Greetings from beautiful, fucking freezing Chicago! Or, from the handwritten menu of the totally OG hidden gem we went to for dinner last night. I wrote an entire blog post about why I was heading home for exactly 50 hours but it somehow got deleted, so now I'll just let the entire thing be shrouded in mystery. ooOOOooOoOOooh!
One thing I will bring up, though: on my ass-early flight here, I shuffled onto the plane with the rest of the surprisingly pushy people, and was greeted by a corral of babies taking up for First Class section. I know I have the tendency to exaggerate, but I'm talking 8 glorious, plushy seats with hot towels and a coat check and female hostess air slaves, and FIVE of them being warmed by teeny, tiny, toddler tushies. One was old enough to manhandle his own video game device, sure, but he was easily balanced out by the one who was squirming around in his own leather-lined territory while sucking on a binkie.
I spent the flight with the megadouche in front of my fully reclined from takeoff through landing. Illegal? Yup, but considering how many terrible flight karma points I’ve earned this year, I‘m saving up all that currency for a priority surprise somewhere in the future. (That’s how that works, right?)
Similar to photos of my over-indulgent meals, I only post the bigger stories I write up in this hizzy. But, one slipped through the cracks during a particularly crazy week, and I wanted to make sure the correct eyeballage was delivered towards its culinary glory.
Edith Zimmerman, the fantastic gal who runs everyone’s favorite website The Hairpin chimed in on her five must-have, favorite New York foods, and unsurprisingly, it’s as riotous and surprising as she is. A girl who considers a secret, impossible-to-get-into restaurant as one of her choice picks is one thing, but pairing it with Dallas BBQ’s monstrous Spring Break-y margaritas is an entirely different, endlessly wonderful one, throwing her into the category of a human after my own heart. Check out the whole thingamajig over at Refinery29.com.
I hate running. It’s boring, it’s a nuisance, and it’s terrible on its own. Basically, it’s the frozen lasagna entree of exercise, and I only do it once a week to increase my cardiovascular strength to the point where I can exit a subway in heels without panting like the wind was just knocked out of me. (Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about, because there’s no way I’m so unfit that I’m the only one who suffers from this.) But, then outta nowhere, I heard about this thing called Zombies Run which turns a waterfront jog into fucking video game where you’re sprinting to get supplies and bring them back to your hypothetical base without having zombies eat you alive. A dream app, since it plays off my neuroses of being captured Legends of The Hidden Temple-style, and also encourages me to run towards food. Can’t wait to try this bad boy out once the temperatures get above “Fuck this shit, I’m not going out tonight.”
Binge eating isn’t always a positive quality to have, but in terms of Danny Bowien, it’s fucking adorable. Watch as he goes and orders the entire menu at his favorite Chinese spot because he feels the need to try every single thing. Makes me feel a pinch obese for trying to do the same in his own restaurant, Mission Chinese Food, and having the male quadrant of our supper club strike me down, but still. This is true menu glory, and I support his manic behavior.
I’m never too bitter about missing Fashion Week events, because the stress of deciding what to wear outweighs the experience (and Instagram has ruined everything fun in life), but this gorgeous video breaks my heart for all of us who weren’t able to watch this in person. The Opening Ceremony duo took over an abandoned, gilded department store in Paris for their Kenzo show for the first (and last) time, and it’s STUNNING. I’m talking Boardwalk Empire set come-to-life levels of gorge. Live vicariously by watching it here, and start plotting the coordinates of this place and time for future time travel use.
It’s been days since I’ve first seen this, but it’s still pooling around in my memory caves. Buzzfeed’s thingamajig on pornstars without their makeup on is not just a lesson in how terrible women apparently look without products on (seriously, men have it rough without access to rouge) but how I need to hop on YouTube channels and figure this shit out three years ago. These women fucking transform to a point that I literally cannot comprehend. #28 literally looks like her skin is a bag filled with Nerds candies, and then boom! Beautiful. How and where do people learn this? How can I learn to do this? (Not to be a porn star, but to do the makeup. Wildly more impressed by the cosmetic portion of their careers now.)
I gooftartedly forgot that when you run a fashion company, you obviously own all of the items they make. Meaning, Jenna Lyons has every single pair of J. Crew heels and made a little video about how happy they make her. Can you even imagine rolling out of bed with her know-how, that closet and a plethora of shoes to choose from as it’s your job to own ‘em all?! She really is the common man’s Jennifer Lawrence, isn’t she. What a dream.
This, for no reason I am aware of, wound up on my doorstep addressed to me. I mean, I know I’ve begun using bronzer, but a surprise subscription to this is a little much considering I’m aggressively pale and, ahem, very public about it.
Instead of discussing and likely jinxing a cookbook contest I entered that I’m nervously awaiting results of, I’d like to take this opportunity to have a moment of silence for the dream Marc Jacobs pants I tried on yesterday that did not fit to the point that my mother told me it looked like I was hiding things in my ass. I went to a suburban Nordstrom Rack and stumbled across other wordly wonders that wouldn’t have survived two seconds in NYC at those prices, but every single thing I tried on was slightly and incorrectably ill fitting. Derek Lam floral palazzo pants? Too tight in the waist. Theyskens’ Theory nubby gold-and-black crops for less than $50? Too high of an inseam. And the dream: a pair of pristine Marni brocade pants, painfully multiple sizes too small. They even had (ACK) a pair of bell bottom MiuMiu heels for $220 (men, stop rolling your eyes, you don’t get it), but despite being a massive size 10, were still too teeny-tiny.
I’d trade them all in, though, for the ability to sashay across town dressed like a neon pink Christmas accessory that had been left on the sidewalk to rot. One day.