HELLLPPP! Uber, I’m lost!

Well, internet. I’ve delayed well into 2017 to save myself (and you all) the trouble of a “Gosh 2016 was the pits!” and “Good riddance and fuck off!” and “I bet if I change absolutely nothing and keep repeating the same behaviors, 2017 will be ah-may-zing” post.

You are welcome. And 2017 is going to be Totally. Amazing. Although I’m a bit terrified of what is going to happen to the EPA funding, the color orange, and anything rococo. (Don’t bother looking that up – it is the word for “Late Baroque” a la the new First Family’s home, reportedly decorated in a “color scheme of warm neutrals, such as gold, beige, rose, and blush, throughout” according to HomeBeautfiul.com.

Anyway, there will be plenty about that when half of the country turns themselves a shade of cheese-in-a-canister. All the rage up on Capitol Hill.

But back to me. I started off with a B A N G! So, you’re welcome, 2017. (I kissed a girl and I liked it.) No cherry Chapstick, though.

AND I did really well being swanky and sexy with my lovely ladyfriends for New Years Eve but somehow have spiraled since not taking my furry coat and my sweet outfit out on the town for a post-party bar hop.

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Everyone join me in a solid mantra for 2017: “No crying over spilled blowcaine.”#real #adult #theotherwhitestuff (jk).

Unfortunately, my future seems a bit shaky as of now because the other day, after far (FAR) too many drinks, I was unable to get myself the few blocks to my best friend’s house. You might say I was lost.

No one, except maybe my Uber driver Kenneth, really knows what happened. However, I apparently managed to switch my regular Uber to “Uber Assist.” It is one tier below VIP. And, for 0.76 miles, 3:01 minutes, I did this:

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And after finding this email, nursed my hangover with a bottle of wine with a cutie who just sat like a trooper for *many* hours of tattooed artistry, and we looked up what, exactly, Uber Assist is.

“uberASSIST is an uberX option that is designed to provide additional assistance to seniors and people with disabilities. Driver-partners are specifically trained by a third party organization to assist riders into vehicles and can accommodate folding wheelchairs, walkers, and scooters.”

The two of us got a solid ab workout over this development. And, naturally, we hypothesized about “What the fuck is up with that circle?”

Option one: Kenneth said “Um, blackout drunk does not count for Uber Assistance. Get out of my car so I can help someone with a real need.”

Kenneth got tired of me.

Kenneth said “No way am I taking you to a wine bar!”

Or maybe, I tried to get to St. Patrick Street to go to my best friend’s house. A phone call says that her place was my intended direction and got us all sorts of turned around.

It is possible I tried to get him to take me home but then ended up having him take me back?

After a lot of that, we kind of ended on the idea that more than likely he was tired of my shit, realized I did not need Uber Assist and was like “Please go away” and decided it safe to drop me back near where he found me.

A mystery. Kenneth?! Anyone know you?!

So, if you need me, I’ll be in my bed.

 

 

Table for One, Please

Ah yes, friends. The magic of dating. Mardi Gras, as you all probably can guess, is not my strong suit for the meeting or retaining of boys. And, if you happen to live in New Orleans, that also puts Valentine’s Day creeping around one corner or another. Yippeee.

I met Dr. Glitterbeard at the Space Ball. We met in line to get ourselves jazzed up with some Get Fly Bodypaint and were having a good time. We had mutual friends, and apparently, he was of the opinion that I was the hottest girl there. (High five, me!) My costume wasn’t fully baked because of the pressures of graduate school but the final product was some sexy red star pasties, a gorgeous handmade hood, and matching red bottoms. I was pretty on fire. Fun times.

He asked me to dance, and then if I wanted to get a drink. (Yes!) And of course, Sometimes Boyfriend happened to be nearby with The Ogre so the timing was pretty nice for me to get such flattering male attention. Two vodka sodas and an almost kind of kiss later, we were cutting it up under the black light. After a song or two, I took him to find some other friends that we realized we shared in common from his undergrad days. We realize we’ve lost his friends so he excuses himself to go find them. I figured I’d bump into him later and went on with my fun. Fast forward to me, bumping into his (our) friends first. Here is what I get: “You know he’s married, right?”

Ummm no, I did not. Got ZERO married vibes. Of course, it was all fairly platonic so not real lines were crossed (unless you count the no-tongue kiss thing) although I’m sure if the wife was there I would not have been the center of attention for so long. Anyway, awkward and moving on. I did bump into him later with a coarse “Hi, you are MARRIED!?” to which he responded “Wasn’t gonna happen, lady.” Or something to that effect with a fairly rude undertone.

Whatever, dude. Enjoy the ball.

Then, of course, Fat Tuesday happened. Yippee. And as I attempted to gather my life together and sweep up the glitter, Valentine’s Day came and went with another year of light acknowledgement of another day where society expects us to eat too much food in the name of LOVE. (Pro tip, have sex before dinner so that the after dinner sex can be kind of drunk and relaxed.)

Sigh.

Even though I had no special someone to drape myself in gorgeously scandalous lace for, I do have an awesome friend who got super crafty and made some great Valentines (see below). We did venture out on the sunny Sunday for some quick binge eating of Vietnamese food at the annual Tet Celebration. That was a good call. It was a beautiful day for a drive out to the East (when I wasn’t the driver) and it was nice to catch up.

And later, because I am a graduate student in English, I hung out with Henry James (really, dude…why so many words?) and enjoyed a long walk and two solo glasses of wine. Because you know what, I’d rather just date myself than someone that doesn’t light my fire.

12717504_10103695866555600_5276383802883651588_n(Photo and Art Cred: Camilio Estevez)

Egg-cellent

On a recent trip home, my slightly battered self-esteem was given a nice little boost as I spent time with my parents friends. I love coming home and spent a season here not too long ago working in New York, and many of them remember my cooking skills as being superb. It was quite the topic of conversation at both New Year’s Eve and another dinner at this amazing Greek restaurant a few days later. (Thanks, guys!)

The main point of reference was a pretty substantial dinner party for about 8 people during the end of my NYC project in which I made one recipe from a blog online and another of my own creation. I learned a lot by this dinner party (one time I made a huge plate of short ribs to be served family-style to a bunch of very, very old men and realized later that a) Omg there was so much prune/prune juice in it and they might poop themselves in the middle of the night and b) these guys can’t lift the serving platter to pass it around…awkward) so I was pretty set up for success. I planned the menu, made a grocery list and cleared the kitchen to execute the meal from prep to plating on the large counter in the kitchen and serving our guests seated in the dining room.

The first course was roasted acorn squash with sauteed kale, poached egg topped with small cubes of pecorino romano. Sounded great when I was researching with the tiny caveat that while I love poached eggs, I’d never made them for myself or two people, let alone a party of eight. Hmmm.

So, I went to my favorite blog, Smitten Kitchen, for help. The blog advocated for a splash of vinegar and a whirlpool method. Simple enough? Sure, why not. I gave it a whirl (tee hee) and both my mom and I had poached eggs for breakfast. Success!! Except how do I get 8 of them at the same time while managing the main course and plating the squash and kale while still hot? HMmmm. Fortunately, Smitten Kitchen came to the rescue again with something snarky like “If you happen to be crazy enough to be reading a blog post about how to poach an egg and intend to make several for a party…” (yes, do go on…) And explained that you could cook them just under and place them on a paper towel to and then reheat them briefly just before serving. Woohoo! I’m game.

The entree was my own creation, a swordfish stew, which involved seared cubes of swordfish, a spicy tomato sauce and then spicy toasted chickpeas as a topping served over quinoa. Of course one of the diners was vegetarian so before I added the fish, I separated some of the sauce to do a potato rendition (because I’m cool like that).

Everything seemed pretty good to go. But then one of the neighbors asked if it was okay if their son comes. Cue the scene in Clueless when Cher gives a speech in Mr. Hall’s class about the Hatians (read: Hate-ians) and an RSVP sit down dinner… yadda yadda yaddda… “but it’s like ‘the more the merrier!'” and I figured out a slight adjustment for portions and onward and upward!

But seriously, everyone stay the fuck out of my kitchen because I’m in focus mode and there can be absolutely zero questions asked in my direction. Just assume that yes, if my wine is looking empty, I would LOVE some more. (You’re the best, mom!)

As the beginning of the post might suggest, this all went magically. Woohoo! Okay, one egg was a little over but that one went to me because in reality, I’d eaten my share of eggs that day practicing anyway.

Also, apparently I made quite the impression on the across the street neighbor’s son because he apparently mentioned that he was quite taken by me. Too bad I’m ten year’s his senior and live in another state. It would be nice to have a boy crush on me and like it when I cook dinner.

The other couple offered to bring a traditional dessert from (ahh I am the worst I can’t remember what country they are from but I’m going to guess India) and that was great because it took me off the hook for the finale. But amid requests for a repeat, we will have to host again soon.

No pressure for next time or anything…

Dear 2015…

Dear 2015,

I wish I could say that it’s been great and I will miss you, but that would be total and complete bullshit. The fact that 2014 ended with me toasting bubbly with my coworkers after another long holiday season in the service industry ($$$) and then welcoming 2015 by getting super sloshed at work while we cleaned up leading to a near miss of my flight home on Jan 1 suggests how pathetic you would end up. But hindsight is 20/20, right?

To be fair, the ratio of good to bad in the year that marked the 30th anniversary of my birth wasn’t so so bad, and since I don’t have a television, I’ve been spared a lot of the past 6 month’s political discourse that social media tells me consists heavily of people saying stupid things that are unproductive and sometimes outright offensive. This resulted in some pretty funny memes though, so thank you?

I had a few new romances and handful of awful dates to laugh about and a lovely and passionate repeat of my favorite flame. (Watch out for those, they might burn you alive.)  I partied in some excellent outfits and danced the night away with some magical friends. I fell down pretty hard a few times (literally and metaphorically) but magically a I still get out of bed most days because everyone knows how much I love breakfast.

Surely it was disappointing, but the getting of and then quitting of a proper job was somewhat rewarding and suggested that one day I might find my niche in the adult world. I’ll let you know when I figure out where that is and what it looks like in case you want to join me. (On Pluto?)

You marked then 10-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and thus my ten-year anniversary in the city of New Orleans. What a long, strange trip it’s been.

I have a huge pile of books on my bedside table because I’m taking a course in the art of the novel (yaaay) so my sleepless nights will have no shortage of entertainment. <- in addition to Netflix, my usual array of books, an occasional late-night text session, and of course, my blog.

I’m not one for “resolutions” but I do have some goals for the coming year. First and foremost I plan to get my sister to pull through like the awesome chick that she is and help me make my AMAZING blog a better, funnier place to procrastinate at work. (For all 50 people that read it, you’re welcome.)

I suspect dating is the same in 2016 so I might opt out completely but there are a handful of restaurants popping up around town so once I’m done with a month of no dairy and no booze I’ll resume the regular consumption of food and drink. Om nom nom.

Also, because we managed to find the most horrific human to move into our apartment who managed to upset the entire home in a mere 2 weeks (Mind = Blown) I’m sure that the situation will eventually become funny and end up here because if you don’t laugh about it all that there is left to do is cry. And I don’t want to give myself any unnecessary wrinkles. I do, however, want to throw a frozen burrito at his head. I’ll explain that later.

So, 2015, I guess all that’s left is Happy New Year, bitch.

Yours faithfully,

Andrea’s Bananas

 

 

To Many More…

Awhile back my sister shared with me this cool site she uses called Rent the Runway. I’m sure many of you are familiar with it but as the writer of Bananas, I can assure you that the idea of renting a garment is risky to me. First question, “What happens if you lose it?” That got laughs. I wasn’t kidding though. I really wanted to know what happens if you lose this rented $3,000 dress. Not like I would intentionally pull a Lindsay Lohan, (I love you, Lindsay! Get your shit together, girl!!) but sometimes clothes come off. Costume changes! Swimming pools! These things are real. The struggle is real, my friends. Anyway… to date, my sister has not lost a dress and so together, for Fancy Lady Night when she comes to town, I am going to give it a whirl. Bananas to come re: all things borrowed.

I decided on a jumpsuit, because they are badass. The issue is that in regular people stores, the sizing is totally whacko. I will put on a size 2 and it will be baggy, forcing me to put on a zero. I’m not bitching about being slender, I’m bitching because that is not a real size representation. It is like the chain retailers got together Zoolander-style and decided that America is on average, obese, and they should make everyone feel better and buy more things by just calling what used to be a size 8, a size 6. So now, although you can order two sizes, I have to sort out what size in celebrity/Europe I currently am. Yayyyyy.

Wish me luck. Also, on this day, the last day of my 20’s, I’d like to take a minute to thank the universe for the opportunity to fail happily, tragically and everything in between so many, many times. I am fittingly hungover because my Birthday Soul Sister had a celebration last night, and in true form, I rejoiced! After being slightly stressed about secretly dropping off a birthday cake amid work deadlines, working out and wanting to spend time with a boy that I am excited about, I relaxed and enjoyed hanging out with friends. Maybe being a little excited about birthdays, new job/boy/life goals helped lubricate the fun, along with a lovely afternoon of mani-pedis birthday girl-style. But then I just got bottles on bottles. Seriously, I really like wine and went from eh, I’ll split a bottle with a friend right on to shoving delicious cake in my face along with ordering another bottle of rose and then just straight rolling through the Borolos and whatnot. Have you been there? If not, it’s fun. You should try it, or better yet, join us! Next week is a cleanse for sure. Or for maybe, I don’t know. A girl has needs. All Hail Vegetables!

Now, lets all say “Happy Birthday!” and “Cheers!” and all that…”To many more!”

Quick, hide!

I know I said that I wouldn’t go out on New Year’s Eve because I had a flight to catch on January 1 and it was imperative to all parties involved that I not miss that flight. I took precautions! I did all of the things to prevent a debacle and still managed to get toasted and oversleep. Shit.

I woke up in a straight PANIC, somewhere between still drunk and adrenaline rush my roommate helped me throw things in a suitcase. For the record, only two useful items made it. 1) My winter jacket (yay!) 2) My amazing all-weather boots (double yay!) Everything else in that suitcase is completely useless. I wrote something about that flight, but not sure where that will end up. So, in the meantime…

My iPhone has been dying on the regular. I hate that thing. It calls exes that have been deleted and in general betrays me in any way possible. On the way to the mall with my mom yesterday, it decided to shut down with 90% battery just because. Well shit. So we stop at the packed Apple store and make an appointment to solve the mystery.

We shop, and come early to the Apple Genius Bar appointment, and YAY James helps us fairly fast. It turns out that my iPhone 5 battery is among those recalled for shitty performance and I get a new one for free. He asks if my phone is backed up (it isn’t.) He also tells me that I need to turn off the Find My iPhone. That needs a password… great. It takes me about 15 minutes to turn off Find My iPhone because I can’t remember the password and inevitably need to reset it. (Every time you reset the PW it must be new, as in not used in the past year, and a long combination of capital letters, numerical and other characters so no wonder I can never remember whatever I make up for the next time.) He then reminded me why I always need to update my phone… ugh boys are always trying to tell me what to do. Haters.

Fast forward. It is a 30-minute or more wait until my phone is ready so we go next door for an appetizer and a glass of wine. I got carded. No big deal, right? Shouldn’t be since I’m 29. However, it turns out I do NOT, in fact, have my license. I guess Jan. 1 was worse than I thought. I tried all of the things, with my mother as my advocate. I pulled up my LA Responsible Vendor Permit that has my D.O.B. along with my debit card, credit card, health insurance and MY MOTHER!!! My mom had faith so we ask for a manager and I also tell the ridiculous story of the perils of airport transit on New Years day and hope for the best. We got a hands down NOPE.

Fine… whatever. I was kind of annoyed but at least I got the heads up that I lost my ID five (5!!!) days before my return flight. I’m elated…. Until I return to Apple and they ask for my ID to get my phone back. I’m not in the mood.

Quick, HIDE!!!!