thank god for restaurant week! that glorious week when those of us who are fabulous and broke get to live like fancy people for five fucking minutes. it's totally great. melts my chonies right off.
for those of you who have no idea what the hell i'm talking about, restaurant week in chicago is this blessed annual event during which tons of chichi, ostentatious restaurants crank open their gilded doors and extend invitations to the near-eviction crowd, the downtrodden, old navy-clad masses. no secret handshakes, no whispered passwords, no black amex cards: smelly, dirty, cell-phone-about-to-get-turned-off regular-ass bitches like you and me get to go to NoMI and fulton's and il mulino and salpicon and sushisamba and tizi melloul and la sardine and aria and valet our shitty cars and hang up our filthy coats and then pay 32 measly bucks for a ridiculously fancy-ass meal.
never one to gloss over the provebial shit the life monkey is constantly throwing at us from its cage, it bears pointing out that 1 the shit is prix fixe and 2 some of the chicest places (ie those $$$$ motherfuckers that you skip over while reading time out because you know your dumb ass could never holler at more than a bottle of water in a place like that and you can only afford to look at a restaurant with "buffet" in the name) only offer lunch, but STILL. it's an incredible deal. my raggedy ass has been to plenty of these places during the other 51 weeks of the year, and i have two words for you: FUCK and THAT. maybe it's because delicious food is kind of wasted on intestines as charred and nonfunctioning as mine happen to be, but i don't think that's really it. because my tongue still fucking works, and that's the whole point of eating outside of your apartment with both a bra and shoes on, am i wrong? to service thy precious taste buds?!
stop the fucking presses! harvey, our lovely and smiley and super nice ups man, just burst through the door bearing packages, one of which was FOR ME. that almost never happens! (except right after payday.) it was from my hot and steamy new boyfriend, amazon.com. didn't i introduce him to you at your housewarming party a few weeks ago? i didn't?! my bad! he was the fat dude in the corner wearing the plastic sticker dress shirt and cardboard shoes. you must have seen him, inventorying your record collection and alphabetizing your bookshelves? he's super awesome, and he totally comes in two days or less. anyway, he sent me some cds! isn't that rad? now i know that's so last millenium, but my gorgeous little macbook g4 went to the apple store in the sky in december, and since those bitches don't grow on trees i am currently without a means by which to download all the latest jams. tragic, for sure. it's the reason that yesterday i dropped out of college (AGAIN), but we will save that for some other time when talking about it won't make me want to jump off a building.
anyway, amazon.com is so much fucking cooler than that douchebag whose dick you've spent the last seven years sucking. he just sent me "actor" by st. vincent, "manners" by passion pit, and "a strange arrangement" by mayer hawthorne. i know you kids never listen to me, but when i say these are all albums you will not be sorry to have bought, you should fucking believe me. also? i bought corinne bailey rae's "the sea" in starbucks on saturday (i know what you're thinking and you should shut up), and it's really sad and good. which is my favorite genre of music. i really do live for that wrist-cutty shit, but i also am really into upbeat songs and mini dance parties. hmm. an enigma wrapped in a riddle, i am. for instance, right now i am singing along to the first paramore album, and i am neither white nor in high school. puzzling, i know. i should probably be studied.
rachel and amanda (i am obsessed with them) and i went to perennial last week, and it was so great. BUT. it kind of reminded me that despite my lofty aspirations and impressive vocabulary, i am still something of a dumb, uncultured american. i walked in and the host immediately offered to take my coat, and like a silly fucking hillbilly i stood there blinking at him for a second while i tried to consult the etiquette book shoved into the recesses of my tiny brain. you know, the one i devoured a million years ago and tossed in the mental pile along with the ann coulter and dr. laura (you must know your enemies in order to destroy them).
this might make you sad though it really should make you laugh, but because i'm an orphan who was raised primarily by whipsmart whores and rabid wolves when i was eighteen i bought an emily post book and read that shit cover to cover. i didn't learn a lot of basic shit, like how to balance a checkbook or pay a bill on time, and a lot of that had to be learned on the fly. ie, my lights and phone have been in varying stages of off/soon to be off/recently turned back on for the last twelve fucking years. but i also never learned fancy table etiquette or how to write a proper thank you note. my mom was too busy trying not to die to teach little sam when to use "miss" when addressing a woman of unclear age or marital status. so i read emily post and found that shit out. i also bought this book called "how to be" which was supposedly an etiquette book for africans, but i already know how to decline baby shower invitations/montell viewing parties and the appropriate size and value of a christmas gift intended for my "play cousins and them."
but i couldn't remember the "how to act in a restaurant when you are a fucking idiot" chapter so, like an asshole, i kept my coat, thinking that handing it to the host dude might incur some kind of fee, and isn't the whole POINT of restaurant week that we vagrants can get away with being cheap?! really, bitches. i didn't want to have to scrub foie gras off wedgewood china with a toothbrush to get my coat out of hock. also, that coat sort of smells like barbecue sauce mixed with dolce and gabbana, and i didn't want him sniffing my shit and making fun of me in the coat room. i sat at the swanky bar to wait for my girlfriends and promptly experienced hillbilly moment #2: what to drink when high life is not on the menu. now let's be for real. i am a beer connoisseur, a budding aficionado if you will, and i ain't got no problem finding something white or pale and under ten bucks to get me slushed, no matter where i am. but i missed almost an entire fucking week of paid labor curled up with the cat and a box of lotion kleenex, so i wasn't balling out in typical sam fashion. plus, i'm one of those drunks who will totally pound four beers before you can even get your coat off and sit down with me, so i need whatever i'm drankin' on to be CHEAP.
but not really, because there was bud light and mgd and corona and other various crap beers on the menu, but i wouldn't be caught DEAD drinking one of those in a swanky place, but the only relatively inexpensive one was stella, which to me tastes like asshole sprinkled with roach droppings. jenny used to order that shit all the time before she grew up and graduated to whiskey (fancy bitch) and i would drink hers and nearly vomit every single time, but i ordered it and choked it down anyway. from a glass, of course, because emily post said "bitches who drink from the bottle are total SLUTS." or something like that. then i negated all that classy glass drinking by texting and checking my email constantly while i waited.
hillbilly moment #3: my beautiful dinner companions arrived and we were seated posthaste (they kept their coats, too!) and because of the internet i already had chosen my meal in my mind and was panting to order before the bread even came. i ordered black truffle gnocchi, parsley root puree, hen of the woods mushrooms, frisee salad (first course), grilled atlantic salmon, butternut squash, caramelized brussels sprouts, mushrooms (second course), and painful gas, horrible cramps, acid reflux, raging diarrhea (third course). now here's where it gets all ellie mae clampett on your ass. maybe i really am just a dumb fucking suburbanite. or maybe i've been to the cheesecake factory too many goddamned times. but my gnocchi was four beigeish-black lego pieces with some curly mushrooms on top sitting in a dollop of puree, with a teeny sprig of green. the "salad." now DON'T GET ME WRONG.
that shit was delicious. i just haven't been to a fancy place in a long fucking time, because i try to only go to them when a dude who wants to bone me is part of the equation. hot dude + swanky meal = fresh chonies. on a plate. SERVED HOT. it's like trying to adjust your eyes to darkness. you know it's your bedroom, you just can't make out all of the funny shapes without blinking a few times first. same deal at the restaurant. i knew it was food, i just had to blink a few times to recognize that it was actually MY dinner and not an episode of top chef. where bitches are sweating balls and running around frantically for an hour to make a meal the size of a toddler's palm. and I KNOW, i paid THIRTY-TWO DOLLARS. i'm just saying it made me feel like a moron.
the salmon was really good (amanda's duck was better), but again i was taken aback by the artful smear of squash wiped across my plate when i'd expected a healthy plop cuddled up next to my lonely fish. because i am a pig and it was really good and there is no artful way to scrape every last bit off the plate. unless i used my finger or tongue, which would be frowned upon in a chili's, LET ALONE up in this fancy shit. the brussels sprouts were good, and i made emily post and my dead mother proud by eating every single one and not spitting it in my napkin. i have one word to say about dessert, and that word is FOAM, into which the "cheesecake" was made. sigh.
the best part of the meal (aside from gazing into the eyes of my beloveds) was that we were seated next to this SUPER uncomfortable-looking, uptight couple who i assumed were on their first or second date. she looked like every other mousy brown lincoln parker i've ever seen in my life, and he looked about as exciting as extensive dental work. let's just say i was captivated from the millisecond we sat down. i LOVE watching people on awful dates! it lets me know i'm not alone. also, i'm too funny to ever really blow it on a date. unless, of course, the dude is a humorless, soulless cyborg. in which case i usually just open up his control panel and program him to go out and murder people i hate.
i'm lucky to have a sense of humor. i don't have SHIT ELSE, so it's nice that vengeful-ass god threw me a little tiny piece of a bone, i guess. i know a handful of people who can't make jokes and don't know when to laugh when other people do, and that shit is awful. totally awkward and horrifying. i'm the kind of asshole that immediately acts like we're best friends, even if i'm meeting you for the first time. when i met elizabeth i shook her hand and said, "hey, i'm sam. when's the last time you had a period?" instant-friends! now if she'd been a salty, raggedy bitch there would have been a moment of discomfort, but my brain works lightning-quick and i would have just said some other shit until she laughed.
so i haven't been on a date in a million years. and john was my last "boyfriend" and that shit ended ALMOST A YEAR AGO. so i have to live vicariously through strangers next to whom i am randomly placed in lavish restaurants. i was sitting next to the dude, which was totally perfect as he was not saying a goddamned thing and i could listen to her blather on as much as i wanted. now i didn't start paying close attention until i heard the phrase "having trouble conceiving," which caused me to put down the toothpick i was using to spear my tiny dinner (oh, i keed) and give her my full attention. this bitch was talking to this poor sucker ad nauseum about the fertility problems of ALL OF HER GODDAMNED FRIENDS.
ON A DATE.
WITH A DUDE SHE JUST MET.
are you kidding me?! that shit was comedy gold! i almost tinkled and ruined my skivvies. i was literally GIDDY. every time i think I'M the most simple-minded bitch on earth, satan gets word and sends me a gift-wrapped reminder that i am fucking AWESOME. dude looked like he'd been fucking lobotomized, sitting there getting talked at about some broad's ovulation cycle and her husband's lazy-ass sperm. i had eaten my entire meal in seven minutes, so i was thrilled to have some entertainment while amanda and rachel actually chewed and swallowed their food at a normal human pace.
i couldn't tear my eyes off her. i just thought about how it would NEVER occur to her that this is the reason why he stopped returning her calls. that eating beautifully arranged bird food fit for a supermodel across from some baby-hungry desperate to procreate wasn't worth an "it's not you, it's me" text. remember that time i wrote about those hot dudes who talked about BABIES on our first dates?! (go back and read "babies and booty." do your fucking homework, dudes.) this was scarier than that, if for no other reason than i didn't sit across from them slumped over like a fucking stroke victim praying for the meal to end. also, i didn't have to come up off any money to listen to that bullshit.
i rarely have sympathy for a dude (because FUCK DUDES), but that must be the balls of the balls, man. going on a godawful date with some whiny unfunny bitch whose biological clock is ticking so loud the people three tables away can hear that shit and then having to PAY FOR IT. i would stab somebody. that's why even if a dude makes me want to genital mutilate myself with his lameness or ridiculous conversation, i am still a charming joke machine full of hilarious stories and giggles and ear-to-ear smiles.
so i don't have to feel guilty about eating and drinking some dude's rent money.
i tried to give her the "what kind of music do you like?" eyes, but she refused to take the hint. blathering on about adoption and wanting her own babies and wedding and shit. the look on homeboy's face let me know that his penis had checked out of the conversation a loooooong time ago. poor thing.
when dinner was over rachel braved lake shore drive in blizzard conditions to take me home, which was sweet. i've been out with suitors who would've looked at that swirling whiteness and handed me twenty bucks for a cab. which i would have pocketed immediately and gotten on the bus. because cabs are for fancy people. fancy people who eat thimble-sized dinners and pay more than $32 for them.
so a few of my hot male friends (i have so many, yet so few who are willing to rescue me from a life of celibacy) have brought to my attention that i have mentioned my fondness for long balls more than once in this here whore blog. it's perplexing to some of them, and that makes me LAUGH. am i not allowed to have a preference? or at least a preference for something other than those two tiny marbles hiding behind your penis for warmth because they're too small to make their own heat?
i don't have a hissy fit and send terse emails to dudes who like twenty-inch waists and FFF boobs ON THE SAME (anatomically-impossible) WOMAN, do i? i'm adult enough to understand that what you like doesn't have to mesh with my feminist ideology and sense of moral entitlement. i shut the fuck up and judge you SILENTLY. david, one of my oldest and whoriest dude friends, texted me some hateful nonsense (veiled in jokes, of course) about big balls, and i instantly recalled the time i saw that dude's tiny balls once when he was pantsless in a hospital gown and dismissed his "foul!" crying. oh boo hoo.
this is a gentleman, wait for it, who strictly dates women the circumference of my forearm. you're shocked, i know. and i haven't met a single one of them who was smarter than your average dalmatian. (dalmatians are really dumb fucking dogs.) do i hope that someday he'll see the true beauty in a biggest loser contestant? for sure. will i ever voice that publicly? FUCK NO. because i don't really give that big of a shit. it's your soul, not mine.
all i'm saying is that some people want a jumbo snickers bar, while others prefer the fun size. some girls love sugar babies, while others test their gag reflexes on sugar daddies. reeses cups or reeses pieces? decisions, decisions. my bitchass will buy ANYTHING so long as it is miniaturized. little shampoos, tiny water bottles, miniscule figurines: she loves them all. i, on the other hand, like mega rolls of toilet paper and bonus size toiletries. the bigger the fucking better.
i have nothing against skittles. i just would rather fracture my teeth on a jawbreaker.
do yourselves a favor and download the song "tiger woods" by dan bern. it has nothing to do with infidelity, and everything to do with big ol' balls. thank you, ashley. love you, bitch!