As much as I love the distraction of blogging, I will be on posting hiatus until mid September. Until then my ass will in be stuck to my chair, or some chair at some coffee shop around Portland, recreating my thesis. Trust me, you wouldn't want to read about anything I'm doing right now. I was excited about a fire alarm the other day. 



A friend once explained to me that brunch was her favorite meal because it was a legitimate (and somewhat dignified) excuse to drink before noon. To take her theory one step further, I believe brunch is also perfect time-wise because it provides a smooth segue into happy hour, which is my favorite meal of the day. (Yes, several cocktails plus some sort of greasy, cheesy starch for under $20 is a very good meal indeed.) 

This weekend, this particular friend came to town, and the two of us brunched all day long. For two days straight. I wouldn't even bother trying to name any of these other meals we had "dinner," "lunch" or "cocktails." When you're two girls in New York City, wandering around in a semi-drunk, semi-hungover state, stopping to intermittently chat, imbibe and nibble on whatever tickles your fancy, I call that brunching. Or European mimicry.

Saturday's Menu: 
2 ice coffees
2 bloody marys
1 mimosa
granola, berries, yogurt
drunken baked beans, poached egg, bacon
side of bacon
side of hash browns
2 iced green teas
20-ounce passion fruit margarita
20-ounce pomegranate margarita
2 baskets of tortilla chips
bowl of homemade guacamole
1 fresh watermelon martini
1 glass of rose
platter of fruit, cheese and honey
skillet of mussels in white wine and garlic
4 glasses of sauvignon blanc
2 glasses of pinot grigio

Sunday's Menu (Note: We did scale back. At least on alcohol.)
1 ice coffee
2 cups of coffee
1 bloody mary
smoked salmon, creme fresh, capers, pumpernickel bread
rainbow trout, fried egg, dried mushrooms
1 cappuccino
1 americano
3 mini ice cream cones
desert platter (mini lemon cake, mini raspberry mousse and lemon ice cream)
1 scoop of vanilla ice cream
side of hot fudge
side of fries
(We went our separate ways at 5 p.m. I later had a chicken salad, two chocolate chip cookies and another scoop of vanilla ice cream.)

Although the sugar intake increased on Sunday (absence of booze = sugar cravings), look what we did pass up (but were still hypnotized by to take pictures of) between pit stops and hangover hazes: 

Yes, this a Barbie cake. Fabulous. 

Look at all that self discipline.



I realize that it seems rather odd that I'm living in the second largest metropolis in the world, and yet I keep finding myself near the ocean or in the wilderness or at a tourist trap for old people. Call it the "grass is always greener" syndrome or balance perhaps.

However, there was nothing balanced, okay, "greener," or even authentically green about the Water Taxi Beach I visited last weekend in Long Island City. 

It was just plain odd. 

To get here from Manhattan, a free yellow pontoon takes patrons across the East River over to LIC, which is the middle ground (and the more affordable, less overly hip home for artists than W'burg) between Queens and Brooklyn. It sounds inviting, if not, at the very least, surreal: a shoreside margarita hangout with view of the NYC skyline. 

But it was rather disappointing. (Note the rainbow plastic palm tree.)

Don't get me wrong, I expected nothing less than the Velveeta-est of cheesiness. And that I got. Guys with popped collars and meatheads with Old English tats across their stomachs. Chicks with chunky highlights and knockoff designer shades. Bad house music. Even a mom in a thong bikini dancing with her kids in the DJ tent. 

I'll even excuse the girls sunbathing between the picnic benches. 

But what I won't excuse is the shoddiness of it all. It looked like a bunch of sand was dumped in an unused parking lot between old industrial buildings (some of which, of course, are being converted to high rise condos named "The Foundry"). The benches were dilapidated and the bar tents were grungy. The only thing that saved my weak $10 well vodka soda (I even had to ask for a lime) was that before pouring in the half shot of booze, the bartender flipped my plastic cup into the air, caught it behind his back and twirled it. Classy moves studied straight from Cocktail. Except I think Tom Cruise worked with glass, not plastic, and didn't wear a basketball jersey.