurt.

And...I was wrong.

I was standing in the shower, when it dawned on me: I would have to use my hands to wash myself. I thought back to the toilet tissue issue, and did some quick calculations. There was no way I could touch the washcloth and then touch myself. Nor could I not use a washcloth. My hands were poisonous. I was helpless. And most of all, embarrassed.

At this point in the story, I will spare you the details, but will say that being married has its benefits. And I can say without hesitation that Dean Poynor is the most caring, helpful man I know, both in and out of the water.

I'm typing this with bandages on the three offending fingers, bandages which serve as a barrier between my contaminated hands and every touchable part of my body. If memory serves, it takes a while for this to wear off my skin, so I'll still be extra careful--and extra grateful that I'm not wearing contacts these days.

And if I find myself needing some extra help until then, no problem- because with Dean around, I am in very capable hands. (Pun intended.)

Babyville

No, I am not having a baby. But I may be the only woman in the Upper West Side who isn't.

Lately, it seems that every time I venture out, I find myself saying, "I should be taking pictures of this." By "this," I mean the astronomically high number of women who are either painfully pregnant, or pushing a child (or children, as is often the case) in high-end, souped-up strollers.

(At this point, I headed out with my camera to take some photos, but A) Hank was too distracted to cooperate with my secret mission, and B) how would you know if the photos were all from the same chunk of time? So, mission aborted. No pun intended.)

Seriously, though, there must be something in the water. Or more than likely, a high concentration of women in their late thirties who have lots of money and who have undergone fertility treatments of some kind, which would account for the high numbers of twins we see in our neighborhood. And the high number of blank stares on the faces of the fathers.

Have you seen the strollers out there these days? There are jogging strollers and twin strollers, and strollers that hold twins AND a toddler while you jog. These things have cup holders and phone holders and parking brakes and sunshades and umbrella attachments and ipod plug ins.

Dean and I were in the park the other day when we saw a whole line of mommies jogging behind their baby strollers. Just as I was about to snap a photo, the whole posse turned a corner, parked in a line right near us, and started doing leg lifts, using their strollers for balance. Upon closer examination, we realized they had a TRAINER who was leading a group exercise class for them. That guy is a genius, whoever he is.

Annnnd........here's the video to prove it. Watch over Dean's shoulder.

Don't get me wrong- we love our neighborhood. It is safe and clean, and there are lots of restaurants and museums and trees. It's a great place to raise a child. Or in our case, a Beagle named Hank. But just to be on the safe side, I'm going to drink good old fashioned NYC tap water instead of whatever fancy bottled water these chicks are drinking. We're not taking any chances.

Ancient Chinese Secret, Huh?

Laundry is an issue in New York City. Not only do we not have a washer dryer in our apartment, but there's not even one in our building for tenants to use. This means we have a few options when it comes to laundry:

1. Don't do any.

2. Gather up loose change and wash it ourselves at a local laundromat, all the while avoiding eye contact with "SCRAM Bracelet Lady", Lop-Sided Face, and Dog-Hating Visor Woman (all real people.)

3. Take it across the street to the magical Chinese laundry.

We went with Option 3.

In St. Elmo's Fire, Kirby vows to go "Fluff and Fold" once he hits it big. Actually, it's not expensive at all, and it's worth every cent to see how your laundry is transformed when you pick it up.

You know what laundry looks like in a laundry bag- it's lumpy and huge and hard to carry. BUT...when Poly Organic Cleaners is done with it, our laundry looks like this: (I've put my foot up against it to show scale.)

Inside this exquisitely wrapped package is ANOTHER package that looks like THIS:

It may not look like it, but inside this plastic cube are around 25 shirts (including t-shirts and tanks), 6 pairs of shorts/pants, about 10 pairs of boxers, 15 pairs of socks, and a couple of hand towels that got thrown in the wrong bag. Everything is folded perfectly, to the exact same size, and it's all shrink-wrapped.

As a cherry on the top of this Laundry Sundae, an autographed photo of Mr. Steve Martin hangs in the cleaners, alongside one of our yet-to-be-spotted neighbor, Mr. Billy Squier. Even the greats appreciate Poly Organic's Ancient Chinese Secret.

Auditions are...(fill in the blank)

Today I went to two auditions. WENT to.

In the first play, I was auditioning for the role of a woman in her mid-30's who is going through a gender identity crisis. This role required some tasteful rear end nudity, and the character sings an a capella song at the end of the play, likely about her transformation. If you know me, you know I love two things: baring my rear end and singing in front of people. If you don't know me, then that doesn't seem funny to you at all.

The second audition was for a show based on a book with somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 characters, but the play has only 5 actors. I was reading for the role of Gertrude Bell, Aunt Mumma, and about a dozen more. The director not only wanted actors to come in with a 90 second monologue, but also (get this) a scene in which the auditioning actor would portray BOTH roles. Memorized. You know, to show range. Because playing Lady Macbeth, Juanita from Sordid Lives and Fudge in Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing means I'm kinda a one-note actor.

You may be wondering how these auditions went. "If I know Monica, she really shone in that gender-bending role- she loves a nice pair of slacks." Or maybe, "Monica has always reminded me of extraordinary British diplomat and spy, Gertrude Bell." If only...

As it turned out, both shows are knee-deep in rehearsals while we are in Australia, so the stage managers sent me on my way with a "thank you anyway" and audible sighs.

Still, I feel pretty good about today. My hair did exactly what it was supposed to do, and Hank said my monologue was very effective, even though it made no mention of dogs. I took the train in the correct direction to the appropriate stops. I finished reading Wonder of the World and plan on using something from it for a new comedic audition piece. And for a late-afternoon treat, Dean and I are going to a taping of David Letterman's show.

Tomorrow morning, I will go to the Actors' Equity Audition Center to sit and wait for the chance to audition for the new Playwrights Horizons show. Maybe I'll wear a nice pair of slacks...

Recycling

For those of you who think recycling means taking your wine and beer bottles to the curb, I'd like to invite you to spend a few days living in a NYC apartment. This city is SERIOUS about recycling...you have no idea.

There are three categories for trash/recycling up here: (clean) paper and cardboard; beverage cartons, bottles, metal and foil; and "everything else." And to keep these three categories separate, there are three different containers outside for us to put things in. Easy? Think again.

Let's say we pick up shirts from the cleaners (which is conveniently located at the end of our block.) Just like Mommie Dearest, Dean hates wire hangers, so those get tossed out. But wait! The hangers have those cardboard tubes on them! Take them apart! Tear off the paper and put that in a separate bin, too. Finished with a roll of toilet paper? Don't be so quick to toss that cardboard rube in the bathroom waste basket- if the sanitation department decides to check our recycling and finds YOUR cardboard tube in with the regular trash, look out. That means up to a $100 fine PER INCIDENT for the building.

We ordered a bed that arrived the other day. Inside, there was styrofoam (trash), cardboard (fold it up and tie it together), extra screws (metal), and binding strips (plastic.) Dean put the bed together, and I dealt with the recycling and proper disposal/placement of the stuff. He got the easier job.

So, when you come visit, please don't think we've lost our minds when we take your yogurt container out of recycling and toss it in the trash (those are NOT recyclable in NYC- tricked you, didn't I?) Please don't roll your eyes when we scrape the cheese out of the pizza box and put it in the bin labeled "cardboard." We just don't want our landlady mad at us... she yells in Italian, and it can get scary.