Replenish and Restock!

What does a girl do when a long awaited new commission comes in? She wishes to shop, eat well and tend to a little self-polishing, of course; despite the pragmatism gained by adapting to a here-and-there income. Every sensibility in me says: Hold on to that money, girl! You have no idea what’s coming and it’s not like you haven’t already gone several months on a tight regimen of a limited comforts anyway, right? What’s a little longer?...whispers the wise, humble me inside me. But the level to which I had to fight the urge to head to Georgetown today to pick out a new pair of tights (etc.) was so strong that it likened to the time I went without eating for ten days (for charity, not poverty’s sake). My mind was strong then, too, and I felt like ten days could stretch to twelve or thirteen, but my body had an agenda of it’s own. From the moment I ate my first bite of pho, it began to horde every calorie in preparation for another surprise attack. Now, like then, an underling sense of self-preservation (I think?) asks, pleads, begs me to horde! Build up stock, replenish supplies, regain good footing and get ready for the next dip, the next phase of privation! As a wise and jobless friend eloquently put it: In our profession, without fixed incomes, there is no money sometimes but loads at others and we live both as paupers and kings (and queens, TYVM).

I’m only now getting my metabolism back to normal after six months, which means this other hording instinct could take a while to get straight. Until then, I have a few sales to go to.

Georgetown Cupcake Siesta

After a chocolate break at the Cocoa Gallery with two very lovely Jobless Girls (one just ending a job, the other beginning tomorrow), I made the effort to return to Georgetown to do two things I had no time to finish yesterday: Get a deal at a two-for-one dress sale (today was the last day!) and see what was going on with this cupcake place I saw while walking down west M St. See, on my way to Leopold’s Kafe yesterday afternoon for a cappuccino (nice, nothing exciting, but I think I’ll try the Austrian coffee next time), I saw a crazy line out the door of a little shop on Potomac Street across from Dean and Deluca. By the time I returned after the coffee, a sign on the door said they were closed and sold out. Of cupcakes. Georgetown Cupcakes.

I’m not a person who really ‘gets’ cupcakes—I’m more a crème brule and gelato fan where deserts are concerned—but nothing sparks curiosity in me like a line outside a small and stylish boutique. By the time I reached the front door this afternoon (after getting two fab dresses!), the chocolate cupcakes were gone and a few in the line turned away. But thanks to my previous chocolate fill, I was prepared to enjoy one each of the few Red Velvet and Lemon Blossom cupcakes remaining.

Here’s what was going through my mind… What is it about cupcakes? I think back to my childhood cupcake—you know, the kind bought in the supermarket with that so-wrong inch-thick confectioners sugar icing and yucky rainbow sprinkles—and I wince. I now live next to Cake Love and go often, but ...wait in line for cupcakes? Chocolate I'll wait in line for—Chocolate gives you endorphins, endorphins make you happy. That I get. Why cupcakes? What's in it for me besides sugar and calories? Is it that we enjoy the chance to lavish ourselves, and a beautiful cake dressed with citrus glaze and gourmet sprinkles—and individually sized, just for us—speaks to a deep, psychological craving? Are we dying to live out the child and Marie Antoinette buried deep down within us all? Does “happiness in the palm of your hand” really a cupcake make?

The girls at Georgetown Cupcake think so, as well as everyone who keeps wiping the place out. At 5p.m, the dears were scurrying to bake another batch of chocolate cakes, which they promised would be ready an hour later, though a sign on the door showed they’d already closed once that afternoon to restock. Since the shop first opened it’s doors on Valentines Day, the cupcake output has grown daily but not quite as fast as the number of fans.

So I tried the cupcakes. Okay, I get it.

Funny How the Days Go By

Today, I made appointments and plans for Friday, confirmed times and locations, and said to people, "Okay, see you tomorrow!"

Of course, today is Wednesday and it took until about 1pm to figure it out. How silly! But maybe you can understand what my life is like. I would say that it is in fact more difficult to keep my activities and my hectic schedule in order than the average office person who can rely on someone else to reference the time of day or day of the week. In other words, you have activities that take place around you that can give you helpful markers. I, on the other hand, have only garbage pick-up days to rely on, and I haven't taken the garbage out in weeks (thanks, BF!). All I'm saying is a jobless person must work pretty damn hard to keep all this straight.

Metro Mobbing

I went to Cork for drinks last Friday and went out for sushi with the BF on Saturday night. I was excited for both, went to both spots early to beat the crowds, but only to remember that it was the weekend and Friday and Saturday nights are cursed. Both spots were so packed, I nearly swore to order delivery every weekend from now on forever. My friend and I nearly lost heals pushing our way out of Cork on Friday when the standing crowd flooded in at 7:30, and on Saturday, when my craving for sushi was almost hormonal, the wait at Sushi Taro was longer than the time it would take to fillet my own fish. Instead of walking to Taro we ended up driving to Cleavland Park. We drove to Cleavland Park! By Saturday, I was demanding to know, "Who are these people packing into my places?" (By 'my' places, I mean bars and restaurants so close to home on 16th and U that I can safely stumble home at the end of the night. I've also declared them mine.) Nearly every car outside Taro had Virginia or Maryland plates. I was hot with madness on two levels: as an environmentalist and as a person who pays harsh DC taxes. You know where I'm going with this... Not that I have anything against Virginians or Marylanders--many of them are my friends--but do all of them have to pack into the handful of decent places in my hood every weekend? I don't go to their places, after all. No doubt out-of-towners are so sick of hearing this, and of course it's all been said before, and I'm not even sure I blame them alone, I somewhat extend this to other districters that flood into Dupont. But why only prime nights? This weekend was a final straw in my own personal score book of metro mobbing. For years, similar mobbings have plagued Saint Ex, Bar Pilar, and 16th & U. Now my sushi place and the only respectable wine bar? I went so far as to demand (to no one in particular, but tell me what you think of it) that from now on, doormen should also check IDs for proof of local addresses before entering. Ha! Or they should at least allow them in first, perhaps even to reserved seats, and lavish them with treats. But this brings me back to the larger problem that I've always disliked about DC--that without enough options in more neighborhoods in the city (and with Georgetown and Capital Hill remaining inconvenient), we will all continue flocking to the one or two places in my hood that rule.

WORKING FROM HOME… FEELING LIKE A HOUSEWIFE

I was making chile rellenos today when I was struck by a horrifying suspicion. More and more lately, I’ve been staying at home rather than spending the entire day at coffee shops, working on my laptop, writing or researching my current projects (I love coffee, you know, but it adds up). So I’ve started making breakfast, then fixing something for lunch, and then thinking what to make for dinner for my cute little boyfriend and myself. Then, of course, I need to clean the cooking area, which expands to the living room, outward… you get the idea. So I'm starting to feel I may be turning into somewhat of a possible interpretation of what one would call a… well… housewife. Horrors! I’m not married, I’m not even what you would call the nurturing-type, so I have no idea how or when this ridiculous suspicion popped into my head; but now that I think about it, it seems pretty likely and terrifying. Of course, domesticity is not a pastime limited to housewives… but this is what it leads to for sweet girls like me, people, and it’s the rightful fear of any young independent woman!

Being between projects that pay (that is always the trick of freelancing), I have less to contribute to things like rent payments, and therefore more time in the day that can seem unproductive, strictly monetarily speaking. That leads to guilt that persuades me to consider my subsidy to the “household” which leads me to cook, clean and fluff. Here’s what’s most foreboding: It’s satisfying. I have closure at the end of the day because I create things with my hands—my secret pleasure—and I have impending goals to make my own bread, paint chairs and pick out end tables.

A few women in Great Britain are calling the apparent new generation of work-at-home housewives the “Generation Nigella.” The tag is being bestowed upon the woman who now replaces the feminist work-horse of the nineties for the modern gal who wants everything; wants a fabulous career but also wants to be at home taking care of babies, being domestic, or even making a career of being domestic, like Martha Stewart. Critics argue this to be neither achievable nor practical and a sign of a generation of women who don’t know what they want. We, in our ambitious post-feminist age, have confused ourselves with too much to do.

In any case, my mom is a great cook and finished grad school after I left for college, so today I’m daring to make tamales and other foods I've never made before as a tribute to her kick-ass, do what you want, I’ll-be-bringing-in-good-dough-next-week sort of way. That's the plan for today, anyhow.