Thanks Weekend

Oh good lord this weekend was just super pleasant. I mean really, how could a weekend NOT be charmed when kicked off by the most beautiful wedding ever? Trees, a full orchestra, timpani, trumpet salutes, posh British accents inducing shivers in my nether regions and hats!Sorry Jews, it was nice and all for the past 40 years but I’m jumping ship, where do I pledge my soul to the C of E? BTW, they did kinda had me at “Pancake Day” anyways.

Next up I would like to give ol’ Mother Nature a huge sloppy wet kiss cause she doled out a picture perfect spring day – TWICE in a row! Swason said it best today – Us New Yorkers REALLY have to work hard for Spring but once we get it, it’s fantastic.

But back to my Saturday. In celebration of the glorious sun returning to his realm I walked the 3 miles to the East River and lounged my day away with a back log of Vanity Fairs and a huge ice coffee. The walk was fantastic, sometimes it’s just kinda nifty to take the slow road and absorb the world. The beautiful small row of restored brownstones on a lacey tree lined street, “secret” community gardens squeezed into the cracks between buildings and a handful of really interesting abandoned industrial spaces all dotted my route. Back home after another 3 mile jaunt I extended my Saturday glow with a Long Term Booty Call fly by. Though it was not some of his best work (damn you bourbon), one can always find a glimmer goodness during any naked funtime.

Moving on…SundaySwason and I joined the inside foodie community for a Sunday lunch at M Wells in LIC. I got one word for this French eatery, decadent. It took all I had NOT to order the heavy cream and 7 cheese potato thing (not having a car and driver to race me back to my apartment 3 min. after all that dairy hits my intestines drastically reduces my menu choices) so I went with the egg soufflé garnished with salty pork stuff and a freshly baked biscuit with honey… love. As per usual the two gays perched atop their chrome stools to my right became my BFFs within 30 seconds of my bottom coming into contact with the red vinyl of my counter stool. Maybe one day I will learn how to fine tune this power to focus on STRAIGHT single men, but probably not.

The remainder of the day included a mini banana cupcake, more lounging river side (after introducing Swason to Gantry Park), watching what could only be described as a sailing ship of urban graffiti pirates, drinkies at LIC Bar and some spring time house work.

Fer reals, this was my weekend. Not too shabby.

4% Less Gail, 100% Still Awesome

Since starting my thyroid meds two months ago I’ve dropped 4% of my body weight – what the what? It’s shocking and baffling and all kinds of crazy mind fuck nonsense. My blood work is fantastic, looks like the ol’ Hashimoto is in check – BONZAI - and my co-workers have confirmed that I haven’t morphed into some wackjob due to the side-effects of hopping up my thyroid on hormones. Or maybe they are just placating my crazy in hopes that I won’t go postal on their keisters.

So yeah, a few pounds down. People say I look differently, I guess I do, I have no concept of my body so I just say thank you. But inside my pea brain I believe they have read this blog and are just being polite/ supportive. This is where the mind fuck comes into play. 10 of my dearest buddies can all give me a thumbs up - “looking good” which I immediately discredit cause you know, they are my pals, but the spurned panhandler on the corner of Park and 60^th who murmured, “Fat Fuckin’ Bitch” – now THAT guy I believe is speaking the truth of all the peoples of the world. I gotta adjust my intake filter, I am giving way to much weight to the crazies.

However there is one exception to my rule of “don’t believe any complements from people who know you” and that is Long Term Booty Call (LTBC), he has a golden ticket to my happy head place. I won’t go into detail but suffice to say a very casual comment presented at a most opportune moment about my jiggly wobbly bits magically transformed me into a drop dead sex kitten (in my head). I think every chunkster should get herself/ himself a LTBC who nonchalantly drops very enthusiastic comments regarding his/her parts that maybe were the bottom of their “Things I Love About My Self” list. Cause I will tell you something peeps, just that one little comment roto rootered out all the self questioning brain crap and replaced it with a heap of - Oh Snap, I am One Hot Mamma Jamma!

Lastly I unfortunately have to report that with this 4% loss of body I will also be dropping 4% of my kick ass personality cause that’s how us skinny girls do. Besides turning vapid I am also honing my speaking without inflection skills (ala Paris Hilton, or all women under the age of 35 on The Hampton Jitney). Ok…..ummmmm…. yeah…sooooo….

A tale of two stories

Just when I think I own the rights to the life ridiculous Swason comes along and one ups me.
This past Valentine's Day after receiving a 10 minute heads up from my long term booty call I was frantically shoveling three days worth of dirty laundry into my closets, hiding the boxes of take out Chinese leftovers and attempting to rid my body of all offending hair that had accumulated since returning from Florida in mid – January. While double fisting my Barbasol and Lady Gillette, “The Flight of the Bubble Bees” screamed through my cranium. However while I was the lead player in my very own version of Beat The Clock (booty edition) little did I know Swason was just a few miles away spending a way too sober evening at a fondue party going toe to toe with a drunken douchebag. Swason, the ever emphatic competitor, had been reduced to a frustrated party goer when she was forced into participating in what may have been the lamest party gaming experience ever. Meanwhile back in my apartment with the clock ticking down and still half covered in shaving cream I quickly realized that I would have to opt for dim lighting and creative slight of hand to redirect attention from my hot-messness. Now back to Swason – after a few apathetic rounds of the party game, “Challenge”, Swason’s nemesis announced, “It’s time for a push up contest!!!” What the what? What kind of grown man says this? But the odd thing is, nobody stopped him or even suggested that the living room of a one bedroom Astoria apartment during a fondue party may not be the best venue for such a competition. Over in Woodside with my head full of shampoo and ¼ of my left leg still fuzzy my phone rang….really? I didn’t even try to grab it, no time… NO TIME!! But it kept ringing…ughhhh so I slopped my way out of the bathroom and across the living room praying that I wouldn’t short out my phone as I pressed the speaker button and yelled “YES!?”. Faintly my Booty Call’s voice traveled up from my blackberry, “Hey I’m here”, I feigned enthusiasm, “Ok great, come on up”, he responded, “Ummm I can’t, I’m in the taxi and I Umm…I don’t have my wallet”. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Swason’s got a guy challenging a group of melted cheese laden drunkards to a pushup contest and I got my Booty Call phoning me from the street begging me to bail him out of a $26 cab ride. Now as if this could not get any better (better may not be the correct word choice) as Swason’s iron man prepped for his first set he announced, “Ok are we gonna do this thing, or what?! Cause if we are gonna do this, let’s do it the RIGHT WAY!!!” and as he finished his battle cry he kicked off his shoes and removed his PANTS. Yes, now Swason was attending a fondue party in Queens with a man competing against an imaginary foe in a pushup contest while only wearing boxer briefs.
Flash-forward to 1am, I was biding adieu to my paramour and 17 more dollars so he could get his sorry broke ass home (did I just pay for a male prostitute?) while Swason was held hostage in her hosts’ kitchen because the duchebag had positioned himself directly between Swason and the apartment door while engaged in a full on knock down screaming match with the hostess. But Swason, forever pragmatic, helpful, and a preeminent avoider of conflict turned her focus on a sink full of dirty dishes and for the next hour washed every last dish.
And that is how 2 single thirty somethings spent St. Valentine's Day 2010 under the bright lights of the big city.