I’m a Jinius

Friday
It was the end of the week and I decided to reward myself by going to happy hour. (Did BF Skinner invent happy hour?) My friends and I convened at my new favorite bar. It’s my favorite because they serve this drink that is like the master cleanse but spiked with bourbon and they have a hot bartender who graduated highschool in 2002 (wtf??) and gives out free donuts. Is it a coincidence that now every time I see a donut I start salivating? Is someone doing a behavioral experiment on me??

Anyhoo, my hot bartender was not there which was probably a good thing because my friends and I quickly became the loudest people in the place. We knew we were loud when we stopped talking and could actually hear the music in the background.Everyone around us was chatting quietly and eating dinner whereas we were laughing like hyenas. Whatever, I think we were entertaining. If only to ourselves. (more…)

I know, I know. How could I do that to him? And on Valentines Day of all days?!?!

But I heard the siren call of open bar at The Delancey and all my friends were going. So I was all “peace out, home slice.”

Sorry, baby, but I had to hang out with three dimensional people.

Anyway my ass had to dance to Bonafide Lovin’. (Thanks Fleetweek DJs! You guys rock the hizzouse!!!)

Oh, I learned that Guinness is neither low carb nor low cal. It’s a myth. Like evolution. In fact it has alot of sugar. I wish I had learned this earlier, I had like three pints last night!!! I knew there was a reason it tastes like a milk shake!

So this beer drinking thing is at least helping me in the “staying relatively sober so I can remember how I get home” department. But it’s no good for the expansion of my waist line. I can’t win!!!

Confession.

I like to read cookbooks in bed.

But not just any cookbook. I like to read Nigella Lawson’s How to Eat–her ode to cooking and consuming. It’s really the perfect lullaby. You can feel Nigella soothe you to sleep with her stories on how to cook the perfect roast chicken or bernaise sauce.

So tonight I decided that I should probably actually, you know, attempt to cook something instead of just reading about it. I was really craving chocolate so I embarked on a chocolate chip cookie expedition. Unfortunately I don’t have Nigella’s baking bible The Domestic Goddess so I turned to one of my favorite food blogs for direction.

If you guys haven’t clicked on Smitten Kitchen then bookmark her now and subscribe to her feed! Her writing and food are just delicious. The photos just seem to leap off the screen and beg to be eaten.

Smitten’s favorite chocolate chip cookie recipe is from David Lebovitz’s Great Book of Chocolate. After one look at the photos I knew I had to have them. In my mouth. Immediately.

So I tried to channel my inner domestic goddess.

This is what Nigella wears in the kitchen.

This is what I wear.

It kinda looks like a Kandisky painting.

Or a geometry lesson. And, yes, I’m wearing spandex. Don’t you wear spandex in the kitchen?

This is what my kitchen looked like during the cooking process. Um, I’m a domestic goddess in training.

And here’s how my cookies came out.

I’m not the most skilled photographer tee-hee. But you will just have to take my stomach’s word that these cookies were Le Bomb. I must have gobbled up a half dozen ’cause I just had to take a bite out of each batch and make sure they turned out okay!

I guess on my way to becoming a domestic goddess! If domestic goddesses wear spandex…

Recipe here.

Ilana forwarded me this NY Times article about a woman who went to our alma mater back in the sixties and made extra money in college by babysitting. And through babysitting she discovered the joys of raiding her employer’s fridge. Something I fondly remember exploiting as well.

I think the most memorable family I babysat for was this Italian couple with three boys ranging in age from 4-7. Okay, I don’t know how those parents did this on a daily basis because do you know how hard it is to look after THREE RAMBUNCTIOUS ITALIAN BOYS??? Oh my god, I need a massage just thinking about it. I must’ve been 18 or 19 at the time and I remember being so tired after the first gig that I came home and vowed I would never babysit again and passed out in bed.

But I returned. The money was too good. And the food was even better.

The parents were straight up from Italy and ran an Italian restaurant in the city. So you can just imagine the heavenly treats they had stored in their fridge. Fresh mozzarella.Lightly breaded chicken cutlets that were so juicy I could gobble three at a time. Leftover pasta with the most heavenly marinara sauce. I could bathe in that marinara! Oh, and the sweets! They had an entire pantry just devoted to imported Italian cookies and chocolate!

For a 19 year old college student who subsisted on the monotonous menu of a meal plan, this was heaven. If heaven were a kitchen on the Upper West Side. (more…)

New Yorkers are always joking that they have a drinking problem. This is because we all have drinking problems.

I mean, why bother shelling out 25 bucks for a museum or 50 bucks for a play when you can buy 2-for-1 martinis at your local bar? Not only is it more economical but you even benefit from alcohol’s palliative properties to numb the stresses of urban life. Score!

So, yeah, New Yorkers drink excessively. And it’s easy to dismiss this behavior by saying “Well, it’s not like I wake up and have to drink a handle of vodka to make it through the day.” We just drink the equivalent of a handle of vodka throughout the week.

I guess I was never really concerned about my drinking behavior until I noticed this year that I was sending alot more emails and texts that started with “I’m sorry if I was so drunk last night…”

And then the other day my friend leaves me a message saying, “Hey, I just wanted to see what happened with you last night? You were acting very un-Jiniusesque.”

Ummm what does that even mean? Was I doing calculus at the bar or something? Now that would be out of character for me.

But I have to admit I was embarrassed. It’s hard to feel proud about yourself when your friends are telling you that you were acting strange. I mean, it is one thing to get drunk and start dancing on the tables (behavior I fully endorse) but to get so drunk that you’re speaking in non sequiturs? That’s just weird.

So I emailed with my friend Fab. I figured she could offer some insight as someone who’s known me since college and knows my drinking behavior. And now she lives in LA and can offer an outsider’s perspective on the whole New York drinking scene.

Here’s what she had to say. Please feel free to leave stories and suggestions in the comment box. You can even leave an anonymous comment. (more…)

I’m siiiiick.

I rolled into work today at like 10:30. I would have called in sick but the last time I did that my boss said single people shouldn’t get sick because they don’t have anyone to take care of.

Ummmkay, I thought single people were the first ones to die of heart disease and shit?!

On another note, how come no one ever gave me the memo that Guiness is like really awesome? It tastes like a milkshake! And Vid told me that it’s low in calories! I am soo replacing my morning coffee with a pint of Guiness.

Oh yeah, I fell off the wagon. Or is it on the wagon? Whatever, at this point I need an ambulance. I met up with my friend Vidya for happy hour because we were both having shitty days and by the end of the evening I had a smile on my face. Albeit a drunken/half smile. It’s amazing how three glasses of wine, a pint of Guiness, bacon wrapped dates, and funny conversation can change your outlook on life.

But now I’m sick and want to kill myself again.

Oh and the 25 yr old texted me last night. I replied “you have texticular cancer lol”.

He never responded.

I meant texticular cancer in a benign way!

Drats.

1. I’m on my second week of “not drinking alcohol during the week” program and spend most of my time being antisocial, working on my play, watching reality shows on Bravo, and reading in bed. Sobriety is overrated!!!

2. I deleted the 25 year old’s number because he suffers from an acute case of texticular cancer*–a disease that afflicts men in the island of Manhattan between the ages of 21-40. Symptoms include texting in the middle of the night, texting instead of calling, texting while out drinking, texting instead of talking, carpal tunnels syndrome as a result of texting, and a wan complexion due to the glowing screen of their blackberry.

3. I tried doing the master cleanse for a day and was ready to seriously maim someone by noon. Fellas, if you’re ever dealing with a bitchy woman it’s probably not because of pms but due to low blood sugar. Now I know why the Olsen twins never smile in photos!

4. So I was reading Time magazines “Single people should just get it over with and kill themselves” issue. One of the articles is about the health benefits of being married. Apparently single people have health issues because we don’t have anyone yelling at our fat ass to stop eating ramen. Um, hello, I do no eat ramen for dinner thank you very much. I have wraps and ferrero rochers! Geesh, if you’re going to promote stereotypes about single people you don’t have to make us sound so…pedestrian.

5. One of the articles talked about the science of love and the whole pheromones thing and how women subconsciously select their primary care provider based on his scent and can discern if their genes will get along in the champagne room. But the birth control pill may affect the way women evaluate their partner’s smell and cause them to make wrong partner choices. This explains why I was so dickmatized during my early twenties when I was on the pill and have no interest in hooking up with any of the guys I dated before the age of 25. Love ya like a sister!

6. The chocolate chip cookies at Subway are off-the-hook. Yum.

7. I ran into my hot neighbor this morning. This is how our conversation ensued:

Neighbor: Good morning.
Me: Hummana Hummana.

He makes me feel like I’m sixteen. I think it’s because he IS sixteen. Ugh, just call me Mary Kay Letorneau.

8. Happy Friday!

*texticular cancer was first coined by my friend Elissa, an expert in the field of urban anthropology.

There are times in life when you laugh. There are times in life when you cry.There are times in life when you laugh AND cry at the same time because you are stuck in a cab with a driver who doesn’t know where the fuck he is going and you resort to schizophrenic behavior in order to cope with the utter misery of your situation.

So I was in Boston this weekend.

It was my friend Binnie’s birthday but the poor thing got food poisoning and was exiled to her bedroom pretty much all weekend. Is it just me or do birthdays diminish in amusement after your 21st birthday? When you’re young you get balloons and a clown on your birthday. When you’re in your late twenties you get food poisoning.

So while she was trying to keep the room from spinning, I was on my way to meet my friend Ilana at a karaoke bar in Boston.

Little did I know that trying to get from the Harvard Business School Campus to Downtown Boston would require the patience and endurance of a pioneer on the Oregon Trail. (more…)

I saw Madeleine Albright speak at the 92nd Street Y the other day and my crush on her escalated even more. Not only was she the first female secretary of state and the first American official to meet with a certain autocratic ruler of a highly isolated country, but girlfriend can leg press 400 pounds.

She also has a razor sharp wit. She told us this story about how she was invited to the White House for a dinner with former Secretaries of State and Defense, “Rarely have I ever felt so young.” and when she had a moment to speak with President Bush she said, ” ‘Mr. President, I don’t know why you act as if you invented democracy when you know I did.”

Luckily, he laughed at her joke.

After the lecture, I waited thirty minutes for her to sign my book. The ushers said that we could have her personalize the message or just get her signature. What the hell was I going to do with a book that was dedicated to me? Isn’t that lame? I decided to just get her signature. Everyone else ahead of me got their books personalized. Oh, well.

While I felt inspired and awed during the lecture, I couldn’t help but feel a little deflated afterward. I mean, I’m sure Madeleine Albright was not the type of woman that ever passed out in bed after a night of drinking. And I chided myself for not having the discipline to moderate my party habits and do something more with my professional life. Would I have achieved more success if it were not for my propensity to do soju shots and then curl up in fetal position on my bathroom floor?

Then yesterday I went to yoga class and ran into this girl I know. I hardly recognized her. She seemed so mellow, glowing from the inside out. “I haven’t had alcohol in 4 months,” she explained.

FOUR MONTHS.

Wow. No matter how many times I puke on the sidewalk or pass out at home, I still continue to drink alcohol like an indefatigable frat boy. But the minute I see that someone has better skin and a leaner body from not drinking alcohol, I want to jump on the wagon.

Vanity is a great motivator.

So, yeah, I’m thinking of curtailing the drinking.

Will you still love me when I am sober?

And boring?

It’s amazing what three days of drinking can do to your body. Not only do I feel to’ up from tha flo up but I have these huge bruises on my legs. I asked Ursy where these bruises could have come from and she said, “Maybe it’s because you and that guy were body slamming eachother on Saturday.”

Oh, right, Remember the guy from Rue B? Well, apparently we started dancing in the middle of the bar–even though Rue B is a JAZZ BAR and the only area you could possibly dance in is this sliver of a space near the piano–and we kept knocking into eachother because that’s what happens when two intoxicated people try to dance in a space the size of a place mat.

Anyway, I ended up hanging out with him again on Tuesday. At first I was worried that he would not be as cute sober as he was when I was drunk but I walked into the bar, spotted him near the entrance and he was, indeed, quite steamy. Literally. My glasses fogged up as soon as I walked into the bar. It was a little embarrassing. Foggy glasses are the optometrical equivalent of red-wine-mouth.

So we had a couple of drinks and we got onto the subject of karaoke, because hello I’m Asian, and I asked him if he liked it and he said, “I love karaoke.”

OH.

MY.

GOD.

I HAVE TO MARRY YOU.

(Of course I did not say that out loud. I’m crazy not stupid.)

But every man has his flaws and the boy’s big flaw is that he’s twenty-five.

TWENTY FIVE.

Sure, I have the maturity level of a twelve year old boy but I can not date a twenty-five year old. It’s like I’m asking myself to get screwed over.Twenty-five is the prime age for hunting and gathering. Guys his age actually have the energy to go out to the Meatpacking district and look for ass. Guys my age stay at home and take a bunch of pharmaceuticals and play X-box.

But he’s so cute.

Fuck.

I know, I know. Shut it down.

On Wednesday, my ex-boyfriend was in town for a day so we met up for happy hour. Except happy hour turned into drinking until eleven and him having to call Amtrak to book a later train because he missed his first train. It was good to see him. He’ll always have a special place in my heart. Unfortunately, that place is currently occupied by heart burn.

On Friday, we all went karaoking for my friend Liz’s birthday. Liz is awesome. We met freshman year of college when a group of us decided to go this club called The Tunnel (you might remember it from the movie Kids) and my first impression of Liz was “That girl is wearing a furry ass coat.”

Seriously, her coat kinda looked like this:

Then my second impression was, “That is one funny bitch. I have to be friends with her.”

So there were like 50 people in this private karaoke room. My friend Vidya and I were trying to figure out our first song. “What about R. Kelly’s Ignition?” she asked. Well, I love R. Kelly but I’m not sure if a bunch of sober people would like R. Kelly. I suggested maybe something more neutral like Bon Jovi. White people love Bon Jovi.

The funny thing about karaoke is that one minute you’re just milling around and talking and then the next minute you’re humping the floor and singing You Oughta Know.

Karaoke…cheaper than therapy.

On Saturday, Dave and Ursy and I went out to Luca Bar for brunch and started talking about Don Cheadle and what a great actor he is and Dave goes, “How did Don Cheadle go from Mean Girls to Hotel Rwanda?”

“Um, Don Cheadle was not in Mean Girls. Tim Meadows was in Mean Girls.”
“Wait, Don Cheadle wasn’t in SNL? Or Ladies Man?”
“No, that’s Tim Meadows.”
“They’re not the same person?”
“Um…no.”

Mind you, my friend Dave is a brotha and he couldn’t even tell Don Cheadle and Tim Meadows apart. Could you imagine Tim Meadows doing Hotel Rwanda??? “Helloooo…I’m tha ladies man. Is there a problem with the Tutsis?” Um, yeah, let’s give a NAACP image award to Tim Meadows for Most Versatile Actor.

Okay, I have to go work off my wine and cheese belly now. Peace.