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.

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]