I had to go through great depths to resurface my blog this morning. My old domain expired and made this blogspot virtually inaccessible, which I've admittedly tried to do on my own at various times since 2013. The last time was in 2015 after I went on a date with a guy who admitted to looking me up on the internet and reading my blog. He said it reminded of David Foster Wallace's writing, which leads me to believe he found someone else's blog because the only thing DFW and I have in common is an affinity for bandanas. I was embarrassed so I hid my blog from curious onlookers. This thing is so personal! I write in the type of uninhibited voice I reserve for the close confidantes of my life. I'm a generally reserved and introverted person, and when I remember that I willingly put bits of myself on the internet here and on other mediums (like porn!!), I freak the fuck out.
The truth is though, I love this blog. It got me through my lost years and it's an outlet to do something that I wake up and crave every g-damn day: writing. Stringing words together -- and telling other people how to string words together -- is how I make money and pay for the great things in life like mental health care and designer jeans. That said, it's work! Hard, grueling work that's subject to rejection and scrutiny. It doesn't need to be though. It can be fun! And blogging for no rhyme or reason is fun.
This blog is a hodge-podge of things that aren't represented in the sidebar. I no longer blog about travel because who am I kidding, I'm a homebody, and I no longer post outfit collages because I forgot how to make them. I worked really fucking hard one Sunday night in 2013 to get all the icons on the right working with my basic HTML skills, and I'll be hanged if I have to delete them.
I'm going to blog more in 2017. I swear. I'm going to blog about something I really love and what this corner was originally about: clothes. I have loved clothes presumably since I came out of the womb. I used to think the point of playing with American Girl dolls was to change them into different outfits, and I almost peed my pants in excitement the day my mom took me to a store that only sold DOLL CLOTHES. That's not true, they also sold DOLL ACCESSORIES, and I got Molly an extra pair of glasses. Clothes are frivolous but my love of them is a constant, and where else can I write about them if not here?
Vogue. I can write about them on Vogue but Conde Nast never responds to my emails or LinkedIn requests.
TATA FOR NOW.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
2004!!!!
You know what I love and miss? 2004.
I've always believed 2004 to be the best year to date, and a co-worker confirmed it while I was mildly eavesdropping on her today when she said, "2004 was a great year." Damn right it was. She was talking about it in relation to ramen (lol I work in #food), probably after she Googled this article, and honestly I wasn't really in tune with the dining scene in 2004 outside of begging my sisters to drive me to our local sub shop (Hershey's what up) for one of many sandwiches named after Caribbean islands (all about that Trinidad), but yeah, I'm sure 2004 was a great time for dining if your allowance amounted to more than $14 a week.
Here's why 2004 was so great:
- The OC seasons one and two happened in 2004. Everybody knows seasons three and four blew.
- The WB was alive and rocking: Gilmore Girls, ONE TREE HILL!!, even 7th Heaven was on, which I watched every Monday night out of habit.
- The Friends series finale. THE LEFT PHALANGE!! DID SHE GET OFF THE PLANE!! (I GOT OFF THE PLANE!!)
- Also Will & Grace. I loved Will & Grace.
- I became a woman in 2004.
- I peaked fashion-wise when my Language Arts teacher told me I was the most fashionable girl in 8th grade because I layered a swim team t-shirt over a collared shirt (popped collar, obvi).
- This was also the year I wore three popped collars at once.
- There was a lot of Usher in 2004.
- I read Of Mice and Men in 2004.
- I also read the Outsiders in 2004.
- I fell in love in 2004. HE DIDN'T LOVE ME BACK!!
- Mean Girls and The Notebook came out in 2004.
- So did Napoleon Dynamite but that was a movie that I never found funny, like Borat. Did Borat come out in 2004? (No, 2006).
- I seem to recall this was the year Hillary Swank wore a navy dress to the Oscars and then wore it to In-N-Out to eat a cheeseburger with her Oscar. Maybe that was 2005.
- I remember having a snow day the day after the Oscars.
- 13 Going on 30 introduced me to the music of Pat Benatar
MORE TO COME. MAYBE.
I've always believed 2004 to be the best year to date, and a co-worker confirmed it while I was mildly eavesdropping on her today when she said, "2004 was a great year." Damn right it was. She was talking about it in relation to ramen (lol I work in #food), probably after she Googled this article, and honestly I wasn't really in tune with the dining scene in 2004 outside of begging my sisters to drive me to our local sub shop (Hershey's what up) for one of many sandwiches named after Caribbean islands (all about that Trinidad), but yeah, I'm sure 2004 was a great time for dining if your allowance amounted to more than $14 a week.
Here's why 2004 was so great:
- The OC seasons one and two happened in 2004. Everybody knows seasons three and four blew.
- The WB was alive and rocking: Gilmore Girls, ONE TREE HILL!!, even 7th Heaven was on, which I watched every Monday night out of habit.
- The Friends series finale. THE LEFT PHALANGE!! DID SHE GET OFF THE PLANE!! (I GOT OFF THE PLANE!!)
- Also Will & Grace. I loved Will & Grace.
- I became a woman in 2004.
- I peaked fashion-wise when my Language Arts teacher told me I was the most fashionable girl in 8th grade because I layered a swim team t-shirt over a collared shirt (popped collar, obvi).
- This was also the year I wore three popped collars at once.
- There was a lot of Usher in 2004.
- I read Of Mice and Men in 2004.
- I also read the Outsiders in 2004.
- I fell in love in 2004. HE DIDN'T LOVE ME BACK!!
- Mean Girls and The Notebook came out in 2004.
- So did Napoleon Dynamite but that was a movie that I never found funny, like Borat. Did Borat come out in 2004? (No, 2006).
- I seem to recall this was the year Hillary Swank wore a navy dress to the Oscars and then wore it to In-N-Out to eat a cheeseburger with her Oscar. Maybe that was 2005.
- I remember having a snow day the day after the Oscars.
- 13 Going on 30 introduced me to the music of Pat Benatar
MORE TO COME. MAYBE.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
25 Moments of Getting Fired
Something about me is that I got fired from my job this summer. I say "fired" to be dramatic but I actually got "laid off," which I've since learned is entirely different from being fired because when you're fired it's because of something you did, but when you're laid off, it's because the company can't afford to pay you anymore. I think. Well that's what happened to me. I think getting laid off builds character, like breaking a bone or failing a math test even though you studied really hard (the latter is the story of my college career. I have a lot of character!).
I remember every single minute of the day I got fired. This is what happened. Everything is accurate and fact-checked.
1. I wake up in the morning and go on an extra long run (7 miles!) because I hate my boss and I think that running will release endorphins and make me hate my boss less. It doesn't!
2. I make a smoothie. The strawberries are too frozen and they get stuck in the blender's blade and so I put a wooden spoon in the blender to get the strawberries out, but then I accidentally press the "liquify" option and the wooden spoon explodes in my smoothie. My smoothie is a giant splinter. Bad day, and I haven't even been fired yet!
3. I sit in Liquiteria and eat an expensive acai bowl and think about how much my boss sucks.
4. I go to work and don't talk to anybody. I go on Gchat and tell anyone who is green about my blender mishap.
5. I get called into the shitty conference room.
6. I get fired.
7. I walk out of the shitty conference room and I cry and I make a mental note to remember the date (August 5, a great day to be fired!) and then I call my dad and then I call my mom and then I call my sister and then I text my friends.
8. I walk into a bodega and buy a Diet Coke and I chug it.
9. I stand on the corner and I burp.
10. I go back into the bodega and buy a Diet Sunkist.
11. I stand on the corner and I burp.
12. I walk around the block listening to "Dancing on My Own."
13. I think about how I get to be "on the dole" like in the British chick lit books I read. (Mr. Maybe).
14. I go back to work and Google "how to move to France." No promising results.
15. I leave work because I've been fired and what was I even doing Googling random shit at my desk.
16. I sit on the steps of Union Square and watch the Hare Krishna but I can't hear their chanting because I'm blocking out the world with "Dancing on My Own."
17. I go eat free samples at Whole Foods.
18. I go eat free samples at Agata & Valentina.
19. I go buy gum at Duane Reade and run into my mom's friend who asks me "what I'm doing with my life." Idk, my bff Jill? but instead I say "I live in the East Village!!!!" with a lot of enthusiasm.
20. I go to my sister's apartment and write this blog post.
21. My sister takes me out to dinner and pays for me because my income is TBD.
22. I go back to my apartment and binge eat the only thing I have on my shelf (granola) and then I Google "how to move to France" again. Nothing good comes up except farming and teaching. Nah.
23. I go to bed.
24. I wake up to pee and remember I got fired. Yikes!
25. I wake up for real and go on an extra long run (7 miles!) because I have nowhere to be and I hate my boss ten times more than I did yesterday and I think that endorphins will make him bother me less but they don't because he sucks!!!
I remember every single minute of the day I got fired. This is what happened. Everything is accurate and fact-checked.
1. I wake up in the morning and go on an extra long run (7 miles!) because I hate my boss and I think that running will release endorphins and make me hate my boss less. It doesn't!
2. I make a smoothie. The strawberries are too frozen and they get stuck in the blender's blade and so I put a wooden spoon in the blender to get the strawberries out, but then I accidentally press the "liquify" option and the wooden spoon explodes in my smoothie. My smoothie is a giant splinter. Bad day, and I haven't even been fired yet!
3. I sit in Liquiteria and eat an expensive acai bowl and think about how much my boss sucks.
4. I go to work and don't talk to anybody. I go on Gchat and tell anyone who is green about my blender mishap.
5. I get called into the shitty conference room.
6. I get fired.
7. I walk out of the shitty conference room and I cry and I make a mental note to remember the date (August 5, a great day to be fired!) and then I call my dad and then I call my mom and then I call my sister and then I text my friends.
8. I walk into a bodega and buy a Diet Coke and I chug it.
9. I stand on the corner and I burp.
10. I go back into the bodega and buy a Diet Sunkist.
11. I stand on the corner and I burp.
12. I walk around the block listening to "Dancing on My Own."
13. I think about how I get to be "on the dole" like in the British chick lit books I read. (Mr. Maybe).
14. I go back to work and Google "how to move to France." No promising results.
15. I leave work because I've been fired and what was I even doing Googling random shit at my desk.
16. I sit on the steps of Union Square and watch the Hare Krishna but I can't hear their chanting because I'm blocking out the world with "Dancing on My Own."
17. I go eat free samples at Whole Foods.
18. I go eat free samples at Agata & Valentina.
19. I go buy gum at Duane Reade and run into my mom's friend who asks me "what I'm doing with my life." Idk, my bff Jill? but instead I say "I live in the East Village!!!!" with a lot of enthusiasm.
20. I go to my sister's apartment and write this blog post.
21. My sister takes me out to dinner and pays for me because my income is TBD.
22. I go back to my apartment and binge eat the only thing I have on my shelf (granola) and then I Google "how to move to France" again. Nothing good comes up except farming and teaching. Nah.
23. I go to bed.
24. I wake up to pee and remember I got fired. Yikes!
25. I wake up for real and go on an extra long run (7 miles!) because I have nowhere to be and I hate my boss ten times more than I did yesterday and I think that endorphins will make him bother me less but they don't because he sucks!!!
Saturday, January 2, 2016
A Year of Clear Skin
I was in the shower today, my third shower of the day (aside from the usual hygienic reasons, I take showers when I'm stressed out or when I'm hungover, and today I happened to be both so I took three) and I saw a pimple on my chest. A couple of weeks ago I saw a pimple on my chin. This made me angry because I am not supposed to have pimples. It's been less than a year since I took my final three pills of Accutane, and I'm supposed to have, if not a lifetime at least a few more years of supermodel clear skin until pimples clog my pores again.
My two pimples reminded me of one of my favorite things about 2015: I got rid of my acne. It's hard to know the plight of being a pizza face unless you really have acne. The cystic acne that's painful to touch and bleeds if you wash your face too hard, that's bacteria-infested so even washing your face makes it worse. You go on birth control because it "clears up your skin" but it does shit except give you more pimples. You max out tetracycline refills and apply various topical creams morning and night, some of which need to be refrigerated and others of which make your face peel. You stop eating dairy because it's bad for your skin, then reintroduce yogurt because it has probiotics and apparently putting good bacteria in your stomach kills the bad bacteria on your face. To treat acne is to find out that all of the beauty myths out there mean jack shit because the only thing that truly works are drugs that require you to get a blood test every month and that dry your body out in places you didn't even know could get dry.
Your acne has to make you feel really ugly before you decide you need Accutane. I've never felt as ugly as I did in August of 2014. My skin was a war zone of pimples. I had breakouts on my forehead, around my chin and along my hairline. My face was shiny and if the pimples weren't black or blue, they were bleeding and scabbing. I stopped wearing makeup because it seemed to only make the situation worse and the first thing I did when I came home every day from work was wash my face. I discovered that toilet seat covers are really great oil blotters, and whenever I went to the bathroom at work, I'd leave with a folded-up toilet seat cover to dab my face with while sitting at my desk. I was embarrassed to go out with my friends because I didn't want people to see my face, and I spent inordinate amounts of money on mascara and eye makeup. My face was producing so much oil I was basically an Arab emirate.
It took about two weeks on Accutane for my acne to start clearing up. Two months later, it was 75% gone, and six months later it had completely gone away. I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror and petting my cheeks. Was this for real? I had never felt so pretty! People told me my skin was glowing. I didn't wear make up because I didn't need it. I had a clear complexion and I didn't want to cover it up.
I still have a clear complexion, even if my skin doesn't glow like it did my first full month off Accutane. My pimples now are mostly reminders that I'm stressed out and hormonal. They're the fair weather ones that go away and never come back.
That's all. Bye.
My two pimples reminded me of one of my favorite things about 2015: I got rid of my acne. It's hard to know the plight of being a pizza face unless you really have acne. The cystic acne that's painful to touch and bleeds if you wash your face too hard, that's bacteria-infested so even washing your face makes it worse. You go on birth control because it "clears up your skin" but it does shit except give you more pimples. You max out tetracycline refills and apply various topical creams morning and night, some of which need to be refrigerated and others of which make your face peel. You stop eating dairy because it's bad for your skin, then reintroduce yogurt because it has probiotics and apparently putting good bacteria in your stomach kills the bad bacteria on your face. To treat acne is to find out that all of the beauty myths out there mean jack shit because the only thing that truly works are drugs that require you to get a blood test every month and that dry your body out in places you didn't even know could get dry.
Your acne has to make you feel really ugly before you decide you need Accutane. I've never felt as ugly as I did in August of 2014. My skin was a war zone of pimples. I had breakouts on my forehead, around my chin and along my hairline. My face was shiny and if the pimples weren't black or blue, they were bleeding and scabbing. I stopped wearing makeup because it seemed to only make the situation worse and the first thing I did when I came home every day from work was wash my face. I discovered that toilet seat covers are really great oil blotters, and whenever I went to the bathroom at work, I'd leave with a folded-up toilet seat cover to dab my face with while sitting at my desk. I was embarrassed to go out with my friends because I didn't want people to see my face, and I spent inordinate amounts of money on mascara and eye makeup. My face was producing so much oil I was basically an Arab emirate.
It took about two weeks on Accutane for my acne to start clearing up. Two months later, it was 75% gone, and six months later it had completely gone away. I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror and petting my cheeks. Was this for real? I had never felt so pretty! People told me my skin was glowing. I didn't wear make up because I didn't need it. I had a clear complexion and I didn't want to cover it up.
I still have a clear complexion, even if my skin doesn't glow like it did my first full month off Accutane. My pimples now are mostly reminders that I'm stressed out and hormonal. They're the fair weather ones that go away and never come back.
That's all. Bye.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
The Best Movies I've Seen Alone
I really like seeing movies by myself because I like movies and I like being by myself. It's second to shopping by myself which is a near euphoric experience for me, especially when I'm wearing headphones that are playing Taylor Swift. Here are the best movies I've seen by myself.
1. The Descendants: I saw this movie about two hours after I broke my elbow while running in a park in Paris during my junior year abroad there. It was during my exchange program's spring break and I had stayed in Paris to run a half-marathon, but the day before, I tripped. I wasn't sure what to do about it so I tied my elbow in a scarf and went to see the Descendants to pass the time. Then I went home and cried and watched Sex and the City, and the next day I couldn't move my arm so I got a bag of pain au chocolates and went to a medical clinic and cried there until a hot doctor told me I broke my "coude." I'll always love George Clooney in a Hawaiian shirt for making me feel less depressed for two hours.
2. Inside Llewyn Davis: I saw this movie the year that I lived at home after college. I woke up on a Sunday morning hungover and I needed to get away from my parents/my existence, and I couldn't think of anywhere to go but a movie theater. Justin Timberlake is a little ray of sunshine but Carey Mulligan kind of bothers me because she's like the actor equivalent of that girl who never talks badly about anyone. Like, show us a little judgment/weakness, we're tired of that halfsies pixie cut.
3. The Big Short: I saw this the other day when it was raining and I went to stand inside the Regal Union Square movie theater to wait it out, but it didn't stop and I had nowhere to be so I got a $7 Diet Coke and a $15 movie ticket and took over three seats with my stuff. I kept on zoning out because I hadn't mentally prepared myself to see a movie about derivatives or whatever but it was really well-cast, and every time I see Christian Bale in a big shot role I imagine him confessing his love to Winona Ryder in Little Women and/or singing about Santa Fe in Newsies and I feel so proud.
That's all for now.
1. The Descendants: I saw this movie about two hours after I broke my elbow while running in a park in Paris during my junior year abroad there. It was during my exchange program's spring break and I had stayed in Paris to run a half-marathon, but the day before, I tripped. I wasn't sure what to do about it so I tied my elbow in a scarf and went to see the Descendants to pass the time. Then I went home and cried and watched Sex and the City, and the next day I couldn't move my arm so I got a bag of pain au chocolates and went to a medical clinic and cried there until a hot doctor told me I broke my "coude." I'll always love George Clooney in a Hawaiian shirt for making me feel less depressed for two hours.
2. Inside Llewyn Davis: I saw this movie the year that I lived at home after college. I woke up on a Sunday morning hungover and I needed to get away from my parents/my existence, and I couldn't think of anywhere to go but a movie theater. Justin Timberlake is a little ray of sunshine but Carey Mulligan kind of bothers me because she's like the actor equivalent of that girl who never talks badly about anyone. Like, show us a little judgment/weakness, we're tired of that halfsies pixie cut.
3. The Big Short: I saw this the other day when it was raining and I went to stand inside the Regal Union Square movie theater to wait it out, but it didn't stop and I had nowhere to be so I got a $7 Diet Coke and a $15 movie ticket and took over three seats with my stuff. I kept on zoning out because I hadn't mentally prepared myself to see a movie about derivatives or whatever but it was really well-cast, and every time I see Christian Bale in a big shot role I imagine him confessing his love to Winona Ryder in Little Women and/or singing about Santa Fe in Newsies and I feel so proud.
That's all for now.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
YOOHOO!
Welp, remembered that I have a blog called The Channeling Board, which makes little to zero sense anymore but I'm keeping the name for the same reason that I made all of my current social media #handles the same as my AOL screenname. I was under the impression that you're supposed to have one internet name for life, and I'm stuck with the one I chose in 6th grade on a Dell Inspiron laptop using a random number generator on aol.com (ellie2635, get @ me). The numbers 2635 used to have no significance to me whatsoever but now they do because they've been with me since like, the turn of the millennium.
I was thinking the other day that I should take my recreational writing over to Medium because apparently that's what #internetwriters do at the turn of 2016, but then I would be abandoning this lil' blogger. I don't think my success as a writer has anything to do with my having a Medium or not, and if Nora Ephron had to put up with the shit that is writing for the internet then she wouldn't have one either. She'd have Blogger, I'm sure of it and I feel like I know her relatively well since I make her Heartburn salad dressing every night.
(I just got a desktop notification from Facebook and I do not like it. Fuck you Facebook. Get out of my desktop, that's a safe zone for creepy screenshots of my crushes. JK. NOT JK.) (BRB figuring out how to turn off this notification business. Done.)
I'm only blogging right now because I'm procrastinating like a mofo. I've already done all of my usual procrastination activities which entail braiding my hair, unbraiding my hair and putting it into a high ponytail, tying a bandana around my neck, chewing gum, and examining my facial hair. It's 11:03 AM which means 57 minutes until I get to drink a Diet Coke because only Karl Lagerfeld and white trash people drink soda in the morning, and I don't fit into any of those groups.
Not much else to say except I'm mostly posting this so my blog archive has (1) next to December 2015.
I was thinking the other day that I should take my recreational writing over to Medium because apparently that's what #internetwriters do at the turn of 2016, but then I would be abandoning this lil' blogger. I don't think my success as a writer has anything to do with my having a Medium or not, and if Nora Ephron had to put up with the shit that is writing for the internet then she wouldn't have one either. She'd have Blogger, I'm sure of it and I feel like I know her relatively well since I make her Heartburn salad dressing every night.
(I just got a desktop notification from Facebook and I do not like it. Fuck you Facebook. Get out of my desktop, that's a safe zone for creepy screenshots of my crushes. JK. NOT JK.) (BRB figuring out how to turn off this notification business. Done.)
I'm only blogging right now because I'm procrastinating like a mofo. I've already done all of my usual procrastination activities which entail braiding my hair, unbraiding my hair and putting it into a high ponytail, tying a bandana around my neck, chewing gum, and examining my facial hair. It's 11:03 AM which means 57 minutes until I get to drink a Diet Coke because only Karl Lagerfeld and white trash people drink soda in the morning, and I don't fit into any of those groups.
Not much else to say except I'm mostly posting this so my blog archive has (1) next to December 2015.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Writing Projects 1.0
Way back when Netflix was solely a mail-delivery Blockbuster service, I binge-watched the WB show Felicity, as much as one can binge-watch a show that arrives in four episode installments. The show was cool as shit for a lot of reasons, but there was one that really hit home. I was madly in love with a guy in high school who had no idea I existed (actually he knew about my existence he just didn't acknowledge it), and I couldn't believe there was a TV show whose plot was based on the fact that the main character chose NYU over Stamford after her high school crush signed her yearbook saying "keep in touch." She followed him to New York and they fell in love (on and off, thus the four seasons). That show made me believe that high school crushes weren't delusional as eff (reality check: they were!) and also it made we want to go to college in New York City and work at Dean & Deluca, neither of which I did. It might be one of my favorite TV shows ever, even though the lighting was really dark and bothered me (speaking of dark lighting and TV shows: that's why I hated Party of Five).
Every episode would start with a shot of Felicity, played by Keri Russell, talking into a tape recorder about her life. I was thinking about that just now because I kind of realized that's what this blog, and maybe most personal blogs are: life updates and musings that the blogger writes with the simultaneous intention of taking thoughts out of one's head and sharing with whoever wants to read it. So, with that in mind, HERE GOES!!!
Jk. Kind of. The real purpose of this post is to share some things I've written recently. I went to this freelancer talk a couple of weeks ago and someone said that becoming a freelancer means turning yourself into a business, so you have to do publicity. I hate self-promotion and it makes me uncomfortable to do it. That's not to say I don't do it: I do it occasionally and pretty haphazardly. I wish I could be one of those people who shamelessly self-promotes but I think most of the self-promoters out there are extroverts and I am so NOT! Wah, cry me a river. Since I feel weird going all out on social media, what better place to promote myself/my work than on my good ol' friend, BLOGGER! Am I right?! Yah, I am.
I've written a fair amount of things in the last week, which is pretty cool because I still have a day job unrelated to my writing projects. Here's what's going on:
- I wrote a story for Teen Vogue about boy band superfans. I interviewed a bunch of girls who are head-over-heels obsessed with boy bands and I found out a lot of cool and unsuspecting things like that being a superfan helps some girls cope with anxiety and depression. Read it here.
- I write for this local site called Brooklyn Based. I mostly do restaurant reviews, which are so fun because I get to explore corners of Brooklyn that I would never go to otherwise, eat some food, then write about it. My latest review is for a dumpling place in Downtown Brooklyn called Yaso Tangbao.
- I also wrote a story for Brooklyn Based about this new co-living space in Crown Heights called Common. All I could think about while writing the story was how eerily similar the concept was to the Real World (minus the TV cameras), and I spent most of my youth summers on the couch watching the Real World when I was definitely too young to be watching sexually ambiguous people make out in hot tubs.
- Back to the food and restaurant beat, I write weekly stories for Zagat.com, mostly about dining trends in New York. Two of my most recent are dining guides for Downtown Brooklyn and Bushwick.
Every episode would start with a shot of Felicity, played by Keri Russell, talking into a tape recorder about her life. I was thinking about that just now because I kind of realized that's what this blog, and maybe most personal blogs are: life updates and musings that the blogger writes with the simultaneous intention of taking thoughts out of one's head and sharing with whoever wants to read it. So, with that in mind, HERE GOES!!!
Jk. Kind of. The real purpose of this post is to share some things I've written recently. I went to this freelancer talk a couple of weeks ago and someone said that becoming a freelancer means turning yourself into a business, so you have to do publicity. I hate self-promotion and it makes me uncomfortable to do it. That's not to say I don't do it: I do it occasionally and pretty haphazardly. I wish I could be one of those people who shamelessly self-promotes but I think most of the self-promoters out there are extroverts and I am so NOT! Wah, cry me a river. Since I feel weird going all out on social media, what better place to promote myself/my work than on my good ol' friend, BLOGGER! Am I right?! Yah, I am.
I've written a fair amount of things in the last week, which is pretty cool because I still have a day job unrelated to my writing projects. Here's what's going on:
- I wrote a story for Teen Vogue about boy band superfans. I interviewed a bunch of girls who are head-over-heels obsessed with boy bands and I found out a lot of cool and unsuspecting things like that being a superfan helps some girls cope with anxiety and depression. Read it here.
- I write for this local site called Brooklyn Based. I mostly do restaurant reviews, which are so fun because I get to explore corners of Brooklyn that I would never go to otherwise, eat some food, then write about it. My latest review is for a dumpling place in Downtown Brooklyn called Yaso Tangbao.
- I also wrote a story for Brooklyn Based about this new co-living space in Crown Heights called Common. All I could think about while writing the story was how eerily similar the concept was to the Real World (minus the TV cameras), and I spent most of my youth summers on the couch watching the Real World when I was definitely too young to be watching sexually ambiguous people make out in hot tubs.
- Back to the food and restaurant beat, I write weekly stories for Zagat.com, mostly about dining trends in New York. Two of my most recent are dining guides for Downtown Brooklyn and Bushwick.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Deadlines, Man
I wish I blogged more. I feel like I always talk about this, and by talk I mean write, but the truth is that whenever I blog now, it's because I miss it. The salad days of this blog are gone, which is probably a good thing because this blog nonchalantly flourished when my life, as measured by happiness/satisfaction in my job, did not. That was during a distinct period when I was working in public relations and all I wanted to do was get paid to write. And even though I currently don't get paid to write as much as I would like to get paid or to write, if that makes sense, I still continue on with the hope that both the payment and the writing assignments will increase.
Right now, I am basking in the late afternoon Sunday sun and I'm supposed to be writing an article that was due on Friday but that I was too burnt out to do last week and I fear that I'm too burnt out to do right now. I'm testing the limits. I thrive in an organized environment—I like rules, deadlines, structure, assigned seats, all that jazz. All my life I've seen deadlines as unchanging due dates that had to be met. I never handed an assignment late in school because I was too scared of the consequences, nor did I ever even stop to consider what those consequences could be. They were probably lower grades and I was okay with getting bad grades as long as I knew that I had tried as hard as I could (shout out to the time I failed my linear algebra exam(s)), but low grades that were in my control/a result of my own laziness weren't going to fly in my book of self-satisfaction. But right now, at the ripe age of 24.9 I'm tired! And I'm burnt out! I just want to watch Aziz Ansari's new show on Netflix and Indian Summers on PBS and random episodes of Sex and the City. But I can't because I've worked so hard to send out random pitches on topics that I want to be the one to explore and write and tell an audience as small as twenty people about. So I will send in my assignment two days late tomorrow and see if the editor says anything, but a part of me thinks that he forgot about me because it's for a print magazine and man oh man does print move slowly. I don't really have much to say except that it's 3:10 PM and I'm going to give myself an hour to write then I will take a break and get back to it. ARGH!!!!
Right now, I am basking in the late afternoon Sunday sun and I'm supposed to be writing an article that was due on Friday but that I was too burnt out to do last week and I fear that I'm too burnt out to do right now. I'm testing the limits. I thrive in an organized environment—I like rules, deadlines, structure, assigned seats, all that jazz. All my life I've seen deadlines as unchanging due dates that had to be met. I never handed an assignment late in school because I was too scared of the consequences, nor did I ever even stop to consider what those consequences could be. They were probably lower grades and I was okay with getting bad grades as long as I knew that I had tried as hard as I could (shout out to the time I failed my linear algebra exam(s)), but low grades that were in my control/a result of my own laziness weren't going to fly in my book of self-satisfaction. But right now, at the ripe age of 24.9 I'm tired! And I'm burnt out! I just want to watch Aziz Ansari's new show on Netflix and Indian Summers on PBS and random episodes of Sex and the City. But I can't because I've worked so hard to send out random pitches on topics that I want to be the one to explore and write and tell an audience as small as twenty people about. So I will send in my assignment two days late tomorrow and see if the editor says anything, but a part of me thinks that he forgot about me because it's for a print magazine and man oh man does print move slowly. I don't really have much to say except that it's 3:10 PM and I'm going to give myself an hour to write then I will take a break and get back to it. ARGH!!!!
Friday, September 18, 2015
Let's Talk About Tuna Salad Sandwiches
Can we talk about tuna salad? I love tuna salad. A scoop of white and gooey tuna salad on rye bread with mustard, lettuce, tomato, and red onion if I'm alone, plus a side of pickles and coleslaw. That will be my last meal. With something sweet to wash down the inevitable tuna aftertaste (can't have a bad taste in my mouth when I hit the afterlife, amirite?).
The first tuna sandwich I fell in love with was from Panera. I was in fifth grade and I thought Panera was the coolest eating establishment in suburbia because I could order broccoli cheddar soup in a bread bowl and "fresh-squeezed" lemonade. How cool was it to get soup served in bread, then eat the bread in which your soup was served? Unbeatable, that's how cool. As for the sandwich portion of the menu, I was blown away by how delicious mayonnaise could make something taste -- my mom's tuna sandwiches were good, but the mayonnaise to tuna ratio was always too healthy. I was convinced that there was a secret ingredient in Panera's iteration, so I looked it up in weird early aught online forums, decided the key ingredient was relish, then tried to recreate the sandwich at home. Maybe I added too much relish because that shit was disgusting.
Based on many tuna sandwiches since 2001 (I've had three this week!), I've concluded that a good one has to have enough tuna that the filling falls out of the sandwich when you pick it up, dijon mustard spread on both sides, iceberg lettuce and a thick slice of tomato. The bread must be rye. A slice of rye has more surface area than a typical whole wheat square. Sourdough sometimes works. White bread gets too soggy. Possible pitfalls include spreading mustard on one side, using romaine lettuce instead of iceberg, and toasting the bread. A sandwich made with toasted bread is a casualty to the roof of my mouth and puts me in a bad mood.
I've found that only two types of places make a tuna salad sandwich that meets the above requirements: fast-casual chains that serve their sandwiches in baskets (Panera, Le Boulanger) or diners. I wish I could put Lenny's on the list but they don't add enough mayonnaise to the tuna, nor do they put enough tuna salad in between the bread. It makes me sad because I want to love Lenny's but that's a real dealbreaker.
I wrote this post because I just had an unbelievably satisfying tuna salad sandwich that made up for the bad Lenny's one I had last weekend.
Peace.
The first tuna sandwich I fell in love with was from Panera. I was in fifth grade and I thought Panera was the coolest eating establishment in suburbia because I could order broccoli cheddar soup in a bread bowl and "fresh-squeezed" lemonade. How cool was it to get soup served in bread, then eat the bread in which your soup was served? Unbeatable, that's how cool. As for the sandwich portion of the menu, I was blown away by how delicious mayonnaise could make something taste -- my mom's tuna sandwiches were good, but the mayonnaise to tuna ratio was always too healthy. I was convinced that there was a secret ingredient in Panera's iteration, so I looked it up in weird early aught online forums, decided the key ingredient was relish, then tried to recreate the sandwich at home. Maybe I added too much relish because that shit was disgusting.
Based on many tuna sandwiches since 2001 (I've had three this week!), I've concluded that a good one has to have enough tuna that the filling falls out of the sandwich when you pick it up, dijon mustard spread on both sides, iceberg lettuce and a thick slice of tomato. The bread must be rye. A slice of rye has more surface area than a typical whole wheat square. Sourdough sometimes works. White bread gets too soggy. Possible pitfalls include spreading mustard on one side, using romaine lettuce instead of iceberg, and toasting the bread. A sandwich made with toasted bread is a casualty to the roof of my mouth and puts me in a bad mood.
I've found that only two types of places make a tuna salad sandwich that meets the above requirements: fast-casual chains that serve their sandwiches in baskets (Panera, Le Boulanger) or diners. I wish I could put Lenny's on the list but they don't add enough mayonnaise to the tuna, nor do they put enough tuna salad in between the bread. It makes me sad because I want to love Lenny's but that's a real dealbreaker.
I wrote this post because I just had an unbelievably satisfying tuna salad sandwich that made up for the bad Lenny's one I had last weekend.
Peace.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
RECIPE! Pumpkin Apple Bread
Endorse me on LinkedIn for recipe development folks because I made my own pumpkin bread yesterday. I ideated it, if you will. And what better place to share it with the world than on my invisible blog?!
I won't turn into one of those food bloggers who takes forever to get to the recipe (the only one who pulls this off is The Pioneer Woman) but I will give you a bit of background as to how the bread came to be. I was experimenting with a granola recipe a couple weeks ago that called for pumpkin puree, and yes yes, I know it's too early to start brewing up edibles of the pumpkin spice variety but the key to a good recipe is care so I was simply taking care to make sure my pumpkin spice granola is ready to debut with a bang come fall (four days, people). Anyway, v1 of the granola was horrendous. One of the taste testers compared it to an Anthropologie candle, and not in a goody way. I can't tell if the problem is the pumpkin or the fact that my taste testers came to America via Iran Air and not the Mayflower, and as such their tastebuds aren't partial to pumpkin (I can say this because they're my family). Instead of using the rest of the pumpkin puree can to make more granola, I let it sit in the refrigerator for two weeks, and in a bored stupor yesterday, I decided to play Top Chef with myself and voila: my pumpkin APPLE bread.
Since there wasn't very much pumpkin puree to use and the members of my dining room had previously made clear their lack of enthusiasm for pumpkin-flavored food, I decided to supplement the recipe with pureed apples. The problem with baking is that my mouth intercepts most of the batter on its way from mixing bowl to pan, and I eat most of the final product, so I like to make recipes low-fat by either cutting sugar or oil. Based on recent experiences in making non-rising breads with banana/zucchini/pumpkin etc, I've found that for the sake of moistness, it's best not to cut the oil. I made a low-oil zucchini bread a few weeks ago and it was so dry that it lodged itself in my throat for five too many seconds. It was still good and despite almost dying, I persevered and ate an entire loaf. I learned from my mistakes but not from my overeating, so this recipe skimps on sugar and not oil. It calls for 3/4 cup of sugar, but TBH the modern tastebud might want to add a little more. The apple makes up for loss sugar by adding an ince ince of sweet and tangy.
Recipe for Pumpkin Apple Bread
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons butter, softened
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 cup pumpkin puree
2 small apples (or 1 medium)
2 large eggs
Preheat oven to 350. Grease one nine-inch pan.
Peel apples and cut into one-inch slices. Combine with 3/4 cup water in a microwaveable bowl. Microwave for four minutes, or until apples are soft and soggy. Stir until mixture resembles apple sauce. Set aside.
Whisk together flour, salt, baking soda, baking powder, pumpkin pie spice, and cinnamon in a small bowl.
In a standing mixer, mix sugar with butter and oil on low speed until fluffy. Should take about 1-2 minutes.
Add the pumpkin puree and apple sauce, mix until combined.
Add in the eggs one at a time, mixing just until combined.
Gradually add the flour mixture and mix until well-combined.
Spread in the pan. Cook for about an hour at 350, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Let cool for 15 minutes in pan, then remove and let cool completely on a wire rack.
Monday, August 17, 2015
I Tried Transcendental Meditation...
..and c'est pas mon truc. I've been told on various accounts that I should take up meditation. My mom tried to convert me (though I guess it isn't really converting if she doesn't do it herself) when I was in college with the help of a burned CD filled with "oms" uttered by a guy with a lisp and an Instant Karma book with a handwritten bookmark that says "I gave this to you for a reason" in her hybrid cursive that is legible to not many people outside of my family. TBH, I didn't give meditation much thought until I read about Transcendental Meditation (TM if you're #intheknow) in New York magazine a few months ago. All the cool people, like Jerry Seinfeld and Lena Dunham and probably Gwyneth Paltrow do it, so obviously I should too. The thing with TM is, like most hobbies of the rich and famous, it isn't exactly free to learn. If I can't afford a luxury gym membership (I wish Equinox made me do it) then I certainly can't afford the introductory TM course where a trained teacher assigns you a mantra. And that's why nerdy boys invented YouTube. It didn't take me long to a) find a mantra online b) learn how to do TM with the help of a YouTube video.
Basically, all you do is concentrate on your mantra. That's a really abridged version but it gets the point across. I tried to do it first thing in the morning (like Carolyn Murphy, apparently) and it went great for like, two days. I set a a timer for 10 minutes on my phone, and sat on my floor and thought about nothing but my mantra. Then on the night of day two, a monster cockroach showed up in my apartment and even though I watched my roommate kill it with the lethal combination of dish soap, a flip flop, and a GRE practice book, I still couldn't sit comfortably in my apartment after the incident with my eyes closed without thinking there was a cockroach at my feet. I picked it back up on day four when my roommate got in the shower before me on a Tuesday morning and I decided the only way to not get annoyed (she takes really long showers and is the first to admit it) was to meditate. On day five, I woke up in the morning with Blank Space stuck in my head and decided I didn't want to replace it with an om, so I didn't meditate. On day six, I forgot about my wholesome morning practice. I didn't make it to twenty-one days, which is apparently how long it takes to make a habit.
So, all in all, if I had fully committed to TM (say with the help of an instructor) I could've gotten into it. But I just don't think I have the lifestyle for it. Exhibit A: My apartment is occasionally cockroach-ridden.
Basically, all you do is concentrate on your mantra. That's a really abridged version but it gets the point across. I tried to do it first thing in the morning (like Carolyn Murphy, apparently) and it went great for like, two days. I set a a timer for 10 minutes on my phone, and sat on my floor and thought about nothing but my mantra. Then on the night of day two, a monster cockroach showed up in my apartment and even though I watched my roommate kill it with the lethal combination of dish soap, a flip flop, and a GRE practice book, I still couldn't sit comfortably in my apartment after the incident with my eyes closed without thinking there was a cockroach at my feet. I picked it back up on day four when my roommate got in the shower before me on a Tuesday morning and I decided the only way to not get annoyed (she takes really long showers and is the first to admit it) was to meditate. On day five, I woke up in the morning with Blank Space stuck in my head and decided I didn't want to replace it with an om, so I didn't meditate. On day six, I forgot about my wholesome morning practice. I didn't make it to twenty-one days, which is apparently how long it takes to make a habit.
So, all in all, if I had fully committed to TM (say with the help of an instructor) I could've gotten into it. But I just don't think I have the lifestyle for it. Exhibit A: My apartment is occasionally cockroach-ridden.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
I'll Never Let Go, Blog
Having a blog is a funny thing. It's kind of like a Tamagotchi. One minute you're really into it, all you want to do is blog, blog, blog, then life happens and you get sweeped up in the mother-effing-grind and just like that, you forget about your blog. Then something happens, like you realize that you have a very uncommon first name, and all a stranger who meets you at the airport when you're wearing the refined combination of a cowboy hat and a RUN DMC sweatshirt and asks you out needs to do is put your name into Google to find out that he has taken a FREAK OF NATURE WHO PUTS PARTS OF HER LIFE ON WORDY DISPLAY on a few dinner dates. Anyway, things like that remind you that HELLO you have a blog and it is the embarrassing thing that comes to the top of Google when someone like a prospective future husband or employer looks you up. The thing with Google is, unlike how Rose treated Jack (guys, there was room for both of them on that door, amiright?), that it will never let you go. You can't hide any parts of your life from The Googs, and I've found that the best way to handle such digital hegemony is to keep blogging like a mofo.
So here I am, in this "humbling heatwave" as the New York Times said so well in its "Wednesday Briefing," kicking it back with a stale bottle of seltzer and good ole' Blogger.
Also, I woke up to an email from GoDaddy this morning telling me it's "that time of the year" aka I need to pay for my URL and I can't lose my URL because it's a part of me. It brings me back to the days when I was living at my parents' house, watching the Parent Trap, and crying because I felt that my college administration had made me graduate before I was ready to say goodbye. I never even got a chance to take astronomy. It ain't right.
Peace out, my sister is taking me out to dinner cause today is the first day of the rest of my life.
(Almost optimized this post for search but that's work stuff not personal. BOOYAH!)
So here I am, in this "humbling heatwave" as the New York Times said so well in its "Wednesday Briefing," kicking it back with a stale bottle of seltzer and good ole' Blogger.
Also, I woke up to an email from GoDaddy this morning telling me it's "that time of the year" aka I need to pay for my URL and I can't lose my URL because it's a part of me. It brings me back to the days when I was living at my parents' house, watching the Parent Trap, and crying because I felt that my college administration had made me graduate before I was ready to say goodbye. I never even got a chance to take astronomy. It ain't right.
Peace out, my sister is taking me out to dinner cause today is the first day of the rest of my life.
(Almost optimized this post for search but that's work stuff not personal. BOOYAH!)
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
My One True Love: the Vanessa Bruno Tote
When I was studying abroad in Paris (no good ever comes from a sentence that starts like that but here I go), I became infatuated with a bag. The Vanessa Bruno Cabas tote. Everyone who was anyone (mainly high school girls) on my 8 AM metro ride to school had two things, both of which I needed, one of which I got in three different versions: a Vanessa Bruno bag and a faux-fur hooded parka. This was before Stan Smiths, but believe you me if I got on the 12 at Notre Dame des Champs today, those sassy lil lycéens would be wearing those. (I just looked at the Paris metro map and my heart PANGED. Literally it hurt. Ellen/Louisa are you reading this? If so, leave a comment).
It took me a long time to figure out who actually made the ubiquitous bag, because whereas a suitable parka could be found at a multitude of stores, this bag clearly had an It status. It was the Coach wristlet of the French youth. I needed it. I asked my host mom's live-in step-granddaughter (weird living situation, kind of traumatic on my end) who made it and she replied with something that I didn't understand. I didn't understand a lot of what she said because her French was really colloquial/on fleek (?) and mine was at more of a textbook last published in 1992-type frequency. I nodded like I knew what she was talking about then asked her to write it down. This led to the next phase of making the bag mine--visiting it in stores. I tried to advance to the final phase but logistics like a general lack of money prevented me from doing so. Shame.
When I went back to Paris last year (remember I bought an impulse ticket, guys? That was the best. Really living) I had enough money from an underpaid entry-level job to get my Vanessa Bruno tote once and for all. But then I happened upon another similar bag at a boutique in the Marais and since I was already on an impulsive kick, I thought yo-the-eff-lo and bought it. We've had some great times, me and this lil Stephane Verdino tote, some cool lady once complimented it at the Wythe Hotel.
But there's one thing I know about true love, which aside from nothing is that it stands the test of time, and I truly love the Vanessa Bruno tote. For me, it's always been you. And I've tried to hide and I've tried to deny it, but I can't, you're undeniable. Since I'm still thinking about it three years later, imma buy it.
Assembling funds now.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Dear Alec Baldwin
Dear Alec Baldwin,
I'm writing an open letter to you here because I know that if I saw you on the street and stopped to tell you, you'd say something crude and I'd be forced to tell the People.com authorities. I've always wanted to be an informer so that would be a great opportunity. I just want you to know that I really like your radio show, Here's The Thing. I would have never took you for a WNYC radio host, but I suppose you have the voice and body for a radio star (a slight resemblance to Elvis Duran of the Z Morning Zoo, perhaps?). To be honest, you're not the greatest interviewer since you have a knack for bringing the conversation back to yourself (I learned more about you than I did Jerry Seinfeld the time he was on your show), but you do excel in making the listener (me) feel like I'm eavesdropping on a juicy conversation. It's great. Like the time you interviewed Ira Glass. The Julie Andrews interview really brought me out of a slump. Kristen Wiig. You made me like Lena Dunham! Anyway, I just thought you should know that while I'm not your biggest fan (you still scare me), your radio show really shows a different side of you. Also, I took a yoga class at your wife's studio hoping we'd have a run in. We didn't.
And one more thing, I totally thought you were the Celebrity Mole until I realized that it was your brother who was on the show, not you. I loved the Celebrity Mole. It was one of the greatest reality game shows ever. Grossly underrated.
All the best,
Me
I'm writing an open letter to you here because I know that if I saw you on the street and stopped to tell you, you'd say something crude and I'd be forced to tell the People.com authorities. I've always wanted to be an informer so that would be a great opportunity. I just want you to know that I really like your radio show, Here's The Thing. I would have never took you for a WNYC radio host, but I suppose you have the voice and body for a radio star (a slight resemblance to Elvis Duran of the Z Morning Zoo, perhaps?). To be honest, you're not the greatest interviewer since you have a knack for bringing the conversation back to yourself (I learned more about you than I did Jerry Seinfeld the time he was on your show), but you do excel in making the listener (me) feel like I'm eavesdropping on a juicy conversation. It's great. Like the time you interviewed Ira Glass. The Julie Andrews interview really brought me out of a slump. Kristen Wiig. You made me like Lena Dunham! Anyway, I just thought you should know that while I'm not your biggest fan (you still scare me), your radio show really shows a different side of you. Also, I took a yoga class at your wife's studio hoping we'd have a run in. We didn't.
And one more thing, I totally thought you were the Celebrity Mole until I realized that it was your brother who was on the show, not you. I loved the Celebrity Mole. It was one of the greatest reality game shows ever. Grossly underrated.
All the best,
Me
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Help! I'm An Instagram Stalker
A couple of years ago, one of my friends announced that she was leaving Facebook. She had creeped herself out by how far deep into stalking people she'd allow herself to get. You know the feeling -- when you fall into a trance clicking on one person's picture, another person's name, someone else's location, and all of a sudden, you find yourself looking at a mobile uploads album of a total stranger. Who is this person? You only have one mutual friend, who you probably haven't seen since high school nor spoken to since middle school.
I don't fall into Facebook trances so much anymore as I do Instagram ones. On a related note, one of my biggest fears is double-tapping an Instagram picture posted by a guy I like but don't follow. Omg. So bad.
Recently, actually not that recently -- I've been doing it for ages, I've gotten into the habit of what a meme I once saw but can't find anymore called "falling eight people deep" on Instagram. First I'm looking at some girl I barely know's vacation in Palm Beach, then five minutes later, I'm looking at some Italian socialite's trip to Argentina. Where am I and how did I get here?
I had an odd moment a couple of weeks ago when I was in SoHo and passed someone I recognized. Where had I seen her before? It took me a minute before I had the sad realization that I recognized her from Instagram. I follow her but have have never met her. She's not an influential likes-are-a-currency blogger; she's just some French person who isn't a socialite but isn't a normal person either. I've seen pictures of her family's Christmas vacation to the Alps. I KNOW WHAT HER MOM LOOKS LIKE. Is the problem me, or am I just a victim of the social media world? I was creeped out but not enough to stop following her because she's a good Instagrammer in the sense that she makes her life look cool, and isn't that the point?
I don't fall into Facebook trances so much anymore as I do Instagram ones. On a related note, one of my biggest fears is double-tapping an Instagram picture posted by a guy I like but don't follow. Omg. So bad.
Recently, actually not that recently -- I've been doing it for ages, I've gotten into the habit of what a meme I once saw but can't find anymore called "falling eight people deep" on Instagram. First I'm looking at some girl I barely know's vacation in Palm Beach, then five minutes later, I'm looking at some Italian socialite's trip to Argentina. Where am I and how did I get here?
I had an odd moment a couple of weeks ago when I was in SoHo and passed someone I recognized. Where had I seen her before? It took me a minute before I had the sad realization that I recognized her from Instagram. I follow her but have have never met her. She's not an influential likes-are-a-currency blogger; she's just some French person who isn't a socialite but isn't a normal person either. I've seen pictures of her family's Christmas vacation to the Alps. I KNOW WHAT HER MOM LOOKS LIKE. Is the problem me, or am I just a victim of the social media world? I was creeped out but not enough to stop following her because she's a good Instagrammer in the sense that she makes her life look cool, and isn't that the point?
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Celebrities, They're Just Like Us!
The next time I'm at a job interview and my interviewer asks what my strengths are, I plan to say, "spotting celebrities on the street." I'm only half-joking because after thinking about it for a minute (fast-thinker!), it shows that I'm an observant person with good memory, attention to detail, and pattern recognition. Also, I'm culturally aware.
I saw Jake Gyllenhaal at Momofoku Noodle Bar the other night. It was really thrilling and it's true, he's really really ridiculously goodlooking. If he weren't already a famous actor I'd say that he should become one because as many people as is humanely possible should see his face. And his hair. He was sitting down so I couldn't see how tall he was, but he seemed to be having a business dinner because he pulled out a script after he finished his pork buns.
A few weeks earlier, I saw Anne Hathaway on Astor Place. It was Saturday at 5 PM and since nobody with a slow-to-moderately active social life has concrete plans in the Saturday early evening time slot, I followed her. To be honest, I recognized her husband first because I thought he was someone I went to college with. Then I noticed that the girl he was with had the same shoes as me (Stan Smiths, but hers were whiter than mine because when you starred as Princess Mia Thermapolis Renaldi Grimaldi whatever of Genovia, you can afford to replace white sneakers as often as you like). Then I looked up and recognized that awkward butt-slightly-out gait and I knew it was her. I walked with them to their destination, Ippudo, which was curious because my sister happened to see them there two years ago. I know what you're thinking, what are the chances that I see the costars of Brokeback Mountain and Love And Other Drugs at ramen places in the East Village in the same month? Pattern recognition, I told you. However, I think the main takeaway should be that Anne Hathaway is just like us: she eats pork-based ramen broth.
On the topic of spotting Anne Hathaway and her various co-stars, I once saw Meryl Streep outside the Delacorte Theater. I was walking past the line of people waiting to enter Shakespeare in the Park, and I said to my friend, "this is the type of place you see Meryl Streep." Who should walk past us less than a minute later? Yah, Miranda Priestly herself, but more in costume as the shrink she played in Prime. This is not a joke and I have a personal reference (available upon request) who can vouch for me.
On a parting note, I recognized a TV actor at an Upper West Side Thai restaurant the other night. It is driving me insane that I don't know his name and can't remember what he was in but I know I've seen him before. I'm going to ruminate over it and will get back to you.
I was going to end the post there but then I remembered why I'm good at spotting celebrities. When I was in 7th grade, my mom and I were walking on West Broadway in SoHo and Mike Myers walked past us carrying a hockey stick (Canadian people really do love hockey). I didn't see him because I was looking at the ground but my mom did and she scolded me for not paying attention to my surroundings. Since then, I've made a conscious effort to stare down every person who walks past me on the street. This has led to many awkward encounters, one Sarah Jessica Parker sighting, and a subway ride with Amy Poehler and her son Archie.
I saw Jake Gyllenhaal at Momofoku Noodle Bar the other night. It was really thrilling and it's true, he's really really ridiculously goodlooking. If he weren't already a famous actor I'd say that he should become one because as many people as is humanely possible should see his face. And his hair. He was sitting down so I couldn't see how tall he was, but he seemed to be having a business dinner because he pulled out a script after he finished his pork buns.
A few weeks earlier, I saw Anne Hathaway on Astor Place. It was Saturday at 5 PM and since nobody with a slow-to-moderately active social life has concrete plans in the Saturday early evening time slot, I followed her. To be honest, I recognized her husband first because I thought he was someone I went to college with. Then I noticed that the girl he was with had the same shoes as me (Stan Smiths, but hers were whiter than mine because when you starred as Princess Mia Thermapolis Renaldi Grimaldi whatever of Genovia, you can afford to replace white sneakers as often as you like). Then I looked up and recognized that awkward butt-slightly-out gait and I knew it was her. I walked with them to their destination, Ippudo, which was curious because my sister happened to see them there two years ago. I know what you're thinking, what are the chances that I see the costars of Brokeback Mountain and Love And Other Drugs at ramen places in the East Village in the same month? Pattern recognition, I told you. However, I think the main takeaway should be that Anne Hathaway is just like us: she eats pork-based ramen broth.
On the topic of spotting Anne Hathaway and her various co-stars, I once saw Meryl Streep outside the Delacorte Theater. I was walking past the line of people waiting to enter Shakespeare in the Park, and I said to my friend, "this is the type of place you see Meryl Streep." Who should walk past us less than a minute later? Yah, Miranda Priestly herself, but more in costume as the shrink she played in Prime. This is not a joke and I have a personal reference (available upon request) who can vouch for me.
On a parting note, I recognized a TV actor at an Upper West Side Thai restaurant the other night. It is driving me insane that I don't know his name and can't remember what he was in but I know I've seen him before. I'm going to ruminate over it and will get back to you.
I was going to end the post there but then I remembered why I'm good at spotting celebrities. When I was in 7th grade, my mom and I were walking on West Broadway in SoHo and Mike Myers walked past us carrying a hockey stick (Canadian people really do love hockey). I didn't see him because I was looking at the ground but my mom did and she scolded me for not paying attention to my surroundings. Since then, I've made a conscious effort to stare down every person who walks past me on the street. This has led to many awkward encounters, one Sarah Jessica Parker sighting, and a subway ride with Amy Poehler and her son Archie.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Nobody Likes You When You're 23
I was exploring a new dating app the other day, new to me at least since it was my first time using it. I deleted it about ten minutes after logging on because it's a location-based one (not Tinder, side note: does Tinder have an e in it? I feel like it's hip in app-naming-lingo to have as little vowels as possible. I could look this up in .4 seconds but I'm committed to running this sentence on. I looked it up. It does have an e. How progressive.) Anyway, I don't like location-based apps of any genre for the very practical reason that they drain my phone battery, and this one required that little arrow in the top right corner of my screen to stay on at all times so you can see when potential matches pass you on the street. Talk about being always on, amirite? I deleted it because I want to find love but I want to preserve my iPhone battery more. And also I was scared of the awkwardness that would ensue should I have seen the guy who sits in the cubicle adjacent to me in my feed.
Okay, so the point of explaining the dating app was that in the ten minutes I was using it, I saw a guy's profile in which his tagline was "nobody likes you when you're 23." I immediately thought of two things. One: That Laguna Beach episode when the gang goes to the Blink 182 concert and Trey almost has a fight with a little person. Two: Wow, that is so true. I didn't like the kid because he had the potato thing going for him and I'm more committed to the radish cause, but I wanted to send him a message to say a simple "word" or something, but I don't think that's the way to go about things on dating apps. So I kept to myself, thought about it as I maximized the life of my phone battery, and came here to say more or less, word.
Not only does nobody like you when you're 23, but you don't even like yourself when you're 23. I'm out of the 23 zone but close enough to give it some thoughtful, retrospective analysis. It was pretty awful. I didn't even have fun on my 23rd birthday. I did have a good outfit though, so that's nice to remember.
Twenty-two starts out fun because, hello! you're a senior in college and if you thought being a senior in high school was the bee's knees, then wait until you're a senior in college. It's the best thing ever. You basically rule the world. Then you graduate and you simultaneously get slammed in the face by a door and a club. I cried a lot of times in the immediate months after I graduated college, started working and lived at home. I cried eating ice cream in my car, on the subway, on the crosstown bus, at work: at my desk, in the office bathroom, in the elevator, in the bathroom of the coffee place next door because there was a cockroach in the bathroom at my office, on my couch, on my kitchen floor, on my dining floor, while hyperventilating in a paper bag, while running in Central Park. I don't even know why I was crying half the time, but what can I say, I'm an emotional person and it's a really confusing time.
Delia Ephron says that in your twenties, everything awful that happens is awful in a romantic way. If I had heard that when I was 23, I wouldn't have cried half as many times as I did. I would've laughed at the situations in which I found myself, the mindnumbing work I did, the guys I wasted my thoughts on, the stupid nights I spent valuable shoe money on. I've been thinking about that quote a lot lately, and it makes the annoying stuff a lot less earth-shattering. The good thing about being in your twenties is that you don't have to take it all so seriously, I think. I hope.
That's all I've got to say. I'm going to get a Diet Coke.
Buh-bye.
Okay, so the point of explaining the dating app was that in the ten minutes I was using it, I saw a guy's profile in which his tagline was "nobody likes you when you're 23." I immediately thought of two things. One: That Laguna Beach episode when the gang goes to the Blink 182 concert and Trey almost has a fight with a little person. Two: Wow, that is so true. I didn't like the kid because he had the potato thing going for him and I'm more committed to the radish cause, but I wanted to send him a message to say a simple "word" or something, but I don't think that's the way to go about things on dating apps. So I kept to myself, thought about it as I maximized the life of my phone battery, and came here to say more or less, word.
Not only does nobody like you when you're 23, but you don't even like yourself when you're 23. I'm out of the 23 zone but close enough to give it some thoughtful, retrospective analysis. It was pretty awful. I didn't even have fun on my 23rd birthday. I did have a good outfit though, so that's nice to remember.
Twenty-two starts out fun because, hello! you're a senior in college and if you thought being a senior in high school was the bee's knees, then wait until you're a senior in college. It's the best thing ever. You basically rule the world. Then you graduate and you simultaneously get slammed in the face by a door and a club. I cried a lot of times in the immediate months after I graduated college, started working and lived at home. I cried eating ice cream in my car, on the subway, on the crosstown bus, at work: at my desk, in the office bathroom, in the elevator, in the bathroom of the coffee place next door because there was a cockroach in the bathroom at my office, on my couch, on my kitchen floor, on my dining floor, while hyperventilating in a paper bag, while running in Central Park. I don't even know why I was crying half the time, but what can I say, I'm an emotional person and it's a really confusing time.
Delia Ephron says that in your twenties, everything awful that happens is awful in a romantic way. If I had heard that when I was 23, I wouldn't have cried half as many times as I did. I would've laughed at the situations in which I found myself, the mindnumbing work I did, the guys I wasted my thoughts on, the stupid nights I spent valuable shoe money on. I've been thinking about that quote a lot lately, and it makes the annoying stuff a lot less earth-shattering. The good thing about being in your twenties is that you don't have to take it all so seriously, I think. I hope.
That's all I've got to say. I'm going to get a Diet Coke.
Buh-bye.
Friday, March 20, 2015
I Joined ClassPass
After a shooting pain from my butt to my leg two Mondays ago made me cut my morning run short (and in effect, last longer) and limp back from the West Side Highway to my fifth-floor Alphabet City walk-up as the sun came up and the tears came down, I've had to stop running. I'm as neurotic as they come and lack of physical activity turns me into a really. pissy. person, so I've been trying to find new ways of releasing endorphins, which I know make me happy because I've seen Legally Blonde enough times to know that happy people don't kill their husbands. They just don't.
I didn't search far and did what most girls in my age bracket and life stage (and Facebook newsfeed) are doing to get their workout kicks and signed up for ClassPass. I fricken love it. I swear this is not a sponsored post (kind of wish it were though), but I am having so much fun with ClassPass. I don't have to think about my workout, I just show up at some boutique fitness studio in New York and let a spandex-clad instructor tell me what to do.
Some experiences have been better than others, on the local minimum list is when I showed up to a boxing gym at 6:53 AM only to find that it was locked and when the instructor at a spin class started playing recordings of himself giving motivational speeches (and a weird girl in the front started applauding). I hated that spin class, I really did.
I've mostly been taking spin classes, which, maybe because of the SoulCycle ethos, remind me of scary athletic girls from my past (the ones who shout "BALL BALL BALL" in your face during a lacrosse game. No. That is so unnecessary. Also, mouthguards, gross). Brief tangent but I actually saw a scary athletic girl from my past at a ClassPass class. It took me a minute but her blonde ponytail and gait that suggested a 7 minute mile could only be traced back to the hell that was soccer/lacrosse camp in 5th through 10th grades.
I feel like spin classes were The No. 1 Fitness Trend in 2012, an assumption I'm basing off my memory a girl at my summer internship that summer who would bring her own cycling shoes and furiously sign up for a FlyWheel class every morning. Maybe they've successfully transitioned from trendy to classic as more innovative offshoots (like water spinning at Aqua Studio) pop up? Some are much too fancy for me -- I couldn't figure out how to put the shoes on my feet at Peloton and had to leave a pair on the bike clips this morning at Revolve because I couldn't unclip myself (the instructor had clipped me in). My favorite so far has been at The Monster Studio in SoHo. It vaguely rallies around the theme of Lady Gaga, but I wouldn't have known that unless the ClassPass description hadn't said so. There are two giant flat screens playing music videos throughout class and the highlight is the blackout ride, when the room goes completely dark for the portion of a hilltop ride.
On a parting note, the song Sugar by Maroon 5 has played in every spin class I've taken thus far. I Really Really Really Like You played 3 times at my class this morning. TOO MUCH.
I didn't search far and did what most girls in my age bracket and life stage (and Facebook newsfeed) are doing to get their workout kicks and signed up for ClassPass. I fricken love it. I swear this is not a sponsored post (kind of wish it were though), but I am having so much fun with ClassPass. I don't have to think about my workout, I just show up at some boutique fitness studio in New York and let a spandex-clad instructor tell me what to do.
Some experiences have been better than others, on the local minimum list is when I showed up to a boxing gym at 6:53 AM only to find that it was locked and when the instructor at a spin class started playing recordings of himself giving motivational speeches (and a weird girl in the front started applauding). I hated that spin class, I really did.
I've mostly been taking spin classes, which, maybe because of the SoulCycle ethos, remind me of scary athletic girls from my past (the ones who shout "BALL BALL BALL" in your face during a lacrosse game. No. That is so unnecessary. Also, mouthguards, gross). Brief tangent but I actually saw a scary athletic girl from my past at a ClassPass class. It took me a minute but her blonde ponytail and gait that suggested a 7 minute mile could only be traced back to the hell that was soccer/lacrosse camp in 5th through 10th grades.
I feel like spin classes were The No. 1 Fitness Trend in 2012, an assumption I'm basing off my memory a girl at my summer internship that summer who would bring her own cycling shoes and furiously sign up for a FlyWheel class every morning. Maybe they've successfully transitioned from trendy to classic as more innovative offshoots (like water spinning at Aqua Studio) pop up? Some are much too fancy for me -- I couldn't figure out how to put the shoes on my feet at Peloton and had to leave a pair on the bike clips this morning at Revolve because I couldn't unclip myself (the instructor had clipped me in). My favorite so far has been at The Monster Studio in SoHo. It vaguely rallies around the theme of Lady Gaga, but I wouldn't have known that unless the ClassPass description hadn't said so. There are two giant flat screens playing music videos throughout class and the highlight is the blackout ride, when the room goes completely dark for the portion of a hilltop ride.
On a parting note, the song Sugar by Maroon 5 has played in every spin class I've taken thus far. I Really Really Really Like You played 3 times at my class this morning. TOO MUCH.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Goli: Persian Ice Cream Purveyors
My sister and I took our side project to new heights this weekend. Well, to be honest, it was mostly my sister's doing but I came along for the (literal) ride. In a bored end-of-February stupor last week, she decided to start a small-batch ice cream business that specializes in Persian ice cream. Persian ice cream (bastani), for the uninitiated, is saffron and rose water-flavored ice cream with cream chunks and pistachios. It’s somewhere in between the savoriness of maple bacon and chorizo flavors à la hip Brooklyn/Lower East Side ice cream shops and an artisan honey lavender-cardamom hybrid found in San Francisco’s Bi-Rite creamery. On the East Coast, its true version can really only be found on the dessert menus at Persian restaurants, but go to the Westwood section of Los Angeles (where the Persian diaspora is in full effect) and you’ll find ice cream stores that solely dole out scoops of bastani with wafers.
In order to bring quality scoop-and-serve bastani to New York, my sister found an ice cream maker for $40 on Craigslist, which we went to go pick up in Park Slope at 9 AM on Saturday morning. After a decidedly normal Craigslist interaction with a seller who had never tapped the urge to make cherry ice cream that had inspired her purchase, we took the new-with-tags ice cream maker to coffee and planned our next move, which involved us buying some super secret ingredients at a Middle Eastern specialty food store on Atlantic Avenue, so secret, in fact, that we couldn't translate the product label. Little known fact but Atlantic Avenue is ripe with Middle Eastern speciality stores -- highly recommend as the tahini there is cheaper than it is at Trader Joe’s and the Alphabet City Key Food (I’m adding tahini into my repertoire of breakfast spreads, FYI).
After too many hours in a nineteen-degrees Park Slope before noon, we decamped back to our parents’ apartment for quality lounge time and restarted the ice cream process the next day. Long story short we made a bomb-dot-com batch of Persian ice cream, which PRAY FOR US, will be available at Smorgasburg come this summer.
Check out the webbie here. Once you go Persian, there’s no other version. Am I right?
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Giveaway Alert! Hausfrau
Hey all you readers out there, I have a giveaway for ya!
It's for a book because reading leads to a better, more enriched life, and isn't that the purpose of blogs in the first place? It definitely is for the blogger because no matter what happens during the day, I'll always have my blog, kind of in the way that Ilsa and Rick will always have Paris....?
Moving onwards and upwards. The giveaway is for a brand spankin' new book from poetess Jill Alexander Essbaum. The novel centers on Anna, a housewife married to a Swiss husband. They live in Zurich with their three kids and apparently have a picture-perfect life. Anna gets bored -- with Bruno, the minutiae of her daily life, you know the drill. So she goes after life and seeks "new experiences," which inevitably involve sexual ones, and therein lies the story. She can't get out of the affairs and go back to life as she know it. So what does she do? That's why you read the book (enter my giveaway for a chance and if you don't win, buy it) and find out.
The book hits shelves March 17. So, like, less than a week.
To enter the giveaway: comment with your FAVE book!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)