Hot. Ass. Mess.
I like that phrase.
Saturday night, I had dinner and drinky-drinks with X and Will.
Lawd, lawd. Hot. Ass. Mess.
We decided to go to Harlem Grill (2247-49 7th Ave, between 132nd and133rd), since it was sort of halfway between me and X, and across the street from Will. And, you know, since Will spoke so highly of the place, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Harlem Grill. It had a grill. And that was about all. Oh, don't get me wrong, the decor was lovely and all the furniture was there. It's just that the food and drink were missing.
Will wanted a Red Stripe, and they didn't have it, so he opted for the server's suggested alternative, Chimay. They didn't have it. I asked for a Guinness and got a Brooklyn Lager or something, since they had run out of Guinness, and the bartender thought that was the next best thing, which, while bizarre, is absolutely straight up hilarious, because they served it to me at first like I wouldn't notice. Me. Not notice that what they brought me was not a Guinness. Bwahaha! Eventually, Will got my Brooklyn Lager, X got a Maker's Mark and Coke, and I straight bit off her, because I like to be adventurous.
MM & C was tasty. Tasty like antifreeze is tasty. And probably just as dangerous. I think they put a little hextra MM in mine, because when X went to order a second...yeah, all gone.
On to the food. I don't even remember what the first choice appetizer was, but they didn't have it. Nor did they have the lobster ravioli we all wanted. And when X ordered her back-up appetizer--rib-eye, I think--it was a different cut of meat altogether.
Will, ever the diligent reporter, tracked the chef down and asked him why they didn't serve half of what was on the menu. Which was genius, because that would never have occurred to me. Apparently, the chef wasn't happy with the unavailable dishes and just stopped serving them until he felt the kitchen had gotten it right. That's cool. Gotta respect the man for that. And to be fair, what we did get was really, really good. And I'm sure that, if they served desserts, those would be really good, too, except, you know, at this point in time, they don't. But go for the food they do have, and the good humor of the staff, and the liberal bar mixage. It works. And once the place gets settled, it'll probably be superhot.
But that's all pretty much immaterial, because, OMFG, I had dinner and drinky-drinks with X and Will! *jumping, clapping, happy dance, happy dance, swoon*
They are too, too, too funny, and ridiculously cool (Will had waitresses who weren't even serving us in stitches, like, from across the room. That might not be a good thing, though. Hm.). And both were totally genuine and relaxed, and too cute for my turtle-neck-and-sneaker-wearing ass. X, as I said before, is gorgeous (and if she tries to feed you some rap about how she needs to lose weight, just smack her, dammit. If I could wear jeans the way that heffa can, sheeeeeit, I would never wear a thang else, lol.) And Will is officially a cutey-patootey--very handsome, and such a gentleman. I'm gonna leave it at that, since I don't relish the idea of having my life threatened via blogger comments. Anyway. I was having so much fun and was so glad I got to hang out with them, I broke my own damn rules. I had to work Sunday morning, and planned to be a good girl and get home by 10 (we met at 6), so I could be abed by 11. Did. Not. Happen. How about X kicked me out of Mandingo in front of my place at 1 a.m. And I had to be at work--not up, at work--by 6:30. And I didn't even care. 'Course, that might have had something to do with the fact that I was truly bent. Truly. And I'm not entirely sure how I got to be that way, because during the course of our six hour gabfest, I only had three drinks. Okay, three strong drinks. But still.
And I ain't gonna tell you what we talked about, because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and what happens at Harlem Grill apparently happens in a vacuum, a vacuum into which all good things--Guinness, lobster ravioli, hilarity, sobriety--disappear. And that's all I have to say about that.
It is official, I luh' dem bofe. LUH', DAMMIT!
All I know is, X better bring her ass back up here soon, and Will owes me a damn bowling match. Hmph.
And another "upscale," "urban" fashion mag bites the dust.
I don't know, I've read the three issues of Suede that have already come out, and while it certainly tried to fill the Honey gap (which may not have been wise, in the first damn place), I don't think Suede knew exactly what the hell Suede wanted to be.
Do you want to be an upscale fashion and lifestyle mag that caters to black women, or do you want to have an astro section that features a ghetto quotient and run features on whether men prefer real or fake titties? (TDMM called that particular feature, from the first issue, I think, the deal-breaker for her.) And Jee-zus cornhusking Christ, how about getting an art director who is not clearly dropping acid every morning? It must have cost Essence/Time a mint in printing alone, considering how damn much color was going into every page.
That said, I'm not hating on Suede altogether. I think an upscale urban fashion mag for younger women is a good idea, and I hope, as the press releases indicate, it's just a hiatus until they get their act together.
We'll see.
On another, related note--will someone please explain to me why Vibe has started a mag called Vibe Vixon, and not Vibe Vixen? Was that just a typo in the article? Because there is absolutely no goddamned reason--none, I say!--to misspell "vixen." That shit ain't right, and I'm telling you now, I'd protest that shit on the basis of the title alone. (Though, to be honest, I don't read Vibe anyway, and it's safe to say it's reeaaaaaaaally unlikely I'd pick up a Vibe fashion spinoff.) When will we as a people admit that misspelling shit ain't cute? (Says the girl who just spelled "Jesus" with a double-"e" and a "z." What? It's cute when I do it...)
Ne'ermind, I just checked the Vibe site, where it is referred to as Vibe Vixen. Nice one, MediaWeek. Had me all worked up over nothing.
Friday Memes...
Yay, memes!
I've seent his one a few places before, most recently here.
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.
I tend to accumulate books at my bedside, and I currently have more than a half-dozen sprawled across the sill, some closed and dog-eared, others straddling each other like fornicating beasts (and what a disaster it would be if The Proposition mated with Fight Club), so I've decided to post a little medley:
1. "Big Bob doesn't say anything. I go to work. I come home, and Big Bob's still on the porch." Fight Club.
2. "I remember his hands knotting in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my head back, my neck stretching and arching backward for his hungry kisses, his teeth sharp on my skin but careful not to hurt. Moaning softly, unthinking, I was shocked and tremendously aroused when he pulled my head back like that, shocked by my own noise and the lava blossom between my thighs that threatened to burst when he held my head that way, pulling my hair just enough to show me." That's only two sentences, um, but I think that's enough. From Unruly Appetites, a birthday gift.
3. "The dead flowers are shoved aside, and scattered on the coffee table are clusters of sparkling pink and smooth gold, cool white pearls and carved blue lapis lazuli. Other clusters glow orange and yellow. Other piles shine silver and white." Lullaby.
And for the FR10:
1. Hit, Sugarcubes
2. Once, Pearl Jam
3. The Sun, Maroon 5
4. Junkin Punny, Sean Paul (no comment.)
5.River, Natalie Merchant
6. Til The Cops Come Knockin', Maxwell
7.You're not from Brighton, Fatboy Slim
8. A Letter to Elise, The Cure
9. We Never Change, Coldplay
10. Gimme Gimme Gimme, ABBA
Twenty minutes of Golden X-tasy
Eeeeeeew. This has absolutely nothing to to with that kind of golden ecstasy, you dirty pervs who got here searching for "very young Vietnamese golden showers" porn.
Yesterday, I met X and Golden!
No wait, let me rewind.
Over the weekend, Saturday, when I first talked to X, who was on her way to rendezvous with the whole NYC blogging crew at Port Authority, a get-together to which I would like to point out I was not invited (ahem, but that's alright, y'all. I wasn't hurt. Sniff.), we talked about meeting Tuesday. Because, at the time, she was planning to leave on Wednesday.
I don't remember what happened Tuesday, but she stayed, so we made plans to have lunch at Ruby Foo's on Wednesday, 12:30.
So who wakes me up at 9 o'clock in the damn morning on Wednesday to tell me she's not coming, because she wants to spend some quality time with her mama? Huh? Who?
And then, who calls me, two hours later, after I rearranged aaaaaaaaalllllll my many morning plans (sleep, gym, shower became blogsurf, shower after she cancellededed, because in my world, getting up earlier actually results in accomplishing less) to tell me she changed her mind again and wanted to meet up? Who?
And who showed up at Ruby Foo's at 1:40, all late, poor Golden standing outside in the cold waiting for her, because she didn't know what I looked like and I didn't know she was coming (I'm glad she did! Besides the fact that she's lovely and damn funny, she and X taught me how to pronounce Ki-Toy)?
Huh? Who?
Mm-hmm. Ms. Xquizzyt1 herself. Alladat wait for, like, 20 minutes of chat. Was it even worth it?
Hellus Yesus!! (to borrow a phrase from Will)
*Crank Yankers 'tard-boy voice*
Yaaaaaaay, I met X, yaaaaaay, I met Golden, yaaaaaay!
Both ladies were polished and gorgeous, Golden all dressed up for work, since she came cross-town from her job, and X wearing one of the dozen--yes, dozen--cashmere sweaters she bought at Macy's (I actually had to lean over and touch it, it was so soft and comfy looking). And they were soooo nice! And hilarious! And I'm jealous, 'cause 20 minutes after they got there, I had to leave for work, booooooooo! So I don't have more to say, because I missed out on all the scoop.
Hm. We were supposed to meet again tonight at the sushi meetup, but the snow interfered with that plan, so now, perhaps we'll meet up again Saturday, before X leaves.
Maybe we can even get Will in on the deal. You hear that Will? Even though you claimed you wanted to see a sister last weekend and then didn't invite her to the bowlfest, I will invite you to the get-together I would like to plan for this weekend, because I'm cool like that. Hmph.
Other bloggers I'd like to meet in the near future--Golden (again) and Singing Chick! Perhaps over tequila shots...
Happy Friday!
My new food blog!
Now with 25% more savory goodness!
Okay, I couldn't resist the title. That's why I started the extra blog. Seriously. Sad, huh?
Well, if you were wondering what in the hell I've been eating (lottasoup), drinking (Felluga pinot grigio), smoking (salmon, baby!) to make me act the way I do...you'll find out here!
Ha!
Oh man, a politics post is well overdue. This ain't one, though.
These were on sale, but not as cheap as the Aerosoles--They were $47 marked down from $60, but I loved these so much when I saw them I would have paid full price. They are so retro-cute. I think I might love them a little because of that. Don't be surprised if you spot me on the street looking all Dot Dandridge-d out (I believe the phrase you are looking for is in my dreams), right down to my red fingertips.
Do you not love them? I love them. LOVE!
You know what I don't love, though? My legs. Holy shit, do I need a tan. Damn. Those bitches were giving off half the light in the room.
Sorry. I should have issued a warning before posting this pic.
Can't. Wait. For. Spring.
Blame Shasta. You know, I see other people's happy shoes, I remember what it feels like to have the happy shoes, I have to go out and buy the happy shoes.
These are the hotness in my life right now. Strappy, pastel-y, comfortable as all get-out, since they are, conveniently, part of the Aerosoles What's What line, aaaaaaand (not that I'm self- concious about my shoe size [8] or anything, but this made me a little giddy nonetheless) a size 7.5.
Why does that make me happy? What's wrong with me? But I am. You know you get a little funny when you can wear a smaller size, too (unless you're X, who has teeny tiny tootsies, apparently).
Ah, DSW. Wanna know how much? Huh? Guess. Go on. Okay$23. Marked down from $53. Haha! Love love love for the DSW clearance rack!
My only concern is this: Is it wrong to have Easter shoes that can double as hooka-heels? I mean, there is no verse in Corinthians (you know, the one about leather goods) that says "thou shalt not rock the open-toed strappy-sandals to commemorate the resurrection." Matter of fact, JC wore strappy sandals too, I'm pretty sure...
The "How Siddity Are You?" Quiz
Okay, quick, get a pen and paper because I have devised a sidditiness quiz! I know you all care so much and really, really want to know just how siddity you are! So here goes. Choose the answer that best fits you, and add up your points at the end. Scoring below.
1. Jack and Jill went up...
a) the hill to smoke some marijuana...haha! Prince Harry just loved that one when I told it to him at Met Bar last weekend, the naughty boy... (0)
b) the hill to fetch a pail of water. (+1)
c) the river to Sing-Sing, after robbing a couple of Russians in LeFrak City at gunpoint. (-1)
d) to the Cosmopolitan Suite of the Four Seasons, where the 200 person wedding reception for Reggie and Phyllis Johnson's son Kenny and Frank and Sheila Brewster's daughter Nicole was held, and wasn't she just gorgeous in that Vera Wang gown when they jumped the broom? (+2)
2. Alma mater?
a) Uni? I'm supposed to remember? I think it might have been Wesleyan or Oberlin or something that ended with an "-en," "-in" or "-an." No, wait! I remember now! It was Amherst! I think... (O)
b) BC, Tufts, Berkeley, NYU, Ann Arbor, Emory or similar (+1)
c) Technically, it's still awaiting accreditation, and I'm not exactly enrolled, since I'm still waiting to see if I can transfer my Associates' credits from... (-1)
d) Ivy, Seven Sisters or Spelman (+2)
3. Which of the following pairs best with a nice yellowtail ceviche?
a) Oh god. I have my assistant arrange all that before I get there. (0)
b) Hmmm, I'll take the blanc de blanc, thanks. (+1)
c) The Dom. Or the '97 Perrier Jouet. (+2)
d) Heat, bitch. I know you better cook that shit! Talkin' about it's cooked by some damn lime juice. Do I look stupid to you? Hmph. (-1)
4. Spa Weekend in NYC! Where do you go?
a) Mamie's Day Spa for overall relaxation, then John Barret for hair. Dinner at Vong. (0)
b) Pinky for nails, Bliss for skin and massage, Jelani for hair, dinner at Tavern on the Green. (+2)
c) Eve for one of their package deals. Then a stroll through the Village. I'll eat wherever the food looks good. (+1)
d) The Dominican place up on 177th and Broadway for hair, that place with the Vietnamese dude for nails, a massage from my boo, and Cristal at 40/40. I wanna see Hova! (-1)
5. Your dream man/ring combo:
a) I'll start with one of those British rock stars for marriage one ($250,000 yellow diamond), a finance or real estate tycoon for marriage two ($2.3 million pink diamond), and the third hubby will probably be some sort of wealthy, European noble (all 300 years worth of family jewels, baby. At least, until his family figures out how to get me written out of the will). (0)
b) Spent his formative years in Harvard Square--from Leverett House to the Kennedy School to Harvard Law--with an MBA from Wharton for kicks a few years later (4 marquis cut carats, platinum band). (+2)
c) Is always on the road, either touring or playing away games, so I have plenty of time to go out with my girls and spend his money in peace (custom-made diamond encrusted initial ring from Jacob the Jeweler--y'all ain't married) (-1)
d) Hard working, honest good-guy--what he does is not important (his grandmother's ring). (+1)
6. Favorite author?
a) Toni Morrison (+1)
b) Milan Kundera (+2)
c) Who has time to read? I like to keep up with the Booker Prize winners, though. They're a good bet. (0)
d) Zane (-1)
7. Your home decor?
a) Which one? The chateau in Gestadt is very modern, very spare with high ceilings and lots of windows; the apartment in Paris is very Parisian chic--yellow and blue walls, Louis XV chairs...(0)
b) Shabby chic--lived-in but stylish, bright and airy, pastel and muted neutral tones...(+1)
c) Some people say it's a bit austere, what with the antique dining set and the Victorian-re-creation fainting chaise, but I think they don't know class. I had Oprah's decorator come in and do the place. Did I mention that the building was designed by I.M. Pei? (+2)
d) Donatella would be jealous of your ability to honestly, and without a trace of irony, believe animal prints should be accented by nuclear-brights, and your Rent-a-Center toilet seat is 24K gold over sterling-silver. You ain't Kimora yet, but just wait 'til you have Diddy's baby--you'll give that heffa a run for her husband's money! (-1)
Okay, ready for scoring?
10 to 14 points: High Siddity. You are siddity personified. Condi comes to you for etiquette advice, B. Smith bases entire collections on your home color palette, and you just got off the phone with Oprah, who called to ask you what you thought about some recipes she was thinking of putting in the magazine. Or so you'd have us believe.
6-9 points: Pseudo Siddity. You're not too siddity, though some who don't have your refined sensibilities might think so. Your priorities are in order and you have good taste because you have good sense and live well, not because you work at it for the sake of showing off.
0-5 points: Pity the Siddity. You aren't playing at anything or putting on airs--you are an heir. To a vast fortune built over many years by your international exec or megastar parent. Or you're a supermodel. Or a really, really good whore. Excuse me, escort. Either way, you're often found in the background of party shots in W and even though none of us have heard of you, you travel in some very elite circles and are totally slumming with this whole blog thing.
-7 to -1 points: Not-a-bit of Siddity. Sisterfriend, there is a ten foot wall between classy and assy, and you vaulted it years ago. I'd say more, but I'm afraid you'll beat my ass and then run off with my iPod.
So. How'd you do?
...just made me weep like a little b-tch. I can't even write b-tch in good conscience after watching it. That Rachel MacAdams is so durn cute. And Ryan Gosling is what X would totally call my "secret squirrel" type--the type of guy I would normally deny up one side and down the other I like but who is my kryptonite. Ahem.
I am so ashamed. Sniff.
Oh god, tomorrow I will look like a little tomato-nosed, puffy eyed ball of disgruntlement.
This is why I don't watch romances.
Happy Friday.
Bitch-in-Kitch is back!
Loaf says: Are you ready for some hot soup-on-soup action, muhfuggah?
Bitch-in-Kitch Episode II: Black Bean Soup for the Single Soul.
Last night, after reading the exercise chapters of Bob Greene's new book, Total Body Makeover, I decided to cook some yummy, healthy black bean soup to help me get through this whole bootcamp thing.
I usually wing it in the kitchen, and with something as simple as black bean soup, I went recipe-commando, so there won't be any exact measurements for you in this one. It's quick and dirty cooking, my favorite method. I use whatever's on hand and add until I like the taste. This happened to be one of my better efforts.
2 15.5 oz. cans of black beans
1/3 large sweet onion, diced
1/2 red bell pepper, diced
1 jalapeno, diced
1 bay leaf
2-3 tbsp. olive oil
1 tbsp. minced garlic (or about 1-2 minced fresh cloves of garlic)
2 c. water
Sea salt to taste
Cumin to taste
(optional--as much cilantro as you like)
In 3 qt. saucepan, saute onions, garlic, bay leaf, jalapeno and bell pepper in olive oil over medium-low heat, until onions are transparent.
While onions and peppers are cooking, open and drain both cans of beans. Leave one can of beans whole; mash other can of beans until they form a paste (easiest to do this right in the can with a fork or wooden spoon).
Add whole beans to onion mixture and stir. Add water and bring to a low boil. Add bean paste and stir until the paste is dispersed and soup has thickened. Add cumin to taste (I like it a lot so I add at least a full tsp., sometimes more). Add cilantro and salt to taste. Simmer over low heat for another 10 or so minutes, then remove from heat. For best flavor, let the soup sit overnight--I left mine out on the stove, but stick it in the fridge if you want.
I had the soup for lunch today topped with a sprinkling of diced peppers and onions, nonfat plain organic yogurt (yeah, I could use nonfat sour cream, but, you know, how do they make cream nonfat without doing some seriously shady things to it?) and some decidedly fattylicious home-made guacamole, which I whipped up using my handy-dandy hand blender and the cilantro and chili-sauce dips I keep getting every time I order sushi from Ruby Foo's. Nummy.
Now, this soup really is soup for the single--or very solidly attached. Because you know what? It's beans, onions, garlic and, with the toppings, dairy and avocado, and all of those ingredients have been known to, for some people, create a little action in the plumbing, if you know what I mean. So don't go making it if you know your relationship is on the rocks and one false poot could send it hurtling over the edge, okay?
Oprah has a six pack. I want a six pack.
So, I just got roped into doing Oprah's 12 week bootcamp with a friend. It seems pretty straightforward: work out 6 days, eight times a week (sounds good, even though I will essentially be doubling what I do now), cut down on fats (buh-bye, fancy cheese), no carby foods like sweets, refined carbs or even whole grain carbs at first (no more crusty bread and soup meals), eat lots of green veggies and lean protein (Mmmm, hello sashimi, hello organic asparagus), no eating at least three hours before bedtime (Damn. But I can do it), no alcohol--
screeeeeeeeeeeeeech! Say wha?!?!
Oh wait, no, you can have alcohol 3 times, I read. Goodgood, I drink way less than that per week, I say.
Um, no, my friend informs me. Three times in 12 weeks.
Screeeeeeeeeeeeech! Say wha?!?! That's like, once a month. You want me to live in NYC, work 60 hour weeks, and do it without eating anything sweet, fatty or starchy, and without drinking? Is you CRAZY? Why don't you just take my left eye? I mean, damn. The only thing they haven't ruled out is sex, and frankly, if you find yourself in the position where going on a program like this is necessary, you likely aren't getting a whole lot of that, either.
Sheeeeeeeeeit. I'll settle for a four pack, and up my workouts to 9 a week or something.
My friend says I have a problem. She doesn't have any 14 hour workdays.
About The Gates. Of HELL!
Just kidding. I really want to talk about how much I just looooooooooove that new construction project in Central Park. You know, the one that's been on the news, with all the orange shower curtains up on stilts? The one that's front page, above-the-fold, of both section A and the Metro section of the Sunday Times? That one?
Yeah, I just looooooooooove that. I saw it today while I was working. 'Sfunny, though, I couldn't see what they were building way up there, what with the twenty bajillion people pushing through the park all trying to get a peek, too. Also, you know, whatever is going on up there is blocked by those funny orange curtains whipping around. Huh. My guess is, treetop condos for squirrels.
What's that you say? Building treetop condos for squirrels is a fucking ridiculous idea? Really?Anymore ridiculous than, say, spending $21 million to put 7,500 construction-orange shower curtains up on 16 foot stilts every 4 feet throughout the park and calling it art?
I think not.
I mean, at least with the condo idea, the city could profit, I dunno, by charging the squirrels rent or something. But this, this thing is just...damn.
But I seem to be the only person who thinks this way. To read the review on the front page of the NYT, one would think that the sun shines out of artist Christo's ass.
"In the winter light, the bright fabric seemed to warm the
fields, flickering like a flame against the barren trees. Even at first
blush, it was clear that 'The Gates' is a work of pure joy, a vast populist
spectacle of good will and simple eloquence..."
Oh really, Michael Kimmelman? At first blush? A flickering flame? Pure joy? What the fuck is this--reporting, or a love poem? And, I mean, I personally felt it was a bit more like being slapped in the face with a traffic cone every four feet than a joyful populist spectacle, but that's just me. I'm such a pleb.
I don't know why I hate it so. It isn't the color. I mean, orange is my favorite color, ever, and I still hate this. I even think it's funny how they're trying to pass it off as "saffron." I don't think it's the repetitive mind-numbing overkill of placing them every four feet. I personally would have done something crazy like, I dunno, make the frame a different, less conspicuous color, so that from above the orange shower curtains looked like they were flapping in the air, suspended as if by magic, but hey. I might hate that everybody's tap-dancing about it like these damn curtains are going to climb down at the end of the day and feed and clother the poor and hungry and tutor slow kids and sh-t.
Oh wait, maybe that's what I hate. They won't get down at night and feed and clothe the poor and hungry. They'll just hang there, being orange. Each and every one being a $2,800 hunk of orange Krylon-painted metal with orange nylon curtains strapped to it.
That's what that $21 million works out to. $2,800 per. And the stupid thing will only be on display for 16 days. So, $175 per thing per day.
Hm.
I'm too tired to even hate it properly now. I'll hate it some more tomorrow. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll look at it and suddenly think it brilliant.
Hm.
Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. I'm going to get my Valentine-free self some lilies.
Son of a bitch!
First, let me just warn you that I am pissed the fuck off, so this particular post might be extra salty, if you know what I mean.
I have just put in a 14 hour workday, at the end of which, tired and hongry (yes, I did just say "hongry,") I ordered dinner from fucking EJ's (447 Amsterdam, feel free to egg the fuckers)--at 10:15. They told me it would take about 15-20 minutes. Mind you, it's a Sunday, so most places that deliver stop delivering around 10:30 or 11, so I was quite happy that I managed to finish work with time enough to spare to order food.
I waited, hongry, for my food. 10:30.
And waited. 10:40.
And waited. 10:50.
It has been an hour. I just called those bitches to find out where the hell my dinner was, and those silly muhfuggahs hung up on me.
Now, not believing any place of bidness with good bidness sense would do some shit like that on purpose, I called back. You know those bitches hung up on me AGAIN?!?!?
Oh, HELL NO! AND it's after time for me to have anything else delivered? Imma have to go beat some ambiguously-brown ass in the morning, gotdammit. Wooohlawd. Why these bitches gotta fuck wit me nah? When I'se hongry? And been workin' all damn day? That must be why those fuckers don't do credit card deliveries. They reserve the right to FUCKING BLOW OFF THEIR CUSTOMERS WHENEVER THE FUCK THEY FEEL LIKE IT!
FUCK!
See? See? This shit ain't even what I was gonna blog about. I was gonna blog about the fact that Valentine's Day has snuck up on me again, and how that sucks, because I am Valentine-less.
But that don't even matter no more.
Maybe I oughta leave EJ's a Valentine. A big, steaming-brown-hot-from-the-factory-Valentine!
Oh fuckety-fuck, I can't even blog now. I cannot believe EJ's made me write that shit.
Angry face, angry face, grrrr, menace, argh!
Curse you, EJ's, and the chariot of lies you rode in on!
Update: I called them today to tell them how much I hated them, and they a) said I was probably talking to one of the non-English speaking kitchen workers, b) discovered they wrote my address down wrong and were off by a street, meaning they likely did try to deliver it to somebody else, and c) offered me several apologies and free food. I wasn't expecting that. I don't really want the free food, but I am mollified. See? I can play nice. So don't go leaving flaming bags of shit on EJ's doorstep on my behalf, since I know a bunch of you were fixin' to do just that.
The RIAA so needs to be kissing Apple's ass right now.
Albums Sid has bought in the six weeks she has owned Baby:
1. Maroon 5, Songs About Jane
2. Coldplay, A Rush of Blood to the Head
3. The Cure, Galore
4. Radiohead, OK Computer
5. Pearl Jam, Rearviewmirror (to tide me over until I move my complete collection out of storage
6. Velvet Revolver, Contraband
7. Jamiroquai, Traveling Without Moving
8. Guns N Roses, Greatest Hits (again, to tide me over until I move my complete collection out of storage)
9. Frente, Shape
10. Lucious Jackson, "Naked Eye" (single)
And there are roughly 177.798 more I can think of, off the top of my head, that I suddenly need to acquire.
Albums Sid bought in the six months--no, 12 months--before she owned Baby:
1. Bebel Gilberto, Six Degrees
2. Rough Guide to Bhangra
3. Rough Guide to Brazilian Electronica
4. Essential Bollywood
Um, yeah, RIAA, I'll run and get a pillow so you can be nice and comfy while you're down there kissing Apple's ass.
I have just been losing my mind lately for some reason. I think it's a combination of the raise, the fact that I really dislike NYC and thus am tempted to grasp at anything that makes me happy while I'm here, and the fact that, when I devised my new savings plan, I made all sorts of rules regarding my normal expenses--dining out, shoes--and, being the spendwhore I am, I've just decided to start hemorrhaging money someplace else. Bad me. Bad. But allow me to here express how obscenely happy I am with my most recent purchases. Now allow me to also express how very much I miss my car. As soon as I blow this popsicle stand, I'm getting a secondhand Corolla and heading out on a serious roadtrip. To Michigan. Or Canadia. Or someplace else far, far away.
MeMe MeMe MeMe
1. What time did you get up this morning? 10:41 (work for me starts between 12:30 and 2:30, and ends late).
2. Diamonds or pearls? Amethysts, or something interesting and antique. Seriously. Though I must say, when I was 15 and reading an ass of fashion mags, I thought Carrera y Carrera cherub rings were awe-inspiring. I've never seen anything like them since.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. I might name my firstborn child Zissou. Thanks to Saff for reminding me that I'd seen it, dur.
4. What is your favorite TV show? SATC or Rescue Me or AbFab
5. What did you have for breakfast? Bread and soup and home-brewed coffee.
6. What is your middle name? Rain
7. What is your favorite cuisine? Japanese, North Indian
8. What foods do you dislike? Raw bananas
9. What is your favorite chip flavor? Cape Cod reduced fat kettle chips dipped in plain yogurt or cottage cheese. Sounds like some diet BS, but it is reallyreally good, swear.
10. What is your favorite CD at the moment? The Cure, Galore. Some of the purely sweetest (hello, that means cheating and baby drama and bump-and-grind-free, can we not hear a song that talks about that shit?!?) lovesong lyrics ever written were written by those crazy, bad-makeup-job having boys. Bless you and your AquaNet, Robert Smith.
11. What kind of car do you drive? Are you kidding me? I live in Manhattan!
12. Favorite sandwich? Grilled cheese club at Greenhouse Cafe in Harvard Square, Cambridge.
13. What characteristic do you despise? Stupidity is almost too easy. Willful ignorance, I think, because some people really just don't know better.
14. Favorite item of clothing? My blue and white Pyoomas (funny British neighbor pronunciation)
15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? A Londres. Or Scotland or Morocco or Bahia, Brazil.
16. What color is your bathroom? Sterile NYC high-rise gleaming white. The decs are a mix of pink, blue and orange, with some yellow for kicks. It sounds like kiddie-carnival vomit, but it works.
17. Favorite brand of clothing? To wear? On me? In real life? Man, some Max Studio, Levis, LB, more what looks good and feels good for what I do than sounds good. But on my fantasy body, in my fantasy life? Whoa, now we're talking Alaia circa 1992. Kidding. Well, not kidding, but I'm more excited by waht looks good on me than labels. Now, I'm not about to screw around with what goes in my body. That has to be the best. You know, except when it's ramen.
8. Where would you retire to? London in theory, anyplace I'm surrounded by love in actuality.
19. What was your most memorable birthday? My 22nd. It. Sucked. Huge. Nads.
20. Favorite sport to watch? Mmm, rugby. Best uniforms ever, haha. Kidding. Tennis on occasion, soccer on occasion, swimming on occasion. Let's just say I don't watch sports for strategy.
21. What fabric detergent do you use? Gain. It was on sale and smells powerful good.
22. Coke or Pepsi? Classic cola? Coke.
23. Are you a morning person or a night owl? My workday ends at midnight, Whaddayouthink?
24. What is your shoe size? 8
25. Do you have any pets? Unless you count the house centipedes I spot sometimes scurrying around in my apartment, um, no.
26. Any new and exciting news you’d like to share with your family & friends? I gots a raise! An extra buck an hour! Woohoo!
27. What did you want to be when you were little? Little meaning...? When I was 10? A fashion-designing model/veterinarian/rockstar princess. But when I got some damned sense (say, age 15?) An international business bigwig. Even studied Mandarin for a few years in college, almost all gone now, alas.
28. What are you doing today? On call at this very minute, but I've already put in about 5 hours. Working when I'm called, and after work, reading, sleeping.
29. If you could, what would you like to be doing now as far as a career? Other than personal lurve slave to the Rock? Writing, of course.
Epicurean Adventures of Siddity: Bitch in the Kitchen
Who am I kidding, really?
Despite all the bitching and moaning about the City, all the shopping recaps, all the snarky comments on whatever I can get my little mind around, this is a food blog. You know it is. You know it.
Okay, maybe it isn't. I don't actually do enough talk about the cooking, and way too much about the drinking and eating.
It's time for all that to change. Well, not all of it. I'm still all about the shopping and bitching and spending an ass of cash on dining out and drinking, really. But I have decided to also do some actual cooking. Cooking I will periodically share on my blog, like this, in a section I will now call "Epicurean Adventures of Siddity: Bitch in the Kitchen." Bitch-in-Kitch, for short. And if Mary doesn't mind ('cause I skraight jacked this photo from her), Loaf will be my new unofficial cooking mascot. Everybody, say hello to Loaf.* And if she does mind, well, everybody, say goodbye to Loaf, too, while you're at it, lol.
I welcome recipes, but since I don't eat meat (often), Bitch-in-Kitch will be primarily a vegetarian food blog. I say primarily because I reserve the right to try anything that looks exceptionally delicious and interesting, especially if it involves wild fowl or game meats. I also always, always, always alter recipes, often for the hell of it. I bristle under authority. This includes recipes. I'm twisted like that.
Anyway, welcome to the beginning of Bitch-in-Kitch. If I do a lot of cooking, I may even start an actual separate cooking/food blog. But we've seen what happens when I threaten to do that. Fuck-all, that's what happens. But we'll see.
I'll try to live up to all of my loaf-ty goals and expectations. I'll do at least one new recipe per week, I swear. I won't loaf around. I'll stop now, before you all grow to loave me. Bwahaha!
*Loaf responded to your welcome, but Loaf isn't really good with people. He says, "Shut the hell up and pass me the confectioners sugar, bitch." I think Loaf needs a time out. Don't worry, I won't let him talk to you that way often. He's just new--adjusting and acting out. But he's a wonder in the kitchen. Bwahaha!
Episode I: Scottish Stilton Soup.
Did you know I love cheese? Yes? Well, did you know I love Scotland (even though I've never been)? No? Well, I do. The idea of it, anyway. You know, verdant hills, brisk air, thick rogues with thick brogues (
in skirts no-fucking-less--cha-ching! I know, they're called kilts, and only worn on special occasions. Whatever. Hot boys in skirts! Teehee!), stiff drinks called Glen-thisorthat. Mint! (Can we bring "mint" back as an expression of joy and/or excitement? I like it.)
So. Scotland and cheese. About a year ago I saw an episode of the Food Network show "
A Cook's Tour," with Anthony Bourdain (am I the only one who hates this guy and thinks he may be an asshat in real life?). Bourdain was in Scotland. I really hate Bourdain, but I really like the idea of Scotland, in general, so I watched as he assed around being an asshat in a chip shop where they deep fried damn near everything, and then he headed off for haggis and then...wait a minute. I think I'm mixing the Bourdain Scotland show up with something else, because I don't think he did the stilton soup. But I still hate that guy.
Anyway, something I watched had a Scottish stilton soup in it, and I thought it was just genius. Creamy cheesy soup! To eat after a long day tending sheep on the moors! You know, or whatever. I tried to make it myself from memory, with some small success. It wasn't terrible, but I distinctly recall telling a friend that I wasn't sure if I'd made it wrong or perfectly and that it was just as good as Scottish cuisine got. Hm. So, not the best.
But I've decided, with the arrival of my hot new immersion blender and cute veggie santoku knife, that it is time to get busy in the kizzy. First stop, Scottish highlands.
[I got the recipe online, from Recipegoldmine.com, by googling "scottish stilton soup." I don't know why this didn't occur to me a year ago.]
Being absolutely incapable of just fucking following simple directions, though, I had to tweak the recipe so it wasn't so, you know, obscenely fatty and dangerous to one's health. The original can be found
here. Here's my tweaked version:
1 head cauliflower
1/2 c. diced shallots
1/2 c. diced carrots
1 bay leaf [WTF is up with bay leaves? And why do recipes only ever require you use one? How did that shit come about? Did somebody make soup with the window open one day, have a single bay leaf blow into the soup, and discover that it suddenly made the prize-winning family recipe a hundred times better?]
1/4 c butter (we do NOT do margarine in this kitchen, RG bitches.)
1/4 tsp. white pepper
2 c. vegetable broth (unsalted, non-tomato based)
1 1/2 c. skim milk
1 1/2 c. crumbled stilton cheese
1 tsp. sea salt
Boil the bejesus out of cauliflower (until tender). Remove florets from stem, chop and set aside. Discard stem. In 3 qt. saucepan saute shallots, bay leaf and carrots in pan with butter over medium heat for about 5 minutes. Turn off heat. Remove bay leaf.
Add cool broth, milk and florets to saucepan and blend ingredients in saucepan with hand blender (or in standard blender) until fairly smooth. Return soup to heat and bring to a low boil, stirring constantly. Add crumbled cheese and stir until melted. Add sea salt to taste. Serve hot with crusty bread.
Can I just say that this is the best soup I have ever made? Can I? Low carb, hearty, quite sophisticated flavor. It is so good with the crusty bread. Holy hell. I love, I love.
Maybe you love, too? You must really like the blue cheese to like this soup, that is the one caveat. Because it is a big old bowl of blue cheese soup. But served with a sourdough crusty bread, and a nice stout or ale...it's soup heaven.
All I need now is a character from
this to, um, work out my tension, if you will. Mwahahaha!
Scottish Stilton Soup close-up
Look into the delicious, creamy depths. Mmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm.
I was so proud of me when I finished. This is some damn fine soupery, or something.
Dessert.
So, carrying this whole Scottish theme way too far, I decided to make Scotch shortbread. You know, because
a) I wanted some cookies
b) I figured I could pawn the extras off on my coworkers
c) shortbread only requires butter, sugar and flour, and I gots alladat.
Now, I've made shortbread cookies before, and it was really easy, natch:
3/4 c. softened butter
1/4 c. sugar
2 c. flour
Preheat oven to 350F. Blend butter and sugar together, then work flour in with your hands to form dough. Chill mixture (to stiffen it up a bit. It is butter based, after all). Roll out and cut or mold into shapes as desired. Place cookies onto ungreased baking sheet and bake for 20-25 minutes.
For some godforsaken reason, I thought it would be cute to make the cookies into little Valentine's Day hearts. Little pink Valentine's Day hearts. I must have been out of my effing mind. First of all, I have no cookie cutters, so anything I made, I'd be shaping by hand. And secondly, Making the bitches half pink meant I'd have to do two batches of shit by hand. Stupid plan.
Like that's ever stopped me.
I did get sick of it fewer than a dozen cookies in. Then, you'll notice, they became little drop cookies with berry jam in the middle. Pfft.
They're almost cute from a distance.
Scottish altar boys.
Cute little heart shaped half-pink cookies for the office seemed like such a good idea.
Except, when they came out, they looked like a bunch of little naked spanked bottoms. I can't serve naked spanked bottoms to my coworkers.
But I can show them to you lot. I've decided to name them "Scottish altar boys." Naughty.
That all-pink in the upper right hand corner is really skeeving me, though. Eeeeew.
The ugliest cookie ever.
I couldn't even bring myself to eat this thing, let alone serve it. It looks like a friggin' cervix.
You think I'm joking, but I'm not.
Retch. Urgaaaaahelch. Brrrrr. Ick.
Beignet, baby!
I promise a beignet hunt and pictures,
I deliver a beignet hunt and pictures.
Tuesday night after work I set off for
F&B (150 E52nd St.; I walked, so, no directions here, my friends). F&B serves, and I quote from the menu, "great European street food." I heard they might have the elusive beignet. Since I'd skipped the gym, and I was headed to get fatty-fried dough, I figured it might be nice to walk. From the UWS to Midtown East.
Around block 25 (on the way there) I was thinking, "These better be some damn good beignets, goddamnit."
Foreshadow, foreshadow, foreshadow.
I found the place at 8:01, just as one of the employees was doing what looked alarmingly like some business-closing maneuvers. After I'd walked nearly thirty blocks. That made me want to do some indecent and likely illegal things with a baguette, if you know what I mean. Oh wait, without clarification, you probably don't. Um, hint, I wanted to shove it up the--oh, whatever. They were closing, but I had time enough to order my beignets.
Um. To be fair, it was the very ass-end of the day, and they didn't have any proper beignets left, nor time to make any. What they did have was apple beignets. You know, beignets with apples in.
Now, I'm pretty sure the beignets I've seen on the Food Network and what have you have been large and roughly square, and they have nothing inside. But these were little and round, like regular mini donuts. Which, I would think, makes the apple situation a bit of a bitch, no? But somehow they got 'em in there.
Anyway, I took them home and ate 'em. You know what? They were not worth 40 round-trip walking blocks (halfway home I gave up the walking and hopped on the 9). They were not worth the $3.50 F&B charged for them. I'd have been happier skipping the couple of blocks to Krispy Kreme and back, spending $0.90 on an apple donut there. Dammit.
I should have made my own. Street food my ass.
Foot-in-mouth again. And a bit about taxes.
Sid: How's your project going?
MP: Which one?
Sid: The one that's been killing you with the workload. SMH! WTF is wrong with me?!?! Blow it off, ignore, ignore, make like you've said nothing wrong. Whistle whistle, doobedoobedoo...
That approach actually seemed to work, since he sort of blinked and moved on. Ha. I've decided not to try to censor myself because a) that's dumb, b) it's patronizing to assume he can't handle common parlance, c) trying not to say something guarantees it'll pop out every two seconds like I've got Tourettes and d) I'm going to forget to censor anyway, which is what happened today. Whoops.
Aaaaaaaaaand....
I finished my taxes! Yay me! Refunds from state and federal IRS tax mongers, yay!
Now, the question is CD, MMA, Roth IRA or large student loan payment? I'm torn between saving/investing it immediately and the loan payment, because I have one small private loan, direct from my undergrad university (to foot the extra cost of going to London junior year) and the interest rate is indecent-- 9 percent. I kinda think that paying off a quarter of that loan at once would save me more money in interest than I could possibly earn in interest in a CD or MMA. But I could just open a Roth IRA and have my contribution for the year taken care of.
Advice? Suggestions?
I've read this three times, and every time--I swear--I laugh even harder.
I want a cat now.
A cat I will name Titular.
Imagine the introductions.
Mardi Gras
Beer, beeds, boobs and beignets.
Hm. I swore I'd be in New Orleans for it this year, dammit.
Instead, I'm working. Bummer.
Maybe tonight I'll head on down to Delta Grill for the atmosphere. And the fatty cheese and crawfish pie with Abita.
Then again, maybe I'll just get takeout...I'm not even sure they have beignets.
Say, where can you get a beignet in this city?
Acquiring one is my mission tonight. If I find one, there will be photos.
No pictures of boobies or beads, though, so don't ask.
Foot-in-mouth disease, wherein I go from charming to asshole in under 6 seconds.
The scene: End of workday, Sid runs into MP as he is on his way out and they begin to chat. MP talks about a particularly shitty workload as Sid sympathizes, using a standard siddism:
Sid: "I know, it makes you want to die a little bit."
MP: "Um, no, it just makes me not want to work here."
MP then reveals, as breezily as is possible, that he has survived a serious and far-too-often fatal illness, while Sid tries her honest best to crawl inside her own asshole in mortification (on the inside) while remaining outwardly cheery and nonplussed.
This, of course, fails, as Sid cannot possibly remain cheery and nonplussed when she has said something remarkably stupid and insensitive and fucktardical and irreverent about life to someone who, at a very young age, has had to contend with the possibility of losing it. Moreover, Sid feels quadruply fucktardic, as Sid says such thoughtless things all the time, despite the fact that as recently as last week Sid was inwardly panicking at the prospect of a loved one falling ill from the same disease (said loved one, it turned out, was fine.) Sid also immediately recalls similar incidents in the past of joking in poor taste with someone who has experienced the joked-about tragedy. These thoughts occur in rapid succession, and the abashed sentiments they induce flit across Sid's face before she regains control and plasters on a stupid smile to keep from crying at her own fucktardery, and at the fact that MP has indeed faced illness (a. Sid has suspected this for some time and b. Sid thinks MP is Good People, good friends or not, and the suffering of Good People bothers Sid a bunch and c. Aunt Flo is in town so d. Sid has been feeling like a weepy little bitch lately.) Sid thanks every saint and angel she can remember by name that she is standing in a darkened hallway, for she knows she would be beet red if viewed in full light.
Of course, MP reads the face of yours truly as awkwardness stemming from his revelation, apologizes for burdening me with his bad day, and runs off before I can think of any suitable pardon-my-fucktardery response. How do I fix that? Making a special apology seems like a bad idea on about a dozen levels (it's probably a bigger deal in my head than what actually happened, an apology could be mistaken for PC pity, etc.). But ignoring the revelation--is this worse?
I am a shit.
A shit with no tact.
I am tactless shit.
Meme-alicious
Random 10:
1. Winter, Bebel Gilberto, Six Degrees
2. Not Coming Home, Maroon 5, Songs About Jane
3. She Will Be Loved, Maroon 5
4. Whenever, Wherever, Whatever, Maxwell, Urban Hang Suite
5. Spottieotttiedopalicious, Outkast, Aquemini
6. Acrobat, U2, Achtung Baby
7. What You Need, Nelly Furtado, Whoa! Nelly
8. INternational Affair, Sean Paul, Dutty Rock
9. Proudest Monkey, Dave Matthews Band, Crash
10. Alien, Bush, Sixteen Stone
What is the total amount of music files on your computer?
Only 511 so far. I've got another 20 or so CDs worth of tracks to add. I'll get around to it eventually....
The last CDs you bought were:
Radiohead, OK Computer and The Cure, Galore, as birthday gifts to myself; Maroon 5, Songs About Jane and Coldplay, A Rush of Blood to the Head were acquired after Christmas thanks to a giftcard someone gave me.
What is the song you last listened to before this message?
"Airbag," Radiohead, OK Computer
Write down five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.
No Ordinary Love, Sade
One, U2
Everything's Not Lost, Coldplay
...& On, Erykah Badu
Sinnerman, Nina Simone
(Extra, 'cause sometimes I am) Stone, Dave Matthews Band
Who are you going to pass this stick to (and why)?
Saff, because I'd like to know what she's listening to right now
Chi because she has some of the best danged music listed all the time
Mary, because I want to hear what she's been listening to besides Yellowcard
Keidra, 'cuz I wanna know
and
K., because she almost never talks about her musical tastes even though she's studying music, dammit.
Odds and ends and then some
1. God damn I love this album. It's so catchy--"Totemo catchy, catchy catchy catchy!" Which is a line from a song on one of my other favorite albums. Maybe my lucky number is five or there is some significance or resonance with fives or something.
2. Dear fellas,
If you are the type of guy who is too shy to ever approach girls sober, please, please, PLEASE don't think getting drunk and approaching us is a good idea. All that happens is that the base, lecherous, icky instincts you hide under a good guy veneer come spurting out in an unwelcome gush at anything with below-the-collar hair, and you start saying crazy shit like "Ijeswanyoudaknow, I think you are eight sexy ladies, the eight sexiest ladies in the world!" in a skeevy drunk slurry voice to four chicks of various hues who don't dig you, a little punk boy named Phil, and a tall bald brother named Moses. Which, by the way, only adds up to six, hon.
--Sid
3. Dear friends of fellas,
If you know your boy acts like this when he gets drunk (and you do know, don't you? I mean, everybody knows this guy, and you know which one of your friends this guy is, and if you don't, it's you), and he has clearly been absotively shitty-drunk for the last three hours, cut him off and take his ass home. Or at least keep an eye on him so he doesn't go around hitting on everything in the bar, and doesn't fucking wander off into the cold night, drunk off his nut, coatless, and convinced he's a really sweet guy, wondering why don't girls ever dig him. Okay? Just get him a cab, a coffee and something fatty, then drop him off. You can play after you tuck him in.
--Sid
4. Robert Palmer was kinda the shit, huh? "Now I told you twice, I was only trying to be nice, doo doo doo doo doo doooo baby, I didn't mean to turn you ooooooon..." That song never gets old. **How in the hell did nobody notice I had written Robert Plant instead of Robert Palmer?**
5. Anybody else ever wake up after a night of reasonable drinking, totally sober, then go get something innocent, like, oh, WATER, and suddenly get drunk again? WTF is that all about man?
6. Urban Outfitters really wants "krunk" to be the new "bling." God help us.
Can we all just agree that, once a trendmonkey shop like Urban slaps "the lingo" on anything that won't get up and run screaming in the opposite direction, for marketing to 13-year-olds in Bayonne and twenty-something hipsters in Park Slope, said "lingo" is officially 13.75 months past "over," can we, please? And also, could someone please send Urban a fucking memo saying something along the lines of:
From: Black America, and other trend-birthing types
To: Urban executives and Trendmonkey buyers
Re: Hijacking and mass promotion of already lame-ass slang
Whatever you have just decided is the new hotness, the new shit--the thing that just er'rybody needs to have slapped across their chests, asses, toes, bedsheets, lithographs, coffetable notebooks and trucker caps--whatever it is, you're wrong. It's over. Save yourselves some trouble and us some money. Fire your trendmonkey team. With the money you save in salaries, you could undoubtedly lower the cost of your cheaply made thriftstore knockoff clothes by a good 25%. Thx.
6. Citibank is giving away iPod minis. If you open a regular checking account online using their EZ Checking account package, with a minimum deposit of $2,500, and pay at least two bills online in the first three months of opening the account, and your account remains in good standing, they'll give you an iPod mini, which is one hell of an account-opening perk. All I got when I opened my bank account last lear was a travel mug, dammit. Click the link and enter CD19 in the offer code box.
7. I got all my birthday goodies! Including my Shure E2cs, which sound great, even though they are still too big for my ears. I wonder if they make extra small foam covers...
8. Dinner with Maryann at Spice Market Friday. Spice Market was great, more later, and sorry Maryann, it looks as though I sped off into the night with your monkfish. My bad. IOU.
9. Purlie Victorious will be running somewhere in the city this spring in Ossie Davis's honor. Anybody up for a group outing? Details to come...
Um, that is all for now.
Hippo Birdie Two Ewes!!
That was the message on the birthday card sent me by TDMM, along with a copy of this, a box of this, and a bottle of this.
And a hippo birdie it's been.
I was all prepared to be depressed and pissy and down and lonely on my birthday, I really was. I had the booze, I had a lonesome plan, I practiced drunken lonely "moments" a la Renee Zellweger in the opening scene of Bridget Jones. Okay, not really, but I was ready for this day to suck. *
And then, well, it didn't. It really, really didn't.
My coworkers surprised me yesterday with cupcakes. That made me a little weepy on the inside, since nobody's ever surprised me for my birthday before, and the last time I was able to get more than 3 people together for it at once was, well, um....it might have been college, or when I was four. One of those. So that was a very cool three minutes.
And I got the package from TDMM. She's so sassy.
And then I woke up this morning and had the nicest birthday wishes in my inbox from y'all, and that made me weepy a little for real, since nobody was around and I didn't have to try to be manly.
And then I went to the gym and came home to find a big old box of Godivas in a bag dangling from my doorknob, a gift from another coworker/neighbor.
And then I went to Turning Heads Day Spa (218 Lenox, at the corner of Lenox and 121st, 1, 2, 3 or 9 at 116th or 125th) for a day o' beauty.
I had a facial given by their aesthetician Tracy, who put me completely at ease, gave me a lovely facial, and gave me recommendations for good sushi joints, and we all know how much I loved that. I'll be visiting her once a month, methinks.
Dekar, my hair stylist, tried his damnedest to cheer me up, the dear. It worked, because a) that man can do a mean blowout, (witness) sans Dominican torture or price-gouging tactics of those who shall not be named, and b) he went out and bought me a piece of cake. *sniff*
Lucy, the nail guru, gave me a perfect french manicure and a lovely, mildly slutty red pedicure that was slightly ruined by the boots I had to tromp home in, alas. But it's still pretty cute if you don't look too closely at it, no?
And then I headed home, made a pit stop at the licky mart for some VC, and at Ruby Foo's for sushi. And then I arranged all of my spoils on the counter and took a picture of 'em. And now I am partaking.
As you may have guessed, at this point:
I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and tipsy and liiiiiight (in the wallet)
...and so thankful that so many people I don't even really know took time out of their days to make mine a bit brighter. Thanks, you guys. *sniff*
And later I might go out with a friend from grad school for a teeny bit of debauchery.
This is the bestest birthday evar.
Hic.
*I went a little bit crazy in the self-bought gifts department, as this is the first year I have been truly gainfully employed, not in school or grad school, or temping or some such terrible shit. I thought I'd be all lonely and bored. And I just got a raise. So, not counting the spa day, I've gotten myself a fancy immersion blender, a pair of Shasta approved Shure E2cs, a 6.5 inch santoku knife, and a grip of CDs. But the CDs were for Baby, because she asked really nicely, so they don't count, right? And I showed excellent restraint by not buying the JBL OnStage, designer iPod case from Aneta Genova, nor the hothothot "Lover" John Fluevog boots. See? I'm doing really well!
Well, it's my birthday.
At 9:47 a.m., I'll be exactly 27.
If anybody is looking for me, I'll be in the gym all morning, at Turning Heads all afternoon, and at home watching some DVDs, eating cupcakes and wrapping my lips around a bottle of Veuve Clicquot all night.
Welcome to my late 20s.
La-di-fucking-da.
Well, my name is Welsh, sorta.
Which Rock Chick Are You?
Advice please.
Okay, so, you ever meet someone, know right away you would make really great friends or drinking buddies or whatever, and then just have it take for-fucking-ever to be friends, already?
Is friendship like dating, where, you know, if you haven't made plans together within X amount of time, they're just "not that into you," eh?
I'm not shy, but the wrench in the I'll-just-invite-mystery-person-out works is that MP is a boy, and that kind of shit can be easily misread, go horribly wrong, and make all of our future work-related encounters really, really awkward.
Fuck.
Oh well.
Even more ways to spend your money.
I realize I haven't done a real post in a while, but there has been so much shoppification information, you know, I just had to share.
Hand painted and pop purses at Naughty Secretary Club. Okay, I personally would not be caught dead carrying a spangled fish bag, but that Studio 54 is kinda hot, and those hand-painted jobs by Hope Perkins are too much. I love "Up Yours." I'd buy it if the hand had a little brown. Note to NSC--give us an option, okay? Links courtesy of Make Me, who has one helluva crafty streak, and fine taste in tea.
Ikea. I shouldn't need to point this out, since everyone knows Ikea is the place to tart up your pad, since you get the cutest stuff for almost no money. I went twice in January, thanks to Ikea's genius idea to have a bus that runs from gate 5 at Port Authority to their store in Elizabeth, NJ (Saturday and Sunday, every half hour between 10 and 2:30). In two trips, I spent less than $200. Do you know what I got? Four duvet-cover sets (Tove, two Malou Cirkel, and Tanja Blomm) two coffee tables (Lack), two decorative cushions and a supercute giant cushion cover, a four piece set of stainless steel pots and pans from their 365+ collection, a collander, five hanging closet organizers (Skubb and Fangst) , two pillow cases (Femmen), and a partridge in a pear tree (Birden Arbol). Okay, I'm lying about the pillow cases.
John Fluevog shoes. These kinda date back to my more punk days, when I had a purple widow's streak and wished and wished and wished for a pair of knee-high Angels boots, but the pricetag and my chubby calves defeated me. But now I have money, broader tastes, and, well, slightly leaner calves, but whatever, they make really hot ankle boots, too. And the soles and heels have fun shapes and messages. So if you get some, don't go committing any crimes and leaving footprints and shit, okay?
iPod Lounge. Besides having excellent advice on which speakers, headsets, and tattoos and skins to use, or not, it's where I discovered the lovely corset cover Baby will wear someday, if ever I get over the horror of spending $100+ for a little iPod wallet. Of course, I might just have to check out the deals at Marshall's, instead.
Hot shit.
Lesson 1, Unit I: Begging for decadent, unnecessary and exorbitantly priced accessories.
Je voudrais "La Femme," en rose, rouge ou noire, s'il te plait. Je pense que les valises "Christina" et "Iceland" sont tres jolies, en plus. Et Sid, bien sur!
Lesson 1, Unit II: Pets.
Je suis desole parce que le singe et sur la table. Le singe mange tout de la marmelade. Le singe est un puton. Merde.
Time spent trying to remember enough high school French to write the first sentence: about 15 minutes.
Time spent trawling the 'Net looking for all the bits of vocab and verb conjugations I had forgotten: about 45 minutes.
Getting to use "monkey," "jam," and "whore" altogether, in the same sentence, in a language I clearly do not speak even poorly, let alone fluently: priceless.
