Sherwin

Ten minutes ago, at my desk.

Ring ring

Cordelia: Hi, this is Cordelia.
Unknown Male Voice: Hey baby, what's up.
Cordelia: Who is this?
Unknown Male Voice: This is Sherwin, we met at the bar last night.
Cordelia: I didn't meet you at the bar last night.

Click.

One moment later.

Ring ring.

Cordelia: Hello?
Sherwin: You didn't have to be rude.
Cordelia: Look, I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number. I don't know who you are. I'm guessing the girl you met gave you the wrong number, you know?
Sherwin: Oh. Well, you didn't have to hang up on me.
Cordelia: I'm at work, okay? This is my work number. You kind of freaked me out.
Sherwin: Oh. Bye.

Click.

wd-50

I became obsessed with molecular gastronomy after reading an article written by one of Guy's clients--while I don't think anyone would ever call the food scene in New York boring, there does seem to be a certain amount of repetition. Beets are suddenly on every menu. Oh no, wait, now it's pomegranates. Something a little more adventurous and experimental sounded, at the very least, worth trying.

So, for our three and a half year anniversary*, Guy planned a surprise. A surprise which he came so very, very close to keeping a surprise. He told me what to wear (less gay than it sounds--he gave me a dress for Christmas and told me to wear that) and that it was an experiment. And then the day before he 'fessed up to his plans. Really all for the best--it gave me the opportunity to study the menu.

We were right there in that corner booth spot. My brown dress matched the decor. It was early, and therefore empty, so I felt absolutely no hesitation in demanding advice from our Paul Rudd-ish server, who declared that we had given ourselves the best possible meal without order the tasting menu.

Guy ordered the popcorn soup with shrimp medallions and tamarind-marinated jicama. It was exquisite. The soup tasted like creamy popcorn, but wasn't in any way overwhelming. The jicama was a surprisingly strong burst of sour--but the shrimp. Oh, the shrimp. At first bite, all you tasted was popcorn soup. Chew a couple of times, and all of a sudden there's lemon. And then it's gone, and you have shrimp. Amazing.

I did not intend to eat an entire slab of foie gras all by myself, but I did. Guy didn't get it--he also didn't notice that the lentils made of mole sauce were exactly what we'd been reading about and fascinated by and why I ordered the thing, but anyway more for me. And I'm feeling fine today; my heart is still beating and everything. I loved the consistency and the just damn coolness of the lentils, but they didn't taste too mole-y to me. I've had tiny melting yumminess of foie gras before, but never a big old steak of it, and my lands, it's rich. But if I loaded a bite with beads of mole, wriggling foie gras, and a smudge of quince yogurt, all these flavors smooshed together and became much more than they were on their own.

Guy deviated from his original plan of lamb, and went with the Paul Rudd's suggestion of pork belly instead (hey, I ate the foie gras all by myself--I don't want to die alone). It was a little dry in places, but the fattier bits (normally not my favorite thing) were squishy goodness. The sunchokes were crispy, and Guy at first mistook them for water chestnuts. The caper sauce had a little mustardy bite to it--which was nothing compared to the ancho-soaked pineapple slices.

I ordered the scallops. They were normal-sized, which I was relieved to see; giant scallops are a little too milky for me. I'm a mushroom fan, but the black trumpet mushrooms just seemed to be kind of there, and not really part of the dish. However, everything else worked together wonderfully well. The scallops and mushrooms were sitting in a broth of spice bread, and laid over the top were cranberry fruit leather strips. Taken on its own, the cranberry was way too tart--certainly wasn't cranberry cocktail fruit leather. But with a swirl in the broth, a dab of chestnut mayo from the corner, the bite was excellent.

Dessert, however, was by far the best dish. While I was fascinated by the white chocolate, potato, and white beer ice cream, I was pretty full from all my foie gras, and we went with the yuzu curd and shortbread. The yuzu had the consistency of soft cheese, and sat on a salty shortbread cracker. The pistachios were ground up into something resembling a granola, as well as a smooth green sauce. And dabbed about the plate were little white spoonfuls of spruce yogurt. Which tasted like spruce. In a good way.

And then we went home and watched Buffy. Because that is what we do, and crazy good food doesn't change you all that much.




*The three and a half year anniversary of us getting together. Not of us getting engaged, which is in April, or of us getting married, which I guess technically is August 2009 (though we did toast it in 2007. Cause we're weird). Lots of opportunities for celebration.

A Freaking Unicorn

There is a unicorn outside my office building.

And girls with hula hoops. And boys in short shorts on skateboards. And sailors. And a nurse.

They’re shooting a music video.*

A UNICORN. OUTSIDE MY OFFICE.

(Picture taken when my boss ordered me downstairs to "take a picture of that freaking unicorn.")




*Ben Lee, Love Me Like The World Is Ending. Who cares. There was a unicorn.

Town & Country

Hill Country, it’s called Hill Country. Must remember that.

After the Times’ review, Guy and I and some friends really wanted to go. Obviously. We are Barbecue Pals. And lo—good new barbecue review on the day before we all have dinner plans! Is fated!

Was crowded. Half Hour wait turned into Over Hour wait. Was a mite chaotic. Had bad bottled beer.

All of this surprised me not at all. We were there on The Day After a good review—not several weeks after or months after but One Day After. Of course there was a wait. And of course the restaurant underestimated the wait—they are only a month old and had no way to anticipate or prepare for last night’s rush. And the bad bottled beer was noted in the review.

But for whatever reason, others in our party were surprised: “This is not okay. When I go to a restaurant, I like to sit down and have food. Also, the beer selection really sucks. Miller? Seriously?”

Um, yeah. Get over yourself.

And while you’re at it, get real. This is New York. This is a new restaurant. Of course there’s wait, and we knew there would be one which is why we had a backup plan, remember? Don’t be such a fucking princess, man, you’re at a barbecue place. (Although I'm with you on the beer thing).

And back to the barbecue. It was GOOD. Not “what is this, it delights me with its complexity” but just plain good. As barbecue ought to be. We didn’t actually get the moist brisket as they gave the last of it TO THE WOMAN RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME NOT THAT I’M BITTER, but the sausage was greasy and great and the ribs were very juicy.

And I have to say, despite what Mr. Meehan may think, I thought the sides were pretty darn tasty. We tried the bourbon sweet potatoes and the green bean casserole and the mac & cheese and corn pudding, and while the corn pudding wasn’t quite as good as my mother’s, they were all yummy. It was suggested that they maybe got a guy to come in a beef up their sides after the review, which I think is unlikely, but hey, all’s I know is I was happy. And the green bean casserole had mushrooms which Guy doesn’t like so I had it all to myself. Much like how Guy had the banana pudding with Nilla wafers all to himself, but I’m told that was very good as well.

And then we held our stomachs gingerly and hobbled our way over to Webster Hall to see a bunch of Brits. Quite the culture shock, except not really because food aside, Hill Country bears very little resemblance to anything Texan (they didn’t even have Lone Star, for God’s sake), and Maximo Park are so over-the-top-ly British that they seem almost not-British. There were bowler hats. I thought they were fun. Guy decided that, even though this was a band that he likes, that he didn’t enjoy the show because they’re not a jam band and he really likes jam bands, so it was kind of boring.

Logic and taking into account things you knew ahead of time were not features of any part of the evening.

Dear Woman On The Train:

Is the press of people is making you feel, psychically speaking, as though your hair is being flattened? It is indeed quite crowded, so much so that I am pressed between you and Asian Gentleman, and Old Woman Who Almost Made Me Miss The Train. Given these conditions, do you think you could FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP TOSSING YOUR HAIR? The girlish hair flip is wasted in such close quarters. I am getting hair-flicked in the shoulder every ten seconds. I am not impressed.

Also? There is such a thing as Too Much Product. When the smell of your hair makes me dizzy, you have crossed the Too Much Product Line. When your hair looks wet with lard, you have crossed the Too Much Product Line. When my shirt is oily and smells like YOUR GODDAMN HAIR, you have crossed the Too Much Product Line.

Nauseously yours,

Cordelia

grrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrr

Dear Standpipe,

FUCK YOU! Is there any earthly reason to have so many freaking pipes sticking up out of the ground? I have never in my life seen a single one of you in use! Are you there merely to trip up unsuspecting women who are just trying to walk up Broadway without getting ashed on by Eurotrash? If so, well done! Mission Accomplished!

With skinned knees on the day I wore practical shoes,

Cordelia

PS No one even knows what you are!

grrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrr

Dear Mystery Stole 3,

You have caused me unnecessary aggravation, and I don’t even have the yarn yet.

You call for 1,200 yards of laceweight yarn, but then elsewhere you call for 780 yards of laceweight yarn. That’s a lot of unused yardage. You were supposed to be my Zen-like escape from working on Butterfly.* I needed this time to recover. But what do you do? YOU GO AND HAVE NO PATTERN ONLY CHARTS.* I do not like charts. I do not like them on a plane, I do not like them on a train that has stinky-haired women on it.

Two clues behind already,

Cordelia

*Perhaps more accurately: from fucking up Butterfly. Never knit lace from a chart using mohair while suffering from a migraine. Is a good way to fill up your wastebasket with unfroggable yarn.

*Nobody go and tell me I should have figured this out before signing up because HELLO? SECRET INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE TO THOSE WHO DIDN’T SIGN UP. And also nobody go and tell me I could just not knit it because I SIGNED UP ALREADY AND THE SIGNUP SHEET OR INTERNET PAGE OR WHAT HAVE YOU IS THE WORD OF GOD.

This is the One Ring

Last week I went to a party with a friend from work. Guy was home with the kids, but I was out on a rooftop. There was Corona, there was sunshine, there was a fantastic view—but there were only two people I knew: the woman throwing the party, and the woman I came with. I braced myself for some small talk with strangers.

The guy to girl ratio was seriously askew. It was like four to one—and they were Finance Guys. Duh duh duh. I knew what to expect—as the Coronas vanished, the conversation would shift from chit-chat to gentle flirting to genuine hitting on to guessing what color my panties were and what my cup size might be. Sigh. Nice view, free beer, I told myself. It’ll be okay—you’ve dealt with it before, you can deal with again.

Except no. They chatted. And kept their eyes above neck level. With me, that is. With the other three women, it was panties all the way.

And okay, terrific, I was just as happy to be free of slaver. But it wasn’t exactly doing a lot of good for my ego since every other girl was getting hit on. Did I smell? Did I suddenly sprout extreme facial hair? I did a quick check to make sure that yes, I did still have breasts. Legs, hair, hands….

Oh. Duh.

The ring. It repels them like Sauron at the beginning of Fellowship of the Ring. I sweep my arm, and hundreds of men go flying.

Neat.

Venue Whore

Guy: "Hey, is it cool if I go and play a gig in August?"

Cordelia: "Of course. When is it?"

Guy: "Oh, you don't have to go."

Cordelia: "Well, I may not. Is it the same Rolling Stones crazy cover band thing?"

Guy: "Um. Not really."

Cordelia: "Oh, you're playing something new? Well, then I definitely want to go! What is it?"

Guy: "We're playing Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "Wow! That's great. What are you playing?"

Guy: "I've never played Joe's Pub before."

Cordelia: "I know. What are you playing?"

Guy: "I've always wanted to play Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "Guy. What are you playing?"

Guy: "They're paying me..."

Cordelia: "Ahem."

Guy: "We're playing The Who."

Cordelia: "The Who??? The Who who we hate and their songs are dumb and boring and we hate them?"

Guy: "It's at Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "I don't think I'm going."




No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

Blue Hill

A few months ago, well into my second martini with no dinner, and while listening passionately to Joni Mitchell's Blue album, I suggested that Guy get one of his authors to do a book on the subject.

A $150,000 advance later, Guy took me out to dinner.



I was mighty excited. I'd never been to a restaurant like this before, with the fancy and the fresh and the famous and all. I got a manicure and pedicure in anticipation--not the smartest of ideas since it, um, snowed over the weekend, and every single manicure I've ever gotten has chipped within the first day. And I was starting my new job, so it's not like I could just sit and admire my pretty nails until dinnertime.

However! This is the best manicure I've ever had! Still no chips! Days later! Was a sign of things to come!

We were ushered through the libraryish main dining room to the back garden room--which I much preferred. It's smaller and more peaceful, and we had it to ourselves for the first half hour.

The tasting menu with the wine pairings included dishes that I would not normally have ordered--which was sort of the point. They started us off with shot glasses filled with celery root puree and beet and grapefruit juice, shortly followed by carrots on a fence (seriously. Little fresh off the farm carrots, complete with greens, on a tiny metal fence) and bread smothered with what may have been lard but in any case tasted like salty heaven. Accompanied by glasses of Prosecco. It was all delicate and lovely and slightly silly in its excess. Or maybe I'm just unused to that kind of thing.

The next course was my favorite. The wine arrived first, a Roero Arneis that at first we couldn't quite get a handle on. It was hard to nail down exactly what it tasted like--and my google search has just told me that Arneis means "difficult or stubborn," so now I feel like I might accidentally know what I'm talking about here. But when tried with the dish--very nearly raw White King Salmon, served on top of grapefruit slices with a paprika and shallot vinaigrette--everything tasted much stronger and all those mismatched ingredients suddenly made sense. It was neat.

The second wine was a Cabernet Franc, a blushy wine which was light but quite caramely toward the end there. It was served with a wild striped bass served with mushrooms! which Guy ate! and an almond and shellfish foam. These flavors all made much more sense to me to start with, and the scarily named honshimeji mushrooms were delicious.

The third course wasn't served for a very long time, because the highly professional waitstaff don't interrupt people in the middle of intense conversations.* In any case, it was my least favorite. The wine was a smooth, heavy red and it accompanied the milk fed poulard and ginger noodles. Guy tried to convince me that combining Italian and Chinese made sense, much like those restaurants that serve Chinese and Mexican takeout make sense, because Marco Polo was Italian or possibly Portuguese and he sailed to China and brought back spices. Uh-huh. We were, after all, on our fourth glass of wine at this point.

The blood orange sorbet with milk jam (a "dessert amuse" served in a port glass) was heavenly.

As was the steamed cheesecake, served in jars like this. Possibly my favorite detail of the meal.

When we got up to leave--not sober, but not stumbling either--I noticed something rather unfortunate. All the food I'd eaten had somehow managed to drop not into my stomach, but into my feet which seemed to have swelled and were now much, much too small for my new Geoxs. So, in fact, I did stumble home.




*We got engaged. Tiny, insignificant little detail.

Springtime = Sephora

My mother calls me a bear in the morning (or words to that effect) but really I'm just a bear in the winter. I hibernate. I wear sweaters and sneakers to work, and even on the weekends I don't really break out much into fun clothes because I know I'll just be cold so I wear baggy pants and t-shirts and sweatshirts.

With yesterday's jump in temperature, I felt like someone had given me my personality back. I wore a beautiful dress, and heels and it's getting humid again so I wore my hair wavy and bouncy instead of flat. And everybody stared. Which was somewhat disconcerting.

Guy: "You should go look at yourself in the mirror." (Translation: "You'll be happy to see yourself again.")

My boss: "That dress is really flattering on you." (Translation: "You have breasts! And a waist! Who knew!")

Construction Worker Guys: "Hey baby!" "Hooooot!" (Translation: "I'm bored and construction work is hard.")

Suffice it to say, I felt so good about myself--and it's been quite a long time--that I resolved to spend more time caring for my appearance. I will wash my face at night. I will shave my legs. I will wear the face mask I bought from Lush. I will wear all the cute shoes I own but never wear because sneakers are so much more comfortable (I may resort to the time-honored practice of carrying the cute shoes in a bag).

Walking home, I passed a woman who'd had a similar epiphany that morning--cute dress, great shoes. I was admiring her shoes quite intently, and then got embarrassed about staring, and so looked up at her face to give an apologetic look. She was staring at my shoes. Hooray!

Hey, happiness is happiness, and if it comes in the form of looking good, then that just makes it all the more attainable. I went home and put on a foot mask and painted my nails.

And yet none of them appear in nature

I temp on 5th Avenue, so walking to work every morning, I pass by a wide selection of stores--everything from The Gap to BCBG Max Azria. And oddly, the clothes vary less than the mannequins used to display them. Very skinny, not so skinny, large breasts, no breasts. None have faces though. Andrew McCarthy must be so sad.

Express:
Very Skinny
No Breasts
Standout Detail: The mannequins stand with their hands on their plastic hipbones (not to say hips, because they have none), and stick out their pelvises, as if they are trying to move gas created by eating too many leafy veggies and no carbs.

American Apparel:
Skinny
Midsize Breasts
Very Tall
Standout Detail: These women are ripped. They must go work out and lift weights at the mannequin gym because Damn those are some impressive biceps. I saw one of them getting changed, and she had kickass abs. Which is bizarre, considering that abs really don't show under clothes, but anyway it just proves that American Apparel is no longer the place to shop for that just-got-laid look, but is instead stuck in Flashdance Land.

Club Monaco
Skinny
Small Breasts
Standout Detail: Well, apart from the aforementioned comes-with-cameltoe factor, these things just scare me. Club Monaco decks out each of their mannequins in the same outfit--and by the same I mean the exact same. If there's a scarf, they all have it tied the same way. If there's a skirt, the same pleat is lined up over the same knee. And then they line them all up like an army of badly-dressed zombies come to take over the world with cardigans and cropped pants.

Bebe
Thin but not skinny
Large breasts
Standout detail: Hips! These are by far my favorite. I would mighty pleased with myself if I had a body like that. Hourglass, with a corset ribcage and tiny waist, and nicely rounded hips. And as for the breasts--those girls are perky. Not in a rest-your-teacup-on-them kind of way, but in a so-that's-why-they-call-it-a-rack kind of way.

Company

Monday
Cordelia: If it's at all possible, I'd like to see Company. It got a great review in the Times, and I've heard Raul Esparza's amazing in it, and I've never seen it, so you know, if we can, I'd like to go.

Tuesday
Guy: I got tickets for Thursday night, 7th row center.
Cordelia: Are you HIGH? I mean, YAY, but hello? Poverty?
Guy: Merry Christmas!
Cordelia: [hyperventilates]

Wednesday
Cordelia: I think you'll actually like this one, you know.
Guy: I'm excited for you being excited for it.
Cordelia: Yeah, but I think you'll really like this one. You haven't seen any Sondheim--he's not like other musicals. Very complex vocals--and this is a very adult play. No ho-downs.
Guy: Sounds good.
Cordelia: I'm excited.

Thursday
Cordelia: I think you'll really like this one.
(Later)
Guy: Wow. My head is exploding--they're playing instruments and singing. And dancing. And acting. All at the same time. And they're really good. That's got to limit your casting choices.
Cordelia: Well, you'll note that the vocal powerhouses aren't playing the tuba or anything--they're playing the triangle. Raul Esparza's really good.
Guy: No foolin'.
Cordelia: The Ladies Who Lunch made me incredibly tense. I always thought that song was fun. It's not fun, it's terrifying and tragic.
Guy: I liked Getting Married Today. That was fun.
Cordelia: Being Alive ruled.
Guy: We should go to the theater only twice a year and get really good seats like that from now on.
Cordelia: As it is we only go to the theater once or twice a year. So you're just saying you want better seats.
Guy: Um, yeah.

Friday
Guy: I would get tickets for Alla Beginagain.
Cordelia: Huh?
Guy: If someone gave us tickets I would go see it again.
Cordelia: Bobby, Bobby, Bobby Baby, Bobby Baby...Nothing to do with, all to do with...when they get depressed, it's a bottle of scotch, plus a little jest...somebody make me come through I'll always be there, frightened as you...Bobby Bobby Bobby Bobby

Helmets & Chins

I saw two odd things walking to work this morning.

One, I have seen every day for sometime. There's this mother who walks away from Broadway every morning as I walk towards it. She has a son, who is probably about a year and a half. He wears a helmet. Every day. It's an odd helmet--it's white, and has holes, so that it really only covers the top of the right eyebrow and the upper back of the neck. I assumed that the baby had some kind of head-shape abnormality, and the helmet was corrective (my kid sister was forced to wear casts on her feet when she was baby. She would kick them off in her sleep. They were entirely pointless).

However, today for the first time I noticed that this stroller was one of those double strollers, and that there was another baby underneath! A six-month-old girl! And guess what? She too had a helmet! Now, my limited research did not suggest that this flat-head tendency was so genetically strong that it would appear in siblings--in fact, it seems to be caused by being squashed in the uterus. Do you suppose this mother is just really scared of Broadway?

My next intriguing sight is actually somewhat similar--if some babies have oddly shaped heads, I think we can all agree that some adults have oddly shaped chins. Or, more specifically, no chins at all. I shared an elevator this morning with a chinless man.

This fellow was in the process of growing a beard. Now, we all know what a difference a beard can make--Sean Connery with beard and Sean Connery without are two entirely different people. So it is indeed possible that a long enough beard will compensate for any lack of chin, and in fact make it appear as though a chin were indeed present. But this guy had a long way to go. At the moment it was chinless stubble, so stubble on neck and cheeks, and just made things worse.

I do recognize that as there are no chin-growth-promoting helmets available, people without chins have to do the best they can on their own. I wish this man the best of success.

AMERICAN Dollars??

So the Sis wants to do all the things people who visit New York want to do (and therefore all the things people who live in New York go out of their way to avoid). She requested a trip up to the top of the Empire State Building. I went online to check out ticket prices, and sweet baby Jesus in a basket, to coin a phrase--thirty freaking dollars!

And, to add insult to injury, they break it up--it's only $14 to get into the building, but if you want to go to the top (and frankly, why else would you be in the building, unless you worked there?) it's another $16. Sneaky, huh?

Bastards. MoMA's only $18, for crying out loud. I couldn't quite bring myself to pay that much money to get vertigo.

So, instead, we went to Times Square. Sigh.

No News About Hawaii

Blah blah blah, we went to the beach, blah blah, it was beautiful, blah blah. New York stories are much more narrative.

Yesterday, Guy, my sister, and I went to Coney Island. No, we didn't ride the Cyclone, because I've already taken my life into my hands on that thing once already and that was plenty, thank you. But beyond that, we did our best to have the true Coney Island experience. We paid money for rides we didn't want to go on, smiled pleasantly at surly rides-workers, got wacky pictures taken in probably skanky photobooths, walked down the cigarette and eggshell-strewn beach, and admired the cheerfully wasted drug addicts dancing to bad karaoke.

Actually, I love Coney Island. I love how unabashedly seedy it is--it's exactly like Zoltar from Big. Creepy, powerful, and wonderfully dated. There are skeletons wearing denim jackets from the eighties--and you KNOW they've never changed those jackets since they were in style. There are scary ride facades where a demon has his tongue sticking out, and the tongue is the partially decomposed body of someone he must have eaten. There are test-your-strength games, where for a quarter you can squeeze together steel bull's horns and discover how Cowboy you are. And best of all, there is The Coney Island Freak Show.

There's a man in stripey pants shouting Come one, come all! with actual gusto, which is quite refreshing after the finger you were given by the guy in the arcade when you won the teddy bear. They serve bottles of Brooklyn Lager for only five bucks, and the show goes round and round without intermission, so if you miss anything you can just stick around. We sat in the very front row--possibly a mistake, as there was some unwelcome audience participation, but at least it gave an easy escape route (I had to leave for Elektra's snake dance with the giant white python. The folks in front were very nice about it--I get the feeling people skip out on that one often enough). It was just ironic enough to be almost earnest--they were joking around, but they were honestly trying to entertain, and to keep up a tradition that has nearly died out. Swords were swallowed, fire was swallowed, snakes were swallowed (so I hear), nails were pounded into noses, bowling balls were hung from ears, and we laughed while our stomachs turned. It was perfect.

Oy

I just saw a dog with foot-long dreads.

Heat Stroke

Apparently, we're to have a high of 102 degrees today. Walking to work this morning, I was reminded of a Gilmore Girl's episode, where Lorelai is explaining to Luke that she's had a boyfriend for the past few months, and Luke says "I kinda figured. You know, you never dressed weather-appropriate."

By this he meant that she was always wearing low-cut dresses and high heels and very little in the way of a coat. The better to show off her perky nipples, I suppose.

Everyone in Manhattan seems to be suffering from the same dress-to-impress illness, only it has taken an odd turn. They're all wearing wool.

Perhaps all their significant others are Norwegian or Finlandian, and they're dressing to make them feel more at home. Or perhaps said arm-attachments are highly attracted to the pheromones produced by excessive sweating.

Well, honestly--how else do you explain hipsters wearing wool sport jackets? In one hundred degrees? You know, I've been told that vintage short sleeve shirts are quite dashing as well, and certainly more practical.

And ladies: long sleeve polyester is really never the way to go, but in this heat you may actually spontaneously combust, so maybe you should reconsider. This is not the day for tweed, either.

Cotton and linen are our friends. Embrace them.

A Non-Kitten-Related Post: How To Spot a Model

I'm sure we all have our methods. . .I could spot retired models in midtown, on the arms of well-dressed older men. They were classic models--tall, shiny-haired, spike-heeled, and vacant expressioned.

Down here, it's a little more challenging. . .the vacant expression remains, but then this is Soho. Vacant expressions are as ubiquitous an accessory as metallic shoes or a large handbag. It's just not enough to go on.

Luckily, every morning, I share an elevator with The Marc Jacobs Girls. There's a Marc Jacobs something in my building--it's not a store, I don't think it's a design studio, it's just. . .a place where The Marc Jacobs Girls go. In any case, its presence gives me ample opportunity to observe and record the Soho model. This morning, for example, one of them stood outside the elevator, but chose not to get in because it was too crowded.

Ahah, you ask. How do you know she was a Marc Jacobs Girl if you don't even know what floor she would get off on?

Because she fit the checklist, my friend.

1. Is she wearing something that clashes in a completely inappropriate way, i.e. a brocade dress with an old sweatshirt tied around the shoulders? Check.
2. Does she slouch? Check.
3. Does she have an iPod, large dark glasses, and a phone in the middle of sending a text message? Check.
4, and most important. Is her hair carefully coiffed in a messy and bizarre fashion, i.e. a frizzy side of the head ponytail? Check.

I'm sure this checklist will be modified and extended with further study.

What I think about when my iPod is out of juice

What to do if you think you're being followed:

1. DON'T turn around and check. That will only encourage them, and chances are you wouldn't see anyone anyway and then you'd be walking along feeling all safe when you really are being followed.
2. If it's a really hot day, drink often from an ice cold bottle of water. Chances are they don't have one and it'll make them crazy with jealousy. Conversely, if it's a really rainy day, walk slowly and splash in the puddles with your cute rubber boots, while knowing all along that they don't have cute rubber boots and so are wet and miserable.
3. Meander. You don't want them to actually follow you home, so just wander around town, darting quickly in and out of stores so that they keep having to duck behind a pole or something to avoid being seen.
4. In case they have one of those eavesdropping things that allows them to listen to whatever you're listening to*, skip over all the songs that come up that you like, and sing tunelessly along with whatever you would normally skip over. This will confuse them.
5. If you do need to get home at some point, go ahead and get on the train, but stare balefully at anyone who makes eye contact with you. This will shame and/or scare whoever is following you, or whoever was thinking about maybe following you.


*may not actually exist

Shocking

I apologize for yesterday's post. Not for the vitriol, as that was entirely warranted, but for the lack of judgment I showed in taking you through the entire film. I thought I was above all that misery loves company stuff.

On to more amusing things. Before going to see Pirates, I went and got my nails done. It was our big night out, after all. I wandered around Chinatown, not seeing anything, until finally, tucked away in the shadow of City Hall, was a nail salon offering a manicure for only $7! Score!

I ducked in. It was empty, just a mid-twenties woman and an early-fifties man. I chose my color, and sat down. At first we sat there quietly, discussing only whether I wanted my nails filed square or round. She kept looking at me weirdly, and I sighed to myself--I should've worn my iPod, but it's too late now.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Hawaii," I said.

"Where?"

"Hawaii," I repeated.

"Where's that?" And now I stared at her. This was the first time in my life a person had never heard of Hawaii.

"It's. . .it's an island," I said.

"Oh. How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-five," I said. Yeah, I rounded up by a month.

She looked shocked. "So old?? I thought you were nineteen."

"I know, people think my little sister is older than me."

"Your what?" (I'd like to make clear that she spoke English perfectly).

"My sister. People think she's older." I was regretting having given a more-than-one-word answer.

"Are you religious?"

And now we're past normal idle-manicure-chit-chat. And I made a choice--I could be annoyed, or I could sit back and marvel at the weirdness of this conversation.

"No, I'm not."

She looked more shocked than ever before. "Not at all?!"

I shook my head, smiling.

"Oh. I ask because, you look like you're from Israel."

"No, that's one of the few nationalities I'm not."

"What?"

"Never mind. No, I'm not from Israel. Are you from Israel?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years."

"Do you like it?"

"No, I want to go back. It's all work here. Are you married?"

"No, I'm not."

"Good. Don't get married. It's horrible to be married. I hate being married." I'm now realizing that older guy must be her husband, and I hope he's stepped outside for a bit.

"Do you live around here?"

"In Jersey City. New Jersey."

"New Jersey??" She's shocked.

"What do you do?"

"I work in publishing." She looks at me blankly. "With books?"

"Books?" She looks shocked again.

"Yeah."

We actually sit in silence for a bit, until she asks "Are you sure you don't want a design on your nails?"

"No, thanks."

"It's free. . ." She sounds so bored, and hey, free is free, and I've never had a design before, so I go ahead with it. According to Girl, the designs on my ring finger look like fringed number sevens.

She leaves while my nails are drying, and her husband returns.

"Did you like. . .what she did to you?"

"Um, yes. Thank you."

"Do you work around here?"

"No, I work up in Soho."

"Where?"

"It's above Chinatown?"

"Chinatown?" He looks shocked.

Never mind.

"What are you doing now?"

"Well, I'm going to go to the movies."

"Where, in Chinatown?"

"No, there's a movie theater down by the Trade Center." Which is, let it be stated, three blocks away.

"Oh yes, the World Trade Center. There are no buildings there."

"Um, no. No there aren't." And I skedaddled.

Song:
Coming Up For Air, Patty Larkin

Quote:

Mal: "I hate to bring up our imminent arrest during your crazy time, but we gotta move."

(Firefly)

Cooler Than Thou

A while back, I said to stay tuned for glamourousness, but that I was waiting for Daily Celeb to catch up with me. Granted, glamourousness that I'd attend wouldn't have people like Johnny Depp (sorry Elizabeth, still no Johnny sightings, but yes I'll give him your number if I ever do see him. Or the number you'll have when you're of age), but Daily Celeb will cover any event anywhere--World Cup Semi-Finals cocktail hour, for God's sake!

The point is, I realize that it could be argued that the glamourosity I'm about to relate is not that glamourous, which is why Daily Celeb and Gawker and suchlike could give a crap about my wee event. But I choose to think differently. I choose to think they've missed out on a juicy sighting, and everyone in the world has to rely on me to relate the real celebrity stories.

I was a plus-one at the premiere of Strangers With Candy. I went with a producer (or rather, I went with Guy, but he was pretending to be this producer friend of his, who had to be out of town).

It must be stated that Strangers With Candy is not my kind of thing. Grotesque, makes-you-uncomfortable humor usually just makes me uncomfortable and nauseous, rather than filled with mirth. I'm nutty that way. But a red carpet is a red carpet, even if I'm only walking next to it rather than on it. That's right folks, not everyone gets to walk the red carpet. There are bouncer types who I guess must be avid readers of Us Weekly, and it's their job to direct the unfamous to the other beige carpet.

Anyway, the movie--not my favorite. I laughed sometimes (though hardly ever at Amy Sedaris, who just made me grit my teeth). Stephen Colbert rocks. And that's about all I have to say. If you like the show, I'm sure you'll also like the movie. Plus Stephen Colbert rocks.

As we were coming out of the theater and debating going to the after party at Dylan's Candy Store, we had to edge around the crowds a little. I nimbly avoided getting elbowed in the boob by a woman in a very cute cherry-covered sundress.

I turned around to see who had such cute taste, and lo and behold, it was Amy Sedaris.

So obviously she was there. As was Paul Dinello, Greg Hollimon (hard to miss him, though Guy managed to every single time we crossed his path), and Deborah Rush. Stephen Colbert, sadly, was not there, but that's probably okay, as I have a steadfast rule to never talk to famous people, and in his case I'd be tempted to break it.

This policy comes from a traumatic experience in my childhood. I adored Emma Thompson. I loved her elegance, her sensitivity, her sublety, everything. And then one evening I came across an interview in Vanity Fair. Guess what? She's a vulgar bitch. I know, what's the big deal, but I was young and I worshipped her and I felt betrayed.

So now I do my best to know as little as possible about famous people that I like. The persona they present is more than enough--I read no entertainment magazines, and I close my ears to gossip.

Therefore, no Stephen Colbert=not a bad thing.

AND, best of all, they were giving out free candy. They handed out bags to everyone as we entered, and gluttony ensued.

Better still, Boy and Girl's dentist has just informed us that they are no longer allowed to have candy. So those bags are mine. All mine.

I had been concerned about the proper attire for this affair. In the end, I went with casual. A poofy springy skirt, a simple white top, and flats.

Let me tell you, that was the right choice. It was practically the uniform. Every female there was wearing basically the same thing.

Song:
Dress, PJ Harvey

Quote:

Kaylee: (pointing to a pink frilly dress) "Say, look at the fluffy one!"

Zoe: "Too much foofaraw. If I'm going to wear a dress, I'd want something with some slink."

Wash: "You want a slinky dress? I can buy you a slinky dress. Captain, can I have money for a slinky dress?"

Jayne: "I'll chip in."

Zoe: (to Jayne) "I can hurt you."