Friday, January 20th: My beloved friend K, who is thinking about moving into my apartment when my current housemate moves out, comes over to determine whether she is allergic to the kitteh. To my amazement, Zelda conducts herself very nicely, with almost minimal biting. K and I enjoy some TOTALLY NON-ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES and watch Beverly’s criminally unjust elimination from Top Chef.
After a few hours of playing the green bean game with Zelda (the green bean game consists of throwing a green bean to Zelda and then watching her joyfully dissect it), it is determined that K is not particularly allergic to her. To celebrate the happy results of our incredibly scientifically rigorous experiment, we head out to the local pub.
Before we leave, I spray on way too much Prada Candy. I figure that it’s sweet and fun enough for a night out, but not so sexy that it implies I’m on the prowl. The pub has incredible fries, which are promptly commandeered by the men sitting next to us. Baltimore is a very friendly town, but I do sometimes wish that they would let me finish my fries for once.
The fry drama is eventually settled, mostly because there are no longer any more fries. We bid a not-entirely-regretful goodbye to the fry thieves and head out into the very first snowfall of the winter. We shriek at the snowflakes collecting in our hair, but I am secretly delighted. Baltimore always looks so beautiful in the snow. Everything is quiet and serene, except for our resident hobo Crazy Mike, who is loudly insisting that he killed my sister. I would probably be more concerned if I had a sister.
Saturday, January 21st: I wake up with a ruthless headache and several unusual items in my purse. These include a pair of sunglasses which do not belong to me, an Edgar Allen Poe coaster, and a phone number written in very messy Arabic. I have no idea what to do with the sunglasses, but the headache is easily vanquished with the help of a Satsumo Santa Lush bath bomb. Even more fun than the bath bomb itself is watching poor Zelda’s bewildered reaction to the pink water and the gleefully fizzy Santa.
For those of you who are just joining us, Zelda is closer to a jaguar than an average house cat. She is a savage, violent creature. Until recently, the bath tub was my last safe place. Not anymore. Now she can swim. But today Satsumo Santa and I reclaimed the bath tub, if only for a few tranquil minutes. Today’s fragrant mistake was Balenciaga Paris. I retry it from time to time, because it got so many great reviews praising it as “quiet” and “elegant” when it was first released. Unfortunately, today it’s just as high-pitched as I remembered it.
Sunday, January 22nd: I begin work on the essay for my intersession class about the Fitzgeralds. I’m writing about Zelda Fitzgerald’s novel Save Me The Waltz, and the symbolism of its many mentions of eau de cologne. Save Me The Waltz is actually a highly fragrant novel; Zelda mentions Coty Jasmine, Coty L’Origan, and an unnamed Elizabeth Arden perfume. I am convinced that if she had been born a few decades later, Ms. Fitzgerald would have made a fantastic perfume blogger. Although a cologne would have made more sense, I wear the exuberant hazelnut fragrance Parfumerie Generale Aomassai to keep my spirits up while I read the Fitzgeralds (which is harder than it sounds, because man those two were depressing).
Drew wants to have dinner somewhere fancy for Restaurant Week, so we choose a place down in Mount Vernon with epic salted caramel brownies. I decide that this is the perfect occasion to debut an adorable new Rebecca Taylor dress. However, the truly unfortunate happens: the dress goes rogue. It fit fine when I bought it only a week earlier, but now the damn zipper keeps splitting.
After literally half an hour, the dress is finally fully zipped. I’m a little freaked out, to be honest. I have gained weight recently. Most of the time I feel okay about it, but discovering that a favorite piece of clothing is now too small can still be disheartening. However, I am determined not to let the self-doubt ruin our night. I put on one of my favorite Star Trek episodes, “A Piece Of The Action”, in which Kirk takes on a hilariously bad Chicago accent. Shatner’s voice quickly works its usual soothing magic. I soon feel comfortable enough to put on a red lipstick, spray on some Frederic Malle Lipstick Rose (the fanciest perfume I own), and relish my salted caramel brownie.