Sunday, March 31

Weekend Smorgasbord: 3/31

Guys, this week has been bonkers! In case you haven't noticed, I've been MIA for a month-long gig I'm hired out on, so time is thin and I am not, especially because they have an instant-hot-beverage machine like the one at Centennial Ice Rink that I used to get hot cocoas from. I don't know what a "French Vanilla" drink is or whether it has any source of caffeine in it, but holy christ, is it good. So, if things have seemed slow this week and through the next two, it's not because I'm disappearing, but likely because I, sadly, have nothing to talk about. Just...a whole bunch of nothing. I'm seeing Jurassic Park 3D next weekend and am already excited about it, so the dry spell of fun grinds and good times should end sometime soon, but until then, my main focus is on paying taxes, figuring out how to get a manicure on a regular schedule as not to look like a perma-schlub, and not getting caught in the rain and realizing I'm having a total Mary Tyler Moore moment between morning, midday and afternoon caffeine highs. (That's my face! Miss it?) Anywho, my body is legit rejecting coffee at this point, but fughettabout it let's move on to the fun schtuff shall we OK SOUNDS GREAT:

I wrote a love letter to interviewed Birchbox's Mollie Chen for Of A Kind, and the gal couldn't be any better. Point proven: I'm currently waiting for the oven to heat up so I can make a frittata out of shit left in my fridge solely because she told me there's no excuse for not knowing how. She's like my own personal Sheryl Sandberg, only for edible animal products and pourable containers of egg whites.

See all the other schtuff Mollie says you can do over on the site, including some beauty tips that you should take as the word from God, since advice from anyone with full unbiased access to every product in existence is something you should never falter on. NEVER. Never.

I don't want to say that Refinery29 is cultivating irresponsibility, but all I know is every time I hop on the site, I discover three more articles I can't stop myself from immediately reading. This week's "hold the phone, wait, what the fuck is going on?!" example is their bonkers Closet Hoarders slideshow of three unbelievable, vintage-packed closets. (Well, two rooms full of vintage and one woman's meticulously organized collection.) As even hearing the phrase California Closets makes me gag a little bit, I'm over-the-top envious of that picture above, home to Tessa Morehouse's goodies.

Though I know we're totally Swinton-ed out at the moment, I gave in and read Jerry Saltz's gentle come-down on the circus that has become MoMA's Atrium and had a teensy bone to pick. I know he might not be all about a name-your-price garage sale of tchotchkes and junk in the middle of a museum, but homie, I bought my beloved Mickey Mouse sweatshirt at that shit and it was well worth the stupidly non-negotiated price tag. Suck a D, Saltz.

And here I thought my Lincoln Logs skills were boss. Ends up? This sketched book of Shelters, Shacks and Shanties is the real how-to guide on building things from logs and wood scraps, from back in the day when they couldn't watch one of those weird-looking Canadian twins just do it on HGTV. Also, it's for "boys of all ages", so when you want to build a backyard hideaway but don't want to complete the project, emasculate your nearest man by emphasizing the underage male portion of the "anyone can build these!" disclaimer. Two birds, one never-have-to-be-lifted-by-you stone.

Remember that Louis C.K. bit about the doctor who told him his grandma's "Prolly got a bunch of tumors in her head"? I never thought that could be rooted in any form of reality, until coming across this story about a two-inch feather poking out of a baby's face. The parents' verdict?: "[Our doctor's] best guess is that she either inhaled it or tried swallowing it and it got lodged in the throat somewhere, and the body, just being crazy, just started to reject it and force it out the side of her neck." And the BODY just being CRAZY started to REJECT IT. Yeah, I fully believe that joke with every fiber of my being now.

Things I've discovered won't keep me from eating desserts left in the apartment: unobtainable heights. Definitely had a sad-as-shit moment hopping up on the counter and pulling down a box of caramel-coated goodies last night, made only worse by my significant roommate just telling me, "See? I hid them from you so you wouldn't eat them all! Smart, right?!"


I'm currently all aboard the no-carb luxury liner, which has proven to mostly be a one-way street of anger, frustration and actual child-like temper tantrums in public. Vehemently against cutting out literal energy from my diet, I'm only torturing myself because I looked at a calendar and realized I have to be in a bathing suit — fucking fast — and the only way it's gonna happen is by not convincing myself Chia Muffins at Le Pain Quotidien are "healthy sources of nutrition" instead of 400 calorie carb-o bombs. I'm honest to god as reluctant to cut back my thrice-daily snacktimes as the woman who has to be craned out of her apartment to leave, especially because I somehow injured myself while simply sitting in an upholstered arm chair yesterday. My flesh did not fuse to the corduroy, thank god, but only pulled something in my back. Only! Clearly, the only way a crash diet is going to happen is by sucking down Babybels instead of granola and hoping everything balances out, but if I have to invest in a MiracleSuit (yes, I know the company brand by name in my brain archive in case i ever need to place an immediate order) this year rather than in a few, i'll chalk it up as a wise closet decision and get back to chowing down in the sun.

I interrupt this special broadcast to inform you that artisanal mustard exists. IT'S REAL, PEOPLE. And it ain't made by a tiny navajo.

The more you know!

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