Since my follower-ship (disciple-ship?) (Is that going too far?) has recently increased from nine people to twelve, I decided to reward the few, the proud, and the guilt-tripped who follow this blog with a new post. I have, naturally, many things to tell you all, all of them awkward and stupid and laughable.
First off: Audge's birthday cake. Our dear Audrina turned twenty-four on May 7th, and I decided to attempt to bake my first cake from scratch with a bit o' help from Master Chef Kayla and her new recipe book. Unfortunately, I had to work a brunch shift the day of Audge's birth, so this required me to awake not only myself but also Ever-Patient Kayla at 6:30 am so that it'd be done by the time I had to leave. It was, of course, a completely nerve-wracking experience (Allie's mom, Ms. Dale, who was visiting at the time, laughed so hard she cried from her front-row spot on the couch), complete with both a batter that resembled...dough...far more than a cake batter and my first terrible bout with an electric mixer. (Scaaa-ry. I do not like the mixer, Sam I Am.) But somehow--miraculously--both the cake and the chocolate-marshmallow-fluff icing looked rather nice by the time Audge awoke. I had to run to work, though, and no one else was in the mood for cake-breakfast, so we decided to save the singing and eating for much later that evening, once we'd all come home from the movies, post-work. Which is exactly what ended up happening: Kayla, Audrey, and I all had some cake once we got home. It was kind of dry, since it'd been in the fridge all day, but whatevs. I was proud of myself. I could now officially cook eight things.
Or...so I thought. I ended up waking up three hours later, totes nauseated and on the verge of vomming. Eventually, the toilet bowl and I had our special moment (or three, rather), and my throat promptly felt as if it'd been run over by a tractor instead of just a shitload of stomach acid. I crawled back into bed, reassuring myself that my vomiting could not--could NOT--be the result of cake poisoning. I had followed the directions, damn it! It had looked pretty! The cake was not the culprit.
But...it was. Audge awoke the next morning to inform me that she, too, had been super nauseated in the middle of the night. Luckily, she didn't actually throw up; she just spent the following morning on the toilet, dispelling that poisonous cake out of her other end for an awful length of time.
So yes. I poisoned my roommates with a birthday cake. There shall be no more forays into the kitchen for me. Not for a while, at least.
I did, however, have a rather nice time in New Orleans and northern Mississippi over the past two weeks, spending time with the fam and indulging in some ridiculous bachelorette festivities for my good friend Sarah. (She was married this past weekend.) In accordance with Sarah's wishes, we took a pole-dancing class from a very talented lady named Rain. (Er...spelling? Rayne? Raine? Rhain?) Rain/Rayne/Raine/Rhain could do marvelous, marvelous things with that pole: at one point, she had only one leg wrapped around the pole; her other leg, both arms, and torso were PARALLEL TO THE GROUND AS SHE SPUN WITH THE EASE OF PINK COTTON CANDY AT THE SKETCHY ST. ROBERT BELLARMINE FAIR. She was very, very good. Probably the most important piece of dance training that I will take away from Rain is what she termed the "Coochie-Bone Shuffle," a particular move that is executed...much as you'd imagine.
The bachelorette festivities concluded that evening with a nice little dance party at Republic, complete with a Libby-Gantt-Inspired-Grab-Bag. (This little Grab Bag, upon its arrival at the Republic, contained: one tortilla; a shrimp tail; a slice of bell pepper; a salt shaker; a pepper shaker; and fresh flowers. Upon arriving at the club and ordering my first drink, I noticed a very shiny and pretty strainer sitting atop the bar, all by its lonesome. With The Spirit Of Libby Gantt whispering in my ear, I snatched it off the bar before any of the bartenders could notice and politely dropped it into the Grab Bag. Unfortunately, due to a very long dance-off with an Asian man clad in a vest, the Grab Bag was largely forgotten until the very end of the night, when we were all offered a VIP, roped-off section of the club with two bottles of free and delicious champagne. I decided to thank the nice man who gave us this delightful surprise with a free reach into the Grab Bag. Sadly, he picked the strainer, of all things. He was...angry.
"Did this come from my bar?" he immediately demanded of me.
"Hahahahaaaaa," I tittered tipsily. "Aahahahaaaa."
"Listen here," he said, now turning his attention to Snuffy, since I was clearly not responding correctly. "If there are ANY MORE OF MY BAR THINGS IN THIS BAG, I'm gonna need them to be returned."
"Of course, of course," Snuffy oozed. "We'd never really take anything. It was just a joke."
Which he clearly did not take very well. Your champagne may have been delicious, Republic Man, but your sense of humor was lacking.
Sigh. And now I'm back in New York, that very different world from the South. As I was going through the security line at Memphis airport on my way back, THREE DIFFERENT PEOPLE inquired as to how I was feeling and sincerely wished me a blessed day. New York, on the other hand, greeted me with a woman's gratingly loud voice over the baggage claim loudspeaker at LaGuardia airport: "WILL THE PERSON WHO IS MISSING A 93-POUND SUITCASE PLEASE COME GET IT FROM THE BAGGAGE CLAIM OFFICE, BECAUSE I AM NOT EVEN GOING TO TRY TO LIFT THIS THING. I HOPE IT'S 93 POUNDS OF ALCOHOL YOU HAVE IN HERE BECAUSE THAT'S JUST ABOUT THE ONLY THING THAT WOULD MAKE IT WORTH IT."
Oh, New York City. I've missed you so.
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