I had a lot of good intentions this weekend. I was going to try to lose another 0.5 lbs. I was going to do a load of towels at the laundromat. I was going to find a mate. But as usual, I'm kind of feeling bad on Sunday night, faced with my own failures, dreading the failures I'll encounter in the week ahead.
On Friday when Edith invited me to Shake Shack, we figured we'd walk there from work (a good 30 mins) and we'd only split a burger and nothing else. After waiting in line for 75 minutes - and the "light activity" calories we burned by doing so - I was really wishing for an entire burger to myself. And fries. And custard. And a pizza.
Obviously we were still hungry so we went across the street to Eleven Madison Park for some wine and free bar snacks. Unfortunately they were out of their delicious olives so I ended up snacking on spiced peanuts and some waffle chips. We ordered food and got a mysteriously tiny potato gnocchi dish for $19. We ordered more food and split an unsatisfying pizzetta. I binged on bread basket rolls and butter. We got chatty with Sam, the "wine captain" (aka somellier I suppose), but he left before we were able to say goodbye. I want to fix him up with Michelle.
While leaving Eleven Madison Park, we decided on a trip back to the Zombie Hut on Smith Street in Brooklyn, near the Carroll St. stop. When you're out on a Friday night, you've got enough recovery time in the rest of the weekend so you can tell yourself it's ok to kind of just keep going. Besides, I was getting goo-goo eyes from a pretty cute guy across the bar. Two flaming shots and a tropical frozen bowl shared with Edith and Eric later, the cute guy turned out to be a dud, and I was still starving. Back to Manhattan to Blue Ribbon, which serves food til 4 a.m., to split some catfish with Edith and spill a glass of white wine all over her. Not exactly how I planned to finish the evening off, but clearly I was done for the night.
On Saturday I was feeling guilty about my caloric yet hunger pang-filled evening the night before, so I waited four hours to eat after getting up. I tried to behave myself a little more by having a relatively healthy brunch at Penelope (smoked salmon-wrapped poached eggs) and not drinking at Swift during Daria's party. But talking to Daria's friend who was celebrating her 35th birthday and was totally freaked out really made me want to drink, so we left and stopped at the Bar Veloce-owned Spanish wine and tapas bar Carrera. I threw the food diary out the window, flirted with the swarthy bartender who subsequently disappeared, and drank two glasses of Spanish wine with an order of the pan con tomate (not nearly as good as Bar Jamon or Mercat) and the piquillo pepper.
When we left at 1 a.m. as they were closing, it started to rain so I just gave up and went home.
Brunch at Bar Milano today, whose menu continues to impress me, was offset by swimming at NYHRC, but I'm still feeling a bit stagnant. Stagnant physically certainly, but stagnant socially too. I don't know what it really does for me to sit alone at Bar Milano, reading the George Clooney issue of Esquire, and having four different service staff wait on me and ask if everything's ok. Is that really better than being home alone?
I intentionally didn't go to Bar Jamon this weekend because I also don't really know what it does for me to stand there at the bar, drink for free, meet people who I'll never see again, and go home drunk. Sure, I get to chat up the bartender who I love, but it's a bartender who just treats me like a good customer, doesn't really remember anything about my life, doesn't really ask me any questions....Or maybe that just means he's a typical dude.
Anyway I think it's a bit sad that the biggest sense of accomplishment I have over this weekend is getting a mani/pedi and finding a gorgeous Anne Klein coat at Filene's Basement for more than half off.
But I guess I need a bit of calm before I start travelling again. Next stop: Las Vegas and Death Valley.