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Archive for the ‘may or may not be that kind of girl’ 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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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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If you haven’t entered my giveaway for an iPod Nano, do so by noon EST or forever hold your peace! Winner announced tomorrow! 

NTKOG #110: The kind of relaxed, centered guru who recharges after a long day with a stretch of yoga. 

I am: a Brain, not a Body. If I could exist as a floating sentient consciousness in a jar of formaldehyde, I totally would. Plus: wouldn’t have to shower anymore! 

I am not: good at listening to my body’s needs. Stretching? Destressing? Logging gym time? You’re not speaking my language. 

The Scene: Healthworks Cambridge, a palatial all-women’s gym that looks like propaganda for a Brave New World hippie commune. I took advantage of a great Groupon deal for 24 day passes, including access to all classes, and Anglophile and I were psyched to try something out of the ordinary on our inaugural visit. Unfortunately, the incompetence of the MBTA got me there too late for our first choice — beginner mat pilates — so we waited around for the 8pm Restorative Yoga. 

When we filed in, flanked by lots of 20somethings and some very fit older ladies, I got psyched for a physically challenging experience. Stretching ’til my muscles gooified, exotic poses; afterwards, flopping sweatily to the mat and hyperventilating for a spell. Serious dang exertion! 

This lasted for the three minutes it took to get inside and grab a mat, then — why’s it so dark in here? Are they handing out blankets?! Half the regulars around me lay on their backs, covered with blankets, rolled washcloths covering their eyes. Um, nap-time anyone? 

The instructor started in dulcet tones to talk about our consciousnesses and awareness and — oh god, who even knows. Her voice was dripping morphine. She told us there would be two options for every pose: one for those who were high energy, and one for those who were low energy. If you’re feeling high energy, she sweetly droned, wrap yourself complete around your bolster, crossing your ankles, hook your left elbow under your right ear and roll onto your right shoulder (or similar masochistic Twister). If you’re feeling low-energy, lay on your back. 

Don’t think I need to tell you which one I chose. 

Lay there for ten minutes, breathing deeply. Kind of soothing! Long pose, though. Surely any moment she would — “Let’s raise our awareness to our minds for a moment. If you are feeling anxious, lengthen your exhale. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. Whatever makes you comfortable.” — and ten more minutes of the Napping Toddler pose. 

“Okay, if you’d like your body to make another shape, slowly do that. If you’re in the high-energy position [step-by-step instructions for folding body into origami crane].” And if you’re in the low-energy position…? You apparently stay on your back for fifteen more minutes. I tried to let the calm atmosphere soothe my mind and, per the advice of my instructor, “listen to my body.” 

I’ve got news for you, guys. I tried listening to my body. That dude doesn’t have shit to say. I mean, my brain is a fine specimen: distrusted by men, admired by women — when my brain walks into my bar, everyone calls out its name, Cheers-style. My body is just a piece of furniture it owns. Like a TMNT Krang situation: 

Heroes in a half-shell, turtle style!

I'd like to think I'm just a teensy bit better looking than Krang's physical casing. That said, I'd totally love to score a pair of those sweet-ass metal epaulets.

 

Cross-section of my mind, thirty-five minutes into the Suicidal Turtle pose: Okay, dude, focus on how soothing this is. It’s like a bubble bath for your soul. Jesus, remember that episode of Full House where Michelle puts her fish in the bubble bath and it dies? I don’t want to die. I chose the wrong path. Maybe I should have gone to Dartmouth after all. 

Just then, a radiant patchouli-scented goddess hovered over me. “Is your body soothed?” she whispered. “Uh, yeah, I’m cool,” I coughed as quietly as possible. She smiled a moment then hummed like a beautiful machine and her hands flew above me. In the space of a moment, she had taken off my glasses, refolded the wadded towel covering my eyes, stretched my legs, put a blanket under my bank, and fixed my hair. I wondered if I took her home, whether she’d brush my teeth for me. 

“Doesn’t it bring you peace?” she breathed. Yeah. Yeah, I could kind of imagine how it would. If the rest of Yoga Nap Class was barely conscious, at least it was spent in a pleasant dream. Until immediately after the session, when Anglophile and I caught eyes for the first time then had to bite our cheeks ’til they bled to keep from laughing. ’cause I mean, dude, hippies. 

The Verdict: Okay, obviously this class — ideal for pregnant women, recently injured people, and the elderly, as noted on the course description — wasn’t for me. I nap just fine on my own. That said, I did enjoy the calm in the room and the almost farcically constant affirmations by the instructor. Want to lay on your back for a full hour, as almost half the class did? That’s okay. Want to roll on your belly and stare up at the ceiling? Okay! Want to piddle all over the floor like a puppy? We love you the way you are! Namaste! 

It’s nice to be allowed to feel good about yourself every once in a while, just as, y’know, a special treat. I foresee some more yoga in my future — but preferably of a slightly more physically punishing nature.

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Guys! I’ve been asked to preface menstrual TMIs with a warning for my male readers. So here’s your warning: Vaginas bleed. If you don’t like it, don’t have sex with ’em. (You’re welcome, Muscles.)

Also, enter by NOON TOMORROW to WIN AN IPOD NANO! z0mg!

NTKOG #109: The kind of aggressive oversharer who uses her period as an excuse for everything and makes a valiant effort to keep the world at large up-to-date on her personal, uh, punctuation.

I am: one of those lucky few women whose periods just really aren’t a big deal. I barely notice it.

I am not: going to talk about it when I do notice it. I mean, unless it’s with my girlfriends, obvi, ’cause talking to women inevitably leads to discussions of menstrual blood and wedding plans.

The Scene: My uterus? So here’s a thing about periods, if any guys penetrated my severe warning and made it this far: they are fickle and perverse creatures. And there’s no quicker way to anger them than claiming that yours are never painful or aggravating. I thought of this NTKOG a few weeks ago, and laughed to myself, “Ohhh what an acting job! How could I complain about my light, pain-free period? It is practically a pleasure to host!” Cue me waking up three days later with hyperventilating, blinding, crying cramps. Thank you universe! Universe inside my reproductive system!

Anyway, set out to overshare in a variety of situations, from which, three vignettes:

Objective: Escape convenience store judgment: The Ex always argued I’m unnaturally concerned with the way people behind cash registers perceive me but, dude, you try buying red licorice and a Fresca at 10:59 PM from some translucent-skinny retail girl who weighs forty-five pounds — half eyeliner — and obviously had to filet herself to fit into her jeans. THERE WAS JUDGMENT! There was judgment.

Filet o’ salesclerk furrowed her brow for a sec when she looked at the licorice. I smiled: “Period. Crazy sugar craving, you know? Like mega period.” She looked up and gave the tiniest pulse of a smile. Foolish, heartened, I continued. “The worst part is I never see it coming. Then one day I realize I’m crying at 30 Rock and surrounded by empty pudding cups. Menstruation, eh?”

The smile wiped off her face as she gave a dignified moue of disgust. Sooooo. I guess I know whom I’m not asking if I ever need to borrow a tampon.

Objective: Tardiness with impunity: It has come to my attention, over the years, that girls periodically use their periods as an excuse for being late. I’m … just not at all sure why. But damned if I wasn’t going to give it a shot. Due to an admittedly avoidable cause, I was running about ten minutes late for the writing class I’m taking, which is taught by an elderly woman and attended by four other students. Awesome, dude. My Cher Horowitz moment.

TKOG: Sorry I’m late. I’m like super menstrual.
Old Hippie Instructor: I’m sorry, what?
TKOG: Oh, you know, I’m like on my period in a major way.
OHI
: Wait, what does that have to do with you being late?
TKOG: Uh, cramps?
OHI: [reproving glance]
TKOG: …midol?

Not quite as quotable as surfing the crimson tide, it transpired. And still haven’t solved the mystery of why periods excuse lateness!

Objective: Avoid credit card minimum in sourpuss convenience store: A different convenience store next to my house, the employees of which are positively draconian about their $5 credit card minimum (a policy which, btdubs, violates companies’ terms of agreement with credit card companies). I was picking up a travel pack of Advil to ward off a random headache, but the total came to $2.18 and I had no cash.

TKOG: Dude, seriously, please help me out here. I’m begging you.
Surly Clerk: $5 minimum. Buy something else.
TKOG: But I don’t need anything else! I’m on my period and I have terrible cramps and I need an Advil right flippin’ now.
SC: Sure. If you pay in cash.
TKOG: Dude, come on, my cramps are so bad that last night I dreamed I was giving birth to a llama.

True story, btdubs. Dude wouldn’t relent. So in desperation I glanced behind the counter at the tiny home-improvement section and, remembering the leaky aerator on my kitchen sink, asked him for a set of pliers. He rang ’em up and looked at me for just a moment, confused or at least a little surprised.

“Yeah,” I told him, ripping open the Advil as I walked to the door. “Just, like, in case a tampon gets stuck?”

You’re welcome for the visual, sir. You could have just sold me the damn Advil. But whatever, mind the mood swings, ’cause if you hadn’t heard, I had a good excuse.

The Verdict: Ugh, still not sure why women sometimes do this. I’ll admit I’m a little on the prim Victorian side when it comes to discussing bodily functions (except, apparently, on the blog — yikes), but I just don’t see what possible good can come from bringing up your period with people who aren’t actively seeking a menstrual-based conversation.

That said, as someone who enjoys behaving badly, I did quite appreciate the pale mottled shade of green the last guy turned. So. Keeping it in my bag of tricks as an emergency-conversation-escape smokebomb.

TMI Thursday! Meta-TMI about giving TMI! Go look at Livit, Luvit for more TMI! Also, while we’re housekeeping: new comment policy, kittens. If your comment friggin’ creeps me out, I will delete it wantonly and without warning. This policy will not apply to 99.9999999% of comments, but I am hereby reserving the right forever.

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Do not fail, loves, to enter to win an 8 gig iPod Nano (with video! and radio!) in my giveaway.

NTKOG #103: The kind of ‘roided-out angerball who, when life gives her lemons, punches a fruit vendor in his big ugly face.

I am: passive; afraid of touching people ever ever ever.

I am not: one for fisticuffs. Which you can probably tell. By the fact I call them fisticuffs.

The Scene: B-Line T, going from my apartment to Harvard Ave. It’s empty for a Wednesday morning — approximately half the seats full, but I stand in the alcove by the door because I do not have far to go. There is only one other dude standing with his back to me, a few feet away, between me and the exit. Half-Asian guy, college-aged, six feet tall and buff but also bulky, like he makes it to the gym every day then rewards himself with a few hot dogs. He’s wearing one of those puffy astronaut coats and standing, inexplicably, in the middle of the aisle.

Doors open and I start to dash off the train to my bus, which is already waiting across the street, when the guy suddenly spread-eagles himself between me and my chance getting to work on time. He reaches his arms up so that one is grasping the top rail on each side of the aisle, then spreads his legs so he is in jumping-jack position. His head kind of lolls to the side.

“Excuse me,” I say. His head lolls a bit more in the other direction. “Excuse me!” I prepare to run for the other exit, blaming kids these days with their earbuds and their weird subway-riding calisthenics, except right as I turn I realize — I have a clear shot of both ears. Guy isn’t listening to music. He’s just ignoring me. I”m the kind of girl who puts up with crap like that every day but no, not right now.

“DUDE, I need to get by!” I bellow like a moose, tapping on his shoulder through the puffcoat. “You very seriously need to move RIGHT FRIGGIN’ NOW!” He starts aimlessly scratching his nose.

So, I did what any normal girl would do. I punched him.

Okay, and before y’all start making citizens arrests all up in here, two points: 1) My biceps aren’t exactly registered as lethal weapons. Before the advent of touch-screen phones, I could barely punch in a phone number. 2) It was a punch in the middle in the back of what I’d call “no, seriously, stop tickling me!” strength.

Did the trick though. The dude instantly twirled on his heel, face a grotesque mask of slowly realized rage. The second he turned, I ducked under his arm and ran off into the morning.

I swear to you, though, and you can believe this as you like, that when I looked back, I locked eyes with the middle-aged woman who had been sitting in front of him, and who had witnessed the whole thing. She stared at me for one intense second, then slowly gave me a thumbs-up.

The Verdict: Man, I haven’t punched anyone since that time I punched Muscles — excellent to brag about! Terrible thing to actually do as a human being, of course. I would obviously never do this again (even though, really, the punch in question was more akin to a strident “scuse me!” shoulder tap, and the placement more than anything is what upped it to punchitude). Still, this did make me feel kind of like a take-no-shit commuter, which is a feeling I need to harness on those days when I stand passively by while strangers sneeze in my face and take gum out of my pockets.

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NTKOG #95: A chimera today! The kind of vanity-absorbed excessive personal groomer who feels the need to rip her hair out by the dang roots; the kind of SATC-reviling thifty hippie chick who does that shit herself.

I am: talking about threading, guys. Oh em gee.

I am not: freaked out by anyone else’s body hair — I’m actually kind of a fan — so the idea of going beyond shaving with my own kind of squicks me.

The Scene: Anglophile’s bathroom. We went out to dinner and, over dessert, exchanged girlish confidences about eyebrow shaping. “I should really teach you how to thread sometime,” she mused.

“Well, what’re you doing right now?” I immediately responded. Because, dude, pro tip: inviting yourself over to hang out in other people’s bathrooms is the epitome of class.

Back at her manse, Anglophile grabbed a spool of regular old thread and gave me a little tutorial. Threading, if you haven’t run into it, is waxing’s lesbian sister: very generally, you cats cradle a length of twisted thread about your person and it magically removes your hair in vast swaths. Safe, fast and non-toxic, Middle Eastern women and hippie chicks have been applying it to their lips, pits and pubes for centuries.

Anglophile laced up her fingers and showed me the technique on her own face. “Nothing to it,” she smiled, skimming the thread nimbly around her already-hairless upper lip. “You try!”

Okay, dude, it looked simple. After a few tries, I managed to marionette the strings in approximately the right configuration.

Also, posing my bear paws with thread only highlights how absurdly big they are. Who has two thumbs and can't buy gloves? THIS GUY.

I was going to upload an audio feed of the process, but I figure you didn't need to hear me shouting "fuck fuck fuck when will it end?!" repeatedly.

“This isn’t so bad!” I crowed, jerking the string slowly over the invisible downy hairs at the corner of my mouth. “This doesn’t even hu—fuck. fuck. FUCK.”

“Oh good,” Anglophile told me. “That means it’s working.”

Holy shit guys. Let’s put the propaganda aside for a moment for a peek at the inner workings of threading. You twist a double-length of thread on itself hundreds of times, then rapidly move the twists from one side to another. The goal is to get all of your little hairs caught near their roots. Then when the string moves, the hair gets ripped out. Just like the time your grandma tied your loose tooth to the door then slammed it. (Goddamnit, grandma.)

After ten minutes of ferocious contemplation, the invisible hairs above my lip had been replaced by a huge flaming patch of angry red skin. Um, beautiful?

But after Anglophile sweetly bade me to get the frig out of her living room, my curiosity was as inflamed as my (baby-soft hairless) lip.  A checklist for those of you who, like me, are either incurably imbecilic or apparently have a microfetish for macropainful beauty regimens.

Eyebrows: Threading is allegedly good for clearing your brows but, dude, from my limited experience, would only work if your weeds need some serious whacking. The point of threading is that it takes out a whole row of hair and, I mean, unless I unibrow up overnight, that’s just serious overkill. Attempted to do some shaping on top of my brow, but after two hairs realized I was putting myself in serious gotta-draw-them-back-on territory. PASS.

Leg Hair: Pro: threading rips hair out by the roots, so results last for up to a week. Con: threading rips hair out by the roots. Found a little patch of stubble on my knee and, after about ten minutes, yanked out fifteen painful friggin’ hairs. Swear-to-hair ratio: 5:1.

Those tiny hairs on your toe knuckles that, um, hey, any dudes who are reading this? women absolutely do not have: So if I theoretically did have any of these little guys to eliminate, threading might have yanked out all twelve of them in one brutally painful moment. Ruthless efficiency. Abject misery. Oh god when will death come.

Pubic Hair: Hells yeah I went there. After pep-talking myself to Eye Of The Tiger, wound up the thread, lowered it to the hair, pulled and — nothing. Tried it again — still nothing — a third time — nada. On my fifth attempt, I managed to noose a single hair and snap it in half, but, dang, guys. If you are idiotic enough to spend twenty minutes attempting to pluck out your pubic hairs with the contents of a travel sewing kit and those hairs remain unplucked? Take it as a sign of DIVINE FUCKING PROVIDENCE and leave well enough alone. I did.

The Verdict: Ouch. Ouch goddamn ouch with a double side of frig. Maybe it’s just because I’m inexperienced, but I’d rather translate Ulysses into Romanian than attempt another whole-body threading experimentation. Learn from my mistakes. The only hairs that it worked well on (upper lip, toes) are hairs so fine that nobody can even see them, so what’s the point? And as for more high-traffic areas, I’ll be sticking to my soap and razor, thanks.

[Edit: There’s nothing wrong with threading! Don’t fear threading! But if you’re going to try it, have it done by someone else! And not me.]

Heck yes I just said “toe knuckles” like seventeen times. You know why? Because it’s TMI Thursday. Go check out LiLu’s blog for more TMI glory (that hopefully doesn’t involve medieval pubescaping).

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TKOG #93: The kind of relentlessly frugal mistress of the house who can wine and dine the masses on a single blooming potato and spends nary a cent on her daily food budget.

I am: a busy/lazy urban 20something with no great affinity for scrubbing pots and pans.

I am not: even the mistress of a decent-sized apartment.

The Scene: My kitchen, surveying with distress my bare pantry shelves after I idiotically decided to embark upon this challenge. Fun fact: if you want to stretch your creative lady of the house muscles, you might want to consider going shopping first. To wit, my only foodstuffs: a few boxes of dry pasta; jars of peanut butter in every conceivable denomination of crunchitude; two pounds of frozen chicken drumsticks; the rest of a freezer full of flash-frozen spinach and kale; five pounds of onions and a few peppers; an apocalypse bunker’s worth of canned beans; various spices and condiments. And, of course, about sixty cans of Fresca, because I don’t care what my landlord says: the water in Brighton may be potent, but it sure as heck isn’t potable.

Ran this experiment over the course of a week back when I was full-time unemployed, and this much I’ll say for it: once you get tired of all the food you own, snacking to while away the long hours of unemployment becomes infinitely less appealing.

This much I’ll also say: dude, three meals a day is kind of a lot more food than you’d ever imagine. Especially if you aren’t brilliant enough to keep a bar of emergency chocolate around.

Spent an afternoon cooking up barbecue chicken drumsticks and a pot of the best damn vegan barbecue chili ever, and was on the verge of deciding, ‘dude, I am a total friggin’ culinary slash domestic genius!’ when the crazy went in. I don’t know if you’ve ever jolted awake at 2am to rifle through the pockets of seventeen pairs of jeans, praying for a stale old butterscotch candy but … uh, but neither have I? Ahem.

Also, life-saving technique: once you’re down to nothing but pasta and frozen vegetables, might I heartily recommend the world’s easiest peanut sauce (which is to Thai food as Kraft Easy Mac is to Italian): 1/3 cup creamy peanut butter; 1/4 cup hot hot hot water; 2 tbsp soy sauce; 1.5 tbsp rice vinegar; pinch of brown sugar. Whisk ’til it’s creamy and smooth. Dump liberally on everything you eat.

The Verdict: Dude, unfortch, I think it was the peanut sauce that did me in. Contrary to my broke-ass 20something nature, I’ve never been a huge pasta fan, but after I ran out of real food, I reverted to peanut noodles. Despite the fact that I’d cut sugar, pizza and anything fried out of my daily stats — to say nothing of the fact that I was so bored with my limited food options that I really wasn’t eating much — I managed to put on like five pounds over the course of the week that I have yet to shake.

That said, it was a good reminder to actually friggin’ cook every day, if for no other reason than to stop spending $7-12 daily on food of questionable nutritional value. I’m pretty proud of myself for living across the street from the best damn pizzeria in Boston and only violating my strict budget once (to stress-eat a Milky Way after the worst job interview ever).

Okay, though, spill, guys. What do y’all eat when the budget is lean? ’cause I’m saving up for a trip to Barcelona, and sadly see many, many more days of spend-free eating in my future…

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