Your Birthday Party Sucks Balls

We did it! Stephanie and I registered for the Zombie Apocalypse 5K! We’re running in the 9:30am wave because it’s hot as balls in August and, as she pointed out, the 9am first wave time might be difficult if there’s a “cluster-eff.” We even decided on a team name and may have recruited at least two other friends to run with us (Shannon and Ron, WOO-HOO!…Jess, WTF are you on this?!). If you’re in St. Louis, not an insane murderer, and interested in being an Interspecies Bestie, feel free to register here.

I haven’t been using the treadmill much this week. I hurt my ankle awhile ago, and while it wasn’t pleasant before, this week it was actually difficult to walk on. I don’t know what the problem is exactly (other than it hurts), but I don’t feel like going to the doctor, as all they will do is look at my chart, shrug, and point to the total destruction of my ankles and knees that occurred during nearly 20 years of playing sports. Also calling the doctor and making an appointment is a pain in the ass, and there’s a $20 co-pay plus a fee for parking there. So, no thanks.

It feels a little better now, which means I definitely have to get back on the program by tomorrow. I already put myself a week behind on the Non-Fatassery Schedule, not to mention the damage I did to myself this weekend with the booze- and delicious food-fueled 5-year anniversary celebration. I’m never going to be one of those people who counts calories – it seems like a pain in the ass, plus, you know, math – but with my very limited knowledge of just how bad certain foods are for your goals of non-fatassery, I’d say that I bombed my body back to a cesspool-like state of lipids and carbohydrates this weekend. But you guys…have you been to Taste by Niche? Have you been there? It’s insane. I wanted to devour the entire menu, which may have been possible considering that most of it is made up of small plates. We had dinner reservations at 9 and were only stopping in for appetizers and cocktails, though, so we stuck to 2 drinks apiece, a bowl of warm, spiced almonds and the octopus with potato and chorizo risotto. I know that most of you think you don’t like octopus, but you should know that a) you’re wrong and b) fine, don’t like it, more for us. This octopus was the most beautifully-cooked thing I’ve ever put into my mouth. More so than a perfectly medium rare steak, more so than a silky, unbroken hollandaise, more so than anything else because it’s so easy to mess up with octopus, and this was just perfect and tender, so much so that I looked at Graham and said, “Motherfuck, you know? Just…goddamn.”

The spiced almonds were also delicious in their simplicity, and the erstwhile bartender in me was humbled by the cocktail list. Just please do me this favor, okay? If you go to Taste by Niche (and for some reason don’t invite me and Graham, what’s wrong with you guys?), please don’t order a beer, or a glass of wine, or a vodka and cranberry. Just pick up the cocktail list and ask your server questions and go with their suggestions. Trust the bar staff. They are beautiful specimens of humanity who know how to treat alcohol with some respect, and there’s even an option for them to just pick whatever they want to make based on your general preferences. Graham did this and, upon tasting his drink, said, “Oh, that’s good…it’s like Frank Sinatra made me a 7 and 7.” My only regret is that we couldn’t stay longer to eat and drink as much as physically possible before rolling ourselves into a cab and off to our sweet, blissful deaths. I want to go back immediately and try everything else, and I want to bring more people because the smaller plates really are better when more people can graze on them, and because I want to look at my friends’ faces when they light up with a “hey, I like this!” recognition.

We went to Eleven Eleven Mississippi after Taste, both because Graham had never been and because the guy on the phone at Farmhaus was an asshole when I called earlier in the week to make reservations. After dinner, we waited at the bar for a cab (oh come on Mardi Gras, you’re supposed to be done by 11pm!) and ended up at the 34 Club, where one of my old bar regulars bought us anniversary beers and I found this in the bathroom:

Then we went back to the hotel room suite (yeah, suite, bitches!) for champagne. And then we fell asleep. And on our way home today, we got coffee and doughnuts and I just woke up from a nap. I may be wallowing in fatassery right now, but it was worth it.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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2 Responses to Your Birthday Party Sucks Balls

  1. Yeah, Mardi Gras ended at 11 … and then they all took cabs to my street. This morning’s walk was gross.

    Glad you had a great time! Justin and I are having our fatass belated Valentine’s brunch tomorrow. I can’t decide between Romance Waffles or Sexy Pancakes.

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