Not to brag, but I’m getting SO much writing done!

Image above stolen from the desk of the amazing Austin Kleon.

HA!  Hello lovelies,

Greetings from The Overlook where I am in a white-heat manic frenzy and positively useless as a human. It’s not hyperbole. Friends came to visit from France, and I’ll admit it; I was the worst hostess ever. Domestic badasses like Martha Stewart, Ina and Snoop would excommunicate me tout de suite. I used to really, really  be able to cook, but all I can think about right now is the book, which is due molto pronto. I can’t do drugs because of my spazzy brain, but damn if I don’t start twitching like a meth mom every time I think about all the egregious typos in my manuscript. I’ve even started to resemble Karl Ove Knausgaard. Seriously,  I am his less-cute doppelgängster:


Plus, my skin is scaling away like that old corpse broad from The Shining. I’ll spare you the graphic bathroom visual from Kubrick’s stunning masterpiece. Suffice it to say, I’m trying to hydrate more.

Maybe it’s just aging, but I feel like my whole body is at war with itself. Where it’s like, “Yo’ lady! I need to see some ID!” and there’s me having left my driver’s license in my other purse. It’s almost a case of self not recognizing self, but I can’t figure out if it qualifies as an existential crisis or an auto-immune disorder? I think both are still covered under the #ACA.

On the bright side, the book is making me heaps skinnier. It’s a kind of terror-burp dyspepsia that gives you zero appetite as you are literally eating your own words. To cope, I’ve started harboring lush escapist fantasies and conducting wildly aggressive real estate searches for places like these:

front hall

It’s a farmhouse in Gers, France where there is health care and people still take naps. I also love this particular region because everywhere you look, there’s food like this:


Quack, quack went the duck. I have so much to tell you, from the different women’s marches to old AF parades to all-new New York weirdos, I just have to write like a mothertrucker this week.

Who was it who said, besides sex and wine… you are my favorite procrastination?

Stay rad – xoxo – gg


A Prescription for the Winter Cray-Cray’s

Snow-mageddon starting to make you feel a little like The Shining?


Cartoon by the amazing Allie Brosh –

I’m right there with you. Here’s a plan to get un-crazy during the winter of your discontent…

Speak Easy.  No, I’m not talking about slurring your words. I’m talking about the speakeasy bars of yore. Those special underground, secret places where only the trusted were allowed entry.

Nowadays, there are many in Manhattan, but my favorite is The ship.


One thing I love about The Ship (besides the fact that you could walk by its simple black door a thousand times and never notice it’s there) is the people. By and large, they are smart, funny and perfectly imperfect. All desirable traits in a boy or a girl because at a certain age, you no longer want a sweetie with washboard abs or granite booties. Instead, you want things proportional–a sort of mutual decay you can both tolerate and rely on. The Ship has these people. Duck in (literally) after work for a Manhattan. Linger for only one–as you will soon be sailing on.

(And even if you don’t live in NYC, every town always has some place special like the above)

We’ll always have Paris.  Next stop, Balthazar, the Frenchiest of French bistros. Have the oysters, straight off a mountain of shaved ice, accompanied by a  glass of Montrachet. If Montrachet is not an option, go for a Sancerre. Then… time for a Beef Cleanse. You heard me right. Order the fabulous, mostly microbe-free Steak Tartare–sculpted uncooked hamburger with a raw egg on top. Sounds gross. SO delish. Follow this with the Steak Frites and live it up–go rare. None of this medium well garbage. Pair it all with a deep red and belt out some UB40. You know the song I’m talking about 🙂

Screen Shot 2015-02-05 at 1.04.39 PM

You Sexy Mothertrucker. At this point, you want to fall sleepily into a cab and make for Arthur’s Tavern–a dive jazz funk-ish bar on/or around Grove Street. Don’t expect Coltrane or Django. Instead, request Prince’s classic–Sexy MF. Ignore the “No Dancing”  sign and get up and grind with a stranger. Your face will ache from smiling so much. No more than one 7 and 7 though… or you will be anyone’s and this is never a good idea.

The Ultimate Hangover-Before-You-Have-a-Hangover Remedy. Celebrate the fact that any week can be National Poutine Week. Partake of this wonderful Canadian dish made up of French fries, gravy and squeaky cheese curds. For this one, Uber it to Brookyln to The Mile End Deli. You’ll thank me later…


Next Uber it back to Gotham–either with a loved one, or trust your gut and go solo. Again, you’ll thank me.

Morning Sunshine. The next day sometime around 11 am, stumble out your door and, for a brief moment, let yourself be cold. Then go see something beautiful like this… and kiss the winter cray-cray’s goodbye.  XOXO – gg

.Central Park Winter -  Romeo and Juliet in the Snow - New York City