So remember how I auditioned for a movie? Well, I filmed my scenes a couple of months ago, and it was fun, and the casting director was all, "We love your look, and we'll keep you in mind for future roles," but I totally didn't believe him.
But then he called me today and offered me an extra part in "Lipstick Jungle"! How spectacularly trashy, right? The fact that I couldn't be more dissimilar to any of those women nor any less interested in the show makes me SURE that they just called me to ensure that I'll at least watch one episode of it in my lifetime.
It does make me wonder, though, how many bit parts it takes to add up to a real part.
Wanna know why spaghedeity (formerly of ael88 fame) is the best LJ Friend ever? He talked real nice to someone and got my blog's LJ syndication changed so that it has this neat little row of links at the end of each entry that shows how many comments I have thus far and gives you the opportunity to add me to Digg, del.icio.us, and StumbleUpon (not that you'd have any reason to). AWESOME!
This is also a good time for me to mention that if you previously added my blog to the RSS reader of your choice, you may want to delete it and re-add it using this link or the big fat RSS button on the sidebar of my blog (but NOT the one that shows up in your address bar!). That'll allow the row of links to show up in my entries on your reader, which is handy for seeing if there might be any comments you'd want to read.
Does that make sense?
I am no longer evelynnash. I am Unapologetically Mundane.
Please add my LJ syndication to your Friends list, and my new blog entries will show up just like normal LJ entries. I can't tell who's added it and who hasn't (only the number of people who have), so don't feel pressured just because we're friends, and don't feel embarrassed if you're stalking me.
I'll still be commenting on your entries as evelynnash, but I won't be posting here unless I have something super-personal to say, so add the syndication or RISK LOSING OUR FRIENDSHIP 4-EVA.
It's my blog. Please don't hate me.
Lately, more of my friends and co-workers have been asking me about my journal, and I've been sort of reluctant to give out the address, because when I do, the response is always one of two:
1) "What's LiveJournal?", or
2) "Isn't that for melodramatic teenagers?"
Some of my friends have said that they don't feel comfortable reading my journal because it feels like a community that they're not a part of–a bunch of logged-in readers with journals of their own. I'm hoping that this will draw them in. I'm also hoping that enough of them will be drawn in that I'll eventually become more than a blogger, whatever that may mean.
I'm not leaving LJ behind completely, either. Although WordPress allows for password-protected entries, it's much easier to just post Friends Only here if there's something I don't want my whole office knowing. I'm definitely going to keep reading all of your entries, and I hope you won't entirely revolt against me.
The ever-indulging spaghedeity has helpfully set up a syndication that you can add to your Friends list so my entries will pop up as if my blog was a LiveJournal. They won't include my userpic or formatting, and you have to click through to the blog itself for me to be able to see your comments, but I think it'll be worth the hassle in the end. I understand if you don't.
spaghedeity asked me to post nekkid pictures of him in return for his help, but since I want to keep all of the ones he sent me to myself, I'll just say this instead: Aaron is great! Aaron is a really nice friend! You should pay Aaron compliments! Mostly so he will do neat things for you, too! Hooray for Aaron!
I still have plenty to fix on the site, but I wanted to go ahead and start using it to give me some motivation to work on it. Go take a look around and tell me how much you hate it.
Kamran and Katie eat pigs-in-a-blanket from the local trailer trash bar for dinner while watching "The O’Reilly Factor". Kamran says, "Did you hear that Hillary was rooting for Eight Belles? She told everyone to 'bet on the filly'." Katie responds, "That makes me almost glad it had to be euthanized." Kamran shows Katie the Delegate Calculator slider thingy that's only fun if you hate Hillary (and you do).
How kind of all of you–or, you know, two of you–to ask to see the Time Out New York submission that's going to grant me all the fame I can handle. Because you know I was dying to share it.
Have you ever found yourself–a corn-fed farmgirl from smalltown Ohio living in the midwestern enclave that is Williamsburg–avoiding all of the hip joints your white friends recommend because you think Asian culture is where the action is? I have, and that's why I'm calling my "How long can you go?" entry East Meets Midwest.
We'd start out the day at Jing Fong, naturally, and you'd be happy to share pork and vegetable dumplings with me, because you don't like shrimp in your dim sum, either. We'd talk about how cuttlefish sound totally cute, and you'd spend the rest of the day calling me that as a term of endearment.
Next would be Sakura Matsuri at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, where we'd take a ridiculous number of pictures of ourselves looking innocent–no, coy–beneath the cherry blossoms. We'd stick around for a photo-op with the sushi pillow, and if I'm lucky, you'll buy us matching ones to take home and remember each other by.
Lunch would be at Sakae Sushi in the Chrysler Building, because not only is fish from a conveyor belt an awesome novelty that I'm not ashamed to love, but they have tempura ice cream and chicken dishes covered in cheese, forgod'ssake.
In the afternoon, we'd make our way to Union Square for the 2 p.m. showing of Jump, and every single person in the audience would be white and midwestern, so I'd feel right at home.
Because you're too cheap to buy me souvenirs there, we'd head to Pearl River for erasers shaped like fast food, tiny Buddhas in pervy poses, and bags of whole dried fish that you'd happily chow down on while I made squeamish faces.
Dinner would be at Yakitori Torys, where you would eat skewers and skewers of soft knee bone, while I'd take advantage of your cash and fill up on kobe beef tongue. We'd share the steamed vegetables and be amazed at what wasabi mayonnaise can do for carrots.
We'd follow dinner with dessert at Kyotofu, because we're way above the Pinkberry post-hype. I'd have the Frozen Maple Soy Parfait, and you'd allow me the suggested sake pairing, because we're close that way.
Next would be drinks underground at Decibel, and I wouldn't be afraid to keep up with you, because I know you'd never take advantage of me.
Since we'd be inhibition-free at that point, we'd rent out a private room at Sing-Sing (the one on Ave. A, obviously), and I would karaoke more Heart and Pat Benetar than you thought possible. AND YOU WOULD LIKE IT.
We'd go to The Park for a little dancing by the bamboo, if you insisted, but I'm serious about that karaoking, and I could do it alllllllll night long.
Although I'd be willing to stop if you wanted some okonomiyaki from Oh! Taisho, and I'd use my camera to videotape the dried fish skin topping as it contracts in the heat.
Oh, TONY, we'd have so much fun together. And we wouldn't even have to speak with offensive faux-Chinese accents all night if you didn't want to. I'm all about compromise and making this relationship work.
Thank you to Sonya for pointing me to the contest and believing in me, and thank you to bootsinrain for introducing me to the idea of Williamsburg as a midwestern enclave. 'Cause it totally is. But it's still hip, so shut up.
You guys! Not only are you officially going to see me in the next Meryl Streep/Amy Adams film, but I got an e-mail this afternoon telling me that out of all the 8 million people in New York City, the ginormous magazine Time Out New York has chosen ME (and two insignificant others) for a 24-hour city-wide adventure THIS SATURDAY!
Naturally, it was the last three words that really caught my eye. IhopetheylikemeIhopetheylikemeIhopetheyl
Saturday night while I was bowling, my best friend Tracey texted me to say, "I'll be up late if you want to call me when you're done!" When what she really meant was, "OMG OMG CALL ME NOW YOU STUPID WHORE BECAUSE I'M DYING TO TELL YOU THAT I JUST GOT ENGAGED!!!!!"
So after weeks of badmouthing her boyfriend for spending money on DVDs and flatscreen monitors when he needed to be saving up for a ring, it turned out that he already had the perfect white gold princess cut number and had been saving it for the right moment. That moment was oddly when Tracey was at work in the science museum and no one was around to videotape any of it for best friends and future generations, but we'll forgive Dan for that based solely on his clever use of a Nintendo DS in his proposal. Because we are nerds.
So please join me in congratulating the smartest, funniest, most generous girl I know and her geekily romantic sweetheart on their engagement.
Why, yes, that is an Applebee's box that Dan changed to say Applebutts.
And please remind them that all plans should be based on my availability and that I can't afford to come home for a fifth wedding this year.
The greatest fun in living in a city where the majority of restaurants are tiny, unreplicable, and authentic is choosing to eat at a chain, which is exactly what we did for my friend Sonya's quarter-century birthday the weekend before last. She'd been craving teppanyaki for weeks but hadn't wanted to spend the money, and her birthday gave her the perfect opportunity to make her boyfriend Adam pick up the tab at Benihana. And we felt okay about it, you know, because the very first Benihana was in NYC. So shut up.
Kamran stocked up for the evening all baller-like,
and then we met Sonya, Adam, and Adam's co-workers/couple-friends Dave and Sarah at the restaurant,
Look at Adam's tongue hanging out!
where Kamran immediately filled me up with some crazy blue liquor so I'd quit talking about how much he hated the green pleated shirt Sonya and I had bought for me to wear especially for the occasion the night before. Sonya told us that in other parts of the country, the chefs–though obviously not Japanese–are forced to adopt Asian-sounding names just for show. Our chef for the evening was very not-Japanese and had the not-Japanese name Romeo, which very well could have been made up, too, but he used it to his advantage and cooked us up this very romantic rice heart:
He slid his spatula under the middle section and pushed it up and down to make the heart look like it was beating, which made all the girls' hearts flutter. He flipped shrimp into the top of his cap and threatened to flip some at me when he could see how grossed out I was by seafood, but I totally ate the ones that he grilled for us out of guilt. Kamran and I each had a Rocky's Choice, which was hibachi steak and chicken with soup, salad, vegetables and this garlic butter chicken rice that could have been a meal within itself. Sonya got a bowl of birthday ice cream on the house and offered it up to everyone, but the four of them were all, "Oh, no, we're waaaay too full for that." Kamran and I, on the other hand, were like, "Excuse me, waitress, but our meals are supposed to come with ice cream, and we want to be as fat as possible, so please bring it to us double-time."
We decided to head downtown to get Sonya drunker, and while we waited for the subway, various naughty things involving Kamran's super-sharp umbrella took place, including but not limited to what Sonya refers to as "the pimp picture",
and this, which should probably never be mentioned again:
We got to The Back Room at 11, and after taking an unmarked set of stairs down to a tunnel, walking through an alley, and taking another flight of stairs up again, we finally made it inside the place, which is shticky with Victorian speakeasy charm.
The idea is that it's still the 1920s and Prohibition is in full effect, so drinks are served in teacups and brown paper bags,
and the Asian folks aren't in internment camps yet, so everyone's merry (except Adam):
The plan was to get Dave wasted enough that he wouldn't mind going dancing, because he's not so into grinding up against strangers for reasons that DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE TO ME. But of course it was Sonya and me who got there first, as evidenced by this
which we took with the bouncer who was guarding the secret bookshelf-disguised door to the back room where owner Tim Robbins and all of his famous friends hang out. This guy in a prep school sweater kept shaking hands with the bouncer and slipping him folded bills in unknown denominations, but the bouncer kept denying him, and we kept making snide comments about him until our teacups were empty.
We got to Ruff Club (no, seriously, that's what it's called . . . !!!) at midnight, and it was their second anniversary, so there were loads of people standing in line in fishnets and white shoes. We took our place at the end, and then a kid behind us asked, "Do you guys know what this place is like?" I said, "It's worth the wait." Even though I'd never been there before. We stood for maybe ten minutes in the rain, which resulted in this super-homosexual picture of Kamran protecting Adam's glorious hair:
Sonya and I had been shopping all week so we could compete with this and this and this, but after that ten minutes, the bouncers started separating girls and boys into two different lines so the girls could go in first, and we didn't want to leave our boyfriends behind, so we ended up going to another unmarked bar. And despite the inclusion of songs by the likes of The Notorious B.I.G. and Sophie B. Hawkins, we danced and danced and danced until the sun came up. Or, you know, until, like, 2 a.m.