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I'm not even pretending to work today...

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Every few days or so it seems that I discover (or rediscover) something that I become so passionately absorbed in that it makes me almost manic. I find myself bordering on anxiety as I rush to share it with everyone I know as if it were my own. I want to blow it up to poster size, tape it to the wall, and just stare at it while I sip red wine.

This is how I felt when I stumbled upon Masha D'Yans, whose paintings I want to live in (and now thanks to a throw from Urban Outfitters, I can at least wrap myself in) and certainly how I feel now as I sit (wrapped in aforementioned throw) reading through one of Nigella Lawson's cookbooks as if it were a novel.

Now, I've seen Ms. Lawson's cooking show before. Food Network is, after all, my lullaby. And it was good, of course, in a British sort of way, that though I appreciate, I can never truly adhere to. But then while compulsively perusing the Food Network website (which I do daily) I came across her recipe for boiled egg on toast. The directions were simple: Boil an egg. Eat it on toast. Yet somehow Nigella stretched this out into an eloquent 500 or so words, all of which were perfectly placed and completely necessary.

I immediately added one of her cookbooks to my list of birthday demands. Success! Lucifer (Mom) actually listened to me for once. Thus, I resigned to the couch, to see if the print would measure up.

I suppose it's needless to say that it did. The book is pink hardcover (Luci bought it sans-cover from Amazon for a whopping $3) which made it all the more appealing. Pink things tend to make me happy. I am an avid supporter of pink foods (ice cream and cupcakes specifically) and so I was immediately set up for a fantastic culinary read.

To say I'm a food critic is both absurdly silly and completely understated. I have a passion for food (much as I have one for fashion) that can hardly be met on the budget I keep. So I indulge myself by watching vast amounts of Food and Fashion television, while wearing my brother's old hoodies and eating Taco Bell. I've learned to appreciate the "simple" things (read: "trashy") alongside that which is truly noteworthy.

Thus, I highly recommend Nigella's book, simply from a literary standpoint, as I have never made any of her dishes. And, keep in mind that my opinion is flawless, therefore my recommendations are gold. So read it, dicks.

Thanksgiving a la Kate 2007

1 box of generic mac and cheese (3/$.99, stolen from parents)
1 McChicken Sandwich ($1, McDonald's drive through)
1 Cinnamon Pop Tart ($.95, Campus vending machine)
2 40 oz bottles of Labatt Blue (purchased at 7-11 from the one-handed Indian who judges your lifestyle)

Directions:
1. Wear sweatpants. Do not shower.
2. Watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Drink each time anyone says, "Who."
3. Ignore mother's phone calls.
4. Convince teenage brother to bring you leftover pie.
5. Repeat as needed.

Love Nests and Napkin Rings

Actual ad on craigslist:

2 Bedroom Fully Furnished Townhouse for rent. Looking for 7 people to pay 250/month each for their choice of 1 day at townhouse. Fully furnished with all the amenities of home. Beautifully decorated. Great place to take your afternoon love affair. This is not a joke. I have a townhouse that I am looking to rent and I remember what it was like looking for a discreet place to get away. Serious inquiries only.

Definitely fits into the category of things that make ya go "WTF?" A few of my many concerns include:

1. Is said townhouse available for the night, or only for lunch break quickies with your wife's sister?

2. Is the owner going to participate in his or her own afternoon love affair? Or is he acting simply as a silent sexual philanthropist?

3. Who is going to wash the sheets?

I'll investigate no further. My inquiries are not serious.


On a completely unrelated topic, I am totally jonesing for a Dries Van Noten's bangle necklace.


But alas, I am a broke as a joke recent college grad and my entire wardrobe is Target couture. There is no fucking chance I'll ever have one. I think I'll make my own out of napkin rings.

Let Them Eat Cake, Bitches

I'm sure that's actually what Marie Antoinette said, they just edited the "bitches" part to make her seem more like French royalty and less like a trailer park tramp. I, however, have no reason not to hide my trailer park trampiness, and therefore when it's cake time, the "bitches" part stays.

And cake time it was. Ice cream cake, that is. My preference is usually Funfetti, but as no one actually felt like baking, ice cream cake was the next best thing. I like it because the frosting makes me feel like I'm eating Play Doh. Obviously everyone has eaten (or at least has had a strong desire to eat) Play Doh. And although it always taunts you into thinking it is going to be delicious, it simply is not. The frosting on ice cream cake allows me to live out my dream of Play Doh consumption without actually having to eat Play Doh. Mmmm.

In other Play Doh related news, I was super pleased to learn that they have now made Play Doh perfume. I might have to dose myself in that semi-floral, semi-toxic aroma just for nostalgia's sake.

Humble Beginnings

DISCLAIMER: I do not condone smoking, nor living a college loan induced, impoverished lifestyle. Take it from this girl, living off of stale vending machine Pop Tarts and scavenged alcohol is no picnic. And well, smoking, of course, is a filthy, disgusting, expensive, disease causing habbit... one which makes me infinitely happy inside and one with the world... Yeah, yeah. I'm working on quitting. Just like I'm working on quitting early nineties Disney Musicals, Happy Meals, my indiscriminate love of flip flops, blowing off work responsibilities to play Snood, and voodooing ex-boyfriends' current girlfriends, among other things. These things take time, OK? GET OFF MY ASS! There's not a support group for everything.

That being said, I'll state plainly and simply that it's damn true that nobody likes you when you're 23, and thank God I'm almost not anymore. The ascent into adulthood has thus far been paved with disappointment and cheap wine. The cheap wine I'm totally OK with. There's a hell of a lot of good that can come from a big box of Franzia. And when you live in a tragically unhip city as I do, you gotta take as much drunken good as you can get, thank you. The disappointment of a useless degree (not that I had any illusions that my B.A. would actually get me somewhere) and the disappearance of my fun friends has, however, left me slightly bitter, and well, more than that, bored. I had some notion of living a life that was a riot of color, a Dylan song, or at least something slightly less khaki than the expected post-graduate lifestyle. And if it takes a computer screen to be my looking glass, then so be it. Bring on the pink elephants and blue meanies. I've got some time to waste, and an apparent need for an audience.

And so, on the eve of my 24th birthday, I plan to indulge myself in a virtual representation of shit I like, shit I'm doing, and shit I'd like to do. It's glorified talking to myself, I know, and I don't give a shit. I love talking to myself. I'm doing it right now. Stop judging me. You do it too.

That being said, I'm off to the real world. I've got a solid 45 minutes of Snood playing and Ex stalking to do. Cheers!