3.21.2007

The Joy of Pizza

So, the boyfriend announces that he is going out to dinner with a few co-workers tonight, and the first thought that runs through my mind is 'great, I don't have to cook tonight!' I was immediately disturbed by my reaction, simply because I count myself among the dwindling group of people who really LOVE to cook. And now I'm starting to wonder if I actually do love it anymore.

Back in my youthful and carefree days, I would often cook for fun, even for adventure. I remember peeling my first tomatillo as fondly as some people remember their first kiss. Cooking used to be a pleasure, a form of relaxation and most importantly, something I almost never had to do. Back then, I could exist on a diet of greasy take-out food without any fear that my waistline would expand, or my cholesterol skyrocket. But that was many years, and quite a few dress-sizes ago, and my culinary focus has turned to healthful, tasty, well-prepared foods that are pretty hard to come by in take-out form.

Back then, I think I would have jumped at the chance to be able to cook for a living. In hindsight, I'm glad I never got that chance. Over the years, I've come to realise that just the thought that I have to do something automatically makes it much less fun to do. Occasionally, cooking a meal is still a pleasant experience, when I don't have to watch the clock, or when I'm trying something new. But I really do appreciate having the choice, on some nights, between making bolognese and making a phone call.

So, unless I win the Lotto and can hire a full-time chef, or my metabolism retuns to that of a 20 year old, or my boyfriend suddenly becomes capable of handling a razor-sharp chef's knife in a way that doesn't make me want to rush for the first-aid kit, I will toil away in a kitchen, at least a few nights a week, for the rest of my active life. And every now and then, I suspect, I might just catch myself smiling.

That's all for now. There's a pepperoni slice on the kitchen counter, and it's getting cold.

3.17.2007

Erin Go Bragh

Contrary to the results of this quiz, I'm probably MORE Irish than I think. As far as I know, I have no Irish ancestry whatsoever. But the love of my live is an Irish-American cutie, so I think that counts for something.




You're 45% Irish



You're probably less Irish than you think you are...

But you're still more Irish than most.

3.15.2007

Spring has sprung?

Yesterday, the first verified wave of spring fever descended upon Gotham. The afflicted (myself among them) were easy to spot, parading in shirtsleeves and bare legs, as the temperature soared to a delightful 70 degrees. Even though New York City lucked out tremendously this year as far as winter weather goes, the frigid temperatures over the last few weeks left us itching, literally and figuratively, for balmier days.

But Mother Nature proves to be a fickle mistress indeed, for as I write, temperatures plummet, and a thin veil of snow-like precipitation begins to whiten the night sky. If forecasts are to be believed, it's possible that the city may be blanketed by six inches of the stuff within the next 24 hours, and we'll have to wait yet another week before temperatures venture back into flip-flop territory.

So I wait patiently. And from time to time, I console myself by gently stroking the crisp, white skirt that peeks ever so bashfully from the back of my closet. Soon, my pretty, soon....

3.09.2007

with all due respect to christopher meloni

So, if I show up at my boyfriend's apartment with no makeup on, my hair in a bun, wearing an old t-shirt, baggy jeans and trainers, he immediately wants to go out for a night on the town! He wants a fancy dinner at a swanky restaurant, and a visit to the neighbourhood jazz club.

But if I'm fully made-up, with flawless hair and a dressy outfit, his reaction is usually this - "let's order in and watch some TV".

Is this his (not so) clever way of avoiding having to take me out? He knows there's no way in hell I'm setting foot in a nice restaurant or club looking busted. I'm just not that kind of girl. Or does he genuinely not care how I look when we go out? It his ill-timed exuberance just coincidental?

The next time he goes into couch-potato mode after I've gone through the trouble of applying liquid eyeliner, I'm putting my stiletto-clad foot down! I am not wrestling with a flatiron for half an hour so I can spend the rest of the night on the sofa watching 'Law & Order : SVU'.

3.08.2007

Ponce de León, eat your heart out!

As I made my way home tonight from a mind-numbing day at the office, shivering and tired, I decided to stop in at the small supermarket near my apartment to pick up a six-pack of beer. With nothing more on my mind than how this small action would save me from having to trek out into the cold later on for the inevitable beer-run, I shuffled down the aisle and made my selection from the beer case.

I plunked the six-pack down on the cashier's counter and started rummaging through the bottomless pit that masquerades as my handbag when the cashier uttered a phrase that shocked me into a stupor:

"Can I see some I.D.?"


It seemed to take forever to fish that little laminated card out of my wallet, my hands were shaking so badly. What happened after that is a complete blur, because by the time I came to my senses, I was hanging up my coat in the living room.

Was that cashier completely insane? Or maybe she had poor eyesight? How else can I explain the fact that I've just been mistaken for someone half my age?

However.. there is one explanation that I would like to submit for your consideration, good people of the blogosphere. It may very well be that I have stumbled upon the fountain of youth. And its name is Yuengling.

3.07.2007

moulting season

The good news: I lost about 2 pounds today.

The bad news: It was 100 percent skin!

I held out for as long as I could, slathering my body with gooey, oil-laden body-washes, applying handful after handful of thick creams, shunning the loofah, the pumice or any device or method that threatened to breach the ever so thin line between 'bronze, sun-showered goddess' and 'peeling reptilian hag'.

It's been 11 days since I returned from Trinidad, and, as is my custom after this annual pilgrimage, I have been living in denial of the natural process of skin renewal. Hoping to hold on to my deep almond glow for as long as possible, I abandoned my regular exfoliation regimen while my scrubby bath gloves lay neglected on the edge of the tub. But tonight in the shower, I bit the bullet, and scrubbed every reachable inch of my skin with reckless abandon. IT FELT GOOD!

Not wanting to immediately witness the resulting carnage, I remained cloistered in the the steamy bathroom for half an hour afterwards, coaxing drop after drop of body oil into my stripped epidermis, until I was satisfied that I had staved off the inevitable, itchy aftermath.

So here I sit, heavily oiled, swathed in toasty garments, and contemplating how I will react to the spectre of my naked, peeling self in tomorrow's cold morning light.

Please excuse me while I search for a suitable shroud for my wall mirror...