Picking Up Men and Carelessly Discarding Them
That was the plan on Friday in meeting up with a bevy of girls at Mantra for happy hour. We liked it lots because the wine was only $5 and we got to sit outside to people-watch. Because Celia is such a good photographer, it ended up also being a night of photographs. Consider her the guest picture taker, except you will note that I ended up taking quite a few of her. First though, check out our adorable waitress, Brie. We left her almost a fifty percent tip and hope to see her again as she is our new girl crush.
Here is Celia, demonstrating how not to pick up men.
Hands-off. I can't remember why we were doing all these things with our hands.
Here is my hand illustrating lovely fingernails with flecks of red polish. All the chairs outside were backless. I warned everyone that it was quite likely that I would start to fall backwards after a few glasses of wine. Celia noted that I would then reach for the table, but not be able to grasp the edge to save myself because of the chip.
Philadelphia, by Celia.
And again.
Unfortunately, this is the only photo I have of Ann and it's just really her torso. Ann is Irina's friend from college and my new bff. She works at Villanova where it turns out that everyone is named Ann. She said that she frequently finds herself writing nonsensical emails like this: "Hi, Ann. It's Ann. Here's the letter you requested to Ann. --Ann." We suggested that she start going by Annie, and she said she'd consider it.
Here is Celia, demonstrating how not to pick up men.
Hands-off. I can't remember why we were doing all these things with our hands.
Here is my hand illustrating lovely fingernails with flecks of red polish. All the chairs outside were backless. I warned everyone that it was quite likely that I would start to fall backwards after a few glasses of wine. Celia noted that I would then reach for the table, but not be able to grasp the edge to save myself because of the chip.
Philadelphia, by Celia.
And again.
Unfortunately, this is the only photo I have of Ann and it's just really her torso. Ann is Irina's friend from college and my new bff. She works at Villanova where it turns out that everyone is named Ann. She said that she frequently finds herself writing nonsensical emails like this: "Hi, Ann. It's Ann. Here's the letter you requested to Ann. --Ann." We suggested that she start going by Annie, and she said she'd consider it.
Here I am trying to smoosh and pet this dog, Owen, that we met.
This is Owen's master, whom we also petted, albeit briefly.
This is Owen's master, whom we also petted, albeit briefly.
More Celia.
The Irina series. If I could add thought bubbles to these photos, here's what they would read based on her facial expression. "This is fun. I like going out with the girls."
"I'm sorry, Celia, what did you say? I was distracted by Aimee taking my photo. No, it's okay."
"Well, I don't really know. I guess I agree that headbands are lame."
"Aimee, stop taking my fucking picture!"
On Saturday, didn't do much except read this book I ended up not liking too much, The Princess of Burundi by Kjell Eriksson, winner of the Swedish Crime Academy Award for Best Crime Novel. I thought it would be really interesting and compelling because, you know, it won an award, but it was kind of discombobulated and not exactly that intriguing and the writer kept using the same moment of "it was as if s/he had read his/her thoughts." This happened about 25 times among the many characters. But I finished it because it was a quick read and started Divisadero last night, a novel by Michael Ondaatje and I really like it so far. Here's one of my favorite passages (p. 16): "Everything is biographical, Lucian Freud says. What we make, why it is made, how we draw a dog, who it is we are drawn to, why we cannot forget. Everything is collage, even genetics. There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border we cross." Isn't that cool?
In addition to him, some girl in ill-fitting rust colored corduroys was loudly relating a story about how she was so drunk the other night, she fell off her bicycle and landed in a small patch of grass and then started throwing up. She spent the next five minutes describing the whole barfing scenario in a loud voice while I tried not to listen or compare her description to the veggie cream cheese on my bagel. She was also wearing a headband, of course.
The Irina series. If I could add thought bubbles to these photos, here's what they would read based on her facial expression. "This is fun. I like going out with the girls."
"I'm sorry, Celia, what did you say? I was distracted by Aimee taking my photo. No, it's okay."
"Well, I don't really know. I guess I agree that headbands are lame."
"Aimee, stop taking my fucking picture!" 
On Saturday, didn't do much except read this book I ended up not liking too much, The Princess of Burundi by Kjell Eriksson, winner of the Swedish Crime Academy Award for Best Crime Novel. I thought it would be really interesting and compelling because, you know, it won an award, but it was kind of discombobulated and not exactly that intriguing and the writer kept using the same moment of "it was as if s/he had read his/her thoughts." This happened about 25 times among the many characters. But I finished it because it was a quick read and started Divisadero last night, a novel by Michael Ondaatje and I really like it so far. Here's one of my favorite passages (p. 16): "Everything is biographical, Lucian Freud says. What we make, why it is made, how we draw a dog, who it is we are drawn to, why we cannot forget. Everything is collage, even genetics. There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border we cross." Isn't that cool?Here's what's not cool: headbands. STOP WEARING HEADBANDS, HIPSTERS. It looks stupid. You know who wore headbands? Richard Simmons. And even though he's a total geek, at least he had a reason to wear them. I went to Rocket Cat on Sunday to do some writing (and really, to go to Circle Thrift the second it opened), and the coffee guy was wearing a thick blue headband and doofus 70's glasses, ironically of course. How clever! How clever that you and every other kid who manages to hit each Making Time scene has thought to put a piece of elastic around his/her head as a fashion statement because American Apparel said so. Here's my quick sketches of this weekend's headband guy:
In addition to him, some girl in ill-fitting rust colored corduroys was loudly relating a story about how she was so drunk the other night, she fell off her bicycle and landed in a small patch of grass and then started throwing up. She spent the next five minutes describing the whole barfing scenario in a loud voice while I tried not to listen or compare her description to the veggie cream cheese on my bagel. She was also wearing a headband, of course. Headband addendum (per Kelly's comment): I don't mean to oppose headbands that you use to keep your hair out of your face. I'm talking about headbands that athletes wear when playing tennis or some other sport to keep the sweat from running into their eyes.
Okay: 
Not okay:
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