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Archive for the ‘food & boozin'’ Category

NTKOG #118: The kind of giggly sororstitute who sashays into a casual bar on a Monday night and demands orgasms, sex on the beach(es), redheaded sluts and other mega-questionably crafted cocktails.

I am: a pretty serious boozehound. Go ahead. Smell me. Gin and cigars, sir.

I am not: diabetic. Yet. Try to calibrate my boozin’ to keep me thus.

The Scene: Brighton Beer Garden with the lovely brookem, out for some Monday night cocktails. All first-time blogger meets are — it cannot be denied — supremely first-datey. But after a few seconds of “who are you in real life? what do you do?” back-and-forth monologue, we fall into an easy conversation that drips liberally with TMI.

You know the convo. Guys who couldn’t get the condom on, the perils of breaking in virgins, …crampiness. I fill her in on the joys and perils of taking a blowjob class and we sip for a moment in contemplation.

Later, as we finish our third round and begin to move toward the inevitably homeward barstool shift, I turn to her. “So what NTKOG are we doing tonight?” After only a second, she asks, “Well, speaking of blowjobs, are you the kind of girl who would ever — order a blowjob shot?”

My inner classic cocktail snob recoils. Any mission that sparks this much disgust, though — it’s perfect. We wave the bartender over and when she asks what we’re having next I start with bravado: “Can I get a–” then my vocal chords constrict. Goddamnit, TKOG, channel Cancun, sorority socials, reality TV! “Can I get a … blowjob shot?”

The waitress reassures us that 9pm on a Monday is a perfectly fine time to be ordering shots (enabler!) but the bar doesn’t have whipped cream. What’s in a blowjob? she asks a fellow bartender. “Yeah, we don’t have whipped cream,” the woman smiles. “The cream is the best part of a blowjob.” Uh, agreed?

We brainstorm for a few moments about similarly embarrassing cocktail, when the original bartender suggests a slippery nipple. A moue of approval rises from the chorus. After I send the bartender off to slip up some nipples for us, brookem turns to me: “What’s in a slippery nipple, anyway?” No clue, but I have a gut instinct that it’s the same ingredients as a Cocksucking Cowboy.

This drink would be about perfect, dumped into eight ounces of Ghiradelli hot chocolate.

Two nipples, ripe for the slippin'.

Bailey’s. Butterscotch schnapps. My god, do they sell this in Big Gulp size?! I was, in fact, so enthused by the discovery that I immediately had to share it with someone by finally making good on my threat to send a man a drink. One lone man sat across from us in the sea of couples, so I nodded toward him and asked the bartender to send him one.

Brookem and I were all fluttery feminine optimism for the four point five seconds it took us before she noticed the orphaned beer sitting next to said dude. Oh god, what if I’d sent a drink to a guy with a girlfriend? Was I an attempted homewrecker?! The beer’s owner returned from the restroom and — even worse. The worst, in fact. The guy was super mega cute. I mean, picture Vince Vaughn crossed with Conan O’Brien. Now stop picturing him because he’s MINE ALL MINE.

Bartender ignored my frantic flagging to send the drink to the cuter guy and placed the shot in front of the first guy, nodded over toward me. The guy raised his glass to me; I grimaced. Then he tasted the vaguely alcoholic sugarbomb and it was his turn to grimace. Pale waltzing lord, I managed to send a guy a drink gayer than three dudes hanging out by a wishing well in front of his cute friend. Do I win at dating forever or what? Brookem and I finished up our convo and skrinkered out of there right quick, studiedly avoiding eye contacted with our buttered-up comrade.

The Verdict: So embarrassing drinks, it turns out? Exist for a reason. Cute guys? Um, we already know their purpose. ANY MEETING OF THE TWAIN? No, no, oh my god no.

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Not for me, possums. I’m a few loads of laundry and a rereading of The Great Gatsby away from being pretty okay with things. But my bloggy friend Mel of a little lady’s thug life is at a crossroads with her father and — despite seeming like a dude who would punch you in the dang face if you ever offered her unsolicited advice — really needs some feedback. I know how fraught parental relationships can be, and thought if you had a minute to spare to weigh in on her situation or just offer a little love, it would be a really wonderful thing to do.

Check out her post here.

To give you time to read her post, the shortest NTKOG ever:

NTKOG #115: The kind of Ingalls-lite who bakes crackers. Crackers. Honestly. Isn’t that like the simplest atomic guise of bread? I just assumed they were formed in nature.

The Scene:

The Verdict:

[Edit: for those of you who want to try it, this is Mark Bittman’s recipe for parmesan-cream crackers — which I, naturally, slathered with garlic. Thanks to Leigh at Full Gastronomic Tilt for passing on the recipe a few weeks ago! And apologies that I was too deliriously tired to give credit where credit was due in the first place!]

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NTKOG #114: The kind of health-obsessed model citizen who, when she wakes up half-dead from ingesting various toxins, immediately jumps out of bed to sweat. them. out.

I am: a Proustian aunt when it comes to hangovers. Just give me a nice bed and I’ll take it to it indefinitely, praying for death to come.

I am not: even amused by the idea that there exist people who prefer the gym to boozin’.

The Scene: Bleary-eyed in Brighton, the morning of February 15, reeking of chocolate fondue and sweating straight Merlot. I didn’t think I drank that much during Anglophile’s and my little V-Day voodoo sesh, but all the mental holes in our morning-after recap disproved that theory. (“How’d I get into my pajamas?” “You changed after you made us listen to Usher’s ‘Burn’ fifteen times.” “I hate that song. Oh jesus, tell me you didn’t let me text.”) After Anglophile scooted on her merry way, I was prepared to take to bed, spreading peanut butter on homemade bread with my fingers and mainlining equal parts water and Hugh Laurie. Instead, I remembered a killer blog entry by the lovely kk about how to kick hangovers in which she suggests hitting the gym after you hit the bottle. What did I have to lose?

After I’d arranged a gym date with Sister and actually exited the apartment, the list of things I had to lose became apparent: permanent use of my retinas; my balance; control of the nausea dragon wrapping its tail around my stomach. Ugh. And that was just from walking to the T station.

By the time I got to the gym, I’d have placed even odds on my vomiting on the elliptical. Set the timer for 30 minutes; for the first five, I cursed the gods; for the next five, cursed myself; the middle ten, cursed friggin’ kk, that ho; and then — everything stopped being so bad. Remains of the Day was on TV! Brookline water tastes awesome! I am alive and healthy and feeling moreso every minute! Hell, after the elliptical, I jumped on a treadmill next to Sister for the sheer fun of it for twenty minutes.

The whole walk to my Sister’s place afterwards, I sipped water and cooed over the success of the project (“I feel great! I feel awesome! Wanna go to the zoo and race some llamas?!”). For dinner, we made healthy choices instead of indulging in usual hangover atrocities (brie and roasted garlic sandwiches, anyone?). And then the foundation started to crack. Got a splitting headache and the only medication my sister had on hand was Tylenol PM. Popped two of them and started home. Unfortunately, the drowsy effects of the medication kicked in while I was still half a mile from home, my heart slowed down to 45 beats per month, and I literally stopped three or four times to consider taking a nap on someone else’s stoop.

By the time I returned from this miracle hangover cure, I was fit only to take to my bed, cursing the gods. It’s just the natural order, I guess.

The Verdict: There’s no denying that this felt significantly less pathetic than my usual program of eating junk food and lolling around miserably, but exercise is most definitely not a panacea. I mistook the endorphin high for significant improvement. Right the frig not! Turns out exercise is only meant to be supplemental to a strict regime of lolling, napping, and misery.

Also, a TMI word about dehydration? Apparently I’d severely underestimated either the sheer degree of dehydration inherent to a hangover or the prolificness of my sweating, but I realized about eight hours after the gym that I’d drank 70 oz. of water and hadn’t needed to pee. Thank you, body, for delighting and horrifying me.

TMI Thursday! Lilu! Archives! Lovely!! Lady took a polar bear plunge with some Hulk Hogan impersonators. Good frig! Hero of the day.Alzyby  

And for more NTKOG brilliance, do read this hilarious post

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NTKOG #112: The kind of angsty, chocolate-smeared loneyheart who spends V-Day with her equally man-hating girlfriends jabbing stickpins into the crotch of dumb-boy voodoo dolls.

I am: single.

I am not: bitter.

The Scene: My glorious cinnamon- and chocolate-scented apartment, V-Day evening. Anglophile came over and we discussed the douchebaggery of men in general (and a few men in particular) before deciding on our plan of attack for the evening. Dude, we decided, let’s list all the reasons we never liked them anyway! Then make voodoo dolls! And burn effigies of the pathetic motherfuckers! Uh, and did I mention chocolate?!

We gathered voodoo supplies and fired up the fondue pot. Cute idea, I thought, but we’re not actually going to do all this stereotypical shit. We’ll probably just end up watching a movie or something…

As for how it turned out. Um, I’m going to let the following pictures tell you a few thousand words. Don’t worry, though. I weeded out all the shriekingly scathing ones.

That's not my real calendar -- my real calendar happens to have pictures of me on it this monthing. If the monthly 'stache were a real calendar, though, I'd totes buy it!

Turns out it only takes two vindictive girls, three pens, a jumbo pack of Post Its and one hour to completely cover the walls of a small apartment. Also, dude, some of these were so scathing that they burned my skin when I took them off the wall.

These are Anglophiles, 'cause mine were absolutely filthy.

After determining Post-Its weren't sufficiently violent, wrote and popped some of the things we hated about dudes.

Note the areas of high-density pin placement.

Voodoo dolls. To stuff them, we wrote down things we used to like about the guys, then shredded 'em. (But before you get all z0mg-dark-energy with me, yes, I believe in karma too much to have actually wished ill on anyone. It was pretty positive energy.)

I'm not sure I can properly convey to you how filthy and absolutely brutal the pictures were. Probably a good thing there's no photographic evidence of most of them...

Putting the "eff you" in effigy. What up.

The Verdict: It’s funny. This is the first Valentine’s Day in five years that I’ve been single. It’s also hands-down the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had — maybe one of the best days I’ve had, like, period. I thought all the V-Day man-bashing would feel too forced or stereotypical or just plain ol’ negative, but it was actually a pretty liberating night. One attempts to resist using the phrase “girl power,” but one doesn’t resist too hard.

The emphasis of the evening was less “I hope you get chlamydia of the face and die” and more like “dude, remember the shitty details and don’t let yourself get hung up on something that just really doesn’t matter that much.” Okay, okay, and there may have been a certain amount of emasculating joking. And doodling. And pin-sticking.

Still, this gets an A++ from me. Sometimes bitching about guys isn’t about men being idiots. It’s about remembering that the women you’re doing the bitching with are total badasses.

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NTKOG #111: The kind of thrifty, homey domesticator who eschews preservative-pumped store-bought bread for the fruit of her own kitchen.

I am: a woman living in the 21st century. You know, the one in which the phrase “best thing since sliced bread” is archaic because nobody bakes bread?!

I am not: sure I’ve even bought a loaf of bread since I moved here. I’m more of an English muffin person.

The Scene: My postage-stamp apartment, armed with a few ingredients  and a fantastically easy bread recipe from The Simple Dollar. Although the ingredients are all pantry staples, I had to run to the convenience store for milk and butter, ’cause I don’t keep any moo in the house. Dragged my goods up to the dude at the counter and whipped out my Visa.

Cashier: Ooh, sorry, your total is $3.89. We have a $5 credit card minimum.
TKOG: Bugger. Do y’all sell Nutella?
Cashier: Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love it, sir, and love you. Went home and after twenty minutes, the little cutie was rising. After I rolled it out for the second rising, decided to cinnamon swirl that motha up. My addition to the recipe: mixed two tablespoons each cinnamon and sugar; brush rolled dough liberally with moo juice; sprinkle with delicious. Let rise and bake as noted in recipe.

Also, note the copious amounts of chocolate and V-Day voodoo crap. Yeah. Read tomorrow's post.

Look how cute! Now imagine it slathered with Nutella and warm caramelized bananas! Now stop drooling on your keyboard.

The Verdict: Holy friggin’ gosh are you kidding me?! The whole shebang took less than half an hour of active time (plus two and a half hours of passive rising/baking time) and was some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten. For $4 and with pantry staples, I got enough supplies to make dozens of loaves. Which I’m totally doing the next time I have a free afternoon.

Also: whaling on the dough for ten minutes is the second most satisfying thing ever. Waking up hungover and inhaling a warm slice of this smeared with Nutella is the first most satisfying.

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A couple more days to enter to win a friggin’ iPod Nano! It’s red! And gets radio reception, apparently! I wouldn’t know because my iPod is like a 64kb iPod Mini. (Also, dudes, sorry for being totally blog-world absent this week: the computer at my new office doesn’t. do. internet.)

NTKOG #107: The kind of ethanol-fueled writerly type who knocks back a snootful in the privacy of her own parlour then commences to Creating Literature.

I am: partial to: 1) the occasional snort of brandy; 2) my own company; 3) pretending, and often, to be F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I am not: an alcoholic.

The Scene: My apartment. Alone. I’d spent a Saturday night out celebrating Porn Star’s birthday with Anglophile and some of his friends — a rambunctious night, capped at a skeezy bar ’til the last train home — but maintained only a buzz due to some combination of the prohibitive cost of alcohol and the fact that Porn Star and Anglophile are non-drinkers. In fact, through some confluence of medication-mixing, religion and incomprehensible personal preference, all of my Boston friends are non-drinkers. Kind of hard on a girl, what? Still, I’ve seen Lifetime Movies, and I know that when the going gets tough, the tough crack open a jaunty little Bordeaux.

I should have known that this NTKOG was turning against me when I realized I didn’t have a corkscrew. Apparently, in a fit of boozy benevolence, I left The Ex all of my corkscrews in the break-up. Still, have Merlot, will MacGyver. Spent ten minutes sitting on the edge of my bed with the upside-down wine bottle clamped between my knees, thwacking the bottom with the sole of one of my cowboy boots. This yielded nothing but a pissed-off neighbor. After a few more strange tricks, I ended up jabbing the rubberized cork with a pocket screwdriver and digging it out in a few large chunks.

Um, hope Delta Burke’s available to star in TKOG: The Movie.

After I filled up a coffee mug with the liberated rosé, learned three key lessons: 1) DO NOT PAY THREE DOLLARS FOR A BOTTLE OF WINE; 2) especially if you are drinking it by the bottle, and 3) have no sparkling conversation to distract you from the fact that you are drinking THREE DOLLAR ROSÉ.

What I hoped would happen: I’d engage in a witty inner monologue before loosening the muse and pounding out forty-five pages of wonderful and inexplicable fiction. (Not to brag, but Drunk TKOG is something of a wordsmith. You may know her from such literary masterpieces as: “What Grown-Ups Mean When They Say God Is Dead,” “Post-Prandial Depression And Other Erotica” and about sixty thousand regret texts peppered with esoteric interwar British naval slang.)

What actually happened: After a mug and a half of the godawful pink vinegar, I lost the will to continue swallowing, and ended up spending the next seven hours in a slowly sobering melancholy state, listening to The Weepies’ “Gotta Have You” on perma-repeat and obsessively google stalking myself.

Um, I thought booze was supposed to make you fun?

The Verdict: Oh lordy, this was a fail on so many levels. Turns out alcohol is, at best, a social performance enhancing drug and not in fact any sort of panacea. That much was old news. What I did learn, however: rock bottom isn’t just a figurative phrase. It is in fact a very literal term for the drop of wine you lick off a pocket screwdriver, alone, at 4:30am. Good lord. Never again.

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