I have yet to do my own batch of laundry since arriving in New York. I'm very challenged in the domestic sphere so it's no surprise that although I am cheap, and every little penny helps, I send my laundry out to be done. I have no qualms with strangers scrubbing my stains or touching my delicates, but I have encountered a few who are very uneasy with it. I myself am more uneasy with all every person and their mother who has a blog airing their own dirty laundry and oversharing their most intimate pecadillos with their nearest and dearest followers.
But here's a piece of dirty laundry that gives me great catharsis to share:
I ate at Olive Garden last night.
In Times Square.
I KNOW.
{Shame, boatloads of shame.}
A friend and I received tickets to Next to Normal on Broadway last minute and well, when the hankering for unlimited salad and breadsticks comes a-calling, it doesn't let up. So there we were, with the tourists taking their pictures by the faux flower arrangements, in our work attire:
So here I was, gluttonous and prepping for today's carb face:
But what do we see when we finally put our forks down to endure the meat sweats, sugar shakes, and to head to the vomitorium, but this, outside the window:
{in case you can't tell, that's a billboard of a scantily-clad Gisele Bundchen.}
It's bad enough our waiter asked where we were from and we explained, umm yeah, here, we live in New York, but this?
I know, I KNOW, Gisele. Keep your jorts on; I'm judging me too.
