LIFE IS SO EXCITING AT MIDNIGHT WHEN YOU’VE BEEN HAULING CRAP ALL DAY FROM ONE KITCHEN TO THE NEXT AND DRANK 2 GLASSES OF WINE REALLY QUICKLY RIGHT WHEN YOU GOT HOME!
I have finally, after much hand-wringing and whining and advice-seeking and self-scolding and wishing-I-was-stronger-ing and gyms-are-gross/yoga-isn’t-for-me-ing, figured out my ideal exercise:
Moving is perfect for me! Not only is it a great workout, but I push my body much more than I would in your typical when-will-it-be-over workout because it actually accomplishes something. I will push my body harder than I’ve ever pushed it if it means one more carload of chocolate molds and Pyrex containers and spoonulas will get to the new shop before darkness sets in.
Anyway, so this week I’m moving my business from Rosendale 10 minutes down the road toward my house into New Paltz. (Hey, I just did a radio-style “reset” for new readers! How fancy! If you’re new to this blog, I hope you feel sufficiently clued-in now.)
Yet another great thing about spring: it’s the perfect season for moving. Not too hot, not too cold.
Oh, and am I the only one with a seemingly endless stack of cheeky anti-Bush t-shirts gathering dust in the closet? They make good painting clothes, that’s for sure. Maybe I could start a trend of calling the bush the “Obama” so I could just make a quick change with puffy paint or something and then bring on the “The only Obama I trust is my own” shirts.
Speaking of photos (and moving on from failed presidencies), when everything is all set I’m going to create the most massive post of all time with photos of every single inch of the new shop—so be excited about that, because YOU ARE GOING TO FREAK OUT ABOUT HOW AMAZING IT IS. Or, at the very least, about how much painting I did.
On a bitterer note: I am making a list of people not welcome at the shop, complete with photos! How terrible am I?
There are two people on the list so far, and I really hope it will stop there. I thought of several others I’m not thrilled about seeing, like the Women’s Studies prof who wrote the short story in which I am negatively featured as an overly chatty vag-blocker at a drinky party (truthfully, this 6-year-old story is sort of getting old as I’ve told it to everyone I know twice and I don’t even harbor any annoyance at said WST prof anymore, especially since I’m still besties with the dude she was flirting with—as well as his lovely wife, because some people understand that talking to a dude doesn’t mean you want to sleep with him, Ms. Women’s Studies Professor!),
or the woman to whom I once screamed “FUCK YOU” at a meeting of our organic food co-op (she responded in kind, don’t worry),
or the former Mayoral candidate who I gossiped about on Facebook last week without realizing we were Facebook friends (he instantly commented saying I was, in fact, incorrect in stating that he was “literally insane” [his grammar and spelling were a lot worse though] and we were off to the races after that. The next day 3 people stopped me on the street to thank me for the lolz.).
or that one former meal delivery client of mine who makes me crazy for a million trillion reasons,
or the other one who makes me crazy for a million trillion other reasons and recently ran into me in town and said, AND I QUOTE: “Yoo hoo!! Word on the street is you’re opening a chocolate shop! You’re going to have to deal with people! I can’t wait to stop in and witness the fireworks!!!”
or a dude who, at terrible Italian restaurant in Battery Park, I once had a heated discussion with about the music industry and the nature of selling out. This dude would *not* concede that I was right (selling out is still a sin), and I got a bit hot under the collar and screamed that he needed to “shut the fuck up” at the top of my lungs (naturally this happened just as the song coming over the speakers had ended, so the entire restaurant turned to look.). (We’ve made up, at a wedding last winter though, over whiskey and wine. All good.)
or the famous farmer around town with whom I once got into such a bizarrely heated and prolonged fight about the need for feminism that our respective partners were literally holding us apart, lest we punch each other.
or one of my former culinary school instructors, who was a really close pal until she stayed up all night once reading the old lagusta.com, which was a collection of essays written by yours truly about things like I write about here, and came into school the next day and told me my political views were so extreme she wanted to pretend I no longer existed.
or those two dudes on the internet who are always sending me crazy emails and Facebook messages about me not being vegan because of the honey thing and the used leather shoes thing.
or the proprietor, with whom I share a few pals, of a certain trendy NYC vegetarian restaurant, who I’ve talked some serious smack about because she talked some serious smack about hating vegans in the NYC papers. (every vegan knows the golden rule: you’re only allowed to complain about how 99% of vegans are insanely annoying to other vegans–not to the press, lady.)
or my scammer!
or this reallllllly annoying ad rep who keeps promising to write an article about my biz in exchange for taking an ad out in her paper and who emails me about every other day which boils my blood because my mother is a journalist and I know that that kind of quid pro quo is disgusting, yo! And also, I’ve told her a million times that I don’t do ads!
or this person who emailed me last week complaining about the rosemary caramels, AKA ONE OF THE BESTEST THINGS I MAKE, HANDS DOWN, saying that “my friend and I both agreed the rosemary was overwhelming. The next time you make a chocolate to donate to a charity, try to make one that tastes delicious.” and subsequently caused me to eat five caramels at once, shoving them into my maw and yelling “I’M EATING FIVE AT ONCE AND THE ROSEMARY STILL ISN’T OVERWHELMING! AND I HAVE A VERY SENSITIVE PALATE! PEOPLE ARE FREAKING INSANE!”
I’m beginning to think I could go on with this all night.
THE POINT IS:
None of these bonkers freakers am I banning from the shop. (Also: two glasses of wine + exhaustion + insane hyped-up energy created by thinking about all my enemies = very weird syntax)
You just can’t go around banning people from your capitalist enterprise, you know?
What am I, twelve?
Obviously I know that I’m going to have to sell chocolates to people whose political views or personal style or ways of being don’t line up with my own, and obviously I’m fine with that. Plus, as my work is my activism (as I so eloquently/bizarrely put it recently here, about halfway down, right before I started rapping), I want people to eat my chocos who aren’t anarchist vegan far-lefty man-hating feminists who have seen every episode of Arrested Development a minimum of four times. Conversion is the name of the game. (Ideally converting people to veganism, that is. But if I convert a few over to the side of Arrested Development who weren’t already on that team, that’s fine too.)
The idea of the two people on my banned list eating my chocolates makes my heart hurt so bad, it’s a whole different level. Their nasty vibes would pollute the shop so terribly (and both have blogs that I mos def do not want to be featured on) that I decided that instead of worrying they were going to come in, I would preemptively kick them out. I’ve prepared a polite “we reserve the right to refuse service” speech and feel much calmer about the whole thing.
On a sweeter note: I’m also making a list of people in the neighborhood as I meet them, so I remember their names. I’m committing myself to remembering names these days, and have realized that the reason I never do is because I don’t pay any attention when people introduce themselves, usually because I’m so uptight about worrying that they won’t pronounce my own name right. This is all changing—I’m going to be that warm shop owner who greets regulars by name! FUCK YEAH!
Oh hey, that reminds me: how do you prefer to be treated when you enter a shop? I’ve been thinking about that lately.
- a lot of signage that will educate me about the products being sold that I can peruse (or not) at my leisure,
- to be greeted upon entry,
- then left alone unless I specifically ask a question.
I have a feeling I’m not the average consumer. If you’d share your thoughts on this, I’d be super appreciative. I can’t think of any better customers than you, the people who have put up with my rambles over the years and are still here.
I’m really excited about life right now, can you tell (except a wee bit depressed by realizing I have so many enemies)? I’m going for everything, balls out, 100%, on my terms.
It’s amazing. I feel powerful and proud, and the shop isn’t even open yet.
OK, time for bed, and finishing up that New Yorker article about that dude doing those experiments about drummers and how they experience time differently than the rest of us. CRAZINESS.
THE WORLD IS FUCKING AMAZING, PEOPLE. IGNORE THE HATERS!