Back in the Saddle Again

For the first time since the big break up, I dipped my toes into the dating pool again. I find myself having neurotic conversations while poring over tiny little emails...in an instant, I become the girl I can't bear! I lose perspective in an instant, and beg for a Xanax to numb me. I keep saying, "I hate dating! I don't want to date! I want to wake up married again!" The wound, the hole left in my heart by the last relationship has scabbed over, but the scar tissue hasn't closed in yet. I want a man to jump right in and fix everything, to fix me before I even figure out what my problem is.
How long will it take to get Philippe out of my system?

Scorched Earth

Naomi Campbell always gets the juicy gigs. Photos from the Interview spread remind me of why I loved editorial fashion in the first place: fantastical, perverted, dark fantasies from dark corners of the brain, 2 dimensional theatre and most importantly...Naomi. The "Eastern Promises" reference is titillating.
Photos by Marcus Piggott and Mert Alas for Interview Magazine.

Aigo Buido

It has been said that the greatest food has come out of poverty's kitchen, and I believe I continued the tradition tonight. Last weekend I read the most glorious, inspiring book: "My Life in France" by Julia Child. Mdm. Cheeld is very en vogue right now, but her actual autobiography was so charming, it wiped away even memories of Meryl Streep. She described violent winds coming off the waters of Marseille, and making a particular garlic soup to warm their battered bodies. Reading her description of this garlic soup prompted me to go online and purchase the great volumes of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking".
As we are in the middle of a brutal fashion week, I didn't leave the office until 8pm tonight...and came home to look at a truly depressed refrigerator. Cottage cheese? Crackers? Jalapenos? YES, those could make a decent dinner, its true! But a few cloves of garlic hiding in a forgotten corner called my name, hollered "Corrie, we are about to sprout! Throw us in a pot, and voila! BOOOOON APPETIT!" So I whipped out my beautiful brand new cookbook and put together a rather low-brow version of Mdm. Cheeld's aigo buido. It was quite good, but I suspect if I had some really grown up accoutrement such as a soup tureen or proper strainer...or food products that weren't on the very cusp of undesirable....I could really whip up a gorgeous soup. Either way, I washed the soup down with a glass of Villa Antinori, in honor of my big girl effort in the kitchen.

I Don't Understand Why No One Likes Hedge Funders

A couple years ago, I briefly dated a hedge funder. This seemed like a coup for me at the time, as I was an unhappy waitress and he was a prerecession Master of the Universe. As with so many Masters and Conquerors and Napoleon Shih Tzus, he was lacking in many aspects. He wasn't particularly warm or kind, he was appropriately intelligent but obnoxiously wont to name-drop, and was just...off. I felt as though I met him when he was flying a bit too high, and I was cruising too low. I finally stopped returning his calls when I fell desperately in love with a man who adored me, and didn't feel the need to constantly brag about meetings on private jets with beseeching CEOs. Almost 2 years after our initial relationship, I reconnected with Hedge Fund for drinks, perhaps to see if I could handle him more adeptly at this new stage in life. Within 10 minutes of meeting ("God, you look great. So basically I got laid off but you wouldn't believe the size of my severance package.") I was immediately reminded that my first impression of him as a creep was correct. The recession hadn't been kind to him, and I privately reveled in his miseries. The night ended with him drunk and begging me to take him to my apartment; instead I kicked him out of the cab at a Path train station to go back to his Trump Tower abode in...Jersey City.
So another nine months after this meeting, imagine my surprise last night, as the hour neared midnight, when I received a text message from him:

"I hate fashion week."
I took the bait, out of champagne-infused curiosity.
"Why, Jimmy, why?"
"These bitches...there (sic) not even close to being as hot as you. What are the odds of me taking you out on Friday or Saturday night?"

I mean, honestly.
This morning I woke to a flurry of messages apologizing and explaining. Obviously I never returned his messages, because I was right from the beginning, but I love being right. A jerk is a jerk is a jerk. Even when his suits are tailored in Hong Kong and his sweaters are cashmere and his hair is handsomely peppered. That just don't make him right.

Cositas Ricas

We certainly had a close view of Colombian bounty tonight. If I could understand why I feel so much more myself in a place like Friends Tavern, I would likely have the secret to life. Friends, for homeboys not in the know, is a glorious gay bar located on Roosevelt Avenue, in Jackson Heights, Queens. Within 10 blocks, you can hit Little Colombia, Little Mexico, Little Ecuador, then round it all off with Little India. There are moments on this street that remind me of Tijuana: the color, the smell, the pandemonium.
Rach and I headed to Jackson Heights to get Mexican food, ate phenomenal corn on the cob (you have the option of slathering butter or mayonesa on the corn...Rach chose butter, with cheese and lime), tamales and tacos. Truth be told, I am really over white kids hitting these neighborhoods and glorifying their "obscure authenticity". The truth is that either these neighborhoods are a) too frightening, b) like a quick vacation across the border, or c) a brief whiff of home. The best part of the night by far was Friends Tavern. I have had the good fortune of visiting Friends before, with gay Colombians, and dancing until the wee hours. Fortunately, Rach and I hit the "Viernes a las siete STREEEPPER!" ("Fridays at 7pm, STRIPPER!") who quite literally mounted each of us then "dick-slapped" us. Was this phrase in my vocabulary before the experience? Not really. Do I fully understand what it means now? And plan to have my clothes sterilized? YES.
Then we cumbia-ed until we couldn't cumbia no more.
But what makes Jackson Heights special? Like any ethnic enclave, there is the flavor of home. The shopkeepers speak Spanish, the bars play salsa, the fryers are cooking samosas. There is something that speaks of that faraway home...in the past, but still in the present.
And did notice that Rach is wearing an ikat Etoile by Isabel Marant jumpsuit? With white Adidas? Bet you didn't.......

My Guy

Guy Bourdin is a juicy, bitter grapefruit with a delicate sprinkling of Splenda. He makes you think of moist sensuality...and lip gloss. His distinctive style smacks of sadism, and objectified sexuality. Nothing looks quite so delicious and ripe as Guy Bourdin girl, with her fan-blown hair and nekkid buttocks.

My Funny Valentine