Oh, it's practically Sunday night at 9pm and the weekend's almost over?! NAY I SAY. I mean, I think I say. All I know is that I spent the day at a beerhall in Brooklyn TEEMING with babies — not a joke, this is a real thing — and didn't eat lunch until 6:15, when I wolfed foie gras at Battersby because that's kinda how I do it. Will eat anything in front of me, unless there's nothing in front of me for too many hours and my body immediately needs to be replenished by sweetbreads and a full foccacia before eating a back-to-back two-peat of chocolate chip cookies. Need I mention that I've only had one drink and haven't seen straight in the past two hours? I thought "better late than never" was about to become my motto with this one, but I think I'm teeming on the ledge of "I'm drunk and this is up so it's fine whatever can we get back to singing along to songs from Smash and can someone get me water?!"
I'm a regular ol' Mia Thermopolis, only there's no one here to cover my bedroom in frills and hide my best friend in a closet. Oh my god, cookie stomachache. Let's get on with this:
Things are every which way these days, which is evidenced through this series photos I've snapped in the past week. Attended a dog birthday party — the third, if you're counting — for my friend's pup Preston, which is better than any adult's birthday for three reasons: There's an endless supply of candy and cupcakes, Its end time is never a question mark, and the guest of honor always adores whatever we give him. Up on the right is a Madewell picnic tablecloth shirt I just pulled the Final Sale trigger on, a terrifying thought for a serial returner like me. Down left, a physical representation of everything I care about — goofiness and edibles — and a Britney Spears "Toxic" nude suit-inspired manicure that's made me smile so much that I think I might have to make it a recurring blog post.
My mom used the "If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you, too?" method on me a lot when I was younger, so let's just say I'm averse to copy-catting. But, after getting Of A Kind's perfect newsletter this past week, I can't get over these pompon banners from Napkin which they're also rocking big-time in their office. Sure, it's something you could make yourself if you're a master DIYer, but I'd prefer to not have my boyfriend walk in on me gluing puffy orbs to a hand-cut "SHITHEADS THIS WAY" sign to hang above the bathroom. If you're in that questionable camp too, I say put up and pay for one of these dangly glories.
Things I'm sad we didn't have way back when: access to Facebook while dreaming about high school crushes, beauty tutorials to avoid shitty perms, haul videos when Claire's 10 for $5 was all the rage. And now, advanced remix technology can be tacked onto that list, because this Janet Jackson Giraffage remix is insane. If it was a tape, I would have played it until it ran off the spools. But, thankfully, those days are behind us. Sort of.
A co-worker of mine tipped me off to this Courtney Love interview on Into The Gloss, and anything I say right now shouldn't matter because if you haven't immediately clicked that link to read our favorite nutso's detailing of face goops, you really don't have your internet priorities straight.
I'm not sure of the next time I'll be in Afghanistan — or Warsaw, for that matter — but The New York Times' interactive map of their travel writers' favorite secret bars around the globe is done beautifully, with a certain dose of holy shit and a sprinkle of you've gotta be fucking kidding me right?. Case in point: "There was no secret password to gain entry to this Kabul bar, just a simple ordering code that anyone could crack, including no doubt the Islamic militants who eventually put a rocket-propelled grenade through the front window." OH! Okay, great, thanks for the travel rec. Still looks nice, though.
Scholastic Book order forms and their subsequent fairs were my fucking jam when i was a kid — I would pool all of my child money into purchasing as many weird, under-$5 books as I could get my hands on — which is why this Food Book Fair is surprisingly intriguing to me. Granted, all signs point to it being a Brooklyn-y Portlandia skit (especially considering I'm priced out of some of the event tickets) but the idea of walking around past makeshift tables and going to town on hardcovers and carrying them home (hypothetically) tied together in string is oddly enthralling to me.
File under: things I do to get restaurant reservations. Not sure how just twenty minutes after the phone lines opened, Andrew Carmellini (of Locanda Verde and The Dutch)'s new restaurant Lafayette didn't even have a 7pm reservation on a Sunday night, but it's fine. Geriatric Sunday supper's going to be my new favorite dining time, intentional or not.
Honey, I love you, but you've got to be kidding me with that stand-up special. I'm the only person who disliked the new material he was working out during his NYC run of shows (and the old lady SNL monologue that came out from it), but to watch 15 minutes of one of the greats and not laugh once — once! — is an abomination, regardless of if I stand alone on this. So, I'm spending the rest of the night listening to Patrice O'Neal's special to wash the bad memory out of my brain. I'll love you forever Lou, but I can't listen to any more jokes about living in a nice apartment building, just like I don't want to see Anthony Bourdain eat any more frog legs in Cambodia. I'm over it.