Friday, March 29, 2013

"So how's married life?"

Let me preface this entire rant by notifying my friends, acquaintances, and small-talking family members that I genuinely appreciate your curiosity about my recent nuptials. You are sweet for asking. I love you.

That being said, I hate when people ask me "So how's married life?!" or "Sooooooo... how's married life!" or "And how is married life, Sades?"

Because in all reality, life is the same. I have the same schedule, in the same apartment, with the same job, and the same workout regime. The only difference is that I've inherited a roommate whom I enjoy naked breakfasts with.

So, friends, acquaintances, and small-talkers - let's put to death the tired and shallow "So how's married life?!" and bring to the table a new utterance for inquiring about what it's like to be married:

"So what's it like to share an 800sq ft. apartment with Gerry?"

Oh! So kind of you to ask. Here, I'll tell you.
  • Gerry is physically incapable of closing things. Doors, cabinets, shower curtains. He is, however, strikingly good at putting the seat/lid down.
  • Gerry sleeps diagonally across the entire bed. So, that's awesome.
  • Gerry fears the tupperware bin. And he fears he might die should he attempt to put things away in an orderly manner. 
  • Gerry's snuggling demands are just shy of being considered snugglerape. 
  • Gerry greets his day by yelling. Loudly. Oh, and slamming things. Loudly.
  • You think my tumblehairs are ubiquitous? Gerry's beard hair. Everywhere. All the time.
  • Gerry's nightly ritual includes a 15 minute shirtless posing sesh in front of the mirror.
  • Gerry keeps his toenails at nothing shorter than razor sharp length. They're like little spears being plunged into my calves during the aforementioned snugglerape. 
  • Eggs: it's what's for breakfast. And dinner. 5 nights a week.
  • Gerry's really great at over-the-shoulder cooking. "You making eggplant parm? Do you know what you're doing? You have big shoes to fill... my grandpa's eggplant parm was phenomenal. What are you doing? Why are you doing that?" 
  • Gerry's sporadic sock piles.
  • The 20 minutes before a meal... You won't like him when he's Hangry. 
  • Gerry has a fierce handicap when it comes to laundry. "Babe, I don't know where any of this goes so I'm gonna leave it on the bed." Later, he will windmill the bed (Windmilling: whirl your arms round and round like an epileptic rotational energy machine) so that all of my clean, folded clothes are now in landmines on the floor.

But then, he puts on a suit and makes this face and I think, "It's okay. It's okay. He will help me make beautiful, athletic children."

I mean, look at him. It's okay, you can look.

Also, we've given up on the foodscapades. Hooray for New Year's Resolutions! #whomp

Monday, March 4, 2013

March Madness, as seen in Austin Woman Magazine.

In celebration of my birth month (who are we kidding, this tradition will never die!), here's a story I told in the March issue of Austin Woman Magazine. Shameless plug.


I wish I were that cute as a rotund tween.
                In my youth, and well into an age where it stopped being cute and started being socially questionable, any time someone asked me when my birthday was I would sharply reply with a “March”.
                Like, the whole month.
                I would then go on to explain that the celebration of my birth was not limited to just one day - rather it was to take place on all 31 glorious days. Following the self-righteous explanation, I would often encourage my audience to shower me in a jubilee of gifts.  Most of the time, the audience who would have to endure my all-hail-for-I-am-queen tangents about how important it is to my social status that I get a pink Skip-It would be my parents. They’re good people.
                The month of my 10th birthday, however, I was finally introduced to reality. We were nearly 2 weeks into March and the only buzz around the house was the sound of my brother’s electric shaver as he perfected his angry, teenage, thunder-stealing double mohawk. Later, he will be kicked out of the house for obvious reasons. But that’s for another time.
                Appalled that no one was making a ruckus about me and all my glory, I tried to create my own birth-month buzz by planting pictures of things I wanted. I even created a convenient ranking system based on my level of want with Lisa Frank stickers.  Needless to say, no one cared. My dreams of continuing my celebratory birth month forever were being crushed with every passing moment.
When my actual birthday rolled around, I woke up to a phone call from my dad. Usually, he would call to schedule a time for him to whisk me away and spoil me with sugary treats and a trip to Toys-R-Us. Excited to answer, I began spouting off my expectations for the afternoon. This time, however, he called me at 7am to wish me a happy birthday from California and to let me know that my age will be in the double digits for the remainder of my life.
The rest of my 10th birthday was lackluster, at best. No Skip-It. No cookie cake the size of my torso (which happened to be very bulbous at the time, so that would have been beneficial). No surprise visits from famous celebrities. Just dinner. With my family. And no celebrities. And a box of 96 Crayola Crayons to accompany the myriad of coloring books I demanded.
I was blind to not see the downfall of my birthmonth coming. On my 8th birthday, I was attacked by a goose. On my 9th birthday, I harassed Chuck-E-Cheese and was removed from the scene. And just for laughs, on my 11th birthday my sister kidnapped me and drove us all the way to Abilene to see a mediocre country band – leaving my suitcase behind and forcing me to squeeze into her size 1 clothes that I’m pretty sure were made at Baby Gap.
But you know, in addition to the mass madness of basketball fans meticulously crafting their brackets and the madness that the onset of another Texas summer brings – my favorite form of March madness has got to be the flood of memories from my many years of birthday madness.
You’ll be happy to know that the celebration of my birth is now encouraged only the one day. 
Which is the 18th
Of March. 
I take cash.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

The Month of Thai: An Incredibly Stupid Review

Minus the fact that I neglected to blog every week, and minus the fact that we only tried 3 of our 4 desired locations, and minus the fact that my photos grew increasingly lackluster... our Month of Thai went swimmingly! But, in my attempt to get back on track for February, I'm going to lump all of our foodscapades into one, glorious, foodporny blog post.

Try to contain your excitement.

Also, as I embark on this new food-blogging journey, I will be providing, for your reading pleasure, an amateurishly detailed, pretentious, and completely irrelevant review comprised of improperly-used adjectives and run-on sentences.

Pad Thai: A preface
As stated, we first tried the aptly-named restaurant: Pad Thai. We decided to commence our foodscapades on a brisk winter afternoon (New Year's Day), around 3pm. Being the only diners at a random ass Thai restaurant in the lull of New Year's Day, we were offered a choice booth with a street-facing view. I was pleased by this selection for we then had a front row view of all the, what I like to call, Resolution Runners. Assessing the scene, I determined that Pad Thai met all the necessary requirements for an establishment worthy of a foodscapade (as stated in my previous post), with a heavy emphasis on the "authenticity" of its staff, as well as a humorous number of spelling and grammatical errors on its menu/website.

Waste not, want not.
Gerry ordered something I can't remember and I, being the adventurous one, ordered my usual Panang Curry. Why? Because in order to appropriately judge a Thai restaurant's goodness, one must order the Panang Curry. Sure-fire way to tell if there's white people in the kitchen.

Anyway, Resolution Runners miserably jogged by as I wafted the warm delicious scents of basil, coconut, and mystery meat that was just placed in front of me. After I took some obnoxious food photos, we dug in.

Pad Thai: A review
With it's smooth, forthright consistency, the Panang Curry at Pad Thai was exquisitely predictable. Robust, lively, and drunk - the Panang quickly soared to the top of my list of favorite things to say repeatedly in Fran Drescher's voice. With every bite, my taste buds were both ubiquitous and quasi-aroused. So much so, that it was ragingly inappropriate. In short, the Panang Curry from Pad Thai was worth more than 140 characters on Twitter.

But, meh.

The other white meat.
Spin Modern Thai Cuisine: A preface
We invited another married couple along for our second foodscapade. You know, because once you're married it is considered a faux pas to associate with the scum who remain in singlehood.

Just kidding. Shout out to all my single ladies out there.

Anyway, they, too, were enamored with the idea of a food adventure and wanted to come along to try some Thai. And, as the food gods would have it, Spin was conveniently located near us both. So basically, let's do food round #2, suckas.


I, for whatever reason, walked into Spin with an air about me. You attempt to write one food review on your small-time blog about a dish you've eaten a thousand times, and suddenly you're a renowned food critic. Needless to say, no one gave a single shit.

The snooty and unexplained air continued through our appetizers and entrees. As did the obnoxious photography. A word of wisdom: when trying to make new friends, avoid taking multiple-angled photos of your food and humble-bragging about how adventurous you and your newly-acquired husband are together.

Anyway, we started off the dining adventure with the Sweet Corn Taro Tempura and the Moo Ping. Which, if you are a 5 year-old, "Moo Ping" would be renamed "Poo Ping" with immature giggles to follow. And now, 2 short app reviews.

Poor little guys didn't even stand a chance. 
Sweet Corn Taro Tempura: A review
Comparable to a dish featured at the Texas State Fair, the Sweet Corn Taro Tempura danced in your mouth like deep fried air. With a confident crunch and a sweet sexiness, the elaborately-named appetizer was about as filling as floss.

Moo Ping ("Poo Ping"): A review
Tasted like pork on a stick.

For dinner, I settled on a dish that I had seen (enviously) many times before on Instagram, the Clay Pot Shrimp. Excited to join the ranks of those who put on the facade as culinarily cultured on Insta, I didn't even need to look at the menu. But then, I looked at the menu. And my mouth was really lusting after the Full Spin. Before I even had the chance to discuss my choice change,  Gerry's that-is-more-expensive-and-worse-for-you eyes burned right through my soul. I'm shackled for the rest of my life in this food prison of a marriage!

Clay Pot Shrimp: A review
Who knew Ramen would be THIS GOOD?
A truly carnivorous experience, the disassembling of the shrimp in the Clay Pot Shrimp will both butter your bread and tickle your predatory senses. With an excessive amount of, presumably, iodized salt, you are representing a dying snail in this edible trip on Thai acid. The poise and grace of the bean noodle is a hook, line and sinker into the Hoison sauce euphoria. Overall, the ranking of the Clay Pot Shrimp is similar to that of the Nebraska Corn Huskers.

(Post Script, this is an effing long post. I'll definitely be splitting these up for February. I should probably send the readers who see this to the end some sort of participation award.)

East Side Kings: A preface
A week ago, I would not be able to accurately describe how badly I wanted to dine at East Side Kings. Austin has a perpetual raging boner for that Asian-fusion empire, and I was among the drones who bought into the media hype. So, naturally, when I initiated a triple date (second shout out to my single ladies!) for Friday night, I didn't even present another dining option. Baby gets what baby wants.

Gerry was responsible for ordering the dishes as I was busy with a pitcher of Shiner. And let me say, he was well-advised in his ordering decisions: Chicken Tortilla Ramen, Tori Meshi, and Brussels Sprouts Salad.

Mouthgasms. Many, many mouthgasms.

Chicken Tortilla Ramen, Tori Meshi, Brussels Sprouts Salad: A comprehensive review
First, if you want an actual description of the dishes we ate, peep their menu.

This is an excellent way to eat fried vegetables and sweet bread.
The college-staple Ramen noodle coupled with a soft-boiled egg amidst a jubilee of brothy vegetables with splashes of Mexicana glory poses for an intense culinary and sexually adult experience. Treating the dishes like an around-the-world-in-40-minutes tasting, once your mouth explosion from the Ramen settles, the Tori Meshi chicken dish provides a motherly calmness of sweet and savory beauty - right on your tongue. Top off your tasteful experience with a veggie favorite that has been warped and twisted into a massively impressive mix of flavors. Should you want to die a person that has truly lived, my recommendation is to enjoy this meal lying down, with someone nearby in the event you slip into a food coma from all the insurmountable deliciousness.

On to the next foodscapade: The Month of Gerry's Native Land (Italian)

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Get in my mouth: The Month of Thai

Alright, so before we take off on our foodscapades, the ground rules of resolution #6 have to be laid out.

  1. One new restaurant per week. I always dreamt of having a grandmother who sends me money and cookies just for being me, but instead mine send me seasonal cards and garage sale gifts (love you Gram, love you Shana). Alas, our budget allows for only one new restaurant per week. 
  2. A new dish each time. You know, to get cultured. Although, I might eat a multitude of Pad Thai and Panang Curry and call it "research". 
  3. Only eat half the dish... Get real, Gerry. 
  4. Take an obnoxious amount of photos and write a kitschy critique complete with 5-dollar words, a splash of wit and arbitrary adjectives. As if there was any other way.
Food porn.
Now that ground rules have been established, it's time to hunt down our top 4 eateries of the Asian persuasion. We took to the web and perused many reputable hubs for Thai restaurants in Austin. However, I may or may not have previously performed some extensive "research" at a number of Thai spots in town (Sway, Thai Passion, Madam Mam's, Saps, Satay, Titaya's, don't judge me), so those are out. 

Some would say I have a problem, but I'd like to call it helping the economy through an excessive expression of love. 

Anyway, after doing some actual research we quickly realized that there are a shit ton of Thai restaurants in Austin. Advice: Don't research food joints of any kind when your husband is hangry. 

One hour, sassy fight, and protein shake later, we mustered up the following list: 
These decisions were based on the following factors: the popularity of the establishment among our peers (so  tired of people who aren't me Instagramming SPIN's delicious-looking dishes), the number of grammatical errors and lack of spell check use on their website, the number of quirky plates present on the menu, and finally - the authenticity of their staff. 

Despite our slight racism, we have officially developed a platform for our first month of foodscapades. 

First up: Pad Thai.