Very much not New York pizza

Image result for pizza


A recipe for pizza toast in Atlanta starts out as cold comfort, then provides a path forward

By: Julia Bainbridge/

I checked the weather app on my iPhone as soon as my plane touched the ground in Georgia. It registered 89 degrees. Hours before, I finished a cup of coffee in a drizzly Manhattan and hugged my friend goodbye, and when I discovered the app’s findings, I texted her a screenshot. “Jealous!” she responded.   I abhor the heat.

Rummaging through the refrigerator in the apartment I’ve lived in for just over a year, I found sliced sourdough bread, tomato sauce, and mozzarella cheese that I had shredded and stored in a plastic container. I toasted the bread and then layered on the tomato sauce, which I mixed with a tablespoon of an Indian-style tomato condiment that another friend makes (and sells through her company Brooklyn Delhi) and then the mozzarella, which I melted under my oven’s broiler. It was a kind of pizza, I guess; pizza toast, let’s call it. It was fine. It was dinner that night.

Four nights earlier, I had ordered a New York pizza. It was a New York pizza in style — generous in diameter, with a thin, crisp but pliable crust — but also in fact. I was in New York and I ordered a pizza. It was a New York pizza because it was baked, sliced, delivered and, ultimately, devoured in New York. Hundreds of pizzas were simultaneously being delivered within a couple miles of me, and they were all New York pizzas.

This particular one arrived in a 20-inch cardboard box via a slender man named Weiqun. The time was 10:30 p.m. on Wednesday, and as I stood on the sidewalk in my silk pajama set waiting for Weiqun to unzip his insulated carrying case, I noticed a handsome brown leather briefcase to my left. Following the navy pant leg of its owner up to his face, I saw a late twenty-something man leaning against the brick facade of my friend’s apartment building, wrapping up a phone call about some business deal or another. Whether or not he does so ironically, I was charmed to discover that at least one millennial carries a briefcase to work.

For 30 seconds, Weiqun, the millennial financier and I were subjected (happily, in my case) to the synthesizers in Rihanna’s ragamuffin-style “Rude Boy” trilling out of the speakers of the boombox affixed to the back of Weiqun’s bicycle seat and onto Thompson Street. Once the pizza box reached my hand, off I went to the fifth floor.

As for the aforementioned devouring, it was done properly, by New York standards: My right-hand thumb and pinkie finger pushed together the two vertices on either side of the crust edge of each cheese-topped triangle, folding it in half lengthwise. I ate three slices, standing at my friend’s kitchen counter while streaming a Netflix documentary about early 90s-era club kid (and criminal) Michael Alig on my laptop.


I thought of that pizza as I plodded around my kitchen in Atlanta and ate my pizza toast in silence, watching the sluggish sway of dogwood trees billowing with flowers through my living room window. Visions of Weiqun came to me, as did flickers of Rihanna’s steel drums. My pizza toast tasted better after the first three bites, as I remembered my New York pizza and the scenario involved in acquiring it. Sometimes pleasure can be had in eating something so unlike the other that, in comparing the two, they’re both with you. The tomato achaar’s black mustard seeds revealed themselves, then the fenugreek. Tamarind! Gosh, I haven’t cooked with tamarind for a while, I thought as I reached the center of the slice. By the time I finished it, I was searching for tamarind recipes on my laptop. The next night I used the fruit’s pulp in a warming and garlicky chickpea curry, something I’d never made before.

New York City, where I lived for ten years, is a dirty, difficult place with endless potential for magic. About once a quarter, most New Yorkers wonder aloud where else they might move. I could have a yard in Nashville. I could afford a second bedroom in Portland. I could own a bed and breakfast in Maine. I could run an heirloom squash farm upstate. In the end, they usually stay. A piece of the reason why is that they feel a part of a phenomenal and phenomenally twisted club. Loving New York for the energy it provides and the willingness to sacrifice so much else for that energy is a very specific taste. Are you wacked enough to immerse yourself in it? So am I. Let’s play.

I left, and I’ll probably return. I say “probably” because, in this year away, a year that forced me into saying I’m in my mid and not early thirties, I’ve grown used to the ease of being able to seat eight guests comfortably at a table in my dining room. I’ve enjoyed the company of less rapacious men, men actually seeking committed relationships. And I’ve had the room to, instead of hustling to pay rent, try new things, like making chickpea curry from scratch. Twenty percent of me still isn’t sure I want to return to carrying my laundry two blocks once a week or engaging in months of flirtatious texts that lead nowhere over and over again. Another thirty percent of me is curious to see what else I might get up to with the time I have now, time that used to be taken up scraping New York’s dirt off of me at the end of each day.

I’ll spend the summer touring Minneapolis, Chicago, Austin, San Francisco and most places in between as I research for a book. Pizza toast will appear here and there to fuel me, I’m sure. Maybe in Philadelphia, I’ll make it on a hoagie roll. Maybe in Los Angeles, I’ll get my hands on some of that tomato achaar and make a version that’s close to my Atlanta original. I’ll think of my kitchen in Georgia and all of other the things I cooked there. And I bet when I order New York pizza, those flavors will be with me.


Pizza Toast

Serves 1

1 slice sourdough bread

1 tablespoon tomato sauce (or whatever your desired amount for spreading)

Shredded mozzarella cheese (usually about 1/4 cup, depending on your mood)

Optional toppings: flaky sea salt, black pepper, red pepper flakes or dried oregano

Place bread on a sheet pan. Broil on both sides until golden.

Spread one side with tomato sauce and top with cheese. Broil once more until the cheese is melted.

Serve immediately.


The Real Housewives of New York: S9 Ep13 Introducing LADY’M Da Gangsta from the Upper East Side

New catchphrase: The argument climaxed with Dorinda yelling 'Clip!' at Dorinda

New York keeps raising the bar for housewives, yes there is drama, but there is humor, and from time to time it can be touching, now that I’ve got that out of the way.

Dorinda Medley, must have a black or latin freinds in New York.  CAUSE, Dorinda is a GANGSTA , her tone,her mannerisms etc are not from the NY ladies bridge club.  This is the year of Dorinda Medley or by her new name “LadyM” , yes I’m going there.    Her tag lines are  growing by the episode.  From “Not very well Bitch” to last night’s “CLIP” which sent Twitter on Fiya!  and yes “she keeps it nice.”


This scene takes place in the Bronx. Bethenny invites every one except Ramona to an Italian Restaurant .   These are Manhattan women, who rarely leave the Island except for trips up to the Hampton’s, so this was quite a field trip.   If you’ve watched the video, I don’t need to say more here, other than some near sided man tells Carole she looks like Ivanka Trump.  CLIP!

We get to see Tinsley in therapy.  (wake us up, b4 u go go)

Luann, Ramona and Sonja  have lunch and talk about Bethennys ski trip to Vermont. Our resident snob-o-saurus Ramona dissed Vermont, she only ski’s in Aspen.  They tawk about how close Dorinda and Luann are.  Sonja pisses Luann about how they both slept with Luann’s hubby.  Luann ain’t feeling it and leaves.

Room BS in Vermont

Bethenny rents a seriously nice log cabin.  Ramona on the road with Sonja and Tinsley. Ramona tries to make up with Bethenny via text, Bethenny isn’t feeling it.  Lady ‘M arrives and realizes she has left all her luggage in Manhattan.   Lady”M admits to Carole, she had lil quickie with Dry Cleaning John.  Perhaps that’s why her luggage is in NY.                (lets hope there’s a Wal Mart nearby)

Ramona, Sonja and Tinsely arrive and Ramona already has attitude.  She have NEVAH spent five hours in a car.   After trying to make up with Bethenny, Ramona shades Bethenny’s  brand “Skinnygirl” saying she prefers something really good.

Ramona and Sonja has a vacation routine of running round the various rooms to see if they can get the best room.   They want Dorinda’s room but 000 the “chutzpah” awards goes to  Mrs Luann D’Agostino who was miffed because the ladies should have given her the Big Bedroom as a wedding present.  Cause she is sleeping in tIhe basement, next to the ping pong table with a shared bath.    The basement location seems Seems fitting, when you consider, she only invited Dorina to her wedding.

Bitch!  Have you seen this show?

At dinner, Tinsley freaks with tears .  EVERYBODY, is pressuring her to move out of Sonja’s house, in her daughters bedroom with the dolls and get a life!  Hey, your 41!

Poor Tins, she just cant take the pressure and Bethenny is like, get over it bitch!

Tinsely says, “Well, at least your breakup wasn’t public!  Where has Tinsley been?   I’m surprised all the ladies didn’t jump on her and beat her ass. .   All of there lives are in the press.  Ramona’s, Luann. Carole’s , Sonja  and Dorinda’s.   Bethenny’s is in the press as of today.

Image result for girl bye



Subscribe and tell your friends

 season 9 trailer real housewives bravo rhony GIF

A new direction for Cadillac?

If your a person who reads Car magazines you know Cadillac is building drivers cars. Cars that out BM BMW, out Mercedes, Mercedes Benz.  The ATS-V and CTS-V have won rave reviews through the years.  The new CT6 has received positive notices.

The problem is few people are buying Caddies.  As Buick is rapidly shedding its Grandpa image,Cadillac struggles.   There are still a few new 2015 Cadillac on the lots.  In the Luxury segment, only Lincoln sells fewer vehicles than Cadillac.

Some of the problems may be traced to the popularity of crossovers. Cadillac has one, Audi and Mercedes Benz has three each. There are two crossovers in the pipeline,  next up like likely to be a seven passenger crossover to join the newly released XT-5.

2017 Cadillac XT5 wheel.

Last year Cadillac moves their World Headquarters from Detroit to New York City’s trendy Soho district.

The 2017 CT6 is the current flagship.

See the Cadillac CT6 in action, where performance meets beauty.Discover a truly refined sedan in the Cadillac CT6

 Cadillac plans to develop eight new models by 2020.

Cadillac recently  unveiled the Escala “Spanish for scale” concept a vision for its new flagship sedan. It suggests a new direction for Cadillac.  The hard lines are softer, more fluid.

Cadillac CEO Johan de Nysschen introduced the vehicle at a private estate multi-million estate in Pebble Beach, California billed as the Monterey version of its New York-based Cadillac House  .

The Escala is the third redesign in recent times for  Cadillac. The billion dollar question will GM build it ?



New York killed my dating life — and I couldn’t be happier now

New York killed my dating life — and I couldn’t be happier now

Cynthia Nixon, Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Cattrall and Kristin Davis in “Sex and the City 2” (Credit: New Line CInema)

“If you think the San Francisco dating scene is bad, wait till you get to New York,” people warned me

By: Emily J. Smith/

“Don’t give up, ” my friend urged me, my shoulder in her hand, a vodka martini in mine. “You’ll find something that feels right eventually.”

I realized that it had somehow, unbelievably, been a decade since I was in love. I’d had relationships — some serious, one as short as a day, and more two- to three-month experiments than I could count — but for the most part, for the bulk of my adult life, I had been single. Those 10 years crept up quickly. I love being alone. I can, often to my own detriment, fill hours, days, sometimes weeks, with actives of complete solitude without a speck of loneliness.

There was no rush in my twenties. Intent on my career, being single felt more like a badge than a blemish. I watched friends from high school, then couples from college, pair up and settle down. Not me. I wanted independence, self-discovery, the autonomy to make my own choices. I moved to an apartment in the East Village and jumped head-first into a fancy consulting job, followed by a cross-country move to California for business school. I met other women with ambitious goals and strong ideals and we clung to one another, our new friendships built on shared challenges and tools we were just learning to articulate. We reminded each other not to over-apologize, shared tips on power stances that felt so goofy but worked so well, urged one another to speak up and ask for what we wanted; tools the other 75 percent of the student body, for the most part, didn’t need to think about.

In the spring of 2012 I turned 30. With grad school behind us, my friends and I settled into good positions at good jobs, found livable-sized apartments in San Francisco, built lives we were proud of. And then, as if someone had given a signal that I clearly didn’t catch, my friends started getting married. Women I never thought of as codependent, couples I never imagined needing the safety of marriage; because they weren’t, they didn’t. They were just in love, and it was time.

Like all good business school graduates, my friends and I did the math — if you wanted to date someone for a few years before marriage, and then live together for a few years before kids, and then maybe even have another kid, and do it all before 40 — well, yeah, it was time. So while some started sporting rings, my still-single friends and I doubled down on dating. And although I had never in my life imagined a wedding dress, and still didn’t really get the point of an engagement ring, I found myself in a wedding wind tunnel; everyone around me either getting married or trying to.

In San Francisco that meant downloading every possible dating app. Many of us were averaging at least three dates a week and meeting regularly to discuss our progress. Spreadsheets may or may not have been involved. Google doc shares abounded. We listened to each other’s stories with care, assuring one another that of course he must be a literal psychopath if he never called back after such an intimate night, or that he wasn’t worth a goddamn second if he couldn’t even schedule a date 24 hours in advance. For years, we were each other’s support — emotionally and physically. We chaperoned wisdom teeth removals, held surprise birthday parties, gave each other pep talks before big meetings, cooked dinner together on Sunday nights. Being single in a world of couples made us not only appreciate, but prioritize one another. We were family.

But eventually, I had to move closer to my real family. My parents were getting older, and California, no matter how great my friends were, would never be home. And, although I was scared to admit it, at 34, I needed a change.

“If you think the San Francisco dating scene is bad, wait till you get to New York,” people warned me. I would widen my eyes to try and look scared, but the truth was, I couldn’t wait. If I knew one thing about my move back to New York, it was that I did not want to date.

Dating had sucked the life out of me. I was sick of telling my story, a story that not long ago felt unique and personal, but now felt empty and scripted. I was sick of throwing out commentary on hot topics like Instagram (what I consider the essence of our culture’s narcissism) and board games (painful distractions from any attempt at real connection) — comments that used to feel contrarian and clever but now, almost five years later, seemed manufactured, an assembly line of remarks. I was sick of trying to prove myself through intimate life details to people who weren’t even worth the time it took to program their names in my phone. With each date I felt more like the profile I was trying to represent, and less like an actual person. I would re-read my profiles on each site often, to remind myself what my date was expecting. It felt so off — it wasn’t me — but when I tried to change it, I drew a blank. Maybe it was?

When I moved to New York I went from having a family of friends who knew every detail of my life to having a handful of acquaintances who knew nothing at all.

“It’s hard to meet people in New York,” I heard people say, “Everyone’s so busy.” Again, I feigned concern.

New York, with its large, faceless crowds and anything-goes attitude, felt like a shield from the wedding wind. I knew no one, and even though I was smack in the middle of the densest U.S. city, it felt like a vacuum. And in that vacuum, without anyone watching or any force pushing me, I stopped dating. I had no one to report to. I deleted all the apps on my phone. Instead, I started doing something I loved but never thought worth my time — I started writing. I spent almost every night alone with my laptop. At first I was afraid to admit that I was spending so much time on something that seemed, in terms of life milestones,  completely pointless. I didn’t know how to write; my career was in tech. But it was all I wanted to do, and with no one to answer to, there was no reason not to. I started going to classes and workshops and spent most of my Friday nights on the couch with an essay and a box of cereal. I woke up early, eager to sit down and put words to paper before my real job.

“Wild, I know…” I would joke to my friends back in San Francisco about my nights alone in New York. But compared to my chronic online dating, it really was.

“Doing what you want” is a loaded, indecipherable phrase for women. It’s nearly impossible to know what you actually want when expectations are piled high. I always assumed that having kids was part of adulthood— what people did when they grew up, the next step to becoming a whole, fulfilled person — and that getting married was the necessary precursor. But when I asked myself: do I actually want children? I had no idea. A caretaker, I am not. Pets frighten me and I’ve never owned a plant because I don’t understand why anyone would want to waste time watering it. But I identify as an achiever, and so the thought of not getting married and having kids — something so core to what I’ve always imagined as the female experience, something that seemed so simple for everyone else in the world — was terrifying. It felt like failure.

Letting myself escape the tunnel at a moment when I was supposed to be reaching the end, really did feel wild. Being happy on my own terms was a relief, even if happiness for me meant pulling my hair out over an essay for weeks at a time without leaving my studio. Even if happiness for me meant something entirely different than what everyone said happiness for me should mean.

I still go on the occasional date, and if I meet someone I get along with, I’m still excited by it. But I’ve allowed myself the possibility that maybe, ten years later, there’s still no rush. If I don’t meet someone who makes me happier than I make myself, then maybe that’s OK; I don’t need to go out of my way to search for something I’m not even sure I want. In many ways, that uncertainty is a gift. For women who know they want biological children, the pressure is real. Real, physical limitations accelerate the need to find a partner, and my sympathies, for that grueling task, in a society that pathologizes women who go steadily after what they want, is enormous. I am rooting like crazy for my friends who are searching on a timeline, and for every one of their priorities, so long as they’re desired, not assumed.

People’s assumptions hit me daily. I have nothing of interest to report to colleagues when they ask what’s new. When I say I spent the weekend writing — not for work, just pleasure — most people stare at me as if I told them I spent the weekend walking in circles on the sidewalk. Unable to find the right response, they want to ask “why?” but choose a polite “cool” instead.

My lack of concern concerns others. They think I have given up. But — often to my own detriment — I’ve never been one to give up. And so this concept of giving up haunts me. I think about it for days, and then months, and now years until I asked myself what it is exactly that I’m giving up. And when I look at the relationships I’ve surrounded myself with — my friends who still call me when they need someone to listen or understand or laugh, or my family who I can now see regularly, or myself who I finally, years later, feel re-acquainted with — I realize it’s not connection that I’m forfeiting, and it’s not the potential for love that I’m losing. I am giving up on the notion that finding a partner comes before all else. I’m giving up on other’s people’s expectations of what it means to be a woman and getting closer to defining that for myself. And it’s been a long time since something felt so right.

It isn’t always about Race

I was watching a Bravo show with a friend a few nights ago.   One of the characters on this New York City based reality show was arrested.

Sobbing she tells her friend the story.

The cab she hailed went in the wrong direction and driver ignored her directions. Angry and frustrated , she insisted he stop and let her out. Because of his incompetence ,she refused to pay.  The driver called the police, were (from what I get from her story) she was handcuffed and arrested for her refusal to pay the cabbie for his services.

It was an humiliating experience and she feels it  happened because she was a black women.


She wanted Justice and contacted an attorney,  After a talk (retaining fees etc) she was less angry.

She found compassion from some of her girlfriends others were less so, sighting her personality.

I know Manhattan pretty well, east from west, uptown to downtown and I know where the Hudson and East Rivers are.  If I have a wayward driver, I jump out of his cab at the first stop light, throw the cash (without a tip)on front seat and I’m out.  If I get a wayward driver, I don’t automatically make that leap to race,  I simply,have a wayward driver.  I will pay him for his services and cut, print, its a wrap.    New Cab.

For some, the default is race

I wasn’t hired, He is in jail for.. He was stopped for….

If you are black or a person of color ,you have history to support that default.  Its a real today.

While I am not consumed by it,   It is something I am very aware of . As I have been stopped, searched, interrogated and detained because of my Race. ( My ID, Vehicle Registration and lights were operating correctly each of the seven times I’ve been stopped)   Race has a major role in my business and personal lives.   I realize race makes some people uncomfortable, however,that uncomfortably isn’t always racism.

I also know the playing field is far from level.

There are some, the default is race, or sexuality. They didn’t get the job because they are female,a person of color, or gay.  For them that is the only logical conclusion.     Its inconceivable that there was someone more qualified, someone who performed better on the test. or they  lost their job because of their conduct or arrested and taken to jail for not paying the cab driver.


Proud Mary, Denial and Kindness on Stockton Blvd

Ike an Tina Turner added  this  verse  to Proud Mary

Ya’ know, every now and then
I think you might like to hear something from us
Nice and easy
But there’s just one thing
You see we never ever do nothing
Nice and easy
We always do it nice and rough

I identify with this song. Life could be easy, but I never do easy.   It was forty days or so, the Department of Motor Vehicle sent me a get out of jail free letter.   All I needed was to mail thirty three dollars and they would send me a new Driver License.  But I never do easy.  I decided to go into the Broadway DMV one day before my license expired.

 I would beat the crowds by arriving early.  651am. I remembered the office opening at 7am.  In line I was told the office opened at 8am.  Sigh, okay.   At 8:07 am, my head voice said OOOOKay?  I’m the ninth person standing in line. Someone said OHHHH, its Wednesday they don’t open until nine.   I’m tired, its cold, and I forgot my jacket.  For a very reasonable fee, I could cut and polish your diamond.

Needing a break I thought I would jump in my car for heat.     The heat made me sleepy, when I woke up, the doors were open and a kajillon people where in line,which had now wrapped around the building.

I’m back in line, its seems colder and my nipples returned to their upright position.

Inside,nearly every inch of the office was full.  This is WEDNESDAY, but it felt like Sunday at Costco.   I was G035. withing minutes I heard them call my number, at a window on the other side of the office.   Some man in a wheelchair is in my space, and just before I was going to hurl him into traffic , I look up and they had called B035.

Shazbot mutha trucker, I wait.      40 minutes goes by, I take pictures and post them on Facebook. (doesn’t everybody?)  G035 is called, no test, just 33 smackers and freedom.  Well almost, I have to take a picture, another line.   After 4 hours and 22 minutes FREEDOM.

Left on Broadway, right on Stockton Blvd.  My thought are bed.  There is a light on X street near UC Medical Center as I started to cross the intersection I hear a pop and my car coasts to a stop.

I knew what it was, the tranny blew and I am blocking a lot of traffic.

You go through several fazes when you car brakes down.  The first one is shock and embarrassment.  Why? Why? Now!   My favorite one is denial. This isn’t happening ,its a dream.  So after several attempts to put it in gear.  I turned the engine off.   Its a dream. and I turned on KGO and let my GM car sleep.  After a few moments of prayer and positive thoughts ,come on baby. it would start and I could testify about the power of prayer.

Nothing, the engine was perfect. Meanwhile the traffic is really backing up behind me. One joker pulled closed behind me and was unable to move. Turns out he and two of his passengers pushed my car across the intersection into a bus stop.

As for parking there are few options around UC Davis Medical Center.  No Parking on Stockton Blvd, no parking on the side streets.   I’m out of the intersection, out of the left lane, but I’m still blocking traffic.  No one has blown their horn at me.   In the bus stop there was a frail older man waiting for a bus.   Feeling guilty, I get out of my car and start to push it away from the bus stop.   Before I knew it, the frail old man is pushing me.  I tried to wave him off but he was determined.  I thank him and waited.   I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do and unsure where I was going to take the car.   So I stood along side my car.

People were amazing, its seemed one out of every group of cars offered some type of assistance.  A female UC bus driver said she was calling someone to help me.   So I waited.  Once I found a safe place for the car, I could get my thoughts together.  People walking by, employees in the green scrubs, random people offering their phone.  Complete strangers wanting to help me.  Ongoing random acts of kindness.

This isnt the first time I have experienced kindness  from strangers in this city.  When I first moved here I ran out of gas in my Minivan at Truxel and West El Camino and these men jumped out of an old beat up van.   I knew they were going to try to Jack my car, its that San Francisco paranoia. They pushed my car and asked me if I needed gas.

I often miss the pace of New York and San Francisco.  Many San Franciscans  are aloof and would look away.  I feel New Yorkers are kinder, the tradeoff is there is an unsafe element in New York.  Through the years I have complicated moving to another city with a vibrant core.  Sacramento will get there in ten years.  I travel often and share my experiences here.    Many cities meet my criteria, of work and play, but what is often missing is harmony.

People get along here.  Perfect no, but very good.

Three strangers, a doctor, a man in a truck and a woman in her scrubs blocked traffic along Stockton Blvd as three of us pushed my car to a side street.

People who were born and raised here, have no idea how great Sacramento is.  Spend a week or two away, venture into the neighborhoods and your likely to come back with a different opinion of Sactown.

Wednesday, was an ordeal, it could have been a bad day all day,if not for the selfless random acts of kindness from people who live in Sacramento..

 A heartfelt thank you


RHOA: season 7 episode 6 “Make Up’s and Breakdowns” or Class and a little down home whoppin!

By: CityFella

You could almost call last nights episode class and a little down whoopen.


We begin last night where (6) left off, the ladies (sans Claudia)at the restaurant.   A  Nene and Cynthia’s talk or yell about their broken friendship.   After a while, the ladies though the two should work it out alone.

The mouth that quieted “Star Jones” had the floor.   She said she was blindsided by Cynthia.  My take is she didn’t know the intensity of her anger until the reunion show and for the first time in seven seasons.  Nene cried.  I don’t remember her crying (at least on camera)even after her husband publicly humiliated her on radio.  “She loves Cynthia like a sister”

For Cynthia the final straw was when Nene called her husband (Peter) a bitch.  She would have never called Gregg a bitch.    The two hugged it out and agreed to be friends.

When CityFella gets it wrong, he gets it wrong!

Most of this season, Cynthia has talked about Nene, and how free she was without Nene, and what Nene did to her.      Through most of this, Peter listened quietly.  I assumed ( I know) that he was allowing his wife to vent.    Peter and Nene were tight, and Peter really liked Nene and I assumed ( Yes, I know!) that he was quiet because eventually the two ladies  will repair their friendship.

Who knew, the Bitch called Peter( stay out of womens bizness) was tweeting a whole bunch of negative stuff about Nene!

The next morning the ladies discussed the meeting with their husbands.  Nene speaks to Gregg and talks about re-building trust. He encouraged her to be open and honest so that they can both heal.   She makes him a cup of coffee in his favorite cup that has a toilet tank on it ( I want one) .

Cynthia seems happy that the two are on the mend. However, Peter is anything but pleased.  She tells him, they have made up and he loses it.  With Nene back, their sex life is going to be bad and she is going to end up looking like a punk. (what the hell!)

Whatz fresh in the ATL, is frozen in NYC

I love the ATL and the south.  I’m a big man.  In Cali, I’m Godzilla, in the south I’m big boned.

Cynthia is walking in a show during New York’s Fashion Week for a friend.  She has recently loss weight an looking ATL skinny.   In NYC, not only is she quite a bit older and slower then the others she is NYC fat.   This unnerves and makes her self conscious. Cynthia who incidentally is closing the show, forgoes food.

Lawyering and Weaving

Hairdresser Derek is in trouble, (Not because he is squeezing his chubby feet in some Manolo Blahnik’s)  Its because a former client is accusing him of stealing her hair and replacing it with used hair.  He hires Phaedra to represent him.

Sharon Tucker wants Monster Joyce’s Ass

Todd’s work take’s him out of the ATL.  This time NYC, his home, his turf.  His mom lives in NYC.    Kandi fly’s up to NYC to join him to meet with his mother Sharon.

I sense that he would like her to move to Atlanta to be closer.   But Kandi and Todd know the is one big problem,MONSTER JOYCE!

Sharon Tucker, should have received Bravo’s Miss Congeniality award, if there was one.

The average Mother Tucker, would have beat Monster Joyce’s Ass long ago.    Monster has routinely lied and insulted her only child on TV and in the press.  Monster called her a whore and said his father was a pimp.

Reality in the Restaurant

With replays and reruns, Sharon is still hot.  She wants an apology from Monster.

Kandi: “Well, she’s my mama, so I’m not going to do anything on account of her being my mama”  Nothing  I can do to make her take back what she said.

Sharon says that she will would punch Monster in the mouth.

(Sharon is serious,4 real)

Todd says his mother doesn’t have to be fine with this situation, and being bigger person doesn’t get you very far with Monster Joyce.

(He has the scars to prove it)

Kandi, knows her mother wont be apologizing.

And this kills me, cause Kandi has the cards to make Monster apologize. (Of course any apology coming from Monster Joyce wouldn’t be sincere.  But it would be an apology to Sharon)

Her refusal to demand her mom be accountable is maddening.  Monster has no boundaries what so ever, even when it pertains to Todd’s child.

Kandi writes the checks, buy’s the houses and the cars for Monster.  Tell me she couldn’t get an apology!

At the end of the day, everyone has their limits and one day Todd will reach his.

Kandi: that’ my momma and I love her !

Episode 8- Next Week

 Look’s like Apollo is trying to make nice nice with Phaedra in front of people.   Lawd, you know he is gonna need Jesus!

See ya next week!  


 Last Week