On my impending doom

If you stop hearing from me, it's just because I'm dead.

No, no, I'm not going through some bout of depression, nor am I under the influence of any mind-altering drugs. It's just that, in the midst of my insomnia this morning, my agonizing wakefulness was disturbed by the beeping of my carbon monoxide detector. It only happened twice, and it only 'chirped' (that's the technical term used on the back of the device) three times, which is indicative of a device malfunction, or something. But it was annoying- so annoying!- so my roommate and I sleepily decided it was best to deactivate the device and go back to our respective slumbers (or lack thereof).

I'm well aware of how ridiculous this is, but I dare you to try sleeping when you keep thinking, what if I'm actually going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning because I tinkered with the alarm? It's difficult, I assure you. So I opened my window, which really didn't help to abate my paranoia. So now I'm just awake, and have the re-activated device sitting next to me. At least I think it's working now- but just in case it's not and I do in fact have gas that I cannot see or smell filling my lungs and killing me, please know that I love you, dear reader.

Goodbye?

From Brooklyn to Brookline: phonetic stepping-stones

Tomorrow, I have this to look forward to:

Coming all the way from Brooklyn, NY just to play cribbage with me- Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce to you Angela-lalala, mon petit chou-fleur and most terrific friend! With her in town, weekend updates will be nonexistent (probably) and I'll see you back here on Monday.

Until then, be safe, be wise and don't compromise... Unless you absolutely have to.

Check this out

My best friend is engaged to a wonderful man named Nate Knox. He has a blog, and it's always a good read. He's creative and smart and, above all, a terrific fiance to Sarah Jean. Today, his blog is particularly good because he's on a week long hiatus and I took over.

Anyway, check him out- today and everyday.

(Christmas 2008- We're grainy and drunk and so, so happy!)

My roommate asked, "What's up with all these Mtv dates you keep going on with your co-workers?"

Last night, I went to the Boston Skating Club and for the first time in years! laced myself into ice skates. Every Tuesday from 8:30 to 10:40 they offer open skating with live organ music of the polka variety. I expected to see a lot of tiny Olympic wanna-be figure skaters prancing around like fawns on ice, but the demographic was mostly comprised of middle-aged former skaters who took the opportunity to practice old moves and get some exercise. Also, there was a staggering number of the very elderly in attendance who had stayed up past their bedtime to glide around on the ice and couple skate like middle schoolers at a roller-rink. It was pretty adorable, and they were actually quite agile, all things considered.

Personally, I made myself very proud when, after a surprisingly short space of time, I no longer moved like Frankenstein On Ice and was able to do crossovers and little spins without once falling on my bum.

Sadly, I don't have pictorial evidence of the adventure due to the fact that the skating warden did not allow us to take pictures on the ice, but I can assure you that it was a truly magical way to spend a Tuesday night. Perhaps I'll even go again next week! But probably not.

I dare you to walk a mile in these shoes

Even though I have about sixty pairs already spilling out of my closet, I still need these glowing Rodarte shoes. The heels are a little Pandorian, no?

(Image via Highsnobette)

I should spend more time with CS4

As an INTJ, this makes me very happy. Not because I'm good with design, but because I like to think it means I have potential.

(image via Strategic Aesthetics)

Lists

I have a Blackberry Pearl and I know, they're so 2008, but I love it because I have tiny hands and am able to navigate all the keys with just one of them. In my phone, I keep various lists that are beneficial to my daily existence. These include:

• Books- those I should read, stumbled upon and am interested in, or are recommended to me.
• Gifts- because I habitually forget my great gift ideas unless I write them down.
• Man List - which was made at a bar and includes all my favorite men. It's topped by none other than Jack White. (More on this in another entry.)
• Music- comprised of bands I hear and like and will never remember the names of.
• Thirsty- basically a wine list. Further proof that I'm actually 50 years-old... excellent!

Then I have a smattering of lists which consist of fragmented story ideas, paintings I like, and whatever else I find important enough to passively remember (ie: Thoth is the Egyptian god of wisdom and writing. He's pictured below.)

Because I share a sleeping schedule with the very elderly, I was awake at 5:15 AM and decided I would later take a trip to the Brookline Booksmith for something new to read. I arrived at the bookstore shortly after opening and realized I'd forgotten my phone at home and I didn't remember off the top of my head my most anticipated titles.

To take a tangential detour, let me say that I get an obscene number of book recommendations from clients and friends because, having a degree in Writing, Literature and Publishing, people think I'll be interested in all the crap they read. There are very few people whose taste in literature I actually trust, which is attributed more to my bizarre interests than my literary-snobbery (though I am quite particular about what is categorized as literature, as many of my former professors can attest to- for I frequently disputed the validity of certain texts being studied in class). To purge my Books list of recommendations, I'll spend hours online looking up books and deciding if I'd actually be interested in them. Usually, I'm not, and only the best stay on the list.

So, I was at the Booksmith without my list and with one of those headaches that comes from not having had enough sleep (honestly, it wasn't a hangover!) and I was aimlessly wandering the isles feeling overwhelmed with book lust to the point of ambivalence when suddenly I remembered that my co-worker, Maura (she does awesome hair, FYI), is constantly telling me to read William S. Burroughs. She's told me many times, including Friday night, "Kate, he was all about bowties and scotch and typewriters and shit. You're going to totally love him."

I trust her with my hair and decided, perhaps wrongly, to trust her book recommendation and bought Naked Lunch. I'm now twenty pages in and feel in need of a Junkie Dictionary to get me through this. Someone (other than Maura), please tell me this gets better.

I'm just thankful the Olympics are on to distract me. BIATHLON! I love the sound of skies on crispy snow!

Neckwear in the year 2010

In this year of our Lord, 2010, it has come to my attention that the necktie is being horribly abused. No longer does it adorn the necks of our best and brightest, adding a pop of color and style to their business ensembles. Instead, it hangs limp like a bouquet of wilted flowers on the necks of those whose occupations seem to make the idea of tying a noose around their collar more appealing than a piece of attractive fabric.

These artless tie-wearing employees consist of the following:

• Waiters and (even worse) waitresses, whose ties spill down the front of their ill-fitting white dress shirts alongside coffee and ketchup stains. Ugh.

(image from the site that exists to perpetuate this problem)

• Flight attendants. They used to be hot, but I wasn't alive then. Now, they look tired, underpaid and wrinkled.
• MBTA employees (why? why?! why?!?)

(Charlie is sadly the best-dressed MBTA employee)

• Clowns. O,MG!

(Image found here)

• Fast Food Employees. I don't eat fast food, so I can't say for certain which chains make their sixteen year-old slaves wear greasy neckties, but I know they exist. And the ties are probably clip-ons.
• Evgeni Plushenko. I don't care who designed it- figure skating outfits are always wretched, which isn't to say I don't love them, because I do. It's just that I would never encourage anyone to wear them, no matter how perfectly sculpted their body. Pictures aren't up yet, but I assure you that Plushenko's sequins tie and vest applique was a big-time no-no.

Please, dear readers, wear your neckties with purpose and pride! Wear them on the weekend as well as the workweek! They serve to center your face and add personality to that gray suit you bought because it seemed practical. Don't look like you're constantly dressing for Casual Friday no matter how lax your office dress code; you'll do better work in a tie, and look and feel better, too. I promise! Wear your tie with pride! Wear your tie, now!

P.S. I'm sure to be missing many occupations that degrade the state of the necktie, so please let me know of those I've missed.

I'm about to be so broke

"Like, I like my typewriter, but I love my BOY blazer."

Just kidding, I love my typewriter just as much as I would love a BOY blazer.

Oh Band of Outsiders, why must you tempt me so?!

(via The Steel Closet)

Displaced nostalgia

It's not like I was alive in the heyday of the typewriter, and I never had a personal connection with one, so it's strange that my brand new vintage Olympia typewriter makes me feel so creative, productive and nostalgic for a time I never had. It probably has something to do with the fact that it's not connected to the internet.

The decision was difficult, but after a trip to Cambridge Typewriter, I decided on a beautiful machine that will really strengthen my finger muscles.

The final three, all with yellow pages filled with my lunatic ramblings to get a feel for the keys and style of the font.

It's beautiful!

I'm still in the honeymoon stage, and I don't know it well enough yet to give it an actual name, (though I don't encourage you, dear reader, to embark on a honeymoon phase with anyone without knowing their name) but I do know one thing for sure: this is love. A beautiful, clacking, dinging love!

Everyone I know was Born in February

Well, almost.

My roommate and I take [our] birthdays pretty seriously and we like to extend our celebrations over the course of the surrounding days, like Mardi Gras. With his 22nd birthday coming up on Tuesday, some friends and I got together last night to celebrate and we went to a restaurant in Central Square called Green Street, where everything from the hazelnut and honey-stuffed sardines to the bacon cheeseburger and our manhattans were all-encompassingly satisfying. Really, it was the kind of food that left all of us happily sighing and leaning comfortably against the back of our chairs as if we'd just done something extraordinary, like build a barn, not simply devour an exquisite meal. Best of all, the wait staff let us take our time eating and laughing and (in my case) changing from my heels to flats at the booth even though the restaurant was packed with couples celebrating an early Valentine's Day. Already I'm looking forward to my next visit to Green Street- and I don't even like eating meals.

Last year, my roommate (who's a twin) was sent this giant banner to commemorate the big day from his father, who insisted we hang it in the kitchen. Sadly, this year we are sans banner.

The evening took a strange twist, however, when dinner was punctuated by a series of text messages from my parents, who are going through some mysterious middle-aged moment of wanderlust. Like the couples at our neighboring tables, they too chose to celebrate Valentine's Day early and did so by visiting the Minneapolis Convention Center to check out the RV show.

I cannot stress how weird this is- like, my parents abhor camping; though they aren't by any means flagrantly extravagant, they are not prone to roughing it and generally don't associate with the kind of people that come to mind when thinking of an RV park (which, in my RV novice imagination include people who want to smoke inside, people who want to bring their numerous children on vacation, people who want to bring their [giant, shedding] dog, cat, or parrot on vacation, and people who never want to not be on vacation).

What began as a conversation that went something like, "Haha, wouldn't it be funny if your mother and I bought an RV and traveled the country? Ha..." suddenly morphed into a hurried text message declaring "We bought a Mercedes Benz, Great Western RV. I am shocked that your mother came around to my thinking on this. We are going to have some fun now!" accompanied by a grainy cell phone picture of this baby:

And to sweeten the deal, they're going to blog about their cross-country journey for the RV dealer's website. OH, MY GOSH.

Life sure has an unsettling way of getting weirder as we get older and my roommate and I will be sure to toast to this weirdness as we continue celebrating his miraculous birth. HAPPY SUNDAY!

Oh, and HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Here's to you!

I know I said I was going to stay inside and wear my pajamas all day, but the snow never materialized and my feet were itching for a walk, so when my roommate suggested we visit The Boston Shaker, I was more than willing to put on a cozy dress and a pair of boots and get going.

The Boston Shaker is a civilian cocktail supply store in Davis Square. It opened last week and has all the cocktail-making paraphernalia a true mixologist would ever need or desire, including a wide array of [hard to find] bitters, made-in-the-USA equipment and a shelf of cocktail books that rivals Ina Garten's cookbook empire. It's about time Boston had a store to cater to those with refined taste and an adventurous spirit!

If you're in the Davis Square area, I suggest you visit. The owner is incredibly knowledgeable and informative, and their selection is truly wonderful. So, bottoms up! dear reader, and I'll see you in the morning!

Haven't you heard? There's a blizzard outside!

I could spit more than it's precipitating outside, yet my boss and the city of Boston still decided to call it a snow day, so here I am. Ta-da!

Though I'm bound to go a little stir-crazy, I'm actually totally cool with sitting in my candlelight apartment in my kimono with a bottle of red on the coffee table, and passing the time reading Andre Dubus. In fact, I'm quite happy about it.

Mmm, glorious.

Rules of the Baggage Claim

Look, I understand that flying is a bitch- having to pay to check bags, the fact that planes smell like baby vomit and stale farts and the stress and discomfort of TSA security all culminate in an agreed-upon wretched experience. But for me, these annoyances now come standard and I'm able to easily overlook them. What pisses me off about flying, dear passengers, is you*.

Particularly I hate the way you behave in airports- carrying stinky fast food onto the aircraft, meandering aimlessly through airport terminals so I have to dodge around you as if I were running an obstacle course in the boot-camp from hell, and worst of all, I hate the way you crowd around the baggage claim the way packs of salivating wolves do a wounded cow.



To help correct the situation, let me propose five baggage claim rules that, when followed, will make all of our journeys to our final destinations more pleasant:

1. When arriving at the baggage claim, do not stand directly against the luggage belt. This deters anyone from being able to properly see the bags further up the belt and also makes retrieving a bag without jostling, or seriously injuring, a number of people nearly impossible.

2. Do not, under any circumstances, let your children near the baggage claim. The belt is not a ride or a toy, it is something that will pinch them and make them cry and the last thing I need at the tail-end of my airplane journey is to hear your dumb toddler wailing at the top of his/her lungs.

3. You know how at neighborhood picnics there is always some imbecile who pokes every hamburger bun in the pile before finding the one he wants? Well, that person also exists at the baggage claim and he'll touch every black piece of luggage that is not his, regardless of size, shape, adorning ribbon, or luggage tag, just because he's an idiot. Know what you're looking for, pay attention to detail, and don't just fondle every bag that passes you by.

4. Help out old people. It's painful to see old people trying to hoist oversized luggage off the carousel, so when a decrepit 80 year-old walks up to retrieve her vintage floral suitcase, walk up beside her and offer to help. She'll probably say something really sweet about how strong and young and attractive you are for helping her, and everyone else will be relieved to know grandma's not going to break her arm off getting her bag and then hold them up in the airport even longer.

5. If you have many bags, don't pile them in an inconvenient place as you wait for the others to arrive. Put them in a corner, or at least far away from the belt and the main walkway. I know it can be difficult to maneuver many bags at a time, but your overpacking should not hinder my walking, so keep them out of the way.

Lastly, I just want to make a plea for everyone to take some calming deep breaths and chill out in the airport. It's not a scary place. It's a weird place, sometimes freakishly so, but overall the staff is doing everything they can to not piss you off. So, try not to get pissed off, use your manners, be considerate of others and have a good flight.

*You is the general populace and is in no ways indicative of you, dear reader.

(image via ivy league insecurities)

My Future Boyfriend

It's weird, I know, but at some point in my life I want to date a Foley artist. I'm not sure why seeing as the only other people who sit alone in small rooms are usually there by force and as punishment for some horrific wrongdoing. It's just that I imagine Foley artists have a really sensual attention to detail and would be really interesting to talk to. Like, they'd notice the little things- the noise of a mosquito hovering near the lamp, the way the ground quivers ever so slightly when the train goes past, or the way the spine of a hardcover cracks the first time it's opened. Someone who delights in such minute details must be a fascinating person, and someone who can recreate them with strange objects like aluminum foil, crunching masking tape and breaking celery sticks must be doubly interesting.



This Grey Goose commercial is, in my amateur opinion, a work of true Foley mastery. Even now, on this freezing February evening, I half believe I'm sailing somewhere off The Cape and am about to drink a crisp, refreshing glass of Grey Goose as I snack on fresh oysters and get a suntan. Literally, the sound in this commercial makes my mouth water and toes tingle as they're kissed by splashing sea foam. SO HOT!

If you feel so inclined, I suggest you watch the other Grey Goose commercials as well. They're good, too, but not as good as this one.

(And yes, I agree- Ketel One is better.)

Getting my Game Face On!

Today marks the many-month climax to America's favorite sport, and I'm celebrating as I celebrate most everything: with Doritos.

Anyway, before I apply my face paint and get my hands dirty with artificial Nacho Cheese flavoring, I decided to share some really beautiful photos a client showed me. If you have any interest in window displays, I suggest you check out the new window display at Anthropologie, she said.



The exploding ball of flowers in the background was constructed by a [probably] lovely and charming young woman named Dana and is made of plastic bottles which have been cut, bended and painted to look like flowers.



I want repurposed bottles adorning my apartment now! Actually, I want to just live in Anthropologie like Natalie Portman lived in Walmart in that one really awful movie from the nineties. For more photos, check out the Anthropologie flikr.

I tell you the truth:

I always love the parts in the Bible where Jesus starts saying something with, "I tell you the truth." I'm a fan of honesty, and it is with a truthful tongue that I confess the following: I spend far too much time in my kimono, drinking whiskey and sitting on my computer- this post alone is proof.

I used to have a robe and it looked like this:


(Just FYI, I was a junior in high school in this photo, so it by no means represents my current fashion decisions... And I don't know why this picture was ever taken or who actually took it? Probably one of my brothers? Anyway, YUCK!)

Looking back, I don't know how I still had friends after they saw me in such a garment. Really, it looks like a Muppet was attacking me, but not in a Lady Gaga way. It's just a giant, pink Muppet, slowly smothering me! It's pains me to say that this robe sadly didn't go into retirement until quite recently (I'm sorry to all my college roommates for having to bear witness to this monstrosity) and I've since graduated to wearing a kimono around the apartment.

Perhaps it's unwarranted, but I feel like I'm committing some sort of cultural blasphemy every time I wear my kimono- as if I'm in some way degrading the Japanese culture by throwing it on so casually and lounging around, sitting in various positions that crease the fabric. My father got it while on a business trip in Japan and I know it's of good quality, so I struggle with how I use such a beautiful garment. But at the same time, if I don't wear it as a robe it will simply hang in my closet ad infinitum and that just seems pointless.

SO! I'm wearing my kimono as a robe and I'm drinking some whiskey and if it were warmer and I had some matches on hand I'd open the window and smoke my pipe.

Japan, please don't hate me.

The Price of Your Shit

There is something regal about eating alone in a cafe. It requires a sort of poised dignity; you sit with your back straighter, your eyes carefully unfocused and concentrate more on pacing, for your bites are not punctuated by voiced observations or laughter. When you eat alone, the sound of chewing will be heavy in your ears. It'll remind you of that squishing sound your mother's tuna-salad made as she mixed it together with a rubber spatula on Sunday nights. You'd have tuna sandwiches all week at school for lunch and the noise your mouth made chewing those cellophane-wrapped sandwiches was the same as that stirring. You wonder if that's the same sound food makes as it moves through your intestines, as it's broken down by acids and turns into shit.

You're alone and suddenly eating seems foolish. You daintily dab your mouth with a napkin and push your plate, which still has half a frittata on it, toward the center of the table. The frittata was $9.50. $9.50 is the price of your shit. If your mother were here she'd tell you to finish eating; even though you're an adult, she'd scold you for being wasteful. But eating alone has made you tired, each bite is exhausting. Besides, it seems indecent for a woman to finish a meal when she's eating alone, just as it's bad form to lick clean your plate on a first date.

You read a book last summer about the way people eat when they're eating alone. Surprisingly, some people go to great lengths to make themselves a meal. They light candles, open bottles of wine, let them breathe and then pair them with a carefully-prepared dish. Maybe they listen to classical music as they do this, waving their arms like the composer as they orchestrate their meal and work through various courses. When you eat at home, alone, you're lazy like a college-aged boy. You eat a lot of cereal, canned fish and fruit. Once you went the whole summer without using your oven or stove. You remember the words of a friend some years ago- he said, "Eat to live, don't live to eat," and you've thought about this advice often over the years, usually as you're eating rice right out of the pot in which it was made. After a couple forkfuls you put the lid back on and put it directly into the refrigerator with a potholder underneath. It's pathetic, and when friends come over you don't let them open the fridge, or your cupboards, so they don't know how low you've stooped. Idly you'll wonder if these are the typical eating habits of a singleton.

The waiter at the cafe will come over and look concerned, will ask if everything was to your liking and if he can take away your plate. "Oh," you'll say, startled and fumbling to find your voice as if you just woke up, "Everything was great, thank you. Yes, yes, you can take it away." The waiter will smile gratefully and ask if he can get you anything else. You'll shake your head, put on your coat, drop twelve dollars on the table and leave.

Six hours later you'll be hungry again, and when your stomach grumbles you'll wonder, what's the point?

It's Business Time

I'm always tempted to print myself a bunch of business cards, but then I remember that I don't know what I'm going to be doing with myself for the next three, six, twelve months, so I hold off. What would I put on a business card? Professional Receptionist, Freelance Writer, Amateur Glassblower? Uh, no.
Regardless, I'm still very inspired by creative business card ideas such as those featured on Naldzg Graphics.

I particularly love these cards and think they're perfect for a hair salon!



One day I will have really awesome business cards, too. When you meet me at a bar and I hand you one, you'll be so impressed!

P.S. Speaking of business cards- my friends at J. Newbury have fantastic business cards that are actually printed on a deck of playing cards. They're pretty debonair. And their shirts are pretty cool, too.

'Tis the season!

Valentine's day is next weekend. Cute, I know. In honor of this joyous occasion, Avanti South (which may or may not be where I work) is offering $20 blowouts Saturday and Sunday so you can look FINE for your VALENTINE! (Yes, that just happened... No, I don't want to talk about it).



Anyway, if you're in the Boston area and have hair long enough to necessitate a wash, blow and style, give us a call! 617.485.1003. I promise, you'll leave looking fabulous!

It's completely my fault, but still...

I use my college email address to get Facebook updates and the IndieBound newsletter, not to send the blueprints for overseas attacks or instructions on how to prepare the next chemical weapon, so why, after four years of having the same username and password, was I asked to choose a new one? And not just choose a new password, but drastically change it to be something that can no longer be recognized as an actual word?

Look, every time my school emails me, especially now that I'm no longer an actual student, I ignore it. I don't care about the poetry reading in the back of the bookstore or about the boy who won a dance scholarship or whatever. And whenever the mail is tagged by the school as important, it usually isn't, so forgive me for not taking their emails seriously.



Moral of the story, I failed to change my password in the alloted time, and am now locked out from my email. You may be asking, "But if you only use it to get Fb updates, then what does it matter?" Well, I lied. I have a few friends who email me at that address and suddenly I am paralyzed with fear that they're all sending me news of wedding bells, concert tickets and/or party invitations.

Guess I have a date with IT this afternoon because I have to make an actual appearance on campus to get this thing sorted out. So thank you, dear college, for making my life more complicated. I'm glad you care so much about my email protection, but I'd rather you spend my tuition money on something else, like actually getting the correct course books stocked in the library.

OKBYE!

My friends are pretty talented

Tonight, I saw Arletta perform at Great Scott. My friend Naomi plays the violin and occasionally the tambourine and egg-shaker in the band and she's too thoroughly wonderful for me to describe her greatness. A couple friends and I have made it a point to become Arletta groupies. We sway in sync to the music and sing along when we know the words. They're great and I encourage you, dear reader, to take an interest in them as well. Not because they're young and want to be famous but because they're confident men and woman (Naomi's the only female) who are established in life and find fulfillment in coming together to create great music. I like what they do, and hope you do too.

Snow!

I'm something of an insomniac and frequently wake for the hours between 3:30 and 6:00 AM. Usually it's a drag, but when it's snowing I don't mind. There's something particular to snow that makes the light coming through the window soft and beautiful, even when it's the middle of the night at there's not a lot of it. Right now, it's a joy to lay awake in its glow.

What's in a name?

Long before every Katie, Kathy and Kaitlyn (with all their variant spellings) in the world opted to go by Kate (generally this happened their freshmen year of college) I proudly bore the name. I've always liked my name, and just as you feel a swell of affection for people you see on the train reading a book you love, I feel an affinity with most people named Kate. Unless, of course, they turn out to be a total psycho in which case there's a good chance they used to be called Katie or Kathy or Kaitlyn.

I was just talking with a friend online who asked, "Have you ever looked up your name in urbandictionary.com? mine has several definitions but the one I like is "to pull a christa is to do something stupid and still look great while doing it." (Just FYI: though Christa does in fact always look great, she rarely does anything stupid.)

Of course I'd never looked up my name in the Urban Dictionary, a site I generally stay away from seeing as the layout is ugly and I've always associated it with the lowest forms of vulgar expression. Regardless, Christa is the dearest of friends so I proceeded to look up my name and was pleasently surprised to find that all the definitions for Kate are completely true! My three favorites are:

1. A girl's name for the coolest person you will ever meet.

2.

1. One syllable of pure ecstacy. In ancient times, uttering 'Kate' would often cause massive public orgies.
2. Used to compliment someone on their ridiculous good-looks.
3. Indicative of high fashion sense.

3. One of the best friends you will ever meet. Kate is hilarious. She is completely random and will say whatever is on her mind whenever she wants. She doesn't care what you have to say about her, she'll just brush it away and go on with her life. She will always listen to what you have to say and always help you out no matter what is going on. Even if she hasn't gone through what you're experiencing, she will still give her best advice. Kate is by far the best girl you can ever become friends with.

And that, dear readers, is the complete truth written from the fingers of the Urban Dictionary gods!

Now I'm curious, what does Urban Dictionary say about YOUR name?

Lykke Li, I Like

Sometimes she freaks me out a little, particularly when she sounds like a whispering child who's up to no good, but usually I am completely charmed by Swedish musician Lykke Li. Simple lyrics and straight forward instrumental loops join forces to run through my head for days on end. In particular I've been plagued by her song Little Bit and like a bad case of the hiccups I've been off-and-on humming it all day.



I think I'm a little bit in love with the man wearing shorts and suspenders while gyrating like a sexy lunatic in the background.

Perpetual Weekends

I live in a state of constant weekend. One day I will probably have a career that will necessitate that I stay in on weeknights and generally behave myself, but presently I'm free to sit at bars talking books and movies and Lady GaGa all night and then sleep until 9:00 (or later...) the next morning. It's almost gotten to the point where I don't know what people do if they stay in for the evening- watch TV, I suppose?

Anyway, last night I had a decadent evening at Ken Oringer's fantastic sashimi bar, Uni in the Eliot Hotel. A good friend of mine is moving to San Francisco and we took advantage of the occasion to feast like kings on our usual seaweed salad, tomato water martinis (they sound weird, but they're actually delicious and, surprisingly, non-alcoholic), vegetable tempura, roasted peppers and a plethora of other delicious foods, the names of which I'm uncertain. Generally I enjoy making decisions for myself, but when I'm at a good restaurant or am in the company of people whose palates I trust, I like my food to be ordered on my behalf. By practicing this method of ordering, I'm exposed to delicious meals that I never would have tried on my own, opting instead for something uncomplicated and familiar. Because my friend is a former employee of Uni we were sent plates of fresh chef-creations including thin strips of raw octopus partially cooked in a hot sesame oil that were just as good as they were beautiful. I just love that, having a chef decide what to feed me! Overall it was a fantastic Sunday night and I'm lucky to be able to sit and drink wine with good friends until midnight rather than tuck myself into bed and set my alarm.

Life, I love you!