"If you propose to me during the Christmas holidays, you realize that the ring does not double as an engagement ring and a Christmas present, right? Those two occasions call for two separate gifts. This is not a two-birds-with-one-diamond type of situation."
And sometimes I wonder why Boyfriend always says "It's true what they say... you really can't choose the one you love."
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
boyfriend on: the hills
"If I ever passed Spencer on the street, I'd kick his ass. No, really. I would. He deserves a good ass-kicking. I'd go all country on him, too. I'd put on a pair of boots first."*
Yep.
*Boyfriend does not actually own a pair of boots
Yep.
*Boyfriend does not actually own a pair of boots
to know is to be
Dinner at Craft was amazing. Better than can ever be expected for less than $98 per steak (an actual price on the menu). I'm devoting my upcoming free Saturday to attempting to re-create their braised beef short ribs. Blah blah blah, nothing of interest here. Good food, cheap Restaurant Week prices, enough said.
But Restaurant Week events can't ever go off without a catch somewhere along the way. After dinner Boyfriend, my two friends and I decided that it would be an ironic hoot to make our way up to Ghostbar. Sorry, ghostbar. No initial caps here... we're way too pretentious. Anywho, we make our way to Dallas' latest attempt at becoming LA and are undaunted by the abnormally short line outside the entrance. My friend G and I are nominated as Group Representatives, probably because we're both tall. Tall = intimidating. We approach the bouncer standing ominously clutching his clipboard, occasionally putting his hand to his ear to listen intently to the Secret Service men on the other end. He could not have been a day older than myself, and seemed to be a former normal person. However, now he is Bouncer... here him roar.
Me: (confused that more trend-seekers are not forcing their way inside) "Is this the line to get in?"
Bouncer: "For the people on The List. Are you on The List?"
Me: "I sincerely doubt that." (Come on, it's Dallas. Not LA. And I am no LiLo, not by any means.)
Bouncer: "Then you'll need to go to the street entrance."
The street entrance? Like the commoners? Immediately I feel myself flushed with the feeling of rejection, upset that I had even bothered to take the time before I approached him to adjust my (minimal and sad) cleavage. This is by no means my scene and I typically have nothing but contempt for those whose scene it is, but that does not mean that I feel like any more of a person. That is, until I ask him a question about The List.
Me: "So, this List. If I were to get on it, how would I go about doing so?"
Bouncer: "To know is to be."
My friend G loses it at this point. He incredulously phrases a question that sounds more like a statement: "What did you just say."
Bouncer sighs, with a significant decrease in confidence: "To know is to be."
I erupt in giggles. This guy is losing faith in his own religion.
Me: "You're serious. You seriously just said that. You know that's ridiculous, right? Absolutely ridiculous?"
Bouncer's face falls as he hangs his head in sheepish expression and refuses to make eye contact with any of us. He is obviously embarrassed of his own words.
Just like my friends and I... when coolness quotients are in question, what better way to build yourself up than to tear an authority figure down? To quote an email pal of mine: "You verbally kicked that dude in the berries." Yes, I did. And I did it to make myself feel better. Guess what? It worked.
But Restaurant Week events can't ever go off without a catch somewhere along the way. After dinner Boyfriend, my two friends and I decided that it would be an ironic hoot to make our way up to Ghostbar. Sorry, ghostbar. No initial caps here... we're way too pretentious. Anywho, we make our way to Dallas' latest attempt at becoming LA and are undaunted by the abnormally short line outside the entrance. My friend G and I are nominated as Group Representatives, probably because we're both tall. Tall = intimidating. We approach the bouncer standing ominously clutching his clipboard, occasionally putting his hand to his ear to listen intently to the Secret Service men on the other end. He could not have been a day older than myself, and seemed to be a former normal person. However, now he is Bouncer... here him roar.
Me: (confused that more trend-seekers are not forcing their way inside) "Is this the line to get in?"
Bouncer: "For the people on The List. Are you on The List?"
Me: "I sincerely doubt that." (Come on, it's Dallas. Not LA. And I am no LiLo, not by any means.)
Bouncer: "Then you'll need to go to the street entrance."
The street entrance? Like the commoners? Immediately I feel myself flushed with the feeling of rejection, upset that I had even bothered to take the time before I approached him to adjust my (minimal and sad) cleavage. This is by no means my scene and I typically have nothing but contempt for those whose scene it is, but that does not mean that I feel like any more of a person. That is, until I ask him a question about The List.
Me: "So, this List. If I were to get on it, how would I go about doing so?"
Bouncer: "To know is to be."
My friend G loses it at this point. He incredulously phrases a question that sounds more like a statement: "What did you just say."
Bouncer sighs, with a significant decrease in confidence: "To know is to be."
I erupt in giggles. This guy is losing faith in his own religion.
Me: "You're serious. You seriously just said that. You know that's ridiculous, right? Absolutely ridiculous?"
Bouncer's face falls as he hangs his head in sheepish expression and refuses to make eye contact with any of us. He is obviously embarrassed of his own words.
Just like my friends and I... when coolness quotients are in question, what better way to build yourself up than to tear an authority figure down? To quote an email pal of mine: "You verbally kicked that dude in the berries." Yes, I did. And I did it to make myself feel better. Guess what? It worked.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
the infamous restaurant week
Restaurant Week and I have a sordid past. The first year I participated was a drunken disaster, as my back-up husband proposed to his girlfriend (whom I thought was toast) that very same day. I decided that I had a fever and the only cure was more vodka.
I drank two martinis at home while I got ready for the evening, then made it to the (extremely nice and expensive) restaurant 20 minutes before my friends. I entertained myself by drinking two more martinis served up by a very cute waiter, then made my way to the table with my friends. A couple of glasses of wine later, my best friend's sister was having to reprimand me and tell me to "use my inside voice". I wrapped up the dinner by offering to put the entire tab (over $600) on my credit card and "you guyss can jus pay me back later." I was 22 and therefore my drunken behavior could be pardoned. However, lesser versions of this same experience continued to occur year after year. I suppose that I rationalize as thus: I'm not paying full price for this gourmet meal, therefore I should spend the amount saved on alcohol.
Last night kicked off my 4th year of Restaurant Week. We all politely ate our beef tenderloin medallions and laughed about my past drunken behavior. I had two glasses of wine, perfectly timing the consumption with that of my meal. I had my last sip of pinot noir right as I took my last bite of my chocolate torte and colored myself impressed. I was polite. I was cultured. I was a goddess. I was sober. I had kicked Restaurant Week's ass.
So, what else was there to do but celebrate and revel in my triumph? I got my car out of valet and called Boyfriend.
"Want to go have a glass of wine with me?"
It was tough to tear him away from his wrestling program ("it's not just sports... it's sports entertainment!!") but he obliged. We went to a quiet little wine bar over by my house and went to the bartender to order by the glass.
"Wouldn't it be more economical if we just bought a whole bottle?"
The rationalization began.
We bought a great bottle of Seghesio zinfandel, found a seat in the back of the bar, and talked our way through the whole thing. Boyfriend confessed that he wasn't quite ready to quit drinking just yet, and I was happy to go along with this. We had another couple of glasses of wine.
We then realized that, although we were still not ready to quit drinking, we were ready to quit paying for it. We went back to my apartment and cracked open a bottle of South African white.
The last thing I remember is the two of us getting into an argument about whether I should (Boyfriend's opinion) or should not (my opinion) take down every last picture of myself and my ex-boyfriend. We bet Tuesday night's dinner that there were less than 5 pictures on my fridge alone and that if that was the case, then they could remain in place because my ex and I are still friends. We counted and there were, in fact, more than 5 pictures on the fridge. I somehow refused to believe that I had lost the bet, though. The wine was louder than I was and apparently also a better arithmetician.
Today I am unshowered, have my hair in a ponytail, and am wearing flip flops and jeans with an untucked button-down. I'm going to have to change this shit before dinner at Craft tonight. Damn you, Restaurant Week!
I drank two martinis at home while I got ready for the evening, then made it to the (extremely nice and expensive) restaurant 20 minutes before my friends. I entertained myself by drinking two more martinis served up by a very cute waiter, then made my way to the table with my friends. A couple of glasses of wine later, my best friend's sister was having to reprimand me and tell me to "use my inside voice". I wrapped up the dinner by offering to put the entire tab (over $600) on my credit card and "you guyss can jus pay me back later." I was 22 and therefore my drunken behavior could be pardoned. However, lesser versions of this same experience continued to occur year after year. I suppose that I rationalize as thus: I'm not paying full price for this gourmet meal, therefore I should spend the amount saved on alcohol.
Last night kicked off my 4th year of Restaurant Week. We all politely ate our beef tenderloin medallions and laughed about my past drunken behavior. I had two glasses of wine, perfectly timing the consumption with that of my meal. I had my last sip of pinot noir right as I took my last bite of my chocolate torte and colored myself impressed. I was polite. I was cultured. I was a goddess. I was sober. I had kicked Restaurant Week's ass.
So, what else was there to do but celebrate and revel in my triumph? I got my car out of valet and called Boyfriend.
"Want to go have a glass of wine with me?"
It was tough to tear him away from his wrestling program ("it's not just sports... it's sports entertainment!!") but he obliged. We went to a quiet little wine bar over by my house and went to the bartender to order by the glass.
"Wouldn't it be more economical if we just bought a whole bottle?"
The rationalization began.
We bought a great bottle of Seghesio zinfandel, found a seat in the back of the bar, and talked our way through the whole thing. Boyfriend confessed that he wasn't quite ready to quit drinking just yet, and I was happy to go along with this. We had another couple of glasses of wine.
We then realized that, although we were still not ready to quit drinking, we were ready to quit paying for it. We went back to my apartment and cracked open a bottle of South African white.
The last thing I remember is the two of us getting into an argument about whether I should (Boyfriend's opinion) or should not (my opinion) take down every last picture of myself and my ex-boyfriend. We bet Tuesday night's dinner that there were less than 5 pictures on my fridge alone and that if that was the case, then they could remain in place because my ex and I are still friends. We counted and there were, in fact, more than 5 pictures on the fridge. I somehow refused to believe that I had lost the bet, though. The wine was louder than I was and apparently also a better arithmetician.
Today I am unshowered, have my hair in a ponytail, and am wearing flip flops and jeans with an untucked button-down. I'm going to have to change this shit before dinner at Craft tonight. Damn you, Restaurant Week!
baby talk
All people seem to talk about these days are children. Are they going to have children, what age they'll begin having them, what they're going to name them. "I have to leave early to pick up my kids from summer camp." or "I have to go home - my oldest has locked my youngest in his room." Leave him there, I say.
Yesterday I was in a brainstorm where the team was supposed to develop new products for "Lisa". Lisa has one hour to herself during her day and she usually spends it catching up on laundry. 10% of Lisas feel guilty when they spend money on themselves rather than their families. Lisa spends 40 hours a week at work and rarely spends time alone with her husband "Michael." Lisa's life is not her own.
I spent the remaining four hours of the brainstorm in prayer. "God, please don't ever let me be a Lisa."
Lisa is admirable and impressive, but I do not ever want her lifestyle. I told Boyfriend later in the day that "I would be happy to have kids, as long as I don't have to make any sacrifices. I want to still be able to go out with my friends, lay on my couch whenever I want, finish off an entire bottle of wine while reading the last Harry Potter on a Tuesday, get my nails done, spend a quarter of my paycheck on expensive food that I will never see again. If a child can fit itself comfortably into that lifestyle, I'm all for it."
You can think I'm selfish all you want. I prefer to think I'm smart. And having a lot more fun than our gal Lisa.
Yesterday I was in a brainstorm where the team was supposed to develop new products for "Lisa". Lisa has one hour to herself during her day and she usually spends it catching up on laundry. 10% of Lisas feel guilty when they spend money on themselves rather than their families. Lisa spends 40 hours a week at work and rarely spends time alone with her husband "Michael." Lisa's life is not her own.
I spent the remaining four hours of the brainstorm in prayer. "God, please don't ever let me be a Lisa."
Lisa is admirable and impressive, but I do not ever want her lifestyle. I told Boyfriend later in the day that "I would be happy to have kids, as long as I don't have to make any sacrifices. I want to still be able to go out with my friends, lay on my couch whenever I want, finish off an entire bottle of wine while reading the last Harry Potter on a Tuesday, get my nails done, spend a quarter of my paycheck on expensive food that I will never see again. If a child can fit itself comfortably into that lifestyle, I'm all for it."
You can think I'm selfish all you want. I prefer to think I'm smart. And having a lot more fun than our gal Lisa.
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