"You're bad, but you're good, and I like it!"
Please to say this in Scottish brogue for maximum impact.
When you outlast (in the chronological sense, darlings, not the boozical quantity sense) the professional drinker--er, chief brand ambassador--for one of the world's finest whiskies, and these are his parting words to your assembled company (me, Shas and Yana), after gifting the lot of you with rounds of his product and kisses full on the lips, you've won at the Whisky Fest. (Derivative of Cynically, 2006)
Carry on.
Or i could have a jolly time in newark.
Lessee. Trouble with the left engine before takeoff, trouble with ve
right after. Emergency landing in newark. Long wait. Crap.
Out.
I'm off to Chicago for Drinktacular 2006.
Excuse, Malt Advocate's Chicago "Whisky Fest."
When I come back, I'll likely need Jesus.
Same thing every vacation around these parts: resolve to be good and refined and grown up, go, do the opposite of that.
Ah, well.
Bye-bye!
Advices.Now with tangy updated flavor!
It's new feature time at Siddity in the City, wheeeeeeeee! Now SitC comes with new advice-y flavor!
This is how it will work: I will go to the "mail bag" and select a totally real, certainly-not-me-pretending-to-be-a-reader dilemma and put it to you lovelies. You, should you be so inclined, can post your advices! See? Joy for all, but less actual blogging for me! Er.
Anyway, here's our first predicament from "the mail bag."
Dear Auntie SitC:
The other day my hair stylist called me out of the blue and asked me to dinner. We've never done anything in the past, though he seems to be a real pussycat sweetheart and we've talked about grabbing a bite, so I thought nothing of it. Then, Auntie SitC, he dropped a bomb: he wants dinner to be a date. Up until that very moment, I thought he was maybe just a little bit "the gay!" Now I've already said yes and don't know what to do. I mean, he's a doll, and a great stylist, and could even be a friend, but I don't think I'll ever see him as a big old hunk of man-meat, owing to that whole seemingly-gay thing. Help!
Yeah, so, uh, y'all get on it. Preferably before 4 because that's when he's supposed to call to confirm. Um, or so I read, in a section of the letter that, uh, has been edited out. Er.
*banging head on keyboard*
In other semi-related news, after a month of hemming and hawing, I've finally decided not to sleep with the boy! Which naturally means there's a good chance I'll do just that before the week is out. You know, 'cause now the pressure is off. Jeebus.
Someone save me from myself.
UPDATE: Our, uh, reader informs me that she learned her colleague was sick at the last minute and had to work, anyway. But she conferred with other knowledgeable blo--er, friends, and decided to just go through with it at some point anyway. I mean, either way she'll need a new stylist, and what could it hurt?
And my menstrual cycle has in fact managed to save me from myself as regards the boy. For now. But give me a week. And a half. What? He's really cute.
*banging head on keyboard again.*
Thanks for the...I mean, our reader thanks you all for the advices!
Rules of Cool. Or at least not Dork.
1. Do not show up an hour late to meeting for any reason. This is inexcusable.
2.Do not, repeat, do not give up booze for diet two weeks before meeting blogger cooler than thou. Or two weeks before WhiskyFest, for that matter (yeah, didn't know I ain't been drinkin', didja?)
3. Do not--DO NOT--fall asleep on blogger's friend's chaise longue only 3 drinks into night.
Sorry, Girlhattan. You are at least 8 times cooler than I am. *hanging head in shame*
But thank you for the fun! Hope you had a really great time after you helped me find a cab!
Shit. Am major dork. Ah, hell. I always knew that, anyway....
*On the other hand, now I know how not to handle WhiskyFest. I will never again deviate from the core principles of drunk:
1. Meat
2. Water
3. Regularity
Merciful heaven, sandal season is coming.
Action items:
1. Freeze credit card in block of ice. (Pointless. Card numbers, expiration dates and security codes are all committed to memory.)
2. Begin sloughing mission. (Check.)
3. Decide on summer pedi colors. Nude? Vamp burgundy? Shimmery orange?
4. Pick two pairs of sandals--one dress, one casual--at reasonable prices. Under $100 for the dress, under $50 for casual. Spending restiction lifted if pair that functions as both is found.
5. Repeat mantra: As much as you love gladiator sandals, gladiators and cankles don't mix. Also, think of the tan lines. Bad scene.
And now I get why you're single.
MySpace dude writes me, complimenting my pics. I write back a thanks, a line about something in his profile. Whatever, I was being polite.
He emails me again shortly thereafter.
I don't respond immediately.
This is what I get about 48 hours later:
"I was hoping for a response-maybe get the ball rolling towards getting to know you more. "
Um, it's only been two days, partner. Patience is a virtue. You could take this little interlude to think about the situation one of two ways:
1. It's been two days. Guess she isn't interested. Next!
2. It's been two days. Guess she's really busy. If she writes later, okay, if not, Next!
*shaking head*
Now, as an intensely paranoid individual, I frequently twist myself into momentary agony in situations similar to his. If a friend doesn't email me within a day, I tend to think, "Dear GOD, what have I done, why do they suddenly hate me?!?!?" For all of 4.37 seconds. Then I remind myself that I am in fact the paranoid child of a broken home, and as such tend to overreact to imagined neglect, and also that most people do (*GASP!*) have lives that don't involve me. I always, always make myself wait another day. (Nine times out of ten, I get a response within an hour of making that decision. ) I kinda get where he's coming from. Almost. I mean, I tend to save emotional demands for my actual friends, but you know, hey.
That doesn't mean I have to deal with his bullshit, though. If you haven't learned to play it a little cooler by damn-near 40 years old, you're not going to, I'll wager.
Next!
I have rethought my position.
It is not my membership to club black that i am renouncing, but
membership in club "hood." i've never held membership there, though,
so i don't know why i got so worked up. Silly me. I'm glad. i get to
keep the keys to the black clubhouse. Wheeee!
Freshazimiz.
I'm chatting with the little brother today when he brings the title of this musical masterpiece to my attention.
He likes to wind me up, you see, and a song entitled "Fresh as I'm Is" will wind me the hell up.
Oh, but then he spelled it out for me. "Freshazimiz," one word.
I would like it to be known to all and sundry that I am hereby renouncing my membership to the "Young" club and will be letting my membership in club "Black" expire. I mean, I was already on probation in both, but I think I just need to sever all ties. My Young and Black cards are in the mail, along with the keys to the clubhouses and letters demanding that my dues be returned posthaste.
That is all.
Excuse, "Datizall."
I know, I'm just wrong.
Maybe you should go ahead and join eGullet. It's a great little Internets destination for serious foodies and industry types.
The most recent forum discussion burning up the site? Culinary plagiarism. One of the chef/readers spotted dishes on an Australian restaurant's website that copied, almost exactly, dishes found at Chicago restaurant Alinea (my birthday dinner spot) and DC spot WD-50, and brought it to eGullet's attention. I wouldn't want to be the Australian right now.
Anyway, good stuff, man. Sign up.
Unfaithful.
I have totally been cheating on you with my MySpace blog.
It's meant nothing to me. It isn't funnier, it isn't prettier, none of that, don't worry. It isn't you. It's me.
I guess I just wanted something new.
I'm sorry. I won't forsake you, I swear. You mean so much more to me!
(It's just, I can really be myself overthere, not this entity we've become, together, you know?)
But it isn't you, bloggy! It's not.
We'll get through this. Just stick with me.
*****
I think I'm getting sick. Again. I'm going to take myself right to bed, right now, and hope to sleep it off. God, I hope it works. If it doesn't, I'm going to ber very, very unhappy for the next week. On the other hand, I'd probably drop 5 pounds before WhiskyFest. Ha. Sick.
Read the label.
You see that?
Ninety-four percent of your recommended excitement, right here! Almost three quarters of your power, whatever the hell that is, and 82% of your sweetness!
Woot!
St. Patty's Day Brekkie!
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Are you drunk yet?
I am not. I wish to be an individual, so I am actually refusing to drink today (Translation: I'm working until the day is over, boo.) I did however have this mildly Irish breakfast of sausages, eggs, and potatoes. Ignore the lemon pickle on the side.
Wear some green and snog some ginger-haired po-pos for me! I wish to hear all of your exciting green-beer-puke laced details.
Girls who wear glasses.
I just bought new glasses.
Nearly $800 worth of new glasses.
I'm still recovering from the sticker shock. I may never get over it. The lenses cost more than the already prohibitively expensive frames, thanks to my ridiculous blindness (which requires special thin lenses and edge polishing, apparently, to keep the gorgeous frames from being overwhelmed by my coke-bottle prescription).They actually used up the remaining funds from my 2005 FSA and tapped about a third of my money for 2006.
Everybody should make passes at these goddamn glasses.
Stay a while.
It looks like I may actually be in NYC a few months longer than I'd expected.
That isn't so bad. It's about 70 degrees here today, and I am already feeling little pangs of sadness at the thought of missing the Manhattan summer.
Looks like a little piece of the Big Apple has lodged in me somewhere, after all.
Torn.
So, I just saw Dave Chappelle's Block Party.
I was of two minds.
On the screen, a parade of beauty and spirit and wonderfulness. I thought, "God damn, I love black people!"
But offscreen, I was for serious not loving the black people behind me smoking in the theater and failing not to whisper, but to even use their inside voices. The hell?
That's right. They apparently couldn't hear each other well enough over the irritating distraction of the film, so they felt the need to damn-near shout their conversation throughout the movie.
Damnit.
Bitches.
Oh my god.
I think I just saw Daniel Sunjata in Times Square.
Gorgeous. If it wasn't him, it was a damn fine copy. How wonderful it would be if there were lots of that running around!
Found via Mr. DD.
What a freak.
My question is, was she presented with this "contract" before she married him? If so, shouldn't that have tipped her off? I mean, I realize that's a bit blame-the-victim, but seriously, woman. Where was your head?
Mmmm, how sick is it to want to spend money to stay at a hotel in a city you live in?
Because I think I really need to stay here for one night before I leave New York.
I've passed it several times on the way to various eating adventures, and I always think, "I should stay there."
It's lunacy, I know.
But have you seen the rooms? The bar? The balconies? The restaurants and spa/lounge?
Sigh. Must find scads of cash lying in street. Or sugar daddy. Or winning lottery ticket.
Could someone please explain to me why VH1 is giving Tori Spelling a reality show? Please?
Show of hands: Who gives a fuck about anything Tori Spelling says or does?
*crickets*
That's what I thought.
So remember the day I called off the potential paramour? I did follow through with another meeting that day. Last Tuesday I met...
STOLIE! The Stolinator. Headmistress of the Stolie Nation.
Now, I think every blogger has a blogger he or she is a little nervous about meeting. Not because you don't want to meet the person, but because you do. And you're worried that if you meet, and don't like each other, or the person seems totally different from their blog persona, or sticks you with their drink bill, or hates your shoes, or whatever, a blog relationship will be destroyed forever. Forever.
So when I strolled into an UES cafe/bar to meet her Tuesday afternoon, I was a little... apprehensive. All my real life blog meetups have gone swell, so far. What if this was to be the tanker? It would be horrible, especially since we are cybertwins and are of like mind on most things (exceptions being Paul Walker and, um...okay, I don't recall if there was actually anything besides Paul Walker). I was nervous. Like I was going to a job interview.
Of course, all my fears were laid to rest when I actually met her. Aside from the fact that she had a megawatt smile, was funny and smart as heck and was just lovely, she was wearing my favorite color (we matched!) and was already hitting the pinot noir. My kinda gal!
I grabbed a glass of my own and we proceeded to gab and laugh for hours about men, travel, life, old men, money, work, cute men, naked people on the Internets and warm caramels, not necessarily in that order, and presence of small children and conservative, quiet neighbors notwithstanding. Good times, man. Good times.
At the end, she noticed how much time had flown by and had to run to catch up with one of her boy snacks and I hopped in a cab and headed home, but not before we talked about meeting up again, some time soon I hope. And next time, with drag queens. Okay, I just threw that drag queen bit in. But a girl can hope!
I just made you up to hurt myself. And it worked!
First song I listened to this morning, "Only." Right around the time I got my coat on and pondered (as I do) the state of my life these days and how I've torpedoed myself into each deleterious situation, I hear "I just made you up/to hurt myself!"
I laughed so hard at that. Man, I love this song.
Thanks, Keidra!
Threepenny Opera, starring Alan Cumming and Ana Gasteyer. And Cyndi Lauper!
It starts March 24 and runs through mid-June.
Who's in?
