Tuesday, February 19

Consolation Prizing

I was planning to post a pile of wonderful NYFW silliness and food fantasmics, but...I'm currently knee deep in writing a story about people who invent ice cream and source wild mushrooms for a living (not a joke), so that productive prospective bloggy ship has sailed. While I unfortunately don't have time to wax poetic about Alexander Wang's runway shitfest as I attempt to go through all the e-mails I didn't answer yesterday, I'll instead talk about things like how the puffy coat hanging in the corner of my apartment keeps scaring me because I think it's a tiny intruder. Kapeesh? Cool. Here are a few more pieces of driftwood passing through the flowing river of my brain today:


-- Isn't it kind of insane that whenever you have people come to fix something in your apartment — cable box, pipes, electricity — they're always an hour late and it's totally acceptable? Is that because we need them, or because we don't expect anything less? I wish I could get away with shit like never picking up my dry cleaning or washing my hair or singing along to the Gypsy soundtrack and have it be just as gently tolerated.



-- Was pissed at myself for spending $20 on a tin of steamed vegetables and beans from Souen so I....made my own Macro Plate! Ok, yes, I did this instead of writing a real post but fuck, it's either stop eating cheesy poofs and bowls of cashews tiny wax-wrapped Babybels for mini-lunch every hour and diet or actually man up and join Weight Watchers, and I can't kneel at the altar of Jennifer Hudson twice in one day. (In case you're not following this crazy wavelength, Smash is on tonight. DUH. Get those drinks up.)

-- WE STILL DON'T KNOW WHERE MARNIE'S SPACE STAY GETUP FROM BOOTH'S PARTY IS MADE BY OR SOLD HOW WE CAN GET ONE OF OUR OWN. HELP.

-- I spent $10 on a squash today, and I deserve to be Pistoriused for it. I've spent 24 hours in freelance tax return hell, plunking numbers from MTA statements and Starbucks receipts into a never-ending, eye-blurring spreadsheet that's forced me to face my inability to balance checkbooks or take taxis home after 6pm head on, and...spent $10 on a squash at All Good Things because I wanted to feel like a ladyyyyyyy and thought it was local. It wasn't. Still spent the $10.

-- How long should I have waited before using Pistoriused?

-- Is it normal to spend the entire duration of a 45 minute exercise class thinking the evil thoughts everyone else is sending your way, only to realize no one gives a fuck about how your knees collapse during lunges and you're projecting all of this and you should probably take a chill pill? I think I'm a backwards narcissist, since I usually only thing people are paying attention to me when I'm covered in sweat and taking way too many breaks for it only being ten minutes into class. Also, I may not have learned how to "sledgehammer" today (I don't got no shoulder strength), but I did realize I quite possibly might actually be a big boned person. A real big boned person! I got big ol' sturdy skeletor bones and I know how to use 'em. This is my takeaway from 45 minutes of exercise — not a renewed sense of confidence, not a boost of being proud for actually dragging myself there at lunchtime, but a bucket of self-hate and a better idea of how large n' tall my body structure is. Gyms!

-- The Academy Awards are five full days away and god damn, I'm already dreading Ann Hathaway.

-- And last but not least, this motherfucker is cooler than you'll ever be:



Invitations are clearly for pussies.




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