Dirty Laundry

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.

Another Reason Why I Love the Library:

probably reading Twilight, NOT doing her taxes...

Not only am I waiting to pickup a book I have long wanted to read from my local branch, but I am also waiting, very begrudgingly, to head to the lib and get my taxes done. I'm not entirely sure what all that means- numbers, finance, government matters, it's too much for my celebrity gossip- sapped brain- but fortunately, the NYPL is hosting tax-assistance days for FREE. Another reason to support your local library. 

Confessions of a Something-or-Other

Before I went to the movies this past weekend, I read up on several articles, blog posts, et al that preemptively bashed Confessions of a Shopaholic. Certainly the premise (aspiring magazine writer compulsively shops and shops and shops, on a paltry editorial budget, mind you) could have come at more opportune times, but the way many a movie critic denounced the film for its parade of luxury items and silly treatment of lavish, unchecked materialism, was this worth my $6?

Yes, $6. Any movie before noon at any AMC Loews location in NYC is just $6. And although it's not going to win any studious awards alerting the film-going community of its profound credibility, for one-two-three-four-five-six SIX bucks, Confessions is fun to see. This isn't Gigli, and you don't have to broadcast your movie selection.

So in other terms, that is:

*3.5 bags of discount Valentine's Day M&Ms (after the holiday)

*2 shots of City Bakery's hot chocolate

*about what I make in one hour 

*2 bottles of 2 Buck Chuck

So ask yourself, would you rather than shop (vicariously, of course, through Isla Fisher's misadventures without having to freeze your credit cards) than eat? Thank goodness you don't have to choose. Just get yourself out of your futon or air mattress a little earlier than normal and you maybe, just may be able to afford the movie and some pancakes. 

The Newfangled, Unsatisfying Romantic Comedy: A Rant [NYMag]

This is Why I Might Have to Get Gastric Bypass

My lack (often perceived, I admit) of funds has mainly impacted my eating habits insofar as I don't keep a lot of food around (because I'm not buying it), I've become much more inventive with the available edibles (sweet potatoes and syrup: gluttonous or brilliant? Delicious!), and I tend to become preoccupied to an unhealthy extent with certain foods.

Last week, I may or may not have contacted the Girl Scouts to determine where I could purchase some tasty Samoas during the off-season. 

Thanks to this gluttonous? brilliant? blog, no longer will I research any and all recipes incorporating bacon with goat cheese. No more will I neglect my continuous employment investigation to create a color-coordinated excel spreadsheet to help a friend determine what New York restaurants she and her parents will enjoy when they visit- in 3 months. 

As Lizzie McGuire once sang, this is what dreams are made of, if your moments of nocturnal bliss involve salivating over sloppy joes atop a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Or if you can't wait until the day when you, too, finally, can start monitoring insulin injections, then here's a blog for you.

Thanks to this, my craving for tasty Girl Scout cookies may have passed, even though the higher ups still haven't responded to my query for Tagalongs in January.  

[This is Why You're Fat. Where Dreams Become Heart Attacks]

Full Disclosure

I'm prone to making grand plans like Mary-Kate and Ashley dress-up days and broad sweeping statements like "I'm going to grad school." I haven't yet organized the book club I've been nudging my friends to join for the past 3 years, and the fact that I might have to relearn the most rudimentary aspects of math is scaring me away from the GRE, so no further schooling as of now. In short, I make empty promises and threats. A lot.

I should have never said I would never read the Twilight saga. That's an automatic default into a full-blown obsession with the series. You know, the one about the vampire who falls in love with a human. LUDICROUS, I'm aware, thanks. I'm writing about my recent infatuation with all things Twilight-related on the blog even though it's in no way related to Memphis or New York, my levels of poverty, or the furthering of my career. Rather, I'm atoning for my regression into advanced preteen lust and the remorse I should feel about reading all FOUR books in 8 days. (And frankly, it's an excuse to post the gratuitous photo below; I have a thing for boys in eyewear.) Yep, I'm done. If you tried calling me in that week-plus stretch and you got my voicemail, chances are I was huddled in bed reading the young adult series that I as a 13-year-old would not have even read.

Like most who succumb to an addiction or deal with dependency issues, I set some minor rules for myself to maintain a semblance of dignity. I was not going to read the books on the subway. How many times had I seen an older women reading them in FULL VIEW of everyone?!?! Too many. My prideful stipulation didn't last long: I took the book jacket off and shoved the hardbacks into my tote so I could still read but none of my fellow-commuters could judge me for the title.

Damn you, Stephenie Meyer, former Mormon housewife who now makes millions of dollars preying on my feminine vulnerabilities. To you, I shake my fist. I have surrendered to what is essentially emotional pornography. I have no one to blame but myself. Next thing you know, I'll be tearing up over the Gerber baby and picking out china patterns.

And if you will excuse me, I have to finish the partially written, leaked fifth book that's only found on the author's website and maybe print out some pictures for my cubicle at work.