Wonderland

You should all know by now that I don't endorse just any old rigamarole. I enjoy the finer things life has to offer. From fashion to travel to food. You could imagine my delight when I came across a little something called a 'Jar cake.' what is this you ask? A fantastic host gift, a moist treat after a turkey dinner, a fun dessert for the kids to experience.

After attending a beautiful dinner with some friends who don't know the meaning of the word 'simple,' out came a fabulously appointed basket of autumn treats. They paired pumpkin muffins and chewy toffee chocolate cookies with spiked warm apple cider. The chocolate peanut butter fudge squares sang to my taste buds. But best of all was the gingerbread jar cake. After you screw the top off the vintage mason jar, the cake slides out in an almost phallic manor creating a few rosey cheeks and adolescent chuckles. It's delicious cinnamon undertones compliment the rich texture but best off all is the experience of opening the jar.

I had to know where to purchase a few of my own to bring to family events or send to people for special occasions. This is where things get tricky. And I suppose I shouldn't have expected any less of my well to do friends. 'Wonderland' is a one woman show catering to a high end Hamptons type of clientele. I picture a display kitchen somewhere in shelter island with spice racks and a rustic rocking chair on the porch. Luckily, my haute dessert needs will not go unfed because I talked my friend into sending me the contact information. The good news? Wonderland's most cost efficient basket goes for a mere $60. But, contact in advance because Wonderland is in fairly high demand and is known to turn people down. The girls at work are going to love me tonight.

Get your wonderland on.
WonderlandLC@Gmail.com

Confessions of a real girl

Moving past the heartache, a young woman... lady in the making... Decides she is stronger than the past offers. Who fucking cares if she grew up half past the yak's ass. A mere 39 miles west of Boston, my dear Claudia shows initiative amongst the dung that she has come to know as her past. The future... Promises. Fear. Elation.

El macina Los Boston

Sour Milk

A friend posted this pic on Facebook and I think it's amazing. We should all probably enjoy the cutesy little things before a revolution commences and we are packin heat on a run to the store for milk. I foresee a gangland situation, only with a lot more bongos.

Your Tuck is Showing...

I love the little dates I take myself on in NYC. Usually, I keep them to myself because I like to have those places that warm my heart without the worry of running into people I know when it's "Mamma's special time." But, a friend turned me on to a wonderful little kiosk in Chelsea Market a few weeks ago and I find myself returning at least once a week. I decided after my last visit that this food was just too amazing to keep to myself. Tuck Shop. It's an Aussie company offering meat, meat and more meat. It's a hangover's dream and a tongue's heaven. I've tried a few of their meat pies but the absolute prize winner is the pork roll. Juicy, flavorful, warm, crusty, soft. Just picture Jesus rolled up in a warm croissant. I like to take it to go, with the Thai Basil Lime homemade soda and pop a squat up on The Highline. It's sheer delight and an escape to down under... While up high. Get acquainted.

Jumpsuit LaCaca

Keith Herring is paying his rent this month thanks to this fucktard. While enjoying a kettle martini and conversation with my good friend Lenny, this atrocity ignorantly paraded by sporting the back wall of an auto shop and a smile. He completely interrupted my in depth conversation, I truly could not focus when Herring Bone walked in. In fact, I'm not even attaching the picture until after I've written this because it's so distracting. I bet the sales person that ruined this guys sex life only made a $20 commission too. I will give him 5 points for gusto, but I'm pronouncing that the Spanish way. #jumpsuitLaCaca

I give up. Well, better yet... She did. There are few things worse than a Canal Street Louie Vuitton. First, paisley wrap dresses. Second, knee length paisley wrap dresses. Third, lady on the go sneakers with a paisley wrap dress. There was not a single article of clothing on this woman that made sense. The leather jacket... Could have been decent if it weren't for the 1988 collar and tear on the right sleeve.

I can't help but take pity on this woman and assume someone shit on her heart. I envision her in 1988, in love and sporting her 'I have to lay down to zipper these' jeans while being the life of the party. She had a huge group of girlfriends to go shopping with, get nails done and gossip about what Tiffany wore to CBGB's. And then alone came the 90's when she got dumped and lost her will to live. Pick yourself up bitch, your Kmart blue light special look is effecting my day!