Thing of the Day: Fame

Up until very recently ago, I was under the mistaken assumption that if, as an adult, I was successful, healthy, wealthy and content in my relationships, I would be happy. The past week has proved me wrong. Yes, I would very much like to have success and money and good health and a great life partner and lots of small adopted African and Asian children, but I have decided that this will not be enough. I would like to be famous.

Several things have led me to this conclusion. Last Wednesday, I had the luck to work the red carpet at the Country Music Awards in Nashville. Since I do not like country music, standing for long periods of time, or taking directions from others, I thought this would be a pretty average and not terribly exciting experience where I would briefly glimpse several B-list celebs, snap a few iPhone pics, perhaps get some free shit, and be on my way. Wrong. Working the red carpet, apparently, means you get to actually be on the red carpet. Next to those who are walking down the red carpet, being photographed and interviewed and fawned over. Now, a fan of country music I may not be (Seriously. George Strait, Kenny Chesney, and the Zac Brown Band walked into the awards within one foot of me and had to be pointed out to me by my co-intern, to whom I responded with "who?!"), but when I found myself within approximately 2 feet of Carrie Underwood for a prolonged period of time I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her perfect blonde curls. As if this wasn't enough, I actually touched Nicole Kidman. I don't particularly like Nicole Kidman--I think she desperately needs to go tanning, or if she's concerned about 'cancer' or something, use a no-side-effects tanning spray, stop getting Botox, and be generally less creepy-looking, but when we briefly grazed hands and exchanged greetings I would have chopped off my left arm, freeze-dried it, and crushed and spoon-fed it to my first born for the opportunity to hang out with her for five more minutes.

Hyperboles aside, I spent the following four days excitedly Googling CMA pictures in the hopes that I would appear in the corner of one (fail, but the co-worker who calls me "fashion girl" (I like you, co-worker), did tell me he saw me holding up the red-carpet sign for Reba on C.M.T! What I would give for that to have made it to my TiVo...), and on Saturday night, my lingering thoughts that I would maybe one day like to be famous were confirmed beyond any reasonable doubt. The reason? Jay-Z.

Jay-Z played at Vanderbilt's Memorial Gym this weekend and by the first song, quickly moved onto my list of favorite-concerts-I-have-ever-attended (other contendors: Radiohead in Miami, Regina Spektor in Nashville, N.E.R.D in Nashville, Backstreet Boys Reunion Tour in New York). The man is a performer--to see him live is truly an honor, and to see the effect he has on the crowd is breathtaking. Within ten minutes, my Jewish-white-girl friends were sweaty, screaming song lyrics at the top of their lungs, bopping to the beat and attesting that if the only way they could engage in sexual intercourse with Jay-Z was on stage in front of the crowd of 5000 at that very moment, they would absolutely do it. And I found myself thinking...I want people to say that about me.Not quite that, because it would be creepy and offputting, but I would like people that I don't know to get moderately excited to see me. I'm not striving to be an actor or a singer, or a reality TV star turned actor-singer (although if anyone wants to pitch me a good reality pilot, please don't hesitate for one second), but I'd like to be known. Perhaps in a really good author or cool talk-show personality way. Or a wife of actor/singer/reality star turned actor-singer who uses her husbands' money benevolently to start a scholarship fund for Russian immigrants and makes frequent appearances on Oprah and The Today Show while running her non-profit and casually attending culinary school/submitting weekly columns to New York Magazine. Not that I've given it much though, really.

In other news: I am going home to New York for the first time since August and I am so excited. I am making a brief stop at my friend Megan's house in D.C for the weekend to eat good food, bar-hop around Georgetown, and decide if I would ever want to live there after graduation. I plan to make her tour to me around all of the places I toured in middle school and take many embarassing tourist photographs, and then on Sunday I will re-unite with my one true love: the great NYC. People often ask me why I am so set on not living in New York right after graduation if I love it so much and I've come to start explaining it like so. You know those couples that have been dating forever and are obsessed with each other but decide to break up to see what else is out there and date new people and realize if they are truly right for one another while always secretly harboring the intention to get back together? That's like me and New York. It was wisely pointed out to me that in the case of these couples, one or both halves do tend to find someone they'd rather be with and then months are wasted Facebook stalking and writing angry emails that will never be sent and shooting imaginary poisonous arrows into each other's backs and all sorts of other dramuhhhh....

But lucky for me, New York can't ever break up with me. Only I with it, briefly, for D.C or Chicago or maybe even an extra year in Nash-Vegas, where I will cultivate a short-lived but undoubtedly exciting affair with the lesser city before coming back with open arms and welcoming myself home.

Thing of the Day: Sunshine

Some pretty excellent things happened this weekend.

I ate pizza every day from Thursday-Sunday, Sarah Palin resigned from her "job," Sarah Jessica Parker and her three absurdly named but nonetheless adorable children are looked at houses in Park Slope (take that, Carrie Bradshaw! You may hate on the BK but I'll take the real SJP if she promises to wear heels at all times), I spent my 4 hour commute home back from the beach downloading Pandora for Blackberry (genius!) and despite Michael Bloomberg's warning, I watched fireworks both legal and smuggled to the tunes of my roommate's dad's 4th of July Playlist (Included: The Star Spangled Banner, American Girl, American Pie, American Woman, Simon and Garfunkel's America, Proud to be an American and an impromptu a-capella version of America, Fuck Yeah!)

That was a lot of parenthesis. Today's thing of the day is sunshine for several reasons:

1. I really liked the above picture

2. Even though The Today Show reported last week that New York's June weather has been equivalent to that of Finland (come ON, Scandinavia!), this week promises to be a bright and sunny one of 80 degree highs.

3. Thus a plethora of outdoor activities have been planned: outdoor dinner & drinks before the Meiko concert tomorrow, outdoor gallery/bar crawls at Dumbo First Thursday, outdoor binge drinking at Saturday barbeque's and outdoor $2 Coronas and $1 Corn on the Cobs from highly illegal beach vendors at Coney Island Sunday.

On a slightly less optimistic and sunshine filled note, this week's episode of NYC Prep really disappointed me. Taylor--what the f. You are not representing Stuyvesant High School adequately when you go on mediocre dates AND SLOPPILY MAKE OUT WITH boys who describe themselves in their Bravo Bio as "known among his circle of friends as the guy who constantly hooks up with the hottest girls – either in the City or at his place in the Hamptons." Sebastian. There is only one Chuck Bass. I hate you. And Tay--if you are reading this, send me your phone number. I have some mentoring I would like to offer you free of charge. On camera, of course). Other than that, the clothes were cute, the food looked good, and I think I will give the show another 2 episodes before I start watching it on mute.

Also, Bravo--how about a reality TV show set at COLLEGE, where we are actually old enough to drink on our dates and at our parties. We can set it at Vanderbilt (potential titles: Vandyland, Club Vandersex, open to suggestions) and film episodes at tailgates, parties, Sportsmann's, Stevenson, and beyond. Our parents would all stop paying our tuition, but I'm sure with the dollaz and free shit we score as reality TV shows, we'd make it through our last semester on our own. You know where to reach me.

Thing of the Day: NYC Prep

I'm not a huge reality TV fan. I loyally watched the first 5 seasons of The Real World, have seen every Project Runway and Top Chef, like to keep The Hills as background eye candy (on mute, of course), and will occasionally be sucked into a marathon of My Super Sweet 16, but I would say I prefer scripted drama more than the "unscripted" kind.

Until now. Bravo's new reality show, NYC Prep, has been marketed as a "real life Gossip Girl," following the lives of six elite New York high schoolers as they go about their good looking ways. This kind of obnoxious glitzy tv show set in my hometown on my favorite TV channel would have probably made it to my TiVo anyway...but I have recently learned that one of the six bratty teenagers it stars goes to my high school.

Meet Taylor. She "has an active interest in politics" and "is horrible at relationships, so expect some boy drama." In the first episode of NYC Prep, Taylor giggles here way through a dinnerparty, goes to a runway show at Fashion week and sits next to Paris Hilton while flirting with "Upper East Side Bad Boy" Sebastian, and excessively twirls her long brown hair.

Taylor! W. T.F. Stuyvesant High School is no Constance Billard, and you are no Serena Van Der Woodsen. Sure, we had the occasional sex in the bathroom at Friday night dances, and senior year someone got arrested for dealing drugs, we're pretty sure there were some student/teacher sexual relations (hello, Ms. Nolan!) and we even had a New York magazine article published about my grade's promiscuous and sexually ambiguous ways, but I'm fairly certain Taylor never accidentally induced someone's overdose during a sexy video, and Ms. DiGiovanni doesn't have an illegitimate lovechild with Taylor's on and off boyfriend, and she will not get into Yale just for being voluptous and having a magnificent pout.

Bravo...I'm disappointed. I can think of at least 10 people in my homeroom who would have made better reality TV stars than this character. I can provide you with the email addresses and phone numbers of at least 5 current Stuyvesant High School students who can do something more dramatic than blink repeatedly at a fashion show and joke about "having a really rich husband one day (hehe)."

Nonetheless, a TiVo fave for the rest of the season. Expect updates.

You know you love me.

XOXO

Thing of the Day: Celebrity Chefs

As I laid in bed last night watching my third consecutive hour of the Food Network (Iron Chef America: Battle Octopus),I found myself thinking about several things.

1. Why the f was I laying in bed eating grapes and cold pasta when there were delicacies like fried octopus calamari with papaya sauce, octopus seviche with fresh salsa, octopus carpaccio, braised tuscan octopus, pressure cooked octopus with rock shrimp, and slowly grilled octopus skewers to be had?

2. Octopus sausage? Really? I don't know, Chef Kaysen.

3. When did obsessing over food, food preparation, and the chefs who prepare it become a socially acceptable thing to do, a hobby reserved not only for trained culinary specialists and the morbidly obese but also for your average, normal BMI, unskilled college student?

I first discovered my immense and inappropriate love for food via the Bravo hit Top Chef, which I caught by accident after a Project Runway finale and have ever since seen every episode of. Since that fateful moment two or three years ago, I have further expanded my food interests to include a personal (read: non family, delivered to my dorm room) subscription to Food and Wine magazine, frequent perusing of FoodNetwork.com recipes, ending every weekend in Kitchen Stadium, stopping to read every single moderately interesting menu I see on the street, daily research of new lunch spots on Citysearch (today's pick: The Green Table), watching Rachael Ray re-runs on mute (her voice makes me want to slit my wrists, but the woman can cook), and reading famous menus the way many people watch famous pornographic films.

And I am not even close to most fanatic of my friends. In the past decade, avidly following celebrity chefs, culinary reality TV, and "designer" restaurants have become a huge phenomenon in popular culture. Names like Rachael Ray (ugh), Wolfgang Puck, Paula Dean, Alain Ducasse, Mario Batali, Anthony Bourdain and Bobby Flay have become as well known as those of Paris Hilton, Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears. Ray, the highest earning celebrity chef, makes $18 million a year on her Network show. Puck, Dean and the rest follow with similarly unbelievable numbers.

Any why not? If Americans can watch a show about a brain-dead couple and several other D-listers fighting it out in the jungle, and another about a fame-whorrific couple and their adorable plethora of half-Asian children, why wouldn't we watch a show--or a dozen--about a crictical life need--food?

Lucky for me, the Food Network's glorious headquarters are just around the corner from my summer internship. And in between "working," perusing menus on the internet, and g-chatting with stunning speed, I will continue to camp out in the Chelsea Market basement until I get the opportunity to seduce Bobby Flay into becoming my personal chef/husband.