Siddity In The City

I miss this old house.

2006-10-24T12:46:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I come back by this blogspot dive and think, "Aw, it's like my first apartment! A dump, but what good times." It's gotten a bit tough to maintain the new place--the stress of putting just the right things in could be getting to me. Maybe it's just that I have so much on my plate. Or worse, that the person who quipped about shoes and cupcakes and weekend trips is gone. Sigh.

OMG, are you STILL stopping by here?

2006-08-30T01:54:00.000-04:00

Well, as long as you end up over here, I'm okay with it. It's not like you can cheat on me with, you know, me. Heh.

Siddity in the City: Now with more minty flavor!

2006-08-04T09:25:00.000-04:00

I've been kind of absent letely, I know.

Sorry. A lot going on.

Like the fact that I'm moving. Over here. Update your links! Come on, we'll have a party! A blog-warming party. Kind of like a pants-party, but with none of the morning-after awkwardness and a nicer, new-blog smell.

Have I completely unpacked and finished decorating? No.

Do I have the patience to keep double posting or importing work from here to there? No.

So should you wait to visit that pretty-even-though-it-ain't-done blog instead of this the-best-I-could-manage-at-the-time blog? No.

I'll be consolidating, too. Same Old Sid and the food bits will end up over there, as well. Eventually.

I am so not looking forward to tagging 700 posts. Jeebus.

So, yeah.

Siddityinthecity.com. Woohoo!

Happy Friday!

Quick FYIs

2006-08-03T15:19:00.000-04:00

Bluefly is having an "Additional 15% off all handbags" sale, if you're into that sort of thing.

If you can drag yourself out of bed early enough, tomorrow at 8:30, Kanye and Pharrell will be in Bryant Park. For free. But you need to get there early. The park opens at 6:30.

Laters.

The 80s are coming back.

2006-07-30T22:54:00.000-04:00

But, if we all band together, we can turn back the tide of evil.

Simply pledge the following (left hand raised and right hand over heart):

I, ____, do hereby pledge never to wear a bubble or poof skirt. Ever. Ever. Everinmylife. I furthermore promise not to make the foolhardy mistake of believing leggings hide a multitude of sins. I swear to avoid any and all denim trimmed in lace. In fact, the only lace I currently believe in is Battenburg, and I swear that that is only suitable for formal kitchen linens, which I will only come by inadvertently, as my sweet-but-dotty Aunt Eva insists on making it part of my bridal trousseau. I pledge that, having just figured out how to really artfully clash bag and shoes, I will not return to to matching the two, and I certainly won't do it with bows or clips on either. I will shoot the Bedazzled on sight. I will continue to pluck, wax or thread my brows into demure arcs of ladylike submission. Banana clips are not now, never have been, and never will be an acceptable solution to any hair dilemma. Shoulderpads...just, no.

Christ-chucking bloody DAMN IT!

2006-07-30T19:52:00.000-04:00

I've got wee bastard aphids eating my mint!

SONS OF BITCHES!

Now I have to toss the plant or commit to a course of pesticidal diligence, because I don't want the fuckers migrating to my basil and tomatoes. I have one window, my only source of natural light. All three pots need to share that space. I would just stick the mint outside on the ledge, but I live enough floors up that such action could lead to some poor sucker's demise if a good wind came along and blew it over.

Fuck. I could make an organic garlic pesticide, which apparently takes nothing but crushed garlic, oil, dish soap and water. Alas, I have nothing to spray it on with. Not to mention, I don't want my whole room smelling like a fucking pizza. Argh. ARGH!

Know what I rillyrilly want?

2006-07-27T21:54:00.000-04:00

A bacon cheeseburger and a Bass. Is that too much to ask?

The world is just full to bursting with ridiculous.

2006-07-27T01:00:00.000-04:00

1. They can't possibly mean "resellers." Because doesn't that imply it's been used? Maybe they mean retailers? Distributors? *shrug* Who in the hell would want a used she-pee?

2. I've been doing a bit of media recon lately, which means trawling through the mags on the market geared to the 18-35 year old woman of color.

I am not impressed, people. In fact, seeing what's out there, I'm having a hard time understanding how Suede could have flopped, and I wasn't a huge fan of that. But it was light years ahead of anything else out there right now.

Vivica Fox's Jolie? That's kind of a joke. Seven-and-a-half pages of typos and "articles" which are in fact barely disguised reprints of press releases by publishers, record labels and tourism boards.

Iona? Looks a bit better than Jolie, but needs editors. You know, the kind who can actually edit--clean up copy, tighten prose, or hell, give the writers any direction at all. I mean, how out of your depth do you have to be to not realize the phrase you are looking for is "art nouveau" and not "art nuevo"? Yikes. Don't even get me started on the advice columns. Please. I shudder to think on them now.

(An aside: Dear Hill Harper, I love you. Please, marry me. And thanks for singlehandedly trying to raise the quality of these two struggling magazines. Is there any black lady mag you aren't writing for? Why aren't you the name on every woman's lips when she talks about celebrities she wants to hook up with? )

Jewel is looking more promising than both combined...decent enough for me to actually spend money on it. (I lie. I bought it because of the picture of Will Demps in the back. Holy hell, that man is fine. I have got to start paying more attention to the NFL.)

What was I talking about? Will Demps/Hill Harper sammich? What?

When's the last time I did a beefcake post, anyway?

Uh, It's late and I'm not making any sense....Back later.

On comedy.

2006-07-26T18:51:00.000-04:00

So, I'm watching Sarah Silverman's Jesus Is Magic. Considering it seemed like every critic in America reviewed this show as though they sat down in their theaters, Silverman appeared onscreen, and the sun commenced immediately to shine out of her ass, I expected some great, irreverent, off-color genius stand-up.

Uhhhhm. No. Nope. Not seeing it.* I mean, yes, she does say all the "irreverent" and "off-color" things she was touted for but...so what? I really don't see what all the fuss was about. It seems like most of the critics who loved it assumed if people hated it, it would be because it was "offensive." I wasn't offended, I just wasn't moved. She tried too hard to be edgy, said lots of things plenty of other comics have said before, and didn't present any of it in a way that was new or exciting, including her sub-par musical numbers (I can think of several other comics who really shine when given a thesaurus and a guitar. She falls totally flat. Totally). Unless, of course, the draw was that she was a pretty white girl saying these things. Female comics are usually not white, thin, straight and traditionally attractive. I guess that could be why people (and by people, I mean male critics) seemed to be falling all over themselves to sing her praises.

Because almost nothing she said was funny. Certainly none of the "un-PC" things were new, or exceptionally delivered. Oh, except this, delivered as the punchline to her "I'm not racist, I don't base my jokes on stereotypes, I base them on facts" spiel:

"Fact: Every 30 seconds in this country a person of color jumps up and down and waves their arms behind a local news reporter." That? Funny.

All of this is to say, this just proves that the only real beneficiaries of affirmative action? Cute, skinny white girls.

(Don't get mad. I was paying homage to Silverman's stand up style just there. It was a joke.)

*To be fair, the woman is dating Jimmy Kimmel, and if that's who she's bouncing her ideas off when she goes home at night, well...that's like Paula Abdul using William Hung for a vocal coach, is what that's like.

Reality checks, and other unpleasantries.

2006-07-26T02:01:00.000-04:00

1. What drug-addled studio exec greenlighted The Guardian ? Kevin Costner hasn't been able to carry a film since, what, Robin Hood? And Ashton Kutcher never has and never will be able to carry one. And IT'S ABOUT THE FUCKING COAST GUARD. Not even. Coast Guard school. (I know, it's called the academy. Creative license.) HELLO?!?! Earth to Hollywood? Newsflash: While, in reality, the Coast Guard handles some hardcore natural disaster isht, all the sexy points go to the other armed forces. Wait--do we even consider them part of the armed forces? I'm confused. And either way, show of hands: who saw Annapolis? Anybody? No one? Yeah. That's because no one gives two shits about military academy films anymore.

2. I really need to stop opening my Myspace mail. Today I opened a message that looked like it was from one of those party-girl types (you know, the ones who try to add everyone in the history of Myspace ever to their friends lists?) but turned out to be very, very different:

"I know this is random, but I work for a fertility agency. I hope you aren't offended with me writing you. I was just on myspace and I happen to notice you. I think you are absolutely stunning. Have you considered ever being an egg donor? It is completely confidential, and relatively painless and it doesn't reduce your fertility or anything silly like that. It really is a great opportunity to help a breast cancer survivor or an infertile couple. It pays anything from 6,000 to 15,000 dollars. It takes about 6 weeks and you can donate up to 6 times in your life. The time commitment is minimal and it won't really affect your school or work. If you are at all interested, I would love to talk to you more about it."

What. The. Fuck? I'm not offended, really. I mean, I remember being an undergrad and finding ads in the student paper seeking white and Asian donors only, so I'm glad we're all going equal opportunity here. But clearly someone did not notice my age in that profile box. I'm rolling up on 30 (only another year and a half, bitches! Spit-shine those party hats!), and there's no way I'll be ready to start popping out anklebiters any time soon. Which means, by the time I am ready, I'll need all of my damn eggs, 'kay? Also, relatively painless? I feel for the poor girl who falls for that line, ignoring the "relatively" and focusing on "$6,000-$15,000" and "painless." Shooting yourself full of fertility drugs on a regular basis is fucking painful. Having someone invade your girlie bits to get at your eggsac? Painful. Personally, knowing there's someone who's half-me running around somewhere in Chelsea or on the UES, whom I would never meet? Pain-fucking-full. Oh, the lies people tell themselves, each other. And all for a few grand. Sigh. Please, someone, anyone: tell me you've gotten a message like this, too, and I'm not the only one getting this stuff?

Here's another winner:

"Hey guy..

So, looks like the time has arrived for me to finally start using this account. I can resist no more.. Let the obsession begin! I took a gander though your page and well, I liked what I saw.. :p

So, they call me XXXX. I think me and you should be friends, cause you seem pretty fun, and interesting, and possibly cute! (it's so hard to tell in this cold digital world.. :)

anyways, i would go on forever, but I'd like to get an answer from you first!"

Wow. The moral here? If you plan to send out mass emails meant to look personalized and like you really care, use gender neutral pronouns, genius.

3. Listerine whitening mouthwash. Hate it. It isn't nearly as nasty as regular Listerine, but 15 minutes after I've used it, I find myself pulling a weird, eggyjizzy film out of my mouth. What...is...that...crap?

Ah, romance.

2006-07-24T13:32:00.000-04:00

Dating in New York. Perhaps the most perilous endeavor, save perhaps apartment hunting, one can undertake in this city. Actually, it's a lot like apartment hunting: there seem to be literally millions of available units in all varieties everywhere you look, but when it's time to jump ship from one unit to another? Good luck finding one that isn't already taken, too small, hideous or too goddamn costly.

Where was I? Oh yeah, dating. So my therapist and I, we've been working on my various issues for a good 9 months now, and uh, we're trying to birth a new, better me. (Or whatever. This post began with such trite promise. Sigh. Onward.) We worked out the things that would make me a happier, more adjusted human being. Apparently, they involve getting a new job and having lots more sex. Or, who am I kidding, any sex at all.

Oh, mommy, if you're still here, this is where you should stop reading. Loveyouthanks.

So I've started, as you know, Internets dating. It's impossible for me to meet anyone appropriate at work, given my limited interaction with anyone who isn't short, married with kids, or already a royal pain in my ass. And Match sent me that three-day trial email, you know. I kinda got suckered in. Shortly thereafter, thanks to the wise counsel of a few of you ladies, I also joined Nerve. You know, just for shits and giggles.

Lots of shits. No giggles. (Okay, a few giggles) God in heaven. I don't think anything has so strongly put me off the idea of dating as actually fucking doing it.

Let's start with the emails, shall we?

I will admit, nothing has even come close to the level of illiterate drivel I get on Myspace, and for that, I am a teensy, eensy, weensy bit grateful. No wait, Myspace is free. I'm paying for this shit. I take it back. I'm just bitter.

On Match, I've gotten the usual one-liners: "Hi. How R U?" Just dandy. Want to send me something that demonstrates that you a) can spell and b) have bothered to read my profile? Or: "You are very beautiful here is my number call me sometimes." Slow your roll, babydoll. You have no photo and practically nothing in your description. Why in the HELL would I do that? Seriously? Then there was the email from the delightful New Jersey boy, flexing his wee muscles in wifebeaters and jeans in his photos, which read, simply: "I am free this Friday. I will allow you to take me to dinner." Suh-mooth. Wow. How can I resist game like that?

Nerve has been much less interesting. I mean, aside from the fact that there are just fewer people, there are fewer under 40 who seem to have any interest in yours truly. At least, of those with a real, silver or gold membership. I'm not paying for Nerve, so I pretty much have to wait to be "chosen." I keep meaning to subscribe, but then I remember all the luck I've had so far and pretty much think, "fuck that." I don't even have good email stories from Nerve. They've mostly been on the, "I liked your pics and profile, let's chat/IM/have coffee" variety. And seriously, all but one have come from a "single" man over 40. WTF. No, really, what the fuck. Do I draw the perpetual bachelor/cheater to me? (An aside: Have you seen the BBC show " Manchild" ? Oh my god. The horror. It's kind of funny, and really, Anthony Head is pretty sexy--you know you were all giddy too when on Buffy it turned out he was married to Phina--but these characters are such prats. I digress.)

Which is all to say, no luck so far. It's been a bit over a month, I believe, and I have now been on...two dates. Both, bizarrely, older Australian men. That I cannot explain. One was from Nerve. After emailing a bazillion times back and forth, we arranged a "pre-date" meeting, involving coffee, apparently to ensure the other wasn't "crazy." I suggested the coffee and a walkabout--public spaces, easy escapes--and got myself a theater ticket as a failsafe escape plan. But when I arrived, his escape plan was even better.

He had picked up groceries on the way over.

Yes, groceries. Undoubtedly, nothing was perishable, but what a lovely fallback if things went quickly to shit. You just say, "Well, I have to get these home." I had to respect the man a little for that. We got coffee and chatted for a bit over an hour. No spark, nothing special. So I was surprised when, at the end of our little "pre-date," he suggested we have dinner in Jackson Heights. "Yeah, if you like cooking it'll be great, we can go and get you some spices and stuff while we're out there." And then gave me a really unexpected hug and kiss (on the cheek, thank god, because I didn't see that shit coming at all and might have injured him otherwise--I take my personal space very, very seriously.) to send me off. I was even more surprised when, after his response to my thanks email a few days later, he said "Let's do something this week, call you later" and I never heard from him again. *Shrugs*

I don't mind if there's nothing there, man, really, I don't. It would take a few dates for me to make up my mind about a complete stranger anyway, unless he was clearly a sociopath of some sort. You can just say, "Well, thanks. Good luck." You need not fabricate elaborate follow-up date itineraries, really. *eyeroll*

Aussie #2 was a bit younger (only in his late thirties), much taller (not a good scene, I've realized, having now been embraced by two men over 6 feet. I know I say I like tall men, but the tallest I have ever dated was about 5'10" in Jordans, okay?) and had red hair. I love red hair. And he was well traveled and delightfully literate, it seemed. And willing to commit to an actual film and coffee right out of the gate. I figured, we'd at least have something to talk about.

We saw Water. Perhaps the most depressing film in Deepa Mehta's trilogy. Not a good start when your date has to surreptitiously wipe tears from his cheeks when the house lights come up. I pretended not to notice. Then coffee and snacks at a diner. General conversation. Pleasant, no gaps. Still no spark, but I figured, he was interesting enough to see movies with, and seemed nice. I'd have gone out with him again, if just for that. We ended with an awkward dance, me extending my hand for a shake with him, arms outstretched for a hug, and then the reverse, before settling on a loose hug. (Space, damnit! Space!) Again, I got a, "let's do this again sometime," before never hearing from him again. Okay, not true, he did email me. But he took such pains to avoid implying the possibility of a second date that it would have been better if I had never heard from him again.

Apparently, I appear to be either too nice or too fragile to "handle" lack of interest. Which is funny, because in both of these cases, I didn't even suggest a repeat. *eyeroll*

So anyway, Nerve vs. Match--0:0. And I'm really not looking forward to more dates, but by god, I've paid for another two months of Match, apparently, so I'm going to press on.

I'm pretty sure there's a basic economics principle that renders my thinking entirely stupid and wrongheaded...but whatever. I need something to blog about.

All I wanted was a brochure, really.

2006-07-18T10:18:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I decided to take my free afternoon and apply it to my future as a multimedia domestic superdiva.

Translation: In the 100 degree heat, I decided to walk the 50+ blocks from my digs to a couple of Chelsea cooking schools to have a look around and sign myself up for classes.

I started at the less expensive, and thus more attractive, of my options. Or, rather, where the school website claimed the culinary classes to be. When I arrive, there is a class in progress, yes, but no school. Apparently, they had just moved their offices three blocks north and hadn't yet gotten around to updating the website. What's that you say? I should have called first? Oh, I did. Their phones weren't working. That's why I decided to stop by. More on this later.

Next stop: ICE. Much more promising. A large, clean, shiny, airconditioned building with floor-to-ceiling mirrors all over the place (the better to monitor your expanding waistline between classes, perhaps). The doorwoman directs me to the fifth floor for enrollment. I climb into the lift-pod and shoot upward. I step out on five to a space that looks far more Madison Ave marketing than cooking school: open spaces, sleek finished doors and floors. Occasionally, an instructor or student in full chef's whites pops out of a door and rushes off to concoct something. Fancy.

Cheered by this encouraging turn of events, and pondering how unflattering chef's whites will look on my squat little figure, I approach the reception desk to inquire about the courses I'm interested in: a knife skills workshop next week, and an intensive techniques course in August. My joy is swiftly squashed.

"Oh-ho-ho," the receptionist/admin laughs, "maybe you can get into one for September. There's no way you're getting into those now. Our classes fill up fast. You'd need to sign up at least two months in advance. We can put you on the wait list if you want, though."

Wait-listed! Me! I've never been wait-listed for anything in my life! I got into two Ivies, damnit! And now I can't get into a bloody chop-chop class!

I swallow my pride and get myself tucked onto the wait list. I'll have to take what I can get at this point, it seems. I hop back into the lift-pod and drop, with my spirits, to the ground floor.

On the street, the hot air greets me as I trudge the few blocks to the new offices of the first school. After a misstart (I get sent to another, similarly named school's offices thanks to a misapprehension of the doorman's accent) I end up in the right place.

My heart sinks a little further. The offices are unfinished and apparently understaffed. It looks thoroughly like a start-up, and the small staff on hand seems a little out of sorts. No wonder no one is answering phones. There aren't any working phones. There is no school to tour, no place to chat privately with an admissions officer. Yipes. I'm not feeling at all confident in this school's ability to provide me with any serious training.

They are, however, very friendly, and I am given a few brochures and an application for classes and a kitchen assistantship, which would allow me to observe classes in exchange for my labor. Jackpot. I fill out the application at a little side desk and hand it in, expecting them to call me whenever their phones start working. Instead, I am quickly "interviewed." Then, the curveball.

"Um, do you have any plans for this evening? One of our assistants canceled on us an hour ago, and the Chinese food class starts in an hour, and we really need someone to help set up right now."

I look down at myself: White linen skirt. Short-sleeved tee. Open-toed, ankle-wrap sandals. The opposite of appropriate kitchen attire. But when I look back up, she's still looking at me as though her request is serious, and I figure, Hey, why not? I came for a preview, and Burlington Coat Factory is across the street. I can get some $3 pants on the way over.

So I accept her challenge and head back over to the school's kitchen. Yes, there is only one. It is 5:30.

I'm received by the other assistant, an older guy who's developed that older guy tummy and is on the verge of developing that older guy aroma. He's incredibly relaxed and unconcerned about the fact that he's just been sent a girl in white linen and Jesus sandals to assist him in running an instructional kitchen. He hands me an apron and shows me the ropes as we go. The kitchen manager, quickly establishing that I will not be gabbing with him en espanol throughout the night (though there will certainly be time for me to do so if I accept courses to work later on), delivers information in a too-quiet, thickly accented voice that it takes me the whole night to grow accustomed to. Assuming I've already committed to working the kitchens indefinitely, he also hands me copies of about half the other course packets in the program. Highly against the rules, but I'm appreciative. I've got the entirety of what I'd learn in three of the courses I'd considered taking in hand, now.

The instructor is a great old Chinese guy--a bit brusque, but good-natured. Half his class shows up on time and they begin. The other assistant and I observe, procuring ingredients and cooking tools and then clearing them when necessary, and occasionally raiding the fridge. (Did I neglect to mention I hadn't bothered to eat before I left home? Yep. But free food is the only coin for the KAs, it seems, and neither the assistant, kitchen manager, nor instructor bats an eye at chowing on leftovers from the fridge. Awesome.) The rest of the class trickles in. Occasionally, when there are excess ingredients and our assisting services aren't needed, the instructor lets me have a go at preparing the dishes. I learn how to make some good-looking dumplings, if I do say so myself.

Three hours and four dishes later, the class has prepared everything on the agenda for the evening and the students are all sitting down to eat. The other assistant, kitchen manager and I hustle through clean-up (god bless work-study in the dining halls as an undergrad; I know my way around an industrial kitchen) and then sit down to eat the leftovers. We scavenge a third of a bottle of wine, a few beers. The students leave and the instructor joins us, munching on the forgotten dessert. We chat. We wrap up. About 10:30, we're done and ready to head home.

"Good night, angel, get home safe!" the other assistant calls as I head for the door. And then I'm back on the sticky streets, heading uptown.

I don't know these men, or this place, but I feel more comfortable in this element than I have at any time in the entirety of my last two-plus years at my current job. I'm not being paid, yet I am happy with the day's outcome and feel like I've been amply compensated. It is the most honest work I've done since, oh, 2000, and I want to come back. I know it wouldn't always be so smooth, and certainly real work in a kitchen would be much harder, more demanding work than this, but for the first time, I'm reevaluating my assertion that I don't want to actually work in a kitchen, I just want to write about it.

I went in for a brochure, maybe a tour, and I got a five-hour, quick and dirty little education, at least on what it is I want, long term. I think I just may enter a degree program, maybe even full-time. I wouldn't do it there--the school is far too small and disorganized for a certificate from that place to do me any good technically or carry any weight professionally, it seems--but I'd certainly go back to assist. Free classes to observe, free meals and getting to muck about the kitchen? Gold.

So, why have I just developed an ear-crush on John Mayer?

2006-07-13T19:43:00.000-04:00

I mean, I've been avoiding him forever. I figured, really you can only have an ear-fling with one funny-looking, gravelly-voiced, guitar playing, funky dancing white singer-songwriter boy at a time, and I was hung up on Dave Matthews already. But maybe I can hold a place in my tympanum for both.

Sigh.

I thawed a bunch of chicken breasts earlier in the week and forgot. Now I have to make them. But I really don't feel like "cooking" right now. So I'm broiling 'em plain. In about a half hour, they'll be mango-curry chicken salad. What can I say? Somtimes a kitchen mistress has to go low-key.

This weekend, I have to make some crockery, go out with one, maybe two, tall Aussies, travel to D.C., and make a pot of cachupa, the Cape Verdean poor-man's stew. Lawd, I'm tired already.

Yes, I am posting for the umpteenth time today, what of it?

2006-07-11T21:42:00.000-04:00

Finished junkyard risotto. Originally uploaded by Siddity.

And I'm not even off today. I just have this much down time.

So I didn't order in. I made risotto. My first, don't you know.

Matt over at Abstract Gourmet just looooooves risotto. That, and sticking his favorite sausage into everything. Just so happens I had both key ingredients, a hunk of free time, and instructions for risotto prep straight from Le Cordon Bleu!

It also happens I had written a long, lovely post about this, complete with recipe, but it was apparently so fucking delicious that Blogger ate it. So. You get a pic and to use your imagination.

Oh, it was quite tasty. I followed it up with a hot cup of pear white tea tarted up with rosewater and wildflower honey. A divine finish to the meal--a mild, sweet counterpoint to the rich, savory risotto.

Match.com: Endless hours of entertainment.

2006-07-11T16:39:00.000-04:00

And by "entertainment," I mean "JesusfuckingchristIshouldjoinaconvent."

The "About Me and What I'm Looking For" section, in its entirety, of a mid-thirties fellow in Amsterdam.

"I am a nice, well dressed guy looking for a nice coloured girl from anywhere in the world. Somebody with the same interest, TRAVELING. I speak, besides my native language dutch, also english and spanish. "

Oh great. That narrows it down to about...lessee...12% of the world's population is white, so 88% is "coloured" and assuming half are female (I know, it actually isn't half, but let's pretend) that narrows it down to roughly 44% of the world.... What's the other criterion? Oh yes, "nice." Gah. Screw it.

My lord. I think he left out a line. Maybe it was supposed to read "...a nice coloured girl from anywhere in the world...for me to POOP ON!" Or, "...to file my taxes!" Maybe, "to act as my prop in an elaborate sexual fantasy of colonization and be treated with indignity. A variety of authentic ethnic costumes provided."

Sigh.

I need to make something with french horn mushrooms. I was thinking a champignon consomme but I am lacking vegetables for mirepoix, bones for stock, and a skimmer of appropriately fine weave. All I have is the mushrooms.

I'll order in.

Lunch.

2006-07-11T14:11:00.000-04:00

Yep. I'm writing a post about my lunch. And do you know why? Because I can.

Anyway, grilled cheese. I love grilled cheese. It's such a quick, tasty, comforting meal. Today I had an open-faced raw-milk morbier sammich, made on pugliese olive oil-dipped, yeast free summer bread. Delightful. (Kraft singles are for losers! Kidding. I'll take singles and Wonderbread now and again, for nostalgia's sake.) Oh, and a cucmber salad and a wedge of watermelon. Not exactly high class, but mighty fine!

So. What'd you have?

Time.

2006-07-11T02:13:00.000-04:00

When I was a wee lass, I knew a wee lad. In my hazy child's memory, he was awkward and funny looking. His mother was a family friend. I played games with his sister, and together we bossed him about as older girls in positions of power over younger boys sometimes do. Then, I left town and lost touch.

I talked to him a year or so ago on the phone, trying to coordinate a mini-reunion with his sister. She lives down south now, but was coming up to visit him and friends. His voice had deepened to an astonishing baritone and he'd shot up, I was told, to nearly six-and-a-half feet. He reminded me I had taught him to tie his shoes when others had failed. I had no recollection of it. I was stricken, as I sometimes am, by sadness that I do not remember more of my childhood. I moved so many times that I think, at some point, I just gave up trying to hold the images of each place, each little life, in my mind. It was such a small thing, teaching him that, but I was irritated I'd lost the kind of memory people who grow up with roots would have.

Anyway. I just got a forwarded email from my mother, who got a link from his.

Behold, that little boy, all grown up.

(Edited--I just realized all his contact info was up on that site. I'm taking the link down to protect his privacy. Maybe I can find other, non-contact-info-displaying pix online later. Sorry!)

Hot dang. Be nice to your friends' siblings, girls and boys. You never know how they may turn out.

Happy Tuesday ;D

I love the soccer.

2006-07-11T02:11:00.000-04:00

World Cup is over.

I know I said I didn't care who won after England was eliminated, and that was true. That didn't mean I didn't plan to watch the final game, though.

Early Sunday, Stolie texted me with the rendezvous info, very, very early. Roughly an hour or so later, I was ready to get out of bed and begin the long haul down to Little Italy. I think I only got about 40 blocks before she called again. It was about noon. Mulberry street was already filling up, despite the fact that the game wouldn't start for nearly three hours. I hopped in a cab and zipped over, just in time for us to grab one of the last free outdoor tables at a little pastry shop/cafe, one right next to the big screen.

Fastforward two hours and we were firmly entrenched in the thick of a raucous, blue-shirted (though not a Les Bleus-shirted) crowd, defending our little table and precious view of the screen from the surging masses. Okay, only a few tried to surge, really, and they generally were promptly shouted back out of the way. (The photogs were the most irritating, leaning in and taking snaps of the screen, the crowd, anything at all, apparently, much to our dismay.)

Another two hours and we were all nailbiting, sweating, tense wrecks as the tied game went into overtime. A little ways on from that, and little gasps went up as Zizou blew his top--and then rammed it into Matterazi's chest like a rampaging bull.

When France missed a goal, and Italy scored its fifth, the entire street--teeming with people who had turned Italian for the day--went bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Italy took a fourth cup, and the World-Cup fever broke. But, like a malarial fit, it will be back. Zudafrica, 2010.

In the meantime, I have no idea what to do with myself of a weekend. I'll have to take up curling or something.

A sampling of romantic overtures from my Myspace inbox.

2006-07-08T12:21:00.000-04:00

"Just when i thought id had seen it all our paths crossed and met and i knew from the first glance that U would be hard 2 4 get. your eyes attracted me first lets exchange numbers so we can get to no each other... " Okay, yep. I'll get right on sending you my number, random boychild I have never met before, contrart to your assertion above. Just as soon as I finish dry heaving. What? I'm allergic to illiteracy. "Hi my name is XXX iam a chef I DON'T WERE A SUIT BUT IAM A PROFESSIONAL MAN AND I NO HOW TO TREAT A LADY ,Iam not married or have kids iam 33 with no issues. I love to cook at home go out to dinner and do drinks with friends just looking for some one to hang out with and just lay back with a glass of wine..." Just...you know, this really makes me sad. It isn't funny. It's just depressing. Started dating some folks from the Internets. Not these guys, clearly. We'll see how it goes. Hey look: pasta!

You know what's funny?

2006-07-06T16:08:00.000-04:00

When you're talking smack ("Poor sucker, I would NEVER get myself into that situation, tsk tsk!") and then the Universe is all, "Haha, big talk now, huh? Let's see how you like THIS, BIATCH!" Okay, yeah, it's not funny at all. Fuckety fuck. Also not funny: when ladies use public restrooms and, not wanting to have their delicate little virginal heinies befouled by something so vulgar as the ghostly trace of other asses, they squat over the seat...and then piss all over it. My sister, if this is you: Turn the FUCK around and wipe that shit up. You ain't special. If you are the seat pisser, it is your responsibility to clean up after yourself. Just because you feel the need to hover, ass-in-air and drawers-around-knees, doesn't mean the rest of us want to be forced to either follow suit or wipe up after you. Ya nasty heiffa! Please and thanks. Hope you all had a happy Independence Day. Back later with tales of my culinary escapades. (I'm looking for a sausage. Get your mind out of the gutter.) Happy...fuck it. Carry on.

England lost.

2006-07-01T14:15:00.000-04:00

I officially no longer give a fuck who wins the World Cup.

Also, if ever I get a chance, I will take a stapler to Cristiano Ronaldo's nuts. Whiny little bitch.

I'm a bit tied up at the moment.

2006-06-29T21:17:00.000-04:00

A while back, I ordered these shoes from Zappos. I needed a pair of low-heeled dress sandals for summer, you see. I liked the look of the Kimmels so much, I optimisitically ordered two pairs, one in black, one in brown. The two set me back about $150. When they arrived, unfortunately, they fit funny and looked silly. I sent them back, and resigned myself to a summer in platforms or flip-flops. But today I popped into one of my my favorite discount havens to find a skirt and found not a skirt, but the perfect summer dress sandals. Behold! Guess how much they cost me. Go on. No. Give up? $6.99! Hot damn. Now I must find 12 pairs of backups to keep for when these wear out.

Just as I speak up in defense of the Internets.

2006-06-26T03:03:00.000-04:00

I just saw The Lake House. It wasn't bad. I liked it enough, given I figured out the whole damn plot 20 minutes in. And I really, really hate when that happens, so the fact that I am admitting to liking it says a lot about this film. I didn't regret not seeing Tokyo Drift or anything. The problem is, I just went to the film's IMDb page. I really should never, ever do that. At least, I shouldn't read the message boards. Because it's full of people who have seen the movie and still have no goddamn clue what's going on, and that irritates me shitless. Maybe it's because I always see movies by myself (and as such, without distractions), maybe because I have watched thousands of movies, or maybe it's because I hexpecially like the twisty-plot ones, but I very, very rarely am totally clueless as to what's going on in a film, and I certainly never get the plot all fucked to hell. Sometimes, I swear I talk to people about a film and hear their ideas about what happened and end up explaining shit and wonder if we were even watching the same thing. It's nuts. Uuuuh, that's it, really. You should see it. I mean, it'll make your head hurt with the idea of having a relationship with someone living in the future (and God help you, definitely don't view the message board about that), and there were a few times in the film where you could see the film was originally set in 2002/2004 instead of 2004/2006, thanks to Sandy's unmistakable mouthing of "...2002" when the audio says "...2004," but it's a pretty good flick udderwise. Keanu Reeves, one-time love of my life, or at least loins, is finally starting to look...older. I must say, though, I do love that both of the leads here are in their 40s. That's hawt. (Aside: Does anyone actually want to see that new Superman movie? Am I the only one who already considers it a waste of valuable screen space? AND WHY DO I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL NOVEMBER FOR CASINO ROYALE? DAMNIT!)

Pecks and Bosh.

2006-06-25T13:01:00.000-04:00

Some people may find this blasphemous, but Becks just doesn't do it for me. See? (Then again...) I think he's funny looking. And his wife is like Skeletor with a spray tan and some Gucci shades. Actually, I have no idea if those are Gucci or not, I couldn't be assed to source them. My point? Though I don't dislike him/them, I'm not their greatest fan. But. I could have three-way-kissed the hell out of both of them today, about an hour into England/Ecuador, when Beckham scored the only goal of that goddamn game. GOAL, BITCHES! I wouldn't have done it after he barfed on the pitch, though. Yuck.

Save the Internets!

2006-06-22T12:38:00.000-04:00

It only takes a second to let your congressmen know how you feel. The Internet is already a moneymaker for anybody with the right skill set. It's gorgeously egalitartian in that sense. Let's not let Big Corporations ruin the greatest thing since Solid Gold dancers with their greed. Via Screed.

Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it.

2006-06-19T11:02:00.000-04:00

Procurement of sustenance. Eating. Food. More immediately vital to life than the universal drive to procreate. Never fuck? Your genes die. Never eat? You die. See? Elementary, my dear Watson. Lately, I've been obsessed with food, and not in the I-must-not-eat-this/I-must-only-eat-that sort of way. I've become fascinated with the culture, the ritual, the politics of food, and the fascination is threatening to become a full-blown obsession. Granted, the progression to obsession has been gradual, lumbering, and decades in the making. My childhood food issues, that led me, by my 13th birthday, to outweigh the average runningback; the almost sexual awakening I experienced when I went off to college and found myself surrounded by a cross-class, cross-cultural cadre of peers who led me to every flavor in our shitty city, and whose kind mamas sent care packages every semester; the weight I gained persuant to that; the vegetarian years, relearning how to nourish myself by denying myself what I most desired; living alone and being fully in charge of and responsible for what went into my mouth for the first time; New York. Bouley, where I stumbled by happenstance onto that wondrous intersection of art and nurturing, haute cuisine. I wasn't aware, then, that a single dinner could fork my path. But looking back, I realize it has. Course after course of transcendent mouthfuls that set my synapses firing. Amuse bouche. My lord, what understatement! Since that meal, I've had others, so delectable I've had mildly embarrasing...episodes at various restaurants. I'm a hedonist, a sensualist. I like the finest things. Getting them generally ends, in my little world, with a flush, and some vaguely inappropriate moaning and expressions. Trust me. Great food has an obvious effect on me. (A few weeks back, I sat alone at a favorite bar, eating their delightful grilled asparagus dish. After I polished the plate off, I looked up to find a man sitting at the opposite end of the bar, ginning dopily at me, clearly having enjoyed my meal more than I did. Yipes.) I used to happen upon great food. Now, I seek it out. I seek it out on the town, and I try to create it at home, as often as is feasible. That means I stick my nose in fresh herbs, inhaling deeply, at the market. I sniff and squeeze and fondle fruits and veg. I try to get a new cut of meat to learn to prepare at every trip. Margarine will never cross these lips again. I cry when inattention sends my broc or asparagus from the vibrant verdancy of a perfectly prepared morsel to the limp green-grey of overcooked waste. It might as well have been frozen. Worse, canned. I now have about $600 worth of high-end cookware, in the form of three lovely Calphalon pro pans and two darling Wusthof knives, that I have been patiently acquiring at various sales, steeply discounted, of course, over the last few years. My point is, it's getting serious. Serious enough that I'm pumping time, energy, and cash into mastery--or eventual mastery, at least. I've got a New Yorker from last September, because I loved the article on Vegas short order cooks. I've been churning out recipes from Gourmet, Bon Appetit and Saveur at a brisk clip. I was barking obscenities in my mailroom when I learned Chow had decided to go stricly virtual, and thus my subscription, of which I'v never gotten a single issue, is gone with the tarragon-scented wind. I've been like a woman possessed for the last week, trying to find just the right apron that will represent the inner me. (Apparently, she's kind of cute, snooty in name only, and otherwise, a little garish and cheap, as this discounted Anthropologie apron reveals.) I'm perpetually saddened by the dearth of black men or women working at the master level; worse, at the dearth of us even blogging about how we relate to it, or expanding our culinary pursuits. I'm arguing with anyone who will listen about the politics of meat production and the hypocrisy therein, reading up on the lives of chefs, foodies and critics for kicks, and actively seeking out a boy toy or two who knows his way around a kitchen. (Or at the very least a bloody menu, though really, I think people who like to critique food but can't prepare it shouldn't be trusted. It's like a virgin giving sex advice. Maybe you read the textbook, but you're missing the fieldwork that would provide you any context, honey. I'll get my expertise elsewhere, thanks.) All of this is to say, I'm in love with food. Not enough to want to enter a restaurant kitchen; I don't aspire to that. But enough to want to make it sing, and enough to want to keep writing about it--how we grow it, kill it, package it, sell it. About the rituals we build around it, the meaning we impart to it. About my struggle with it, which, god knows, will never, ever end. In the coming weeks, I think I'll be packing in most of my old blogs and starting one more. This one will remain. I need someplace for my ridiculous brain dumps, after all. But it's getting old, and maybe it's time for a more focused pursuit.

Anti-word* of the day: Foilage.

2006-06-14T16:16:00.000-04:00

Listen. There is no such thing as foilage. Unless you are accustomed to speaking only Middle English or are a surfer super-hero discussing your ability to thwart surfer anti-heroes ("I kicked that shark right in da nose, bruh, it was totally munch-foilage), you should not be using this anti-word. If you are talking about lovely leafy goodness, the word you are looking for is foliage. FO-lee-ij. Or FO-lee-ahj, for the hoity-toitiest, inclined to pronouncing everything in Fransh. Although, actually, in French, foillage would be right, I think. Ha. Figures. This rant brought to you by Ronni Lundy's book, In Praise of Tomatoes, Lark Press, 2004. I mean, shit, don't you people have copyeditors? I know, I know, there will always be slip-ups, but damn it, it is irritating. Of course, I fully expect you to ignore any and all typos in this here bloggy. Heh. *"Anti-word" courtesy of X, and no relation to the MS Word translation program, Antiword.

Every now and then, I like to take my head out of my ass and update.

2006-06-14T12:48:00.000-04:00

So, job two fell through, for the time being. That whole event planning gig wasn't really what I wanted to do in the first place, and I didn't think I could handle the strain of two full time jobs, one of which I would be flying blind throughout. I'll reapply for the next round. In the meantime, I'm going to cooking school, snitches. (I'm working on refining my vulgar vocabulary. Soon, I'll be able to end a declarative statement without any insulting address, at all! Yay!) Last Saturday I got to spend the day with the ever-delightful Ayana-no-blog, friend of Shasta, and finally met Mari-no-blog, also FOS. Ate and drank our way around Manhattan, from midtown down to the LES. I'm not. Even. Playing. We started with a classy brunch of meat and booze at ESPN Zone (well, Mari and I had meat. 'Yana was already done with her eating by the time I showed up.) Then we picked up Ayana's friend L, (who it turns out I went to grad school with and am fairly sure I have met before and now clearly wish I had gotten to know her better, she's fabulous, and how-the-fuck-small is the black media community, anyway?) and sort of lurched down to SoHo or somesuch to meet up with Stolie and her crew, who had been partying all over the city since 9 a.m. in celebration of the opening of the World Cup. Once we found them in the Cupping Room Cafe, a bar/restaurant too crowded to accomodate us, we took ourselves next door to the Broome Street Bar and had a pint. Then we all met up again and watched Stolie's group haul ass over to Les Enfants Terribles, another massively crowded bar, for the end of the final game. Finding that bar too crowded to stand inside--literally--we ended up at nearby Happy Shabu Shabu. For shabu-shabu. I mean, it's really all they do. Highlight: Watching 'Yana's look of horror upon realizing the shrimp she ordered for her swishy edification still had their little legs and heads. Low, um, light: realizing at the end of the meal that the place served beer. We could have made even more magic.) Then we wandered over to Rivington, but made a stop at Laboratorio del Gelato, where I had the most amazing black sesame gelato ever. Sesame is so underappreciated. It's a semi-nutty fattiliciousness. Add sugar, milkfat and egg. Hot damn! Or cold damn. Meh. Also, I have this inexplicable love for grey foods. I think they are just amazing. Like, the antithesis of what fresh food should look like, and yet, in this case, so good. Then on to Rivington, and Verlaine, where I began to fall asleep. It was only 7:30. I was on my way home by 8:30, and took a meandering walk from the LES, through SoHo, and then up into the West Village (I know I walked from one to the other, don't ask me how.) I was in bed by 10. In other news, today I made a real breakfast. Not the yogurt-and-berry kind, but with, like, eggs and toast and everything. By everything, I mean pesto and purple heirloom tomatoes, sprinkle of parmegiano reggiano. Astonishing. I rarely make pesto, but when I do, I often tire of it long before I use it all. This whole pesto-toast situation might actually have me making it regularly just for brekkies. I'm out of coffee. Later, expect a postacular on new ways for me to blow my cash, kitchen-style. Happy June.

Death by Sexy 2.0: Sexy unto Death.

2006-06-08T15:51:00.000-04:00

1. So, job two just asked me, with no event-planning experience, if I'd like to put together a 1,000 person throwdown in three months. And then, like, immediately plan another one in a month after that. Um. Actually? Yeah, bitches! Unpaid full-time event planning is The Hotness! Can I invite Diddy? Kidding. But it is a great job opportunity. I'm going to say yes. Here's hoping I don't balls it up to all holy hell. This kinda sexy could actually kill me. Yeeps. 2. Broadway Panhandler? Hot sriracha. I told you I was going to get knives. I copped a tip from a chef I know who directed me down yonder. I had every intention of rolling up in there ready to talk some smack, and test every gimongous chef's knife in there, from Global to Wusthof to Shun. I had even told myself I was ready to lay ot $200 for this Shun Pro I got to feel up the other day. Then I saw the Wusthof Grand Prix series 8" cook's knife was marked down from $130 to $45 on a closeout clearance. And the Grand Prix II parer was only $25, down from...I don't remember. And the honing steel was $42, down from $60. (Did you know you're supposed to sharpen your knives every day? I didn't know. I am ashamed. And I called myself a knife lover! Anyway, now my babies can be well cared-for, and will no longer be subject to the humiliation of being sharpened on the bottoms of porcelain bowls.) I'm siddity, but I ain't stupid. Wusthofs are good knives. Are they Shun Kershaw? No. Did they save me enough that I didn't feel bad about scoring these santa kicks along the way? Yep. Also acquired: Some Oxo tongs and can opener, a skimmer, Pyrex measuring cup, a new 9" cake round to replace the one I ruined a few months back, an adorable polkadot silicon gripping square, and a Zagat's 2006 Gourmet Marketplace guide. Total damage, including sneakers which will never be worn so much as near a kitchen, let alone in one: $278, or, roughly what I would have paid for the Shun Pro, alone. Thanks, Broadway Panhandler! Not bad for a days kitchen stocking. Oh hell, sleepynow. Back to edit later :)

Spent.

2006-06-06T11:18:00.000-04:00

The last week has been...interesting. I might have mentioned that already. Depending on the events of the next few hours, I could soon be running around the city chatting up top crock-jockeys, trying to wangle recipes and quotable soundbites from them. The prospect is inordinately exciting to a foodie and word-whore. It's also absolutely nerve-wracking to a culinary dilettante who happens to be an ersatz foodie and word-whore. A common gruel-slurper in gastronome's clothing, if you will. (That would be me.) I love food. Anyone who's talked to me for more than five minutes can tell you that. And I love to prepare it, to feed my loved ones, whenever I can (usually to greedily appreciative results). I can make lots of passable, tasty, everyman chow, and frankly, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve that mean I can go a little haute when I have to. I may very well know more about the politics and methods of foie gras production, scotch producing regions, slow food, and tomato varieties than the average American bear. That means sweet fuck-all when you're trying to get a recipe out of, say, Tom Colicchio, and you can't tell your ear from your aresehole--or your confit from your cassoulet. I'm a quick study. I've already got a few cooking bibles at home, and there are certainly some on the way. By this time tomorrow, I'll be able to produce a lemongrass foam that would make your mama weep with joy. Okay, maybe by the end of the week. My point is, there's a loop, and I'm kicking dirt at the edge of it, rather than being in it. God help me. Yesterday, I decided to expand my horizons a bit. The technique will come in time, of course, but in order to have that, you really need to have the best materials. Thus far, I've limited my procurement missions to Fairway, Citarella, and Zabars. All great places, but this is a big, food-worshipping town. There are others. And given my maybe-new-post, along with test kitchen, is way down on the East Side, in the everloving teens, for godssake, I need to find those others down there. Enter Chelsea Market. One big foodie emporium of sexay. Let's see, what's down there, eh? Three--or is it four?--bakeries, a boucherie, two produce markets, a wine shop, a flower shop, several restaurants (including Buddakan and Morimoto), some gourmet shops for domestic and imported delights, and a Food Network studio. At least, that's what I toured on the ground floor, an hour before closing. And there's a restaurant/kitchen supply shop just around the corner. Like a little gourmet Mecca. Hm, hyperbole, but still. I went, you see, late, as I am in all things. I also went short-funded, with only $49 in my pocket, to see what I could make off with. My haul, I have to say, was not bad at all. Except for the purchase of an extra bottle of wine, which put me over budget, driving my total cost up to $60, and had me reaching for the plastic, I think I did very, very well. (If you are alarmed by what $60 buys me, you should be aware that I probably spend $200-300 per month on groceries. And that doesn't include takeout grub. I believe in spending money on good food, good friends, and good times. Roasted asparagus, Bombay or Junipero martinis, braised short ribs? Good times. Canned veggies, Gordon's Gin and cube steak? Not usually good times.) Onward. Eh, urm, uh, that's it, really. I got a bunch of produce from the Manhattan Fruit exchange, with which to make tomato and pesto sauces, guacamole, and a home-made vat of limoncello. Two desserts--darling little purse-shaped cookies from Eleni's and some Leonidas chocolates and ginger beer from Chelsea Market basket, some yummy lamb sausages from Italian import shop Buonitalia, and two bottles of hooch. I don't know that I'd go regularly. The savings aren't that steep, though the produce selection, at least, goes well beyond what can be found at my local; still, it does have its charms. After payday, I'm certainly going back to load up on freshly-butchered, premium meats from Frank's, flowers from the Wholesale Flower shop, and knives from the kitchen supply warehouse. Big, light, shiny, hair-splitting knives. *demented grin* Sigh. Tomorrow's topic (or, more likely, the day after)--Knives: The acquisition, care and feeding of your premium sharps.

Every now and then, I like to get stupid.

2006-06-05T11:20:00.000-04:00

Don't we all? Unfortunately, my predilection for the inane is crossed with un ungodly love for the Internets. I signed up for Match again. They were running a free-72 hours special and I thought, "Eh. I'll test the waters." That was about 10 hours ago. Since then, I've had a few predictable responses. One was from a fellow who, in his "last read" section, wrote :"NOT A READER !!!" and in his turn-offs section wrote : Braniacs, agressiveness. Sooooo, you like opinionless, submissive illiterates, then? Clearly, his disinclination to read extends to Match profiles, since I think I must mention the fact that I prefer braniacs and readers about 43.836 times in my self-description. Too bad. He had arms like he worked 'em hard for a living. Two others were people who had tried to pick me up last time I was on Match, over a year ago. I wonder if the company's stupid matching system just still matches us up, of I've been lingering in that little "connections" queue that Match has now, where everyone you've ever emailed, favorited or winked at goes to languish, since the last time I ignored their queries. Interesting. The last was very cute but kind of...intimidating. (It's my fault, really. I was poking around, looking at profiles, forgetting that now, everyone you've looked at can see you've been looking. Which means, even if you were trying to figure out how in hell someone could go so very wrong on their pics, header and self description--photo of over-gelled fortysomething in polyblend Penney's suit, named LYKS2LIK, header "R U D 1?" for example, and I'm exaggerating, here, I sincerely hope this profile doesn't exist--they now think you're interested. Ah, so, I had been peeping at this guy's profile. It was fine enough, but we wouldn't be each other's type. I thought. This morning, I woke up to a short, friendly email.) See, I like big guys, I do. And I dig tattoos, too. Like, a lot. I don't mind saying so. It gives me an excuse to expose and prod people I hardly know, for the sake of interest in their ink. But. There are parameters. If a guy is a tat artist, he pretty much gets a pass on the parameters, because it's his job. He pretty much has to be his own lifestyle billboard. But if not? Only certain tats interest me, and some repulse me outright. I'll take full sleeve flame-and-demon tats over a face or neck tat, any day. Extra demerits if the tat is in illegible script(anywhere), features women being penetrated by anything (anywhere), or is of Jesus on the cross. These things, to me, scream "CRIMINAL ELEMENT! DONE TIME!" Or at least should have. You don't go marking up the area around your face without thinking you ain't got shit to lose. Not. Sexay. Buddyboy has a neck tat of the Lord and Savior. But he's cute, and has a clearly beloved little pooch in half his pictures. How bad can he be? Don't answer that. He could be feeding his vics to the little mutt for all I know. I won't know unless I write back, though! (In case you were wondering, I also pick completely inappropriate times to abandon my paranoias and live on the edge. Ish.) Sigh. Clearly, the best plan when considering tanking on 2.5 jobs, is to suddenly develop an active interest in mate-seeking, because that, you know, that's really easy in this town. Pft. Anyway. Just finished reading Kitchen Confidential. I take it all back. Anthony Bourdain is my new underhero, just behind the inventor of the underwire bra. He's a great writer, and executive chef of Les Halles, where I enjoyed a heartily satisfying, perfectly prepared steak au poivre-laden, boozy, gabby French bistro dinner with Stolie and her friend Bro a while back. Actually, he reminds me of my favorite cousin, who, I believe, to this day, needs to haul his gypsy ass into a culinary program and do something with his talents. Maybe I'll send him a copy of the book. He can stop trying to play gangsta in his mom's upper-middle class five bedroom and start playing it in a hot, testosterone-jacked, sharps-heavy pro kitchen. And then he can teach me everything I need to know, and I won't have to go to culinary school. I'm selfless to the end. Happy whateverthehell.

Bad Mommy.

2006-06-02T11:43:00.000-04:00

I know, I've been neglecting this little blog, miserably. I keep starting posts, but never finish them. Maybe it's something in the air. Maybe there's just too much going on. For instance, instead of writing about having a little fun last weekend, I actually had a lot of fun, with Stolie and her pals Bro, M, E, KP, and LWAPB. (Don't ask. It's the longest acronym ever. I could stick with his plain, real name, but the full gist is too amusing to ignore). Little fun = time to write. Lot of fun = need to sleep. And then I had that whole interview and offer situation. That was big. And has pretty much been consuming the last few days, because I'm not talking about leaving my current job, you know. This new job? Internship. No pay. As in, will not keep Bouley on table or DKNY on back. I'm siddity. We can't have that. Which means I've been spending the last few days trying to figure out how I will essentially hold down two full-time jobs and a part-time job (I need to go to culinary school, but I'm not trying to pay for another degree. Enter the Kitchen Assistant job. Clean the students' messes, get to spy on classes, learn without additional debt. Woot.) Sigh. Of course, if anyone out there is just bursting with money to burn and would like to be my patron, funding my six month internship and a basic stint at FCI, well, do speak up. I figure that would only cost about...Let's see. $6,000 for the classes, about $1400/mo for a shitty studio sublet, $200/wk for living expenses (this includes shoes, don't worry)...and rounding out for incidentals, like, say, bail money...$20,000. Not that much money, when you think about it. Oh no, wait. Student loans. Forgot about those. That would be another $3000 over 6 months. So, $23,000. Eh? Who's in? *crickets* Fine. Anyway, eventually, everything will sort itself out and I'll return to regular blogging. Or I'll die of exhaustion, but either way, lovelies, it has nothing to do with you. I'm off to mike a nice linguine aglio e olio. I'm starved. And I've totally neglected to restock my cupboards this week. Time for scavenger food. Happy Friday.

Or I Could Stay in New York.

2006-05-30T18:56:00.000-04:00

I was just offered a position i really want. Here. I might end up here after all. :-/

Out.

2006-05-27T04:26:00.000-04:00

With Stolie and her fabulous friends. I'd write more, but I am just too tired right now. More tomorrow. I leave you with this shot of my former roomie and Internets Superstar Friend at Cannes, supporting her film. Beauty and grace.

Completely self-centered shopping post #654.771

2006-05-25T11:58:00.000-04:00

My eyeballs have not stopped ejaculating. This morning it happened in the other eye. I am thoroughly squicked. I have contacted the appropriate authorities and assure you I will be meeting with them tomorrow afternoon in hopes of correcting this, urm, ocular malfunction. Or at least get some little, tiny corks. Speaking of corks... Summer is just around the corner (actually, it seems to be bloody holed up in Jersey, for as long as it's taken for this confounded town to heat up and dry out, but I digress), which means, hooray for all (and by "all" I mean "me"), cork wedges are once again officially acceptable footwear. Generally, I love the look of sky-high cork platforms. Unfortunately, I have rather weak ankles, an outward tread, and an aversion to busting my ass in public, so I have, thus far, avoided wearing them. However. Today, I met these: Cute, no? Neutral colors, yet with an air of danger, thanks to that crazy reptile-esque leather. And they make me so tall! I'm actually normal height in them! Practically 5'6"! This is very exciting. And they are so comfy. The thing is, I also met these: Equally cute, arguably more versatile, infinitely less dangerouss to my ligaments and pride. I love them bofe. Bofe, I say! But two pairs of high strappy sandals is just madness. One pair should really go back to the shoe pound. I can't decide which, though. Help? I have nothing else to contribute, save perhaps the fact that one pair was a very affordable $37.50, and the other pair was...more than twice that. So there. All the cards on the table. Please to help me decide which to keep. Many thanks, Mgmt.

OH MY GOD! EEEEW! EEEEEEEEEEW!

2006-05-24T11:09:00.000-04:00

I just blew my nose so hard something came out of the corner of my eye! Oh, nasty. That's it. I'm hiding for the rest of the day. I can't have my eyeballs ejaculating in public. Oh, naaaaaaaasty. Happy Wednesday.

Pouting and bitchery to commence in T-minus 3...

2006-05-23T11:02:00.000-04:00

My allergies are laughing so hard at me right now. And given the propensity of advertising agencies to anthropomorphize every irritant aspect from phlegm to toenail fungus, I hereby present you with "GodmotherfuckingdamnitifIdon'tstopsneezingIwillKILLsomething,Iswear!" A play in three acts: Sid, spring cleaning: Good heavens, but it is dusty in here. I shall tie a hankie over my nose and mouth so as not to breathe in the dust. My, aren't I clever! Ha ha ha! Allergies, mid-stretching and calisthenics, warming up for the big show: Ha ha ha indeed, foolish femme! You underestimate our might. We have been waiting years for this, our big break, training rigorously since that one time you almost had an asthma attack and died on Harvard Yard on your way to work. That was our initial sneak attack, to assess your weaknesses. Oh how we wish you had been felled in that battle, the mighty bulldog slain by limp-wristed Cantab contagion! But no. You walked slowly, took copious OTC drugs, and persevered, defeating us in days. But we are back! Do you think a little silk hankie will stop us? Mais non! Ha ha ha!" End Act I. Sid, later that evening: Oh my heavens! I do feel a touch of a tickle in my throat, a dribble from my nose! Perhaps if I have some nice tea...nay, some nice scotch and Benadryl, these allergies will desist whilst I sleep! Ha ha ha! Allergies: Ha ha ha! The wench stupefies us with her inanity! Let us away to her sinus cavity! End Act II. Time passes, our protagonist sleeps...for four hours. Cue morning light. Sid, awakening, mouth-breathing and staring blearily at alarm clock: What the shit? It's 6 o'clock in the goddamn morning. The hell am I doing...Aaaahblechookkkkkkbrrrr! Ow. Cramps, too. Fucking great. Rummaging in medicine cabinet. Aleve for the cramps, or Claritin for the allergies...don't want to mix them...(Middle beset by horrible stab of pain) Aleve. Sleeps. Time passes. Sid awakened again by the inability to draw breath through her nose, glancing at clock: Are you shitting me? 7:00? I slept for an hour? Stumbles from bed to bathroom, returns with roll of toilet paper. Blows nose vigorously and, sinuses clear, promptly returns to sleep. And again: The hell? Eight-unclefucking-thirty?! Blows honker, dozes. Again: Ah, feck it. Surely it's okay to take a Claritin, now. Allergies: Get ready, chums! We will show her we are made of sterner stuff! Sid, Claritin Reditab melting mintily on tongue: Hm. That should do it. Sneezing. Any minute now... Allergies snicker, and left nostril explodes. I'm sure this should kick in soon, it's been a good half-hour. Hopeful look. Allergies titter. Right nostril collapses in upon itself, throat dries out. Oh my god, it isn't going to work. Weeps. Allergies, laughing uproariously: And you can only take one every 24 hours! Now you must suffer! Or risk mixing it with two more Benadryl and pass out at work, confirming suspicions of all and sundry that you are indeed a drug-addled scatterbrain! Ha ha ha! Sneezing. Dry lip splits. Sid: Damn it! All I get from Claritin is a split lip and cotton mouth? Son of a- Sneeze. Sid: Bitch. Fin. ***** If you wish to enhance the reading of this piece, feel free to fill a spray bottle with salt water and egg whites and shoot the mixture into your face every 74 seconds. Also? My poor abused nose has not been this red since my last make-out session, with a partner who seemed to be averse to shaving on the regular. Except now there is no one to kiss it better. Not that anyone would, given its frequency of eruption. Blast it. For the life of me, I can't remember why I didn't spend this time doing something more useful, like filing my toenails into a more aesthetically pleasing, rounded shape, or looking for a job. Wanders off.

Have you ever seen a lovelier bird? Probably.

2006-05-22T21:54:00.000-04:00

Have you ever seen a lovelier bird? Probably.
Originally uploaded by Siddity.

Eating well while out makes me want to raise the bar a bit at home. I went for high-class eating when I seasoned this bird with garlic, salt, chocolate and honey. It was good. Very good--moist, tender, with a well-seasoned, crisp skin (that's cocoa darkening it there, not burned bird. Yes, I am vain, even about my cooking. Thx, Mgmt.). Not exceptional, though.

Next up: Veal roast. Sigh.

You know I had to try it.

You know I did it.

2006-05-21T15:32:00.000-04:00

So I settled on the New York Culinary Festival. It was $50, give or take, well-spent. As this was a three day festival with an apparently rotating assortment of restaurants and caterers, I did not get to sample any exceptional cuisine--nothing approaching the glory of now-benchmark dining trysts at Bouley and Alinea. Nothing, save Ureña. Now, please keep in mind, I was often eating standing up, food shoveled from catering troughs into plastic dishes, which were then precariously perched atop my Bass in one hand, plastic cutlery in the other, wandering through crowds, being forced to listen either to a Staten Island country band on one stage or dueling adult-contemporary pianists on another. Anything but fine dining. Ureña made it all worthwhile. Or, more precisely, the little braised veal cheeks and green gazpacho dishes doled out by the Ureña contingent made it all worthwhile. I know veal is tender, but should you be able to cut it with a plastic spoon? Anyone? Because that veal was buttah. Gorgeous, gorgeous food. Sigh. Clearly I'm going to have to find a reason to spend more time in that whole Flatiron area. I'm not going to bother describing anything else. Nothing else even approached the perfection of those little baby cow bits. Well...there was a fine raviolo with truffled butter and parmesan from San Domenico, actually, that was delectably rich and worth the tiny wait I endured to procure it. Are you wondering why I am declaring a single veal medallion and one big raviolo worth the $50 I spent to discover these gems? Yes? Well I will tell you, because you would never come close to guessing, because it has absolutely nothing to do with the food festival. After the nosh, I decided to do a bit of Internets sleuthing about Mr. Alex Ureña, obviously the head of...you know, Ureña. What I came across first was this NYT review by Frank Bruni. Go ahead, read it. It is silly, frivolous, and over-the-top goofy. Is it a poorly-conceived comedy routine? No. No, Mr. Bruni, apparently, is totally serious. Despite this review's chronological proximity to April Fool's Day, that is indeed the way he writes. Like, all the time. I ignore his review, and move on to do more sleuthing, but I end up The Bruni Digest. It's a blog devoted entirely to spanking Mr. Bruni's reviews, every blessed week. And man, does he get spanked. I laughed until I cried at some of the posts. And then I laughed until I couldn't breathe. And then I laughed until I almost blacked out, which is when I stopped reading, and laughing, because, you see, anymore would have killed me. The Bruni Digest. Totally worth $50. Oh. And Ureña. Absolutely my soon-to-be favorite.

Eat like it's a job.

2006-05-20T10:52:00.000-04:00

Hungry?

There's no reason to be. The city is full of deals on eats this weekend.

Some people should not be allowed anywhere near the Internets.

2006-05-17T19:23:00.000-04:00

Others? Well, we should all be thankful someone is providing this kind of service, especially in light of the growing need for clear communication in our ever-shrinking world. Long live the global community! (I know, so 1997.) (Though, next time, they should probably get some native English speakers for the demonstrations, as opposed to eastern European... escorts.)

Nothing to see here.

2006-05-17T16:43:00.000-04:00

You know, I used to have a problem taking my vitamins. No matter where I put them--near breakfast foods, in bathroom medicine cabinet next to my toothbrush, next to my internets--I just couldn't remember to take them. At one point, I really needed them. I mean, I abstained from delicious meat products save the flesh of fishies for a solid five years. If only I'd discovered these sooner. Oh well. No time like the present to do something good for my health!

WTF.

2006-05-14T20:07:00.000-04:00

News stories, in full WTF-inducing splendor: 1. Let's see...shit pay, long hours, homicidal maniacs, beat-downs. And you wonder there's a shortage of long-term, quality prospects. 2. Camp checklist: sleeping bag, swim trunks, buggery repellant. 3. What would Jesus do? Not-fucking-this, I'm pretty certain. 4. Well, there's a decent chance they're going to die, anyway, right? Send 'em back in. 5. Run, Fraudist, run! 6. The least they could have done was make the family a nice gator-skin armchair. Oh, that was wrong, wasn't it?

Classifieds.

2006-05-12T12:00:00.000-04:00

Nothing to see here, either. Snort. You know it's time to move on when your superior checks in to see how you're feeling, and what you hear is, "We know you've been ill, but will you put in 12+ hours tomorrow? Thanks." And be fully confident that your assumption has nothing to do with cynicism. Fuck me. Oh, also, thanks for the well-wishes. :)

Hello, there.

2006-05-11T12:04:00.000-04:00

"Allergies, meet flu. Flu, allergies. Let's all settle in for a while and get to know each other, shall we?" **** Back next week. I hope. *sniff*

Oh my gawd, y'all, I had another whole real, live weekend!

2006-05-07T23:48:00.000-04:00

Sort of. Actually, I did work Saturday and Sunday, but only for a few hours each day. Which means I had the evenings free for actual fun things! Saturday I tagged along with the lovely and talented Girlhattan to a rockstar karaoke party. The Girlhattan can sang, damnit. I cannot. I don't sing. Certainly not in public. Hell, I only dance in the shower, and there's usually nobody in there with me to hear how poorly I sing if I did. So. Yeah, no Britney-belting for me. Later I slipped out to see BFF briefly, for she was in town for the weekend to see her sister. Sunday I...lessee...worked at the asscrack of dawn. Then I took a very long nap, got up in the late afternoon, made a brief, failed foray into shopping for various loved ones' birthdays and upcoming Hallmark holidays, and then said balls to all that in favor of seeing The Lieutenant of Inishmore. If I regret anything when I leave New York, it will be not having seen more theater. I love theater. I used to work as an usher just so I could watch the performances for free. (Okay, and to pay for books, but really, you can't buy all that many books on $6.70 an hour.) I believe Inishmore may be the first live production I've seen since I moved here almost two years ago. Unacceptable. Anyway, Inishmore. It just opened last Wednesday, and stars my favorite fuck-up from Intermission. It is hilarious. Gory, but absolutely hilarious, clever, well-acted and marvelously produced. I'd see it again if it wouldn't set me back another $50. And then I ended the evening with some middling-quality pad thai and a fizzy drink. Yay, me. Happy times. Oh, except for this: I have been to three Duane Reads today and there was nary a box of Claritin to be found. Seriously. Not one. I got lucky and found a single box of DR generic left on the shelf of the last one I visited. People in this town allergic, much? Jeebus.

FYI.

2006-05-02T00:06:00.000-04:00

Stick It is the funniest film I've seen in...weeks! Must add it to the list of DVDs I wish to own but never actually get around to buying. That Jessica Whatevsendinger has really done a fine job satirizing the world of female competitive sports. I cannot wait for her film about swimmers. I'm not saying it's already in the works, but you know it's coming. (Oh. well then her next film.) Or maybe the next one will be about ice skating. Hold the phone! That's been done, innit? What's left? I mean it would have to be commonly perceived as a fluffy or girly sport, be good for 90 minutes of sustainable laughs, and feature enough scantily-clad twenty-something women who look like teens to bring in the male demographic, too. Huh. I got nothin'. Anyway, Stick It. Good times. You should go. (Aside: Finally saw a preview for Tokyo Drift. Looks like crap. But can I just say: Wow. He filled out alright, didn't he? He's quite legal, but somehow I can't shake the image of him as that thick 'bama-accented skinny kid in Sling Blade and "American Gothic," so I still feel kinda dirty for finding him attractive now.)

Breaking News! Additional Shitty Physiological Developments!

2006-05-01T10:51:00.000-04:00

Guess who woke up with hay fever? Goddamn it. I thought I would escape my family curse. I figured if I hadn't developed it by my twenties, I probably never would. I really hate being wrong. If the symptoms aren't gone in a week, I'm fucked. (Sometimes I have a brief episode at the start of allergy season, and then my immune system just gives up and stops fighting. No histamines! No problem!)

Shit is going motherfuckin' down!

2006-04-30T23:07:00.000-04:00

And it better be the numbers on my scale. (I'm almost positive I stole that heading verbatim from this guy who may have been named Ross and who may have operated a blog called "This Blog For Rent" or similar. I recall following some links via a Feministey route and liking his blog, but I somehow never got around to linking him and now I can't find it again. I mention it because, well, not doing so tends to cause trouble.). Over the last month or so, I've been a bit out of sorts. You may have noticed. There's been, you know, stuff. If I'da wanted to talk about it here, I would have. This isn't about that. This is about the 9 pounds I've gained in the last 30 days as a direct result of that. That is some bullshit, muhfuggas. Bull-muhfuggin'-shit. And I have only myself to blame. I've been eating too much (*cough* Chicago, FAM and BFF in NYC, *cough*) and slacktaculating in the gymmery. My bad. Anyway, I'm giving myself 21 days to take it off. I'd say 14, because usually I can reign myself in roughly in that time with some solid 5-day-a-week cardio/strength sessions, but honestly, I don't know if I have it in me to work that hard these days. I can really only slay one dragon at a time, and I've got about 3 at bay at the mo'. So, 21 days. I'll keep you posted. Actually, I probably won't. In other news, I've made a decision. Immediately following termination of my NYC indenture, I'm fucking out. Only for a few weeks, I'm sure, but I really need some head space, and some heart space, before I commit to a new place. I think I need to revisit an old flame to remind myself of what I need and want from the next one. Who knows. Maybe the old flame is still what I need. We'll see. Until then, guess who's going to be Little Miss Tight Ass when it comes to spending? *earnest face* *blinking* BWAHAHAHAHA! I almost believed myself for a minute, there! I'd better pick up an extra job now...

Dearest beloved summer:

2006-04-27T12:26:00.000-04:00

I need you. I need you like a supermodel needs a Marlboro dipped in meth. I need you like, like, um, like a, um, hmm. Like an office manager needs a Staples catalog! Okay, my love and longing isn't yet deep enough for me to wax poetic about it, clearly, but would you please hurry the hell up already? I'm so prepared. Shoes? Check. Depilation? Check. Sunscreen, summer fragrance, summer hair? Checkcheckcheck. So come on, show us what you've got. Sigh. I just had the tastiest blackberries. Cheap, fresh, succulent blackberries have lately won my favor. I eat them alone, with yogurt, with other fruit, alone. Oops, mentioned that already, didn't I? I had some early watermelon, too. Tasty, but from a container in the fruit aisle, not from a giant wedge of sandia-liciousness. When I'm hauling one of those suckers home from Fairway on a semi-daily basis, then, then my preciouseseses, will it be summer. And totally off topic, but whocaresitsmyblog: Coinstar? The bizomb dizziggy. I just gathered up all the coins that have been collecting dust and crap around my apartment, on tables, in purses, on the floor...all of it, and hauled it to a Coinstar machine. $46.31. That's how much money I've just left lying around. Almost fifty dagblit dollars. Oh! But do you know what is best about Coinstar? You can convert your change DIRECTLY into throwaway cash! In the form of iTunes eCertificates or Amazon cash. Or Virgin cash, but seriously, who the hell shops there? Thriving chain of megastores notwithstanding. So now I have iTunes money! I can get four albums and not touch my credit card! Yay! See, here you are thinking, "Or, heffa, you could have just converted it directly into cash and saved that money." But you know, if I had done that, I would have had to pay a fee, It's almost $0.09 per dollar counted that way. That would have cost me...about $4.17. So you see, I am saving money! Yeppers. Um. Okaythen, thanks for stopping by. Let's chat again soon, shall we?

I take it all back.

2006-04-24T00:23:00.000-04:00

I would totally kiss Jesse Hughes on his tongue. That man is H.A.W.T. He gives good show. No Josh Homme at this gig, but whatevs. Their touring drummer? The bleached blonde chick who KICKS ASS? Just turned me bi. Who am I kidding? I had leanings to begin with. Anyway, thanks to Girlhattan to for the alert and the ass-wiggling company! Sorry you had to talk about, what was it? Oh yeah, Mod Squad and Hawaii 5-0 with that guy. Um.

Yo, 'sup?

2006-04-20T01:54:00.000-04:00

Man, I got stuff to deal with. And lately, I've been dealing by cooking. So no handy-dandy posts have been forthcoming. And I'm just feeling...eh. Maybe I'll get over it. Maybe I'll take one of those hiatuses people are so fond of. It's been a very chill week. I worked almost all of last week, so there was no joy to be had, but this week? Many days off. I went crazy on the LES with the Stolinator on Monday, complete with unsolicited molestations from bar staff, and I went to the NY International Auto Show today. Went with the family this time. Pics to come, but really, just the usual suspects: Aston Martin Vanquish, Maserati Quattroporte, concept vehicles, blah blah blah. And nothing nearly as exciting as last year's Cuntmobile. My BFF is visiting from D.C. this weekend, too, and I have the whole weekend off, so there will be silence, very likely beginning Friday. But perhaps there will be exciting postery when I return! It will be dorktastic, promise. Plus, there's that whole Eagles of Death Metal concert situation Sunday night. So you may get a nonsensical post-groove-high blog then. Otherwise, chiddlers, enjoy your week!

Who's got a ticket to kiss the devil on his tongue?

2006-04-17T16:04:00.000-04:00

I will kiss (Jesse) the Devil (Hughes) on his... Actually, he's kinda dirty, so I probably wouldn't, but I'm sure as hell gonna try to get close enough! SQUEE! Thanks, Girlhattan, for the tiptastical fillinery!

Answered.

2006-04-14T00:01:00.000-04:00

Time's up, skittles! Here are your (er, well, like nine of you) questions answered. Thanks for the questions. I'm really surprised how nice everyone was with their queries. No one asked for any deep, dark secrets. Sweet. This post is cake. Stolie asked: Question 1: When you're at home, in the dark and you're in your bed late at night, what's your "Biggest Fear"? Well, Stolinator, I'm glad you asked! As it happens, I am terribly afraid of late that the dead are watching and trying to steal my life force, but that's just because I saw Lucky Number Slevin last night and it had a preview for the lame-o movie Pulse. Otherwise, I'm generally concerned about little things, like intruders and Satan. Question 2: What's you favorite entertainment / fun place in New York City, and why? This one is tricky. I spend a lot of time going to movies, some time shopping, but I rarely do serious entertainment outings. I have spent a great deal of time at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Does that count? Otherwise, I'd have to say, various movie theaters, or DSW. They're the only things I do other than work, eat and sleep. Shasta asked: 1. How do you get through the day, every day, with all the batshit craziness you have to deal with? I spend money, I go to Chicago. I spend money in Chicago. And I have a lovely shrink. It's workin' as well as it's workin'. 2. Please share with us one or two things that is always on your mind when you are alone, please? What can I be doing to be better/smarter/more adjusted/more loved. I'm the child of an atypical home, shall we say. That leads to certain neuroses. Not a day passes when I don't wonder if every perceived slight, ever dissatisfaction, every imperfect moment isn't in some way my fault, and couldn't in some way be rectified by altering of my behavior. I don't think such things every minute, but at some point every day, I'm wondering, "How could I be better?" *shrugs* Viv asked: Question 1: Who was your childhood best friend and why were they your best friend? Are you still close to them? I had a different one at each elementary school. (I went to...lessee...six.) But the best friend I had the longest was probably Christie. We were both super-chub-funnymakers who sort of jointly joked our way through late elementary and early middle school at American Christian. (Oh yes, people. I've seen into the fundamentalist heartland. It is a scary, scary place.) We just had fun and laughed our assess off. You know, without the actual ass detachment part. I haven't talked to her in years. I have found that an early lifestyle of frequent moves has had the effect of putting a shelf-life of about two years on most of my relationships, including my relationships with places. I'm always amazed these days that I have friends that go back more than a few years. But I do. Guess I'm learning... Question 2: Do you ever think you'd want to talk to your father again? Besides the need for a kidney. Hmmm. Maybe. I would never rule it out. At this point, I don't know what I'd say, but perhaps the occasion would find me in possession of the words. From Keidra: Do you believe in true love? Why or why not? Yep. Absolutely. But mainly because I don't believe anything is impossible. To say true love doesn't exist is to deny the possibility. Besides, who's to say what true love is? It has to be a personal matter, with boundaries and components individually defined. What looks hell to you or me could be someone else's happy-ever-after. And I think most mothers and fathers would argue that they had a moment of perfect love at the birth of a child. Now, if you're wondering whether I think I'll ever find it...but that's another question. AnonyRob said: What kind of motorcycle do you see yourself riding? The kind with training wheels. And doors. And front- and side-impact airbags. Um. I really like the idea of riding, and if I were to be really cool and ride, I'd want something small and, well, small. Or I'd be happy taking a racecar driving class. Nerd Girl asked: What's the highest number on the Bitchster Scale and do you ever reach it? I'll say 10. I'd say I reached it every day, but my bitchitude is rarely not justified, so I don't think it counts. Now that I'm sure about when I'm leaving, I've mellowed considerably, too. You can endure anything if you know it will end. From QuietlyGoingMad: 1. If you could be any shoe what shoe would you be and why? A smart, flat-heeled, black leather boot. Utilitarian, unisex, perennially stylish. 2. How do you eat an Oreo? Soaked in soy milk and en masse. 3. If you could have sex with any one person you personally know, who would it be and why? Ah. Well...my dear, oldest male friend. There is an inexplicable ease between us. He's a good, intelligent, considerate and passionate man. I've learned some things about myself, thanks to him. Anyone who makes you consider who you are and who you want to be, for the better, is a good bet. The Humanity Critic asked: 1. If you could punch any celebrity in the face, free shot, who would it be? I only get one? I can think of about 20 who could use a nice ass-whuppin'. Damnit! Okay...Rush? G.W.? Lil Jon? Tick-tock, tick-tock...I got nobody. Generally speaking, punching people in the face does jack shit. Now, would you like me to list the people I'd like to publicly humiliate, strip of their wealth and privilege, and teach illuminating lessons in compassion and humanitarianism? G.W., Rush Limbaugh, Bill O' Reilly.... Wait a minute. I take that shit back. I would love to punch that smug fuck in the face. Okay, Bill O'Reilly. 2. Name a cd/record that you own that you feel would change someone's life? Sorry, man. I'm just not that into music. I mean, there are many things I like a lot, but none I feel are life-changing for me. Any album could be life-changing to someone, but music isn't my medium. 3.What do you think happened to Jimmy Hoffa? He's now a kindly old adoptive mother of three children, living on a farm in Iowa. Or he's dead as a muhfuggah. Okay, thanks, y'all. That was fun! Enjoy your weekends!

Sometimes, I like to steal things.

2006-04-12T13:31:00.000-04:00

Like this question post over at the Funky Brown Chick. Stolie's letting people ask her whatever they want--anything at all--and promising to answer. What can I say? I'm a lazy git these days. So. I'm letting you do all the work. Until 11:59 P.M. Thursday, April 13, I'm taking questions, which I'll answer Friday morning. As long as you ask before the deadline, you'll get an answer, my friends. Just leave your queries in the comments section. If you don't ask anything, I'll be forced to make up new Blogger identities and ask things myself. Don't think I won't do it. I'm shameless that way. Happy Thursday!

I HEART GOD'S CHOSEN.

2006-04-11T21:37:00.000-04:00

Seriously, I do. Where do I sign up? I'm not just jumping on the bandwagon because of Passover and my love of matzoh ball soup, either. If this is any indication of how the Jewish peeps roll, Judaism is a religion I can get behind.

Never judge a book by its cover.

2006-04-11T01:17:00.000-04:00

Nor a film by its title. Take, for example, The Witches of Breastwick. Contrary to the genious hilarity of its moniker, "Breastwick" is neither genious nor hilarious. It is, in fact, sleep-inducing drivel.

Saw Inside Man last night.

2006-04-07T13:09:00.000-04:00

I greatly enjoyed it. You should go. It's smart and stylish and thought-provoking, twisty and interesting and-- Well it stars Denzel, Chewy and Clive Owen, okay? This movie sells itself.

Whoops, looks like I accidentally put on my "Hot Black P*ssy!" perfume again!

2006-04-07T00:17:00.000-04:00

What. The. Fuck? There is an inappropriate woodwork out there with my name on it, and the manlings are just rushing out. First the boy. Then the hairstylist. Now the kinda sexy-but-most-definitely-married grandfather. Oh, you read it right. Not to mention the random catcalls I've gotten today. I don't know where all that came from. Seriously. Out of trucks, on the street from vendors, dudes just chillin' on street corners (actually, I think that guy thought I was a hooker. God knows why, I was wearing perfectly normal attire. But if you try to get my attention with a surreptitious "Psst! Psssst! Pssssssssst!" I'll assume you are up to no good, and think I am, too. And can I just say that, being a black woman and as such having been mistaken for a hooker for no good goddamn reason in the past, nothing is more insulting than being taken as such by a dirty old mofo who couldn't even afford to smell you in the first place if you were a hooker. But, I digress.) And then there was the "Hey, you're like a Philippino diva!" dude. I have no fucking clue what that was supposed to mean, or why he said it. Okay, that wasn't a catcall. It was just weird. Sigh. Great, heaving, exasperated sigh.

Hot. Steaming. Ass.

2006-04-06T07:08:00.000-04:00

Which is how I feel right now, after spending however much time at WhiskyLive last night, ta very much. Single malt is a helluva drink. I should never be allowed to have anything older than me. Seriously. I'm sure that's what threw me off. Once it gives up the angels' share.... I highly recommend the BenRiach 21, though. *stumbling out for coffee* Oh, and just as an aside: If you're a (single) girl, you should totally do Whisky events alone. One, they're full of the boys, and two, well, they're full of the boys. Boys (and by "boys," I mean funny gnarly old dudes and the occasional hottie in a kilt) who get to do what they like to do best: explain their area of expertise to you, and pat you on the head and tell you you're cute. Just nod and smile. It's a time-tested system that works. More or less. Happy Thursday.

HEYLL NAWL.

2006-04-05T11:15:00.000-04:00

It's snowing. SNOWING. *grumbles and changes shoes to trek to gym* Carry on. I just don't understand why I don't love California more. *grumbling again* *recently retired winter coat on* I mean, this never happens over there. Yeah, they get the earthquakes and brush fires and all, but no April snow. *hunting down scarf* The other day I even convinced myself I liked "having weather." That I enjoyed a little nip in the air. *staring out window at sudden blizzard-like conditions* I checked Weather.com last night, man. I got the hour-by-hour. I don't think a sudden snowglobe situation was mentioned once, as even a possibility! They might have said there was a chance of showers early in the day. Not this. Meteorology bitches. *door slam*

So I'm back.

2006-04-03T22:43:00.000-04:00

You may have gathered. The trip was a minor disaster. My flight to Chicago made the news, and not in a good way. I was almost two hours late to Whisky Fest. My hotel room was...substandard, relative to past accomodations. (Though the concierge was great.) Ayana fell mysteriously ill on the second day. Divine M's computer was fried and she had to have it repaired, so she couldn't come until day three. Of four. Mr. C. got stuck in Baltimore until day three, too. Even still, I had the best time. Shas and 'Yana were super hostesses/crime partners, and it was great meeting Shas' friends Contr'y G, M and her hubby T. (Rob, thanks for putting in an all-too-brief appearance, as well. Next time, partner. Next time you betta hang. And stop comparing me to Thulsa Doom. Or don't. It's all good.) It was so good to see Divine and Mr. C again. And all the old haunts (okay, Cafe Bernard and Johnny O'Hagan's) feel more like home every time I go. I'm starting to understand the lay of the land. I know where I want to live. I'll really enjoy New York City for as long as I'm here, but I'll still be moving on before the year is out. I love Chicago.

Okay, seriously, whisky bitches.

2006-04-03T02:49:00.000-04:00

And by "bitches" I mean, "Love yous!" Now, at Whisky Fest I met some really, really cool-ass whisky-schilling peeps--master distillers, brand ambassadors, and the like. And at the afterparty, I decided I maybe wanted to drop by Whisky Live! at Tavern on the Green this Wednesday, since most of those peoples will be there, too. It would be, as I've said incessantly over the last four days, good times. Who's in? Oh, yeah, so it would be at best $30 and at worst (you get to sample 15 whiskies) $95. Now, who's in? *update* So I just got an email that is putting me definitely at this throwdown. I cannot believe nobody wants to come. Boo. Come on, now. You really don't want me at this alone, do you?

"You're bad, but you're good, and I like it!"

2006-03-31T18:45:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-30T13:46:00.000-05:00

Lessee. Trouble with the left engine before takeoff, trouble with ve right after. Emergency landing in newark. Long wait. Crap.

Out.

2006-03-29T00:27:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-03-26T23:24:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-26T02:03:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-24T20:56:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-22T11:43:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-21T14:53:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-20T22:28:00.000-05:00

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.

Hungry? Haughty?

2006-03-20T12:13:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-19T21:42:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-17T16:28:00.000-05:00

Your Nutritional Information: Servings Per Container: 1
x
% Daily Value
Sweetness:	41 g	82%

Bitterness:	296 mg	27%

Power:	26 g	74%

Healthful:	179 mg	72%

Excitement:	1031 mg	94%
x
Deliciousness:	29%

'What" is your nutritional value?' at QuizGalaxy.com

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!

2006-03-17T12:04:00.000-05:00

St. Patty's Day Brekkie!
Originally uploaded by Siddity.

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.

Psssst!

2006-03-15T10:39:00.000-05:00

Get on it.

Girls who wear glasses.

2006-03-13T12:35:00.000-05:00

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.

They're hawt, though.

Everybody should make passes at these goddamn glasses.

Stay a while.

2006-03-10T13:38:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-08T01:08:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-07T22:28:00.000-05:00

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!

Oh, HELL to the motherfuckin' NAW!

2006-03-07T15:41:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-03-06T23:52:00.000-05:00

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.

NoTORIous.

2006-03-05T21:16:00.000-05:00

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.

Hello, blogger!

2006-03-03T22:40:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-03-03T10:04:00.000-05:00

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!

URGENT

2006-03-01T15:14:00.000-05:00

Threepenny Opera, starring Alan Cumming and Ana Gasteyer. And Cyndi Lauper! It starts March 24 and runs through mid-June. Who's in?

Deep down, I really just want to be Angelina Jolie.

2006-02-28T23:00:00.000-05:00

Which is perhaps why I almost took a lover today. *Snort. I can't believe I just used that phrase.* I considered it, very seriously, then called it off at the last minute (okay, hourish) because the situation really just wasn't right. Or wise. Or something. But I'm still considering the arrangement, in general. And it looks rather appealing. Show of hands, ladies: Who's (willing to admit to having) taken a lover? (Feel free to anonymize!) How'd you meet? In the introduction sense as well as the rendez-vous sense. How'd that pan out for you? Okay? Went all to shit? Any advice? Happy...whatever.

I saw Night Watch yesterday.

2006-02-28T11:24:00.000-05:00

It is not in fact a horror film. It certainly isn't frightening. Even the idea of Armageddon has been scrubbed nearly clean of religion or faith, and therefore, at least to my little pre-programmed mind, any real sense of meaning or urgency. It is interesting, though. It's a good-versus-evil, vampire/shapeshifter/witch and warlock film that isn't really all about CGI and gore "let's see how creatively we can kill onscreen." That's refreshing. I especially appreciate the fact that the evil doesn't turn up bearing venom-dripping fangs and spiral horns. The dark Others are your local butcher, hairdresser, pop star. On the other hand, the film took itself far too seriously and the progression of the two story arcs--the great Other who is born stronger than all Others and will have to choose which side to join (thus tipping the balance between dark and light), the cursed virgin whose appearance heralds the end times--was perfectly predictable after the first 20-30 minutes. The virgin storyline was particularly disappointing,. Eh, it's the first part of a trilogy. I imagine I'd need to see it all three films to grasp its fabulousness. I'd also like to read the Sergei Lukyanenko novels. Something tells me the bits snipped for film make all the difference to the story. Not a bad film, though. I don't regret having spent money on it, and that ain't nothin'.

Memo

2006-02-27T11:41:00.000-05:00

To all members of party staff and crew: Going forward, Sid will be celebrating her half-birthday as well as her actual birthday. Clear August 3 on your calendars. It's a Thursday this year. Weekends begin on Thursday. Or they will, anyway. That is all. cc:internetswhores

Oooh!*

2006-02-27T01:55:00.000-05:00

It's mine now. Because "private" sale + discount code for additional savings = 69% off = Mine. Also, mommy just bought herself one of these pretties at Ricky's NYC, for the lowlow price of $20, and is right this very moment looking like she just left Dekar's or Magid's chair, all on her own steam. Or tourmaline ionic heat straightening, whatever. Loves it. Also, anybody been here? Work is finally having their holiday office party (yeah, in March) this week and I'm not sure I should go. Hmm. Happy 23-days-'til-spring Day

You know you are horribly, savagely prementsrually affected when...

2006-02-25T11:45:00.000-05:00

You find yourself crying over the tragic circumstances of The Eye 2. The Eye 2, starring Shu Qi, of Transporter fame. "He was a bastard, but he was my father," Shu Qi. Almost worse than crying over a commercial or a Hallmark card, it is. It really is sad though. 'Cause see, Shu Qi tries to commit suicide over a broken relationship and fails, but then she starts seeing dead people, right. And then she finds out she's preggers. And then she finds out that all the pregnant ladies in the world have dead people following them around waiting to be reincarnated in the babies. And then she founds out the dead person following her around is her ex-boyfriend's (and baby-daddy's 's) wife! Because see, he was married! And his wife commited suicide because he was having an affair with Shu Qi! And now she's coming back as their bastard love-child! But also, see, even though Shu Qi's spiritual bodhi guy tells her all this death and reincarnation stuff is natural, she just can't accept it and move on, no. She has to try to stop the dead people from climbing into the pregnant ladies wombs! And when that fails, she's all, "I am so not having my bastard ex-boyfriend's wife climbing up into my piece." So she decides to kill herself. And dude, she tries really hard. She jumps off a building--twice, damnit, twice; actually hauls her broken, bloody ass back up several flights of hospital stairs to try again when she fails the first time--before her dead lady is all, "Bitch, cut that shit out. I'd really rather not wander around anymore being pissed at you and my bitch-ass husband. And being dead, you know. That shit blows." And then somebody at the hosiptal finally realizes a pregnant looney is missing and, I dunno, follows the trail of blood and bone shards? And they scrape Shu Qi off the sidewalk and deliver the baby. The thing that kills me is that at end of the movie, crazy Shu Qi--threw-herself-off-a-building-twice-to-bring-her-pregnant-suicide-attempt-grand-total-up-to-three Shu Qi, "I-see-dead-people" Shu Qi--gets to keep the baby. That's just some bullshit right there. Um. You see now why I have to watch movies alone? Anyway, the movie wasn't all that bad. Today's my day off. I think I'm going to see NightWatch.

So, let me get this straight.

2006-02-24T21:26:00.000-05:00

You are kinda famous because you get paid to pretend to be someone who is famous, for no good reason, in the first place? Hm. That's...not that hot, actually.

Um, yeah. So, that was weird.

2006-02-23T16:46:00.000-05:00

Does anyone else notice their nose get visibly pointier after a workout? Anyone? Anyone? I can't be the only person who experiences this, uh, side-effect. Also, just so you know, I just ate a half of a jar of Newman's Own Sockarooni tomato sauce, all by itself, right out of the jar. I used to do that all the time in London, but I thought it was because I had a vitamin deficiency over there, given I was eating cheap crap food most of the time. There's no good reason for that craving here. Hmph. It was delicious, though. Mmm, sauce. I'd say more interesting things but hell, I got nuthin'. I'm not even angry about anything. Nada. Naught. That reminds me of nougat. Mmm, I would like to have some nougat. *walking away, whistling*

I am still saving money for my move.

2006-02-21T03:10:00.000-05:00

But can I just say that this impending change of life (leaving job, changing towns) has me so freaked about my impending poverty that I am actually spending money on (or at least thinking really hard about) spending money on all kinds of things before I go? In the last few weeks I have convinced myself I needed (and then blessedly talked myself out of) a new digital camera, a new iPod, new travel bags, a gorgeous black, embroidered FCUK skirt, a new set of Henckels knives, and more. I did not, however, manage to talk myself out of the out-of-season asparagus, single malt, imported cheese, none-too-cheap lingerie detergent.... All because I know that once I leave here, I likely won't be able to throw money around again. Ever. Okay, at least not for the next ten years. Am I a freak or what?

A few of my (new) favorite things.

2006-02-21T01:27:00.000-05:00

1. Intimacy. Go, get fitted. Instant mammary makeover. 2. Tocca Laundry Delicate wash in Cleopatra. If you'd just paid $65 for a bra, you'd want to take very, very good care of it, too. 3. St. Patrick's Day. Look at that, I've run out of steam already. Oh, well.

There are two ways to make the meth.

2006-02-20T00:53:00.000-05:00

The first involves cooking up cold meds and cleaning agents. The second involves feeding hot dogs, cake and ice cream in rapid succession to 8-and-unders and then taking them out in public. Presto. Instant mini tweakers.

Dear Myspace: I want 2 break up with U.

2006-02-16T19:49:00.000-05:00

Choice exerpt from a message I just received from some random guy in New Jersey: "I also enjoy travel, experiencing different geographies and people. My eyes are brown, and I have fair white skin. I do not smoke. I do drink on social occasions.i graduated from OXFORD UNIVERSITY AT UK... Bcos i was brough up by mom there...... well Concerning sexuality, I am not a promiscuous woman. My desire is to be sexually faithful to the woman I marry. If two people love each other and will communicate what they like and do not like about their partner's sexual behavior, I believe many problems can be resolved. Moreover, I am currently working on my own cos i had to try something else after i lost almost all i had to my last relationship i just got into the business of collecting antiques...it is a nice thing to do..i buy and sell antiques and well i am on a trip to to get some antiques in WEST AFRICA from here nextweek..it aint fun anyway but i will be back home soon(MoodyAL)to the United States very soon, hope to hear back from you Remember, I need real love..i dont play games and i aint ready to be played...." Apparently, I look like I've been hit with the stupid stick. You graduated Oxford, did you? They don't care much for punctuation over there, eh? Big fans of capitalizing (excuse me, capitalising) random words? Yeah, not getting a response, this one. The sad thing is this is only a third of the message. The rest is just as unbelievable. Even better? It's a copy of some other numbuts' form letter. He even left the other jerk's location and gender in. I'm still trying to figure out what the scam is. Perhaps lending him money to start an antique business? Oh no, wait, or is it paying to fly him to Oxford to visit his sick mother? *eyeroll* I made soup. It is delicious. Nothing new around these parts. Happy Thursday!

Divahissyfitastic.

2006-02-15T15:25:00.000-05:00

You know, all I wanted was an appointment. But this doctor is hard as hell to get hold of! I've called twice in the last week and didn't even get past her answering service. Damnit. I have FSA money that needs to be spent by March 15, people. I need to get my dermatological expenditure on! *hissy fit* Okay, I'm calm. Now. Anybody got a hook-up? Current patient? Retinol-deliveryman? Eh? Because she WILL be my dermatologist! Er. Sigh. Okay, or does anybody have a beloved derm in the area they'd be willing to share?

Tagged!

2006-02-15T12:22:00.000-05:00

I've been tagged by the lovely and talented Ms. Danyel! Yay, an excuse to do a meme! I take full responsibility for the details contained herein. Four jobs I've had: 1. North American Independent Library Sales Manager, Little British Publishing Company You've Probably Never Heard Of. It was my first job out of undergrad. I quit after 3 months. 2. Assistant to Commencement Director, Harvard (Commencement 2001). Temp job I loved the most. My boss was just the sweetest woman in the history of the world. 3. Science/English instructor at an Upward Bound summer program. 4. Editorial intern at Transition. No money, but I got grad credit. And I was there many and several ('kay, like two or three) days a week. I think that should count for something. Four DVD's I can keep watching: 1. Kuch Kuch Hota Hai 2. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrells 3. The Transporter (because "I Got Love for my Homies," and by "homies" I mean Jason Statham's pecs.) 4. Practical Magic. Not a word. Let me have this one little bit of sap, okay? Thanks. Four places I wish I had (or intend to) live(d): 1. Japan. During high school I was accepted into an intensive Japanese laguage/cultural study and exchange program that my mother and my home high school later vetoed. Years earlier, my mother had also been accepted to a program when she was in college that would have taken us both there for her to study, but then it turned out she was a year or something too old to be eligible. When I think of how fluent we could be now...bygones. 2. Wellesley, MA. If I had accepted a place at the local ladies' college instead of my (don't get me wrong, wonderful fabulous) alma mater, I would have no student loan debt right now. None. Jeebus. The places I could go without that $40K hanging over my head... boggles the mind, it does. An extra $520 in my pocket every month. Goddamn. 3. Scotland. I've decided I will complete my second book there. Now, if only I could finish my damn first, lol. That'll be in Chicago. 4. London, again. I'll be going back, and next time, I won't be living above the Kilburn Pizza Go-Go. Not that there's anything wrong with that place. Lord knows my roomies and I ate there often enough. Four TV shows I watch: 1. Lost 2. Rome 3. Late Night with Conan O' Brien 4. Law and Order SVU (because whenever I go home to see the 'rents, there is always a marathon on USA.) 5. Dr. 90210. I seem to catch this late at night fairly often. Yeah, I put down five. What? Four places I've traveled: 1. the UK (with stays in London, Nottingham, Blackburn and Dublin.) 2. Paris (the first time I hated it; the second time I loved it. This was when I first realized that a place is as much if not more about the company you keep than any wonderful historical and cultural treasures it might possess.) 3. Chicago, Chicago, da-duh-duh-duh-duuuuhh! 4. TJ. Dude. Just, dude. Listen, it's the kinda place where they sell individual smokes in vending machines and bartenders pour booze directly down your throat, then sling you over their shoulders and spin you around, for the amusement of your evil friends. Hey, but it is where I got my first impromptu vacation spanking! Granted, I was really pissed off at the time... Four websites I visit daily: 1. Gmail 2. IMDB (at least it seems that way) 3. NYT.com, via Gmail 4. Anybody who my blogroll indicates has updated. Hee! Four foods I love: 1. Spicy tuna maki, Ruby Foo's and lately Raku II 2. Big Nick's bacon cheeseburgers. Haven't had one in over a month. 3. Crif Dogs' spicy redneck dog, or any restaurant's foie gras. I've had them the same number of times in the past year--twice for each--and damn if I don't love 'em, and know I can't have either any more often than that. 4. My specialty soups. Sorry, but my Scottish stilton and curried pumpkin soups are the shiznitski. Four early musical influences: 1. Prince. I will always love that teeny, tiny little man 2. Guns N' Roses. *shrug* Appetite is one of my favorite albums ever, and makes for one damn fine cardio workout soundtrack. 3. Sade. One of my earliest memories is chilling with my mom in her Mattapan studio apartment, listening to Sade. Listen, I had to go back to my father's and step-mother's place and listen to the got-danged Winans on repeat, okay? Sade was really different, lol. Prolly why I'se a heathen today. (I can't hate on all their musical tastes, though. They are the reason I've got an Al Jarreau Best Of in my collection. Damn, come to think of it, if it wasn't for them, I wouldn't be bourgie black at all. I'd just be bourgie.) 4. Er, um, hmmm. Hell, come back later, I'll come up with something. Four bloggers I'm nudging: 1. Divine M (who likely will never have enough free time to complete this meme) 2. Miss James 3. Quietly 4. Monsieur Soviet and anybody else who hasn't done it yet, but wants to. Heh. Last note: I'll be working for two of the three days this is going on, but if you aren't, maybe you should swing by this film festival of shorts by women of color, running this Friday through Sunday. Thanks to Golden and Ms. Berry for the heads-up! Now. I'm off to get my grubby little mitts on some discount chocolate hearts ;-P