Adventures in Boredom: A Recent Conversation Between Me And Tiny

Tiny is of course my steadfast and loyal roommate, and like the Borg, she is one of two (EZ being two).

Me: I think we need a waffle iron.

Tiny: Why?

Me: To make waffles for brunch and stuff.

Tiny: Are we going to be making brunch?

Me: Totally.

Tiny: I'm not sure we have room for a waffle iron.

Me: Of course we do. We'll just stick it in that cabinet where we put the other appliances.

Tiny: That cabinet is pretty full. Can you make waffles without the iron?

Me: No. Those are called pancakes.

13 Year Old Me Sends A Letter to My Valentine

Dear Mr. Darcy,

I just thought, it being Valentine's Day* and all, that perhaps I would jot you a quick note and let you know I've had a crush on you since forever. Your haughty demeanor and stubborn pride - which only after a number of trials will I realize is tempered by affection for your sister and friends - makes me all swooney.

It also doesn't hurt that you are rich and have a sweet country estate. And if I may be so bold to add, you look good in breeches - that is not easy feat in this day and age. I don't care if one does play polo, it can look a bit gay, but you manage to pull it off. You also work that cravat thing, because really, under normal circumstances, if I were going out with a guy who wore a fluffy scarf all the time, people might have a few questions (that whole David Bowie androgeny thing is so over, I don't care if he is married to Iman).

Unfortunately, you are an impossible model of manhood. I mean, who asks somebody to marry them after one ball and a few turns around the parlor? If this were the current state of affairs, we would have no need for Rodger Lodge, The Bachelor, Flavor of Love, I Love New York, and perhaps ultimately, Cheaters. Also, you write letters comprised of complete sentences with narry an emoticon to be found. I can't imagine what it's like to convey emotion solely through tone and word choice, rather than a smiley face at the end of a sentence. I'd like to imagine that even if you had text messaging, you would spell words completely and that you would never, ever resort to an 11:30 p.m. booty call text. Or that at least if you did, it would be way classy.

Anyway, just thought you'd like to know that I think you are way hot and if you were real, I would totally ask you to go out with me.


Yours Truly,

Ms. Laaw-yuhr


P.S. I really prefer for you to be played by Colin Firth rather than Matthew MacFayden, although I'm not going to hate on Matthew.



*My Friend has renamed the holiday Singles Awareness Day

My Own PostSecret

If I weren't studying,
I'd be going to the PostSecret event
in Baltimore
on Valentine's Day.

Six Degrees of Separation From Not Even A Little Fame

Fall 2008 Ready-to-Wear
Marc by Marc Jacobs - Backstage

The yellow piece of fabric in the right corner of this photo is my sister.




Photo by Greg Kessler found here.

Rumors of my Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Apparently, as someone recently said to me, I am to be congratulated for not being dead.

Last Thursday what began as a throat tickle became a SUPERFLU and a sinus infection and pneumonia by Sunday morning.

In the intervening period it was my roommate, EZ's birthday, and I had volunteered to cook a Mardi Gras themed menu on Saturday night. It was a hellagood menu if I do say so myself as we served the following (I have links to all of the recipes used)

1) Hurricanes - made of fresh juice, much of which Tiny squeezed herself, andnot from some shitty mix
2) Fried (sorta) Green Tomatoes with Ranch dressing - I added in some panko sushi flakes to the breadcrumb mixture in the recipe
3) Shrimp and Grits - just use instant grits, seriously. Also I used hot sauce and prosciutto in lieu of tasso.
4) King Cake, ordered from Gambino's in New Orleans
5) Cheesecake stuffed chocolate dipped strawberries - my own sort of hodge podge invention of chocolate covered strawberries + filling comprised of one package of creamcheese, 2 tablespoons of powdered sugar, teaspoon of vanilla, then dip the end in graham cracker crumbs

However, by Saturday I was feeling really icky. Fortunately Tiny assisted by Big N filled in on doing most of the prep work and making the strawberries, so that a few hours before the party I took some cold medicine and pulled myself together enough to get it together. Upon reflection it's pretty clear that I got really sick during the party - not so good since I made food for 25 people - and can't really remember most of the people I talked to that night. I don't remember much, but I know that I left the party early and then during the night my fever must have been really high because I had the chills, and logically took a hot shower or five to warm up and all was well except that I think I took about 14 advil oh and my throat swelled closed. I felt pretty crummy, but everyone went dancing and, you know, I thought I could tough it out.

On Sunday morning my Steven Segal persona gave in, and I text messaged EZ (didn't have the energy to knock on his door) to see if he was going to church because maybe perhaps I needed to go to the ER and I was hoping he could ask some friends which one would be best. Knowing I must be on death's door to have sent such a message, everyone began to appear in my room and Big N took one look at me and declared that I had pneumonia.

EZ was nice enough to take me to the hospital and I was in no position to argue, and fortunately the ER must not have been very busy as I was pretty much able to get right in. The triage nurse was a complete snippy bitch to me and said "well, I think you just have the flu but we have to treat it like you might have pneumonia." He started to rush me to x-ray and shot off down the corridor, but since I couldn't really breathe, I couldn't keep up and he had to double back for me and then he was considerably nicer and seem to realize I wasn't full of shit.

The X-rays revealed that I did in fact have pneumonia and the unusual location of it (top of the lungs) freaked the ER doctor out because that's where TB likes to linger. So because they thought I might have TB I was immediately put in my own isolation room in the ER. From that point on, everyone who came into my room had to put on this duckbilled face mask so that infection didn't spread. I was afraid that if I had TB, everyone at the party would also have TB, making me the Typhoid Mary of the gay party circuit.

Long story long, it's really fortunate that they thought I had TB as that meant I got private room in the ER and eventually in the hospital. Especially since there was a lady in a diaper wandering around the ER that scared me. The not so good part of thinking I had TB was that I had to cough up goo into a specimen container to be taken to the lab and I had to provide three viable samples that would all come back negative. Sadly, my throat was swollen, so this proved difficult.

Three days and many IVs of antibiotics later I was declared TB free and released and aside from a nasty cough I am doing much better. As I was taking a walk yesterday I was having a coughing fit and this guy leans out his window and yells to me "Baby, you need to get you some lemon tea." Can't argue with logic like that.

The moral of this story: if you think you're sick you should maybe not cook for people because you might have some weird infection eventually becoming a social pariah. Yeah, this really isn't a good story or a good lesson, I just thought I would catch everyone up on the reason why I haven't written in a while.

Also, you can make our same sweet recipes for your own party.

A Few Words To The Bitch Next to Me On The Elliptical Machine

Oh, hello there.

Since it's the early afternoon and there's about 17 empty machines here in a row, I'm bewildered why you've decided to work out on the machine right next to me. You realize that that's the equivalent of a man peeing next to another man when he could have put a urinal between them? No? Oh, you don't care. I see.

What's that? I see you looking at my mini-TV. And yes, yes I am watching Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. So what? Stop judging me. I'm a geek, ok? And I've already seen the episode of Project Runway that you're watching. Look, it's the afternoon, and I definitely can't work out to anything remotely intellectual. The History Channel sucks ass in the middle of the day. Working out with the CNN ticker on makes me practically apoplectic. Conversely, watching TRL on MTV makes me feel old. And VH1 is doing one of those shows on rich people that only makes me feel poor. It's not like you can hear my Star Trek. And hey, you wouldn't get infected with my geek vibes if you had worked out at a machine further away from me. You reap what you sow, gym-ho.

Also, I can't help but notice your scapula poking through your spandex. I can also count some ribs. In addition, your spindly legs are moving at lightening speed. Hey! Hey! Stop looking at the readout on my elliptical machine! You know what? I'm not as fast as you. I'm just starting. I'm asthmatic. I'm still recovering from sinus surgery. Is THIS why you're next to me?! Does it make you feel better?

Seriously gym-ho, you'd better watch yourself. You work out next to me again, I'll put a stick in your elliptical.

Subtle Indicators That Let You Know You Work Out at The Gay Gym

• there's a class called Dance Aerobic Funk - and boy do they get funky
• more than normal amount of spandex worn by gym goers
  
• Men's showers without dividers (knowledge courtesy of EZ)
• There is a tanning bed in your gym
• Guys drop by just to tan
• your gym has a juice bar
• your gym has a hair salon
• you see more than one guy with manorexia
  
• gay blogger Andrew Sullivan works out there (EZ spotted him in the locker room)
• everyone but you is gay

That's right, I joined a gym. Shock, horror. And funny enough, the closest one to me is indeed one of the gayest gyms in D.C. I am fine with this this because
a) I love gays and
b) it removes the heterosexual cruising element and cuts down on the number of anorexic chicks.
The ones that are there (anorexic girls that is) are clearly forced to go to this gym due to proximity to their homes - lack of caloric intake keeps them from straying too far.

Since I always played sports or biked rather than hit then gym, I also got a session with a personal trainer as I haven't a clue how to use weight machines. I have similarly avoided the treadmill because my inherent klutziness and ability to fall for no reason leaves me with a deep seated fear that I will face-plant onto it at full speed. At my session, the trainer realized I'm a rather hopeless case and basically said "wow, you really have no clue. An hour really isn't enough time for me to show you the ropes".

In related news, I've also decided to train for a 10k, or as I like to think of it, one half of one half of a marathon. This should provide hilarious tales as well because I have absolutely no idea how to go about this.