Siddity In The City: November 2005

I will be on Prozac before the year is out.

That is all.

Hell for less.

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I got nuthin'.

It speaks for itself.

So the first day was not the most interesting.

But it sure was fun! They get better, trust me. Well, then again...

Oh, it's on like Chakka Khan!

Um, on like, um, a, er, 'til the break of dawn? Whatevers. I just learned my homekettle (M, 2005) Dr. P! has accepted a position at U Chicago's hospital. Which means y'all Chi-town bitches (love yous, for real!) better get ready, because by this time next year, Imma be all up in ya grills! Well, that made that particular life decision a whole lot easier. Ed. to add: Okay, so we all know I'm the queen of talknoaction, so who knows if I'll really end up there, but odds are good. Well, better, anyway. At least I'll visit, like, once a month or something. Ohfergahdsakes. Meh.

I'm back my pretties!

Just got in a few minutes ago, in fact. Oh, San Francisco. The stories I shall tell. Tomorrow, though, and over here. You know you're in trouble when, at the end of your vacation, replaying the highlights in your mind, you think: "I need to go to church. Now." I'm not even playing. Happy post-Turkey Day, holiday shopping cyber-Monday fabuliciousness!

Soon, my babies, we will be parted.

But only for a leetle whiles! Because in a few hours, I'm taking my ass to San Francisco, and I plan to have a real, real good time while I'm there. Which means no bloggies (as if you care). And then next week you'll get to read all about it in SOS, BNC. I'm sure I'll post 50-11 times tonight while I am repacking the bag I packed last Friday, but let us pretend this will be my last post for a week, shall we? I'll cram in a bunch of random postiliciousness right now: Memetastic! Last album bought: Weezer, Weezer. Last song listened to: Undone (The Sweater Song), Weezer. Last CD failed to mail because I lost it in a pile of stuff, no wait, there it is, Keidra it really is coming: M.I.A., Arular. Fiddy Words! San Francisco means fog! Fog! Oh god, I forgot about fog! Fog means moisture! Moisture means frizz! Shit, I'm having my hair blown out before this trip. I'll have to spend the whole week in a head scarf, trying to pretend I'm doing it because I'm chill, low-maintenance. Damnit. Haiku Hatshepsut, oh queen I'll see you at the de Young unless I get lost. Death by Sexy 3.0! Rome. When Dr. P. was here, we were faced with a monumental decision: Go try to eyeball Reese Witherspoon and Joaquin Phoenix at the opening of Walk the Line at the Beacon, a few blocks from me, or sit around watching the first ten episodes of Rome on demand at my place. Dr. P. voted for Rome. Like, all ten eposides, in that one night. It's that good. I mean, I'm really not sure it was the rightright choice, because that means I missed eyeballing this up close, but Dr. P. was a guest. Damnit. Bitch-in-Kitch 43: Get your holiday drank on! 6 sweet apples, peeled, cored and chopped (Gala, Macoun, whatever, your favorite apple recommended) 9 oz. vodka cinnamon (powdered) ginger (powdered) ice (if you like) Mash the hell out of chopped apples in a large mixing bowl. Pour vodka over apples and let stand, covered, 3 hours. Strain apple-vodka liquid infusion into a container (using either a proper drank strainer or an ass of cheesecloth) and chill. Fill ice-cube trays with vodka-soaked apple mash and freeze. If you can. Freeze-ish. This should work. Serve infusion in martini glass, garnished with apple-boozecicle cubes and a sprinkle of cinnamon and powdered ginger (go easy on the ginger, mmkay?). Get crazy, add vanilla extract (technically booze) and call it an apple-pie-and-ice-cream -tini. Or whatever. Serves 6. Or three tipplers. Or two drunkards. You get the idea. Um...thassit. Laters.

Mmm, mmm good my ass!

So, Wednesday I leave for Whorin', Brawlin' and Drinkin' (TM) in San Francisco with M and Mr. C. Now, I always go a little batshit before a vacation, because I feel like that's the time to a) lose five pounds; b) suddenly turn all super-saver-no-takeout; and c) get myself into fighting* shape for the fuckery (Shasta, 2005) to come. I've largely been on a diner-food-and-beer diet for the past two weeks thanks to DP's visit, but I've shockingly pretty much managed the first and unsurprisingly mastered the second. Of course, I've failed miserably at that middle thingum. So I'm taking the next three days to atone for my weakness. Today, for instance, I had a can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup for dinner. Cheap, and only 150 calories per can! Now, I feel the need to point out that the only reason I even have this stuff is because my parents view visits to my place as a sort of pantry-cleaning opportunity, and thus come with unwanted canned and dry goods in tow (I'd pretend to be offended, since this seems to assume I am still facing the sort of undergrad/grad desperation that had me eating past sell-by date foods from a place called Building 19 3/4, but, frankly, sometimes a girl just cannot be assed to go grocery shopping, and that's cause enough for desperation when she gets hungry, mmkay?). Duly noted? Good. I haven't had Campbell's chicken soup in years. Seriously. But I remember eating it with PB&J sammiches as a kid and loving it, so I looked forward to this evening's menu with a bit of nostalgic excitement. And hunger. Mostly hunger, because I got off work really late, but whatever. When I got home, I popped open a can, plopped the congealed mass of noodle-spooge into a pot, added some water and heated the stuff up. Ladled it into a bowl, sat myself down, raised spoon to lips, and took a hearty slurp. You know what? Campbell's chicken noodle soup is goddamn disgusting! How could my memory have so failed me?!?! Why has no one spoken out against it? The LIES! Oh my god, and just try washing it down with already disgusting 151 and Diet Coke, okay?** It's a nastacular in your mouth! Goddamn. But I ate it all. And I'm not going grocery shopping before my trip. So tomorrow: cream of mushroom with cucumber-basil vodka infusion and, uh, water? Oh, maybe I can put the infusion in the soup.... Jesus, this trip is going to put me off eating and drinking altogether, and I haven't even left yet. *And by "fighting...for fuckery," I mean "drinking, table-dancing and rigorous denial to follow." ** See "shape, fighting" and subsequent notes. It's all in the preparation, man.

My hair is assed up.

I haven't had a trim since October of last year. I haven't had it touched up since June of last year (I am abandoning the relaxer, as a concept, you see, since it doesn't seem to make much difference anywhere but in my wallet). Next Tuesday, I will be returning to Turning Heads for a little corrective maintenance. A trim and blowout, you know. (Turning Heads... the place I went for my birthday back in February, which was the last time I've seen the inside of a salon, BTW. I kept meaning to go back, because they were fabulous, and I damn sure need a facial from Tracey, their skin guru.) Anyway, I need to get my naps taken care of at some point, and the day before the San Fran trip seems like a great time to me. Now, last time I was there, I got the stylist from God, Dekar. I loveded him, he was so nice, and he did a mean blowout. I was supposed to go grab dinner and dranks with him at some point, but things just kept popping up and I never did. I feel like a shit about this. Should I bring him flowers or summink? I mean, it has been a long-ass time, so he might not even remember who I am, but still, it was all my bad. Advice? I want him to be my stylist forevers! Okay, obviously with me that means once a year, but still. What is "make-up to your stylist" protocol? Eh? Help!

Copycatterer!

That's me. Stolen from Shasta. http://www.frappr.com/siddityinthecity

I am in LOVE.

I've fallen. Hard. Unfortunately, I love from afar. Help bring us together? Wishful thinking, I know.

Dr. P. has left the building.

When I'm all returned to health, prepared to be bombarded with posts about the trivialities of my days! Bwahahahahahaaaaa! (Mmmmm, Theraflu.)

At this point, Theraflu just owns my ass.

I'm sick. Again. As in, for the second time. In a single year. You say to yourself, "Self, what is this bitch complaining about? Most people get sick, like, four times per year. Shut up, bitch." Yes, well, I'm not most people. And I used to almost never get sick. And yet, here I find myself doped up on the coughy sauce again. At least it's lemonilicious. Anyway, like I said last time, when I do get sick, I become a whiny little bitch about it, like a boy. One person of my acquaintance cannot stand it when anyone complains about anything, ever. Anything, ever, and I mean that quite seriously. So when I told her I'd finally gotten sick again (she'd been taunting me with the prospect for weeks, since everyone around us has been sick, including her) she responded with a "Suck it up, everybody gets sick." (Unsurprisingly, this particular woman is sick with something all the time, and never complains. She is far too set in her ways for me to alert her to the fact that, were she to actually bother to complain once in a while when she got sick rather than trying to work through everything, she might not be sick quite so often. But I digress. Also, if she did that, yours truly would be her replacement in the slack uptake or whatever.) For the record: Telling me to "suck it up" does not make me want to impress you by sucking it up, nor does it make me want to whine more out of defiance, like a child. It does, however, make me want to shove jagged ceramic shards into your squishy bits. Just thought you should know, so we're all on the same page. I need to be better by this time next week, because come Hell or high water, I'm going to San Francisco, and I am getting my proverbial party on. Also, I haven't NaNoed since the first week. Happy Tuesday.

Damn you, Zabar's! Damn you to HELL!

So, sometime between Thursday night and Friday afternoon, I decided the world was missing something, and that something was meat pie. Naturally, I took it upon myself to rectify the situation by making meat pie. This isn't about that, though. This is about the journey. The journey to Zabar's, where I went to get a pie tin. First of all, I don't know what the hell I was thinking getting a pie tin at Zabar's, when I could have gotten one at any other crap grocer in town for, oh, $2. But no. I decided this would be a good occasion to tour Zabar's upstairs. Oh, did I neglect to mention that I have been assiduously avoiding the upstairs for the year and a half I've lived two blocks from it? Yes? Well, you can't let a kitchen gadget whore like me loose in a place like that. And do you know why? Because I have neither sense nor restraint, that's why. I went in for a single pie tin. I came out with: A new rolling pin A grater A pie tin A potato masher Three mugs (I already have four. I am one woman. Why in hell do I need seven mugs? I know not.) A vegetable peeler (they have, like, 20 different peelers there. Craziness.) A silicon oven mitt thingum (mad handy.) And some other stuff I don't recall at the moment. Damnit. I spent $50 when I could have spent $2 anyplace else. *eyeroll* Although, I must say, I really should have gotten a vegetable peeler ages ago. My god, the ease! The slippy-quick skinning of vegetables! Wow! Anyway. Shas, you got a Hello Kitty travel mug, yet? 'Cause if not, you do now. Um...okaythat'sall.

Photo Graphic

Monday, Coney Island: black hole sun My camera phone is crap. Today, my gym: That big empty space is where my beloved elliptical machines used to be. Now they are gone. You see, when I walked into my gym today (after receiving a "How are we doing?" call this afternoon, and a bajillion "Please renew right now!" calls for the last three months) I was told that my gym was closing at the end of the day, for good. Well, that branch of it, anyway. So for the rest of the year, I'll be walking an extra 15 blocks to get to the nearest branch to work out. I was upset. Not nearly as upset as the small mob of skinny New York women about to attack the desk clerk when I walked in, but upset. One poor girl said she had just dropped $1000 on training sessions. Ouch. I just finished my sessions up and didn't renew. I think I'll be joining the JCC at the end of this year. Happy weekend!

The best revenge.

I got this awesome shirt in the mail today. It was sent by my favorite foodie/photoblographer, Saffron, and it came all the way around the world tucked in a really lovely care package with my other favorite thing, chocolate. My god, who could ask for anything more?

Thanks so much, Saff! I love it!

Shirt can be found here.

It is as I've always suspected.

If I regularly had even half a social life, I mightn't ever blog.

For the love of Christ.

Here's what I've been up to the last few days:

1. Working.

2. Escorting Dr. P. around the city.

3. Eating crap/drinking with Dr. P.

4. Gym.

5. His Dark Materials.

I find I get really very frustrated with work when I know there is fun to be engaged in at home or on the town with old friends. That's making this one hard-ass couple of weeks.

Even though Dr. P. has been using my place as a base of right coast operations since last Tuesday, over a week now, I've only actually really gotten to hang out with him for what amounts to about 2.5 days, thanks to my weird work schedule and his attempts at getting himself some (work, that is) for next year. Mind you, it's been fairly high-quality quality time (besides eating crap and drinking, we managed to squeeze in some shopping, sightseeing, and Chicken Little in 3D [his idea, I swear. And that right there is friendship. Because you could not have paid me to see that on my own, let alone gotten me to shell out $2 extra to watch that bitch in 3D. Damnit. It was kinda funny, though.])

There is something wonderful but disconcerting about having a friend you can literally not see for 6 years and then pick right back up where you left off. I had been worried that we wouldn't be able to stand each other anymore, or just wouldn't have anything to say, or, I dunno, just wouldn't click. Turns out we are just enough of who we were to still get along really well.

But now that I remember what it's like to come home to somebody fun, I am totally sinking ass-deep into a serious funk. Just before Dr. P arrived, I went to visit BFF, which was great. And then Dr. P. came to visit, and that's great. But soon he will be gone, rarely to return. Of course, then I'll be heading out to the left coast to whoop it up with M and Mr. C. (Great.) And then the week after that M is coming out out here to whoop it up a little more (Greatgreatgreat.). But once the goddamned holidays are over, it'll just be me and this bleeding city, alone again. *Insert great heaving sigh here*

I've been really trying to play grown-up and not choose places to live based on whether or not my friends are there, but I have slowly come to realize that that approach is stupid as fuck. Must. Rectify. Immediately.

One of the good things that has come from Dr. P's visit, though, is that I have come to realize I actually could voluntarily live with another human being again if I liked them enough. I had thought for some time that I'd grown too old and crotchety and would have to live in adjoining townhouses with my mate, but as it turns out, I only need a tiny adjustment period to get over the idea of having to share space again (it took roughly three days to stop secretly glaring at Dr. P's man-products eating up space in my tiny bathroom. I mean, who needs two electric hair removal thingums, really?! *says the girl with 7 conditioners*). That's something. One day I might actually, you know, what do they call it, slip the knot? Oh no, tie the knot or whatever.

While we're on the topic of my romantic future, I leave you with wise words from my driver this evening:

"Honey, I give you this advice only: Woman should not marry the man she likes, she should marry the man who loves her."

I understood precisely what he meant before he even finished. And while I usually would call talk like that so much codswallop, in this case, I have to admit I rather agree.

Worth.

My blog is worth $33,872.40.
How much is your blog worth?

Or, Plan B.

Which would be a repeat of last night, plus wings and fries at Blondies, which by the way is a meal fit for the Gods (of Drunk). Can I just say how much I love the bartender at my local, who did shots with us? Thanks, T!

"We should get some Steel Reserve and watch Half Baked!"

That was the other quote of the evening, delivered by yours truly. I went on to make it Dr. P's mission for the day, the finding of Steel Reserve on the UWS.

Lord, I hope he forgot. Or couldn't find any. That'd be okay, too.

Sigh. It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

For the record, I haven't had a Steel Reserve since, like, 2001.

Just so you know.

Punjabi doctors? They get mad bent. Okay, just the ones I know, maybe. Anyway, so, the weekend is on, despite the fact that yours truly has to work at 6 in the morning. Quote of the evening: "You have floss? Oh, hells yeah!" I completely heart my friends.

NaNo day 3 draws to a close.

Word Count So Far 17570 / 50000 words But I'm pretty sure I'm only going to keep 10 or 12,000 of 'em. And I started this about a year or more ago. So, not so impressive. I've only written about 1500 words since the month began. I just want to finish it. Goddamn. The scary thing is, once I actually sit my ass down to write, I can produce quite consistently. No block, yet. Then again, considering I only sit my ass down to write once in a purple frigging moon and it might all be crap, that isn't saying much. Oy.

Sometimes that "Next Blog" button gets a winner!

I was going to write up an actual post, but why? Just visit the damn blog. He's funny.

What the hell is up with Pat McInerny or whatever his name is?

First of all, he looks like a high-schooler in a powder wig. A very, very skeevy pervy high-schooler. Also, since when does reading newspapers on-air qualify as a news show in itself? A few days ago Patty made some comment about how difficult in the news business it was to make ethical decisions on reporting, how they faced that dilemma in the newsroom every day, *serious news face* and I just thought: You read other people's reporting, and you feature stories like "Marry Your Baby Daddy Day" on a loop. Spare. Me. They do have a little weather report up all the time, though. That's useful.

Note To Self: Light Fire Under Own Ass.

Yeah, so, there have been some things I've been meaning to take care of. I haven't. Not really. I mean, I pretend I'm going to, and I call all my friends up and get to whoopin' and hollerin' about what I'm going to do, but then, you know, it tends to not really happen. I'm all talk, no action. Bark, no bite. You know. I ain't been movin'. I'd tell you that was all about to change but that would just be me being true-to-type. But I do seem to have reached a funny sort of breaking point, the kind I reach sometimes, where I start just trying to stir up shit, to kind of force action in a roundabout way. I'm kinda like a guy that way. But, anyway, just so you know. In case I start to get all cryptic and weird on you. You know. Or whatever. It could be just, I got some things going on. You know. Meh.

God in Heaven, NaNo is upon us!

I haven't done any NaNoing in the last two days. See, what had happened was, I had to work late yesterday, and then my homekettle (TDMM, 2005) Dr. P! (for Punjabi!) came for a visit, sorta, and I hadn't seen him since just before Thanksgiving 1999, for serious, due to that whole medical school in India situation, and I knew he was gonna be rolling out in a matter of hours so I had to talk to him while I could, and then sleeping happened, and then when I woke up I got a call from the lovely and talented Miss James, who happened to be a mere 7 blocks away, so we had to go grab a bite at Alice's Tea Cup while she was in town, and then Dr. P! came back from his interview at one of the local hospitals just long enough to collect some stuff to take with him to interview for the next few days further down the Northeast corridor, and then I had to talk to M because we hadn't chatted in a while, like, I dunno, two days or something, and then, uh, well, I better go get my write on. Good luck, NaNoers

Assorted experiences.

Today, I'm standing in line at Fairway, second-to-last. The store is a madhouse, as usual, so the lines extend back into the narrow aisles, and people with the baskets and children and carts fight to wend their way through the crowd to a necessary can of stew, packet of pasta, box of Frooty-Os, whatever. Shopper number third-to-last-in-line is grudgingly allowing shoppers to cut her off from the line area as they pass through with their carts. A stout, older woman pushes up and stops with a stroller just in front of her. "The line starts back there," shopper third-to-last tells stroller-lady, gesturing behind me and the folks who've assembled behind us. "I stay here," says stroller lady in an ambiguous Eastern European accent. Hearing the accent, third-to-last thinks the woman maybe misunderstands the situation, and attempts to explain again. "No, the line, it starts back there." "I stay here," says stroller lady again. "She is cryink and I stay here," she says, pointing to the silent, dry-eyed toddler in the stroller. Finished with her side of the argument, she then proceeds to walk to the next open register. Third-to-last snorts in disbelief. I try to console her, but really I am thinking the following: Brilliant. Sin boldly. Bad accent + child + unflappability = perfect line-cutting maneuver. Must use when have children. I'm thinking I'll try the Rosario Braziyorican accent. See if anybody buys it, anywhere. Maybe in the Midwest? One of the I states? Iowa, Idaho, Indiana? *** Silk soymilk hot cocoa with Splenda: not so delicious as it sounds, and trust, I know exactly how delicious it sounds (not very). Also, if left to sit while you blog, it turns quickly to pudding. *** Am finally mastering this whole thrift thing. Talked self down from late night sushi ordering binge in favor of homemade asparagus soup and roasted chicken (financial and caloric thrift). Actually transferred estimated delivery order amount to savings account. Very proud of self. *** More friends coming to town I'll likely rarely see. The sad thing? They're actually staying in my place. Having friends near-at-hand and missing them hurts so much more than having them far away, it really does. Which means I will spend the next two weeks blogging about my melancholia. Toow.

Siddity In The City

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

I will be on Prozac before the year is out.

Hell for less.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

I got nuthin'.

So the first day was not the most interesting.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Oh, it's on like Chakka Khan!

Sunday, November 27, 2005

I'm back my pretties!

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Soon, my babies, we will be parted.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Mmm, mmm good my ass!

Thursday, November 17, 2005

My hair is assed up.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Copycatterer!

I am in LOVE.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Dr. P. has left the building.

At this point, Theraflu just owns my ass.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Damn you, Zabar's! Damn you to HELL!

Friday, November 11, 2005

Photo Graphic

Thursday, November 10, 2005

The best revenge.

It is as I've always suspected.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Worth.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Or, Plan B.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

"We should get some Steel Reserve and watch Half Baked!"

Just so you know.

Friday, November 04, 2005

NaNo day 3 draws to a close.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Sometimes that "Next Blog" button gets a winner!

What the hell is up with Pat McInerny or whatever his name is?

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Note To Self: Light Fire Under Own Ass.

God in Heaven, NaNo is upon us!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Assorted experiences.

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