My Favorite Things

Do you remember that Bananas post when I went all Joan Rivers on my employer over pro-Confederacy propaganda, the rewriting of history and the blasphemy that is not offering NUGGETS AND FRIES during a forced meal of Chick-fil-A? Kind of bad form but as is the tradition on my lovely blog, no one was named specifically and at the time, I was already planning on giving notice. And I did! Today is my last day! So, in honor of my grand exit, I will allocate some time to my favorite pastime (aside from sex and anything sexual, working out, reading and eating): My blog. Although, my blog is really the glue that binds my passion for sex, working out, reading and eating so it remains cozy and warm under the blanket of My Favorite Things.

I am also a little bit hungover. And when I say a little bit, I really mean a lot. Yesterday was my favorite editor’s book release party for her debut novel Destroying Angel. If you are reading my blog than you, like me, are thinking ERMYGOOOD that is So Cool. It is. I’m a huge fan of YA and Fantasy and I crushed her book poolside in two days. It didn’t hurt that I had private access to a gorgeous pool and a perfect floatation device for tanning and reading. The book happens to be a great size for holding over your face to block the sun if you are looking for something to do this weekend. I laughed when I pulled it out for her to sign and it had the well-worn look of all books that I enjoy. Seriously, if the book had feelings it might reciprocate with a “Whoa, that was great…let’s do it again!” And since all great reads are really like a passionate love affair anyway, this book had some serious bed head. I had a glass of wine to cheers the release of Destroying Angel, and met the family and friends before heading to my planned dinner adventure.

My friend and I rescheduled his birthday dinner a few times. First they were closed, then he broke a nasty fall off his bike with his face and we had to wait for that to heal. So, 6 weeks after the actual birthday we celebrated with dining at Coquette, the delicious restaurant that happens to be the setting of one of our favorite Drunk in Public stories. (Another time maybe…) They are doing a fun summer promotion of a 5-course “mystery menu” so you have no idea what you are going to eat until it is served.

We both glanced at the cocktail list before laughing and realizing that the best before-dinner (after book release) drink is going to be a martini. He favors gin but whatever, my vodka and his gin – l’chaim. The first course was great, it was a ham product (I forget, not prosciutto) that was folded in on itself so that the shaved cheese, diced pair and hazelnuts could fill it like a cornucopia. We opted against the wine pairing and ordered a bottle of red and a bottle of white. Did I mention that I have a headache? Because I do. There was a really great shrimp dish which was a chilled soup kind of thing that I found to be quite pleasing. Horseradish foam!!! At first we joked about the fact that it was foam, but that shit was delicious. Then there was something else at some point. I wasn’t drunk until after dessert because we were being pretty reasonable about sipping through dinner, but for whatever reason I could not tell you what I’m forgetting. I’m sure it was great. But the chicken! Ughghgh disappointing. They brought out these incredibly fancy knives and I was really excited. And then, thankfully they left the skin on which was delicious, they gave us a freaking chicken breast on top of overcooked Spanish-style rice. Lame.

Even more lame was dessert. Citrus something blah blah blah. It didn’t taste bad or anything, I mean, it was dessert, but I wanted chocolate. Chocolate. I am a natural problem-solver and found a way around their only-one-menu-on-Tuesday by purchasing sweets elsewhere. I walked across the street to Starbucks and got us those fancy non-Reese’s peanut butter cups and a dark chocolate covered graham cracker bar. That…hit the spot. We also each had an amaro. No wonder I was in prime form later. And by prime form I mean that I was no fun and should not make plans (damn it, love sucks.) after making plans to get intentionally really intoxicated knowing what a game of Russian roulette that can be. I picked up my car in the morning after a half of a shower. I anticipated feeling rough so I prepacked tuna salad, chia pudding and some cucumbers and grapes. Tuna was good for covering the booze scent that just would NOT go away.

I found out I got into grad school yesterday, so YAY me. Today my mother seriously asked me “What is your plan for partying?” She meant not partying and I didn’t have an answer so I went all sullen-teenager and said “K Bye” Sorry, mom, I’m hungover and dutifully closing down shop at work. I’m keeping the employee handbook of crazy rules for my memoir. I am also taking home a gem from the “free book box” called, Junior Lifeguard Baywatch: Hobie Gets a Life. It include a color photos in the middle. I didn’t remember Quinn having so much thigh. You go girl. I’m only sad that they don’t have perforated edges for me to tear out the pages and hang them on my wall.


Ce fut un échec total: La Petit Grocery-style

I am terrible at dating. Sometimes, if the situation is right, I might say yes in order to “practice social skills” but more often than not I just own the fact that I am slowly both getting older while simultaneously barreling toward being the weird lady that people only come knocking on Halloween because I decorate and “she’s rich or something and who cares that she’s weird she gives out great candy…” Okay the last bit is a nod to my dreams that still exist about being wildly successful. No wait, moderately successful. Let’s stick with Not a Failure and move on.

Saturday night was definitely not a date. For starters, there were three of us at dinner so the later confusion was kind of funny because possible flirting from The Dude aside (who happened to be the one to invite me to dinner) there were plenty of clear signs that this was not a date.

Sign number one: The age difference between The Dude and I made it hard for me to consider him a possible date. (Cue every lesson learned from dating Chef who was 13 years my senior.) The Dude is 43 going on 21 so in some instances was actually pretty fun in a frat party sort of way but I was purposely staying away from topics like marriage, divorce or children: topics that are generally feelers for “are you a potential sexual partner?”

Two: How I was introduced. Here is what he should have said to his dining companion: “Hey I invited a friend to join us at dinner, she’s into restaurants and stuff and it will be fun.” Or maybe even floated the idea by her first, like “Hey do you mind…” Some variety of that. Instead, what was offered was WAY weirder. I don’t actually know what he said but I know it was apparently confusing.

We were 20 minutes late thanks to homie wanting to have one more drink before dinner (we also passed the restaurant b/c I was navigating) and because our dining companion was at the bar prior to meeting us for dinner, she was drunk when we arrived. Well on her way to being a wasted and still throwing back drinks. She’s an attorney and they were friends who don’t see each other often so much of the conversation was reminiscing of old times past. Also being snide about my obvious youth at the age of thirty. (FYI I looked fierce because that is the only way to be.) Fine. The two of them were a sight to see for sure and many of the stories were actually pretty funny.

Anyway, on her third (that I saw) French 75, she goes “so what are you like the nanny?” (I don’t like children.)

“No,” I responded. I might have laughed. I might have glared across the table at The Dude. I was maintaining my first drink at dinner, thank you.

“OHhhh so you are (insert my best friend’s name). Sorry I only met you in a wig.”


“So wait (drink sloshes) why are you here?”

This was where I started having a slight crisis over WHY AM I HERE!!?? I have deadlines!

I am quitting my job so I probably had no business going out to dinner anyway. I should have waited for my best friend to come back from Europe rather than accepting an invite to dinner from “a friend of a friend” because that sucked and if I’d waited, we certainly wouldn’t share a bib lettuce salad and macaroni and cheese amid the obvious better choices at La Petit Grocery for God’s sake.

(Okay, the macaroni and cheese was delicious.) As was the rabbit, the fish, the ricotta dumplings and everything else that was put in front of me. I found it annoying that the waiter refused to just bring me the wine list and instead was asking me “what are you looking for?” He actually nailed the red, it was perfect but I still don’t see why it is so hard to just grab me a menu. Last time I just took a random suggestion my sister and I were at a hip bar in Austin and ended up ordering a $30 glass of wine when there were plenty of delicious glasses to choose from that were more reasonably priced for our budget.

Anyway, The Dude thought that this was a possible date but instead of saying anything, when the bill was dropped he kind of awkwardly threw down cash that was about 2/3 of the bill. Um, no. Not the way to buy me dinner. Very confusing. So, glancing at the cash, I made a show of pulling out my phone to find out what 1/3 of the bill was. (I was a little drunk at this point and I suck at math) This was partially because the lady that was with us was so drunk I needed to give the waiter exact directions as to how much to put on her card (and directed her that no, it did not include tip) and then paid my third (plus a generous tip in case old girl was a cheap lawyer) and made sure that the waiter got an extra generious tip from the remaining cash that The Dude had so thoughtfully thrown in.

The three of us decided to head to the bar but then the other lady didn’t show! I threw back her tequila shot and then mine before I having an angry spat with The Dude who was still hitting on me. (Trying to be nice, trying to keep things casual…jeesh.) Needless to say it was a bit of a messy goodbye, as in I said “fuck you” and left him at the bar and walked myself home. It wasn’t the prettiest sight but it was better than sticking around for more awkward bullshit.

I’m not 100% sure he remembers any of this. I did him a solid by deleting his voicemail (assuming that it was to the same tune of the 6 or 7 text messages he sent me that evening) without listening to it and told him where he left his car when he asked me via text the next morning. (I actually drove by to make sure to give him the precise cross street and direction.) Since we know my history with being drunk with a phone, I don’t mind letting that kind of stuff go and I actually don’t really care. We’ll never know what the message said. Sigh. I’ll probably see The Dude at my friend’s wedding? Let’s hope he picks something other than tequila on the rocks as his drink of the night. (He won’t. It’s his favorite.)

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I work for a company that unabashedly publishes pro-Confederacy propaganda for both children and adults. This proprietary smut is a huge, HUGE hit with many of my southern accounts. I spend a serious chunk of my day handwriting orders with titles like The South Was Right! And Rekilling Lincoln. (Yes, re-killing, because dying once is JUST NOT ENOUGH.) Or this gem, Myths of American Slavery or Maxims of Robert. E. Lee for Young Gentlemen.

There was a sassy post on Slate ripping us a new one (do companies have assholes?) for publishing this type of material, but you know what, THIS IS AMERICA. ‘Merica! FUCK YEAH! Just kidding, I feel slightly embarrassed to sell/talk about some of the crap being published. I understand that history is complicated and heavily dictated by the fallibility inherent to humanity, memory and records but seriously. Sigh.

Sorry for getting all deep and political but I’m really excited about today’s progress: the removal of the Confederate flag from government buildings in South Carolina. Because that is just ridiculous and I don’t buy the defense of “state’s rights” as it is too-often used as a symbol of bigotry and hate. I am SO excited that I figured I might do well to call all of my accounts with the word “confederate” in them in case there was a run on swag.

Speaking of bigotry and hate – this week we are having all-day meetings discussing our new books. The 30ish books that recently passed through editorial resulting in a signed contract are now discussed by promo and sales. My company has a really tight purse. I get ZERO paid days off and the “salary” I negotiated is actually an hourly wage and one gets reprimanded for coming in early or staying a few minutes late. You can imagine my surprise when I found out that on Day 2 of the 3-day conference the company is providing lunch. (That day is today! Oh sweet holy day!) And guess what?! They chose Chick-Fil-A, because, well, solidarity! Am I right!? (Insert something more offensive here because I can’t be that inappro-pro.)

Anyway as my dear friend is no longer a vegetarian (Yippeeee!!! She also happens to be my favorite dining buddy.) We almost stopped for Chick-Fil-A on our way home from a 3 day vegetarian yoga retreat over the Fourth of July but we couldn’t because it was Sunday. God’s day. Damn. So yippee that I have another opportunity today. But here’s the catch. Our options were limited to three. THREE choices. A chicken sandwich, a chicken salad sandwich OR a Cobb Salad. So that sucks. I mean if you are going to eat Chick-Fil-A everyone knows that the only appropriate order is WAFFLE FRIES and NUGGETS. With either ranch or sweet and sour… probably both. Maybe some BBQ because lets be real, this is not healthy.

I ordered the Cobb Salad and was immediately annoyed that I had to choose a dressing. When you order a Cobb or a Caesar the dressing is implied in the motherfuckingsalad. It’s a specific thing. Also, the traditional blue cheese/or vinaigrette-with-enough-blue-cheese-on-the-salad-to-make-you-think-it-was-blue-cheese-dressing was not an option. I think I checked the box to add chips. I fucking hope I did. I hate past me if I didn’t because I bet my salad will suck. This was last week when I was doing the ten day “moderate cleanse” so I bet my asshole self that chose the Cobb Salad probably didn’t check the box for chips. I hate me.

Just for fun, today while procrastinating and laughing about how I can’t even “Eat Moor Chikin” the way I want I decided to check the nutrition facts on the website of Chick-Fil-A just to see how many calories this free lunch will set me back. And you know what, it said “Page Not Found (404 Error.) Double sigh.