Wednesday June 27, 2007

In the next 24 hours, I hope to have the rental truck loaded and the apartment cleaned.  (ha, ha- oh, planning!  how ambitious and deluded!)  And: the couch sold, the headboard tossed away, the kitchen table picked up, the cat groomed, the fridge cleaned, and an iTrip procured for the 6 hr drive to Wisconsin so I won't be forced to toggle between shitty middle-of-nowhere radio stations every 45 miles or so.

Last night's soiree at Barbette was lovely- I got to catch up with a fairly dispirate group of friends (of which Tara remarked later:  "your friends are all couples!  it was like a party of normalcy!") from work, college, shows, and high school (Tara, who I've known for about 10 years now, drove from Grand Rapids to buy me prosecco and encourage that second order of mussels).

I was all prepared and ready with my camera, but was having far too much fun gossiping and drinking and catching up and squeezing the life out of Jamie Ryan to be bothered to dig through my bag to find the camera and take a single photo.  I am pleased at the functionality of the dress- I am always reticent to attempt to rock a strapless dress, but not only did this convertible halter/tube dress stay on, it kept my rack in place without me needing to adjust it once in seven hours.  American Apparel, you win at making me look good.

As my fridge currently contains two dozen bottles of assorted mustards, a jar of pickled herring, four soy sauces, a tube of aloe vera gel, and three cups of yogurt, Tara and I were forced to go to Maria's Cafe for a morning-after breakfast.  Such hardship.  Before heading back home, I finally remembered the camera still stashed in my bag, and ran across the street to capture photographic evidence of the Suck-My-Dick Jesus.

"Go in peace, suck my cock."


Friday June 22, 2007

Fair warning:  I plan to be drunk for the next 40 hours in a row.  Don't expect me to make any sense until Sunday evening at the soonest.


Tuesday June 19, 2007

I wonder:
are these new grey hairs, or paint splatters?


Saturday June 16, 2007

How disappointed was I to see that the headline "Was Tony Soprano Killed By Vitamin C?" did not link to a showdown between James Gandolfini and the washed-up 90's pop star?

jg  vs. c


Thursday June 14, 2007

Watching me re-acclimate to driving is much like watching a retarded puppy try to find his way to the doggy door. 
I haven't driven a car regularly since moving to Minneapolis (and by "not regularly" I mean that I drove someone else's car on possibly six occasions a year), so while my basic driving skills are quickly coming up to speed (right pedal = gas!  left pedal = brake!), the whole process of navigating the cities is going very, very slowly.  For seven years, I've gone through the streets with the eyes of a biker, which knocks out any knowledge of highways, exits, or other very useful things to know when trying anywhere via nonresidential streets. 
Last week, I drove to St. Paul for the first time, and had to turn around three times and figure out where the hell I was and where I was going.  Wednesday night, I drove to St. Paul again, and had to ask Noah where I-94 was in relation to the street we were on- no matter that I took I-94 to get there.  Poor boy is in the passenger seat, stifling comments like "you can merge now!" and "what do you MEAN, which way is north?" and "just let me park the car this time".  He knows every back street from here to Chicago, though, which makes him an excellent navigator.
The one thing that pisses me off to no end is my lack of parallel-parking skill.  Granted, I never had to learn to parallel park during the formative car years; the only parking on my driver's test was angle parking, because in the middle of the prairie, you can build all the five-acre parking lots with wide, wide rows that you could ever need.  Why would you need to park on the side of the street?  That's what your four-car garage is for, silly.  So:  my parallel-parking experience was limited to a few very jerky, crooked attempts prior to the purchase of the Civic.  It frustrates me so much to not be able to back in, straighten out the front end, center myself, and be done with it.  No, I'm pulling in and out of parking spaces, hitting the curb, inching backward because I have zero depth perception and think I am thisclose to hitting the car behind me when I actually have a foot and a half of room, and generally making noises of 'why the fuck can't I parallel park better than a stoned seventeen-year-old'.  It will come as no surprise that last night, after doing the interminable scoochy-scoochy-hit-the-curb dance, I got out of the car and wailed to Noah:  "I just want to do things right the first time, all the time!"
omfg, I need these shoes.  Blue and pewter Choos will take away the sting of reliving my driver's ed years, right?  $600 is only what, two months' rent in Cincinnati?  Shit.
I've been leaving bitchy messages on the slumlord's answering machine all week, boiling down to "either you bring me white paint, or I don't paint the apartment".  I didn't think that he'd actually get around to delivering paint to my apartment, but there he was at 8:45 am today with a five-gallon bucket.  I have sixteen days to paint my apartment (dubbed "bulimic rainbow" for the mix of lavender, purple, blue, acid green, bright red, and neon yellow) back to white. 
What will make this arduous, lung-strangling task bearable?  TEQUILA!


Thursday June 7, 2007

For the Southern Belles goodbye gathering, I volunteered to make a chocolate something.  After much mental wringing of hands, I decided on a flourless-chocolate ginger cake with ginger whipped cream- except no recipes for chocolate-ginger cake that don't involve a loaf pan and an unsettling resemblance to fruitcake.  I went to epicurious.com and found this recipe, then tweaked it with a generous amount of shredded fresh ginger and some ginger snow (buy candied ginger, blend in food processor with a lot of sugar, eat with spoon), then dumped the rest of the ginger snow into some heavy whipping cream to make ginger whipped cream.  Does this indicate some thwarted pastry-school dreams of mine?  Why, yes!
{I'd never seriously considered myself a good cook or baker until college, when suddenly, given free rein over my own kitchen, I realized that dinner could be more than a pork chop burned on the grill and served with canned green beans.  (Mom, I love you, but your cooking skills kinda suck at times.)  Enter eggplant parmigana, caramel flan, sponge-cake cupcakes, yogurt & chutney salmon, miso green beans, lemon-rosewater cake, and many variations of "what the hell will I do with these odd leftover veggies?" stew.  After a couple years of experimenting, the idea of "maybe I should go to culinary school...." has worked it into my brain more than a few times.  Truthfully, I know I couldn't hack it as a pastry chef, but oh, it's fun to dream.}
And random thoughts from the CFDA Awards in NYC on Monday: 
Ashley Olson, looking good. 
Mary-Kate Olson, looking like she's going to bite the head off a bat because she's so goddamn hungry.
Anna Wintour looks like a bored teenager sitting in the back pew at church.
Diane von Furstenberg has morphed from a caricature of herself circa 1989 into a DVF Barbie.


Monday June 4, 2007

Amid a few living-room guests lately, I've been trying to pack up at least a box per night of stuff to move to Milwaukee & Cincinnati.  I know that the biggest bitch will be moving my solid-steel filing cabinet; close behind that is going to be finally throwing away lots of papers from said filing cabinet.  It's mostly a script repository at this point, but there are also three years of painstakingly archived Vogues which are a) gorgeous b) earmarked with visual ideas and c) really fucking heavy.  Goodbye, pretty Vogue file. 
(Also, what in christ's name will I do with the 250 8x10 headshots I ordered in 2006, intent on going to get my MFA?  Egocentric origami?)

Once again, I'm working my way to the back of the pantry, where all those "I think it might be good for me to eat this....later on" purchases migrate.  I've got plans for the couscous and the polenta and the lentils, but the huge box of whole wheat baking mix?  Not a clue.  I don't really want to go out and buy dried fruits or somesuch just to make scones to use this up, esp. as that would also mean getting sugar, butter, etc.  Inefficient.  And then I'd have 72 scones, which is far more crumbly breakfast biscuit that I could consume in a month.  I'm not entirely sure why I even bought any baking mix in the first place.

The new first-floor tenant with windows facing the courtyard has apparently purchased a new stereo, because from 10 a.m. to midnight each day for the past week, he's been sharing his music with everyone on the block.  Normally, this doesn't bother me (Scissor Sisters while cooking dinner? ok!  The Hollies as I read the Sunday paper? lovely!), but his Saturday afternoon was devoted to Shania Twain, which annoyed me mightily.  I may have to leave a note on his door indicating that perhaps he should reconsider some of his recent iTunes purchases.