bless me, internet-father, for i have sinned. it has been seven days since my last blog post. and my only excuse is unacceptably mundane: work is eating me alive.

as penance, today i am wearing possibly the greatest outfit i have ever worn in my life (except for back in january, when i wore, um, this outfit also), and no one gets to see it except my coworkers. what a waste.


concert vignette

guy on stage: this next band coming up is so awesome. they will ROCK YOUR FACE OFF.
my boyfriend: AWESOME! i HATE my face!

for more bits of boyfriend-stated hilarity (not, alas, from my boyfriend [whose face, for the record, is not hate-worthy]), place your cursor over the last word in this sentence and click.


stop! helen time.

despite the fact that every time my itunes puts it on, i flash back to playing The Simpsons arcade game at the Chuck E. Cheese in Matteson, Illinois, i have rediscovered a deep-seated and entirely unironic love for MC Hammer's classic U Can't Touch This, and thus my life has a newly magical dimension.


hot hot heat

a spontaneous dinner tonight with leila saw us huddled at the end of a marble bar table at Otto, which is to Mario Batali what their current Target line is to Proenza Schouler. the bellinis were reliably delicious, the white anchovy-scallion-crouton antipasto was oily and perfect, and the bartender... the bartender looked a leetle beet familiar.

after much hard staring and wracking of brains, we realized that the affable balding guy with the pinchable cheeks and easy manner was, holy crap, Bill Buford, the author of far and away my favorite book of the last year, Heat, in which the author gives up his day job as the fiction editor at the New Yorker in order to follow the trail that made Mario (who tends to be referred to in the media as "falstaffian," but who i think is now veering dangerously close to "myocardially infarcted") into the Molto version thereof.

here is how leila and i reacted to Bill Buford behind the bar: "oh my fucking god."
leila: "i wonder if he will sign my boobs."
helen: "i love him. i am willing to marry him right at this very moment."

we considered switching over to sit in the section for which he was tending bar, so that we could make him fall in love with us and tell us secrets that weren't in the book. also, so we could tell people that the former fiction editor of the New Yorker had poured our quartino. and maybe so he could sign our boobs.

we didn't, though. we just stared, and drank our bellinis, and were happy.


today's vocabulary lesson

a demagogue is someone who is a leader of the people.

a pedagogue is someone who is a leader of the children.

so what would you think a galactagogue is?

obviously a galactagogue is a platinum-clad leader of the galaxy. he probably has very soft hair and a deep voice and makes commanding decisions that cause serious swoonage among females and males alike, of all species and planetary origins. obviously.

sadly, no. a galactagogue is an herb or medicine that, um, causes women to lactate more easily.

which looks way less attractive in shiny space-pants.

(note: for more fun lactation vocabulary, check out my earlier post about the newman-goldfarb protocols. and yes, i realize 2 posts about lactation in 8 months is way too frequent for a nonpregnant nonmother.)


oh so grand

things my grandmother said to me yesterday, while i was in florida visiting her:

  • upon telling her i don't want to go to law school ever: "i guess if you want to be ordinary, your grandfather and i will still love you."

  • "does your boyfriend still love you even though you're fat?"
    suggested rejoinder, courtsey of My Mother: "does grandpa still love you even though you're stupid?"

  • "if you get pregnant, don't tell me. have an abortion and pretend it never happened."

mm. family.


bridget jones, socialite

socialite Fabiola Beracasa is keeping a new york fashion week blog for nymag, which is diverting but ultimately meh. she has, however, minor moments of brilliance, and for some reason this excerpt struck me as precisely in the voice of Bridget Jones (from the book, not the movie, though admittedly the movie is in the book's voice), for which - in keeping with my this-really-ought-to-embarrass-me-more desperate love for all things Bridget, i might love Fabiola always. This despite her unBridgety qualities of (a) superskinniness and (b) massive bank accountness:

Went to the after-party at Joe's Pub for twenty minutes. The highlight was talking to Zidane in French for a while. He seemed happy; I suspect his English is not as strong as his head-butts.
the emphasis, naturalment, is mine. and yes, i deliberately left out bolding the "i" in order to make it even more bridget jonesian, an editorial act for which i am shamely unapologetic.


honor among vandals

astute subway riders who are making the transfer from the 1 train to the L train (for those of you who are not new yorkers, or are not astute subway riders, this involves walking down a long and vaguely creepy fluorescent-lit tunnel that runs about a quarter-mile underground between the two train stations) might have noticed that the walls on the transfer tunnel are covered, as most empty subway wallspace is, with advertisements.

the really astute among you would have noticed that there are really unattractive large stickers stuck all over all the advertisements, which are neon pink and have an icky-looking puppet on them, and are advertising a new season of Crank Yankers, which is funny if you are the sort of person who still cracks your shit up at the Jerky Boys and unironically enjoys the song "Boom! Shake the Room" by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince. There are also a couple of similar stickers for the new season of Celebrity Deathmatch, which i find less stupid, but only because i have a soft spot for claymation.

but the seriously, astonishingly, massively astute among you will have noticed that these Crank Yankers and Celebrity Deathmatch stickers (both shows, it's worth noting, demoted from their original legit-tv channels - Comedy Central and MTV, respectively - to the "wait, seriously, that's still broadcasting?" station of MTV2) - no doubt applied by some hapless interns who were so excited to get a job working for Viacom, and are totally going to be the next Vanessa Minnillo/Gideon Yago/Whoever the heck - are NOT applied to the giant swathes of affectless black that are the posters for urge.com.

why? because urge.com is owned by viacom.

which means that these interns were told: go out and deface the advertising of every single company, broadway show, and dermatologist's office that you can find. but DO NOT put these stickers on ads belonging to our sister company. we have to retain their integrity.

i love this.