jolly good.

on the way to work, i decided to pick up some weetabix.

delish!

try pouring vanilla soy milk over two biscuits and sticking the bowl in the microwave for 30 minutes seconds (thanks, kb). the biscuits break down and turn into a porridge-like consistency.

(i feel so british.)

tonight, the agent and i are going to a screening of a film about ultimate fighting, where they will serve mountain dew cocktails.

(i feel so white trash.)

a relationship, i think, is like a shark.

the agent and i had a very alvy and annie moment last night while dealing with a small kitchen fire:

"um, what do i do?!"

"um, i don't know! do you have a... um...!"

"um, oh my god!"

"um, wait, do you have one of those, um..."

(jen! it's called a fucking fire extinguisher!)

the agent then blows on the fire (occurring in the toaster oven, i should add), presumably to put it out, and this just fans the flames even more...

i dump out my wine (horrors!) into the sink and start to fill up my glass with water, presumably to dump on the electrical appliance in order to put it out...

but then at the last minute we actually make an intelligent decision and decide to unplug the damn thing and close the door.

the fire's out.

the apartment filled with smoke and we were left fanning the place out for the next half hour, in between fits of laughter.

needless to say, that toaster oven is toast.

brrrr rabbit.

a ton of snow was dumped upon our fair city saturday night.

i was being a baby and didn't feel like trekking out into it, but the agent (and some wine) changed my mind. after seeing "match point" and chowing down on some sushi, we hit the merc for the comas show. (i think i just about fell asleep standing up at said show, but that's not a dig on the band.) took a cab back to the 'burg and then continued our streak at enid's for brunch (complete with bloody marys) the next morning.

spent the rest of the snowed-in sunday playing cards and watching tv and what not.

had yummy pad thai for dinner and the agent finally tried the fruity fried rice with chicken.

(the more time i spend with the agent, and the happier i am, the more this blog will suck. i didn't realize it could suck any harder than it had already sucked, but i think i found out a way to make it suck the hardest: start seeing someone.)

here's a silly story that i just shared with both kate moss and the agent via email:

i returned from the agent's this morning to get ready for work. the top lock was bolted on my apartment door and i don't have a key. i banged on the door to try to wake my roommate up but then this big, chubby, bald dude with a moon face (and i say that in the nicest way) answered the door with a comforter around his (obviously naked) body. he looked at me as if to say, "um, who are you?" and i was like, "um, i *live* here." apparently the roommate had already left for work and moon-face thought i was the roommate, coming back to retrieve something.

it was a bit uncomfortable, to say the least.

away! away! for i will fly to thee

i've almost killed my second venti coffee of the day, folks. that's 40 ounces. 5 cups. i can't sit still.

the agent and i have started a book club, of which we are the only members. our first book shall be f. scott fitzgerald's "tender is the night". has anyone read it? i was thinking "the beautiful and damned" should be first, but the agent's suave persuasion won me over.

smokestack lightning.

post-hip hop dance class, i'm thinking cardio-striptease.

i'm-a work that pole, bitches.

oh, and when i scrap the real career and start earning my rent in the dirty thirties as a dancer, "fire woman" by the cult will be my signature song. (of course, i'll need to learn to breathe fire for full effect, but don't worry. i'm on it.)

i am the new black.

the agent and i are so far outside the friend zone, it's almost laughable. still, we can't date. wouldn't work. would end in a bloodbath. we both know it.

how the fuck did this happen?

the thought of dating absolutely petrifies me. kate moss thinks this might work if neither of us label what we do or what this is. ever. EVER.

(by the way, agent, i know you're reading this. how was the date with kristina with a 'k'?)

getting famouser all the time.

look who linked to me.

i won't fuck us over / i'm mr. november.

if you do not have this record, you must. i can't stop listening to it.

update: the band, interviewed, by p'fork and published on monday.

benefits package.

yikes! the agent and i crossed the line out of the friend zone!

a look over the shoulder.

my worst fear.

Half submerged in New York's collective unconscious, alongside dirty bombs and dark-alley robberies, is the nightmare of somehow winding up in the path of an oncoming train.

i can't help but feel that this somehow makes me more of a "new yorker."

(though it probably does not, as i've only been here for 13 months.)

what did make me feel like a real new yorker was taking in an event at the 92nd street y last night: pete hamill and tom wolfe (the respective voices of new york's working class and bourgeoisie) having a conversation for those of us who paid $25 a head.

(ed koch was a few rows in front of me. that, in and of itself, made me feel like i had finally made it to new york.)

i told the agent that i was a real jew now: i'd made it to the y on the upper east side! he said i was still a shiksa. then he started getting all yiddish on me, saying something about shmaltz and being his bubee.