stirring

So I'm pretty busy right now, but here is a great email I got from my friend Michael the other day. He sent it in hopes of getting a bunch of phone numbers back from people. He lost all his numbers since his cell phone...well...read on...

quote:

I was at a party at Opaline last Wednesday night.  It was the eve of my good friend Hana's birthday and I'd promised her a birthday drink...she however didn't know if she wanted to come to the party so I met her next door at 85A for a celebratory drink or three.  I excused myself to use the loo (lew, lue?  you know what I mean), and as I stood there about to flush, what should happen but my trusty old cell phone, whom many friends had referred to as the smallest cell phone in the world ("...oh my god!  That has got to be the smallest cell phone in the world!"), decides that it has had enough of this world and being tucked into my pants pocket.

With the grace of a leaden swan, Celli (I will refer to him as "Celli" from here on out...one needs to speak respectfully of the deceased and it seems respectful to refer to them by name at very least)...Celli lept three feet straight up into the air, did a triple backwards axle somersault-thing and landed right in the golden-hued water.

Now, perhaps it was the three drinks I'd shared with Hana in 45 minutes, and perhaps not.  I think back on that fateful day and like to think that I would have made the same decision stone cold sober.  At least that's the position I've taken.  I looked at the floundering device named Celli thrashing about in the bowl as any cell phone in his predicament would and thought, "I can't put my hands in there, it's unsanitary."  BUT, if I were to flush right at this moment, Celli would be too big and heavy to go down the pipes and the rush of clean water would make the concept of fishing him out a bit more bearable.

Now friends, I tell you that nothing prepared me for what came next.  It still haunts me light a nightmare, a ghoulish vision.  I did it.  I pressed the chrome plated lever and watched in horror as Celli, whom you will recall is the smallest phone in the world, was washed away into the nether regions of the NYC sewer system in a torrent of water, urine and tears.

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


His time had come.  In this my hour of grief you can understand that I need the love and support of my friends.  The healing has already begun.  My replacement phone provided by Cingular's mobile device insurance has already arrived, but the address book therein is sadly devoid of contact information.  Please don't let it remain so.

If for some reason we're not THAT close and you don't feel comfortable with me having your # or you gave me an email address purposely instead of a phone #, of course I can only respect your wishes and won't in any way take it personally.  I hope the story of my foolhardiness made you smile.  For all others, your support in this my time of need is greatly appreciated.  At no other time does the old addage ring so true:  "If it's yellow, let it mellow.  If it's brown, flush it down."

My friends, Celli was not brown.  Thank you for listening and for caring.

 

I don't drink gin and tonics. I used to. About five years ago I did, whilst under the influence of someone not so savory, I would suck 'em back like water and wonder why I never felt myself GET drunk, but just WAS drunk.

I don't choose gin and tonics. I am a sensible girl and stick to my favorite beer. However last night, I was amongst dear friends, dear Southern friends who can drink my weight in gin and live to tell, and it was an open bar, and I had already consumed half a bottle of a really good pinot noir (yeah, my man knows wine. It's a perk) at Bistro du Vent, so I said fuck it. Gin and tonic please. Another gin and tonic please. Um, another gin and, um, yeah. Could I jusht pleash have another...

Because I live with someone very responsible, I made it out of the Xth Avenue Lounge before any damage was done. I cannot say the same for my Southern friends who, at 12:45, were still chasing tail and throwing drinks down. At least that's the rumor today. I wish I could party like them. And I realize I might have to go into training for this summer in Edinburgh. Sort of like people who start going to tanning beds before their trips to Barbados, I feel I should start working my blood alcohol level up to a good fighting weight. If I want to win the championships. Which I do.More so than I want to live another day like today, head-achy, bitchy, and cursing every whisper of lime flavored gin that passed my lips last night.

Ok, so, Martin is home. For anyone who doesn't know, Martin is my gorgeous, brilliant, funny, and sexy Scottish boyfriend, who was just away in Scotland for three weeks. I have a pretty short attention span though and three weeks was just enough time to leave me utterly confused and lonely and a bit forgetful about what I was waiting for. I'm a complete idiot like that. But when he came through the door Friday morning, I remembered.

And the gift of Alexander McQueen perfume from Duty Free didn't hurt either.

So, after being apart for three weeks, what is the first thing Martin and I did? What any sensible couple would do...we went out to eat. M. and I are big foodies and we had to go see our friends' show that evening, so upon finding ourselves in the crappiest part of midtown, we went to this Italian restaurant where I used to waitress. That is, until they figured out that I didn't know how to open a bottle of wine and I got canned... The food was much better than I remember...I mean, spending a summer seeing meals pushed around on plates by food runners' hands, re-using bread from table to table, and flirting aimlessly with a married executive chefreally tainted the place for me. But we had a great meal there. Really lovely beef carpaccio, and then some tasty pasta dishes. It was great, but we had to run out of there really quickly since it had taken us AN HOUR to get there...Lincoln Tunnel traffic. If you live in New Jersey, you shouldn't be allowed to come into the city at all. Upon signing a lease, we take away your car keys. Get to know public transportation please.

After the little sketch shows we saw at chashama, we went to the Upper West Side in a sad attempt to have dessert at Cafe Lalo. Ok, I have never liked this place. It'sall Eurotrash and hype, but for some reason, Martin really loves it. (Dear God! Is my boyfriend Eurotrash and I don't know it?) The line was out onto the street, and even Martin had to concede that is was ridiculous, so we went around the corner to Good Enough to Eat. M had pecan pie, I had homemade ice cream, we went home pretty satisfied.

Yesterday was a lazy day too, with brunch at 107 West, and then a nap. We got this kickin' feather mattress and bed cover and pillows before Martin left and we finally put them on the bed yesterday afternoon, turning our humble Ikea piece into the softest fluffiest bed you've ever seen. I fell asleep in twenty seconds, as I am famous for (at school, watching theater, on the train), and had the best nap of my life. When I got up, we went downtown and ate at Sumile, which I have wanted to try since it opened. We had these amazing oysters, eel hand rolls, Japanese snapper, and this amazing buttery salmon with crispy duck salad. It was so good. The dishes are all really tiny, but so filling. He had some sort of hazelnut thing for dessert, I had a waffle with bay leaf ice cream...such a great meal.

But not such a great meal when I got home an hour later and threw it all up. Splayed out on the bathroom floor, watching my meal swirl around in the toilet, I wondered what went wrong? Martin didn't get sick at all, so I don't know if it was last night's meal. Maybe a combination of all the food I ate ALL WEEKEND LONG combined with the fact that in Martin's absence I haven't eaten much more than an apple and a sandwich every day. All I can assume is that my system went into shock. So much food! So much good food! Bleeeeeah!

I'm not sure what the lesson to be learned is here. Moderation? Something like that. But who has time for lessons? We're running late for brunch....

I have to admit I am sorry I missed this . There's always next week.

I had a shockingly relaxing day. After spending too much time at work, I made it to Discount Shoe Warehouse and got some polka dot heels that I really did not need. I then got a pedicure. Yes I'm a goddamn girly girl. And then, I went out for dessert with my new friend Steven, who is adorable and fun and has a brilliant Australian accent. Of course we may not be friends for much longer if I continue to force him to say things like, "wallabee" and "the dingo ate my baby."

It was lovely to see him and he cheered me up to no end.

They need to make IPODS with repeat buttons, because I have been listening to the same song over and over this week. "Everything Will Be Alright" by The Killers is, well, killing me these days. It's simple and sad, and I must be a little weepy about something, because I cannot ride the subway without shedding a couple of tears. Sad song? Missing Martin? A combination of the two...

Check out this hottie I hung out with the other day.

Or the ever popular "voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?"

Either way, I just finished my French final, which means all that remains is a fifteen page paper on Beckett and then my semester is finished. I don't know how I did on this test. It felt easy, but as I was just telling Eric, at this stage of French knowledge, my vocabulary is really limited to phrases like, "The dog is barking at my bird." Actually I don't even know the word for "bark". I think I put that the dog was TALKING to my bird. I hope this class doesn't bring down my GPA, which teeters on the edge of genius.

I want to nail the French because hopefully after Edinburgh, Martin and I are going to go on vacation for a week...hopefully to gay Paree. Iceland is out of the picture right now because I have to come home by the second week in September for school and I feel like Iceland merits more than a week. Right? Too bad because from Scotland, flights are cheap. Martin wants to go to Paris, I want to go to the south of France, either way, one of us needs to be able to ask where the bathroom is and how much is that bottle of wine (though not necessarily in that order)?

I'm off to yoga and possibly some serious caffeine consumption. I've only had two lattes today and I still have a headache. Looks like I have a habit...

So I had this wierd dream last night. I was with JOY actually and a bunch of other people and we were in some large institutional building...or maybe it was just a college dorm? Everyone was running around and getting extremely drunk, but there was something wrong. Not sure what, but something bad was happening. And Joy's very cute lawyer friend kept running up to me and he looked really freaked out, but they all just kept drinking. So to get away from the madness and the drinking (I actually wasn't drinking because I was so scared), I ran away from everyone. There were all these hills and I ended up near another dorm really close by and Jessica Simpson showed up. She was nervous too, so she was chain-smoking Parliaments. And even though I haven't smoked since November, i bummed one from her, and Jessica and I had a smoke to relax and talked about her kid.

Any guesses on what this means? Anyone?