PPTC Awards Shindig

As my father would say, "Well, that wasn't terrible."

Whew. For a while, the Vivacious Redhead and I were convinced it might be.

Though that might have been a bonus for us. If I had gone terribly, at least we wouldn't be asked to arrange it next year.

Starting at 9:30am, the day was all about PPTC.

I jogged out to meet the Vivacious Redhead at GAP, where we headed back to Washington Ave.

We had a mission.

We were going to pick up awards.

I, myself, don't see the use of awards - at least, not the physical memento.

Getting them is nice. If the award involves a trip or money, I'd imagine it would be fantastic to receive.

But golden bowls or large towers?

I resent items in my house that are impossible to dust. My hobo box and my trophies are resented.

At least the hobo box represents a piece of Americana and, arguably, is art.

The plastic and marble columns are not. Definitively. They do not give me any culture!

But, lots of people like them. So the Vivacious Redhead and I came up with a compromise:

Plaques.

At least they can fit in a drawer. And who knows when you might have a sudden need to prove, tangibly, that you were, in fact, the PPTC "Comeback Runner of the Year, 2010"?

Except no one could do that because we eliminated that award this year.

But you get the idea.

So we picked our way over to the awards shop. Down Washington to Empire, then onto Bedford and down Bedford until Avenue T. Avenue T to Ocean Avenue, then down to U. Down U all the way across Ocean Parkway - an area with which I am not at all familiar.

The run itself was bit irritating. Every time we were able to pick up a bit of speed, again the sidewalk would be covered in ice, or the curb would have a ginormous dirty, icy puddle that we'd have to maneouver around. Not even sure my heartrate went above 120 on that run.

Then, the trophy shop. Piles of knicknacks and boxes and papers everywhere.

Clearly not a walk-in sort of business.

"Hi, I was just strolling by and felt compelled to buy a "Best Player 2010" Trophy. You know: the one with the golden mitt that encircles the generic boy in a vaguely pitching stance. Yeah, that's the one! I'll take two!"

Em. No.

Despite the shop, the owner was fantastic. After checking at least 3 times that we REALLY DIDN'T WANT bowls or some other type of trophy, he designed some nice, simple, SMALL plaques for the awards.

Which we ported back to Park Slope on the subway.

Flash forward to the evening. Script written for the awards.

Complete with awesome jokes with which I wowed the crowd.

Ok. Ok. I laughed, anyway.

Over to Abigail's. Home of some of the best mac 'n' cheese in NYC.

Yes. I said it. Because it's true.

And I should know. I'm a connoissuer.

Some people are wine experts. Some are cheese experts. Some can shoot a dime flipping in the air one-handed from 50 paces. (My great great uncle could apparently do that. From his hip.)

I know my mac 'n' cheese.

Baked, with a bit of crust and, yet, still gooey. Fantastic smoked flavor.

Made with, among other things, Gruyere.

Yes. Delicious.

But I digress. The party.

People came. Food got eaten. Awards were given out. Wine and beer were served.

One thing that's nice about runners: they arrive on time and leave right when they are supposed to. Makes organizing much easier.

Maybe Chicken Underwear would post some pictures?

Brownies, wine and mac 'n' cheese. Made being the MC bearable.

So much easier than organizing a party at my house. There, I didn't have to do the dishes!

There was even a celebrity political appearance.

Too bad I had to admit to everyone IN PUBLIC that the Speedy Blonde beat me by 4 seconds in the last NYC marathon.

Sigh. That still burns my onion.