Kamran: What makes you so interested in abandoned food?
me: I don’t know. I really like food, and I always wonder why someone would just leave it there. I would pick that shit up and dust that shit off.
Kamran: I would do that, too.
me: Really?
Kamran: Yeah, I mean pick it up. And then throw it away.
me: Oh, no, I’d totally be willing to eat it.
Kamran: What about a pepper dropped in the subway?
me: Sure.
Kamran: You’d just pick that up and bite into it?
me: Yeah, absolutely, ’cause you can wash that.
Kamran: You can’t wash off the subway. You can’t wash off New York City. New York City gets under the skin.

Please find my newly created page for showcasing my abandoned food finds in my sidebar and expect many more to come.

I could tell yesterday that you weren’t totally blown away by the celebrities I’ve rubbed elbows with, and early this morning, I realized why. I forgot to add the most important ones, the ones I was actually filmed with. And in Meryl’s case, the one that I actually ran into accidentally. So here are the additions to my List of All the Famous People I Can Remember Having Seen Whilst Living in NYC for you to ooh and ahh at:

Meryl Streep, who I filmed scenes with as an extra in the movie Julie and Julia.

Brooke Shields, who I stood 2 centimeters away from while filming scenes as an extra in “Lipstick Jungle“, where I also stood 2 centimeters away from

Andrew McCarthy

and Rosie Perez

and Kim Raver

and Lindsay Price.

Please note that I reserve the right to keeping posting this sort of jazz whenever I remember another one, because nothing else in my life has any meaning.

My friend Sonya, my doctor boyfriend, Kamran, and I took a bus from Kamran’s office in Rockefeller Center to Union Square last Thursday night and then cut down a side street to get to the East Village for dinner. As we were passing by the movie theatre on Broadway, we saw some fancy black cars across the street and flashbulbs going off as someone stepped out of one of them. We continued walking like New Yorkers do but kept our eyes trained on the area in case something was going on that we’d need to brag about to our friends later.

When the person being photographed turned to face us, Sonya said, “Hey, it’s the guy with the big mouth who used to have dreads!” I, of course, had no idea who it was, but Kamran is pretty much an original gangsta and recognized him right away as Busta Rhymes. We crossed the street to get a better look, because while we don’t have any interest in movie stars, we understand that it’s important for our families in Orlando (Sonya), Orange County (Kamran), and OHIO (me) to hear about these sorts of sightings, since they can’t imagine any other advantage to living here.

Out of the next car came Guy Pearce, whose name we couldn’t remember but whom we all knew as “that guy from Memento“. And out of the next car came, most importantly, Don Cheadle, who I totally had a crush on after Crash and totally had a bigger crush on after Hotel Rwanda. So naturally I took out my camera and captured:

Blurry Don Cheadle, who very well might be looking right at me here but we’ll never know for sure so I’ll say he definitely is!

Don Cheadle’s leg beside some lady with a cast!

Don Cheadle in profile!

There were boards with Traitor posters all over them propped behind where the stars were having their photos taken, so they must have been there to premiere the movie, but of course I can’t look it up and have Google start showing “celeb” gossip in my gmail ads. So you should do it for me.

And while I have you here, here’s a List of All the Famous People I Can Remember Having Seen Whilst Living in NYC, complete with highly personal stories, which can now also be found in my sidebar, in case you want to reference it many times in the future.

This delightful bit of graffiti was on the wall of the L platform at 1st Street:

It’s funny that I didn’t, you know, notice that the Unicef logo on the truck was obscured by the overhead lighting, but I don’t get paid to pay attention, yo.

My friend Emily wanted to celebrate her birthday by forcing us to hang out with her allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll day the Saturday before last, so my boyfriend Kamran and I picked up three vats of rainbow sherbet and a pack of rainbow Twizzlers and took the bus down to Tompkins Square Park for a noontime picnic. When we found the party, it consisted of Emily, who was in a birthday tiara, lest you forget who to pay all your attention to

and a handful of our other friends lounging on a blanket with an open jar of peanut butter in the middle of the circle. Kamran and I had come hungry, expecting a potluck, so I immediately thought, “Oh, shit, this is going to be the worst picnic ever,” and proceeded to eat all the paper party favors I could get my hands on.

Luckily, though, Emily’s sister-in-law, Lauren, came back from the dog run with the cutest puppy in the entire world, Penny,

and loads of food came out of hiding, including the beaniest bean salad, two whole chickens, pounds of lunch meat and mayonnaise, an entire German chocolate cake from Magnolia Bakery, and chopped fruits galore.

Emily had asked me to bring ice cream specifically to go with the cake and was a little upset at first that I’d forgotten and gone with sherbet instead, but then her brother, Nathan, thought to put the sherbet in the gallons of spiked lemonade that had gotten warm in the sun, and so we all drank it cold through rainbow Twizzler straws.

Which led to Emily’s mom getting drunk and hilarious and walking through the park with a party hat on

and everyone else generally having a great time, including me

but not including Kamran.

Naw, I’m just kidding. Kamran was a party animal

and didn’t even cut me when this happened:

Hey, Tracey, look at my bracelet!

Here’s a bad picture of Adam and Sonya just to prove they were there for posterity:

The only thing that sucked was all the poor people who felt like it was cool to step on our blankets and ask for our food in the midst of our being rich and merry. Now, I’m generally a pretty giving person, and I genuinely feel for people who have to sleep on the streets (although I firmly believe that if you can sit on a sidewalk with a pathetic give-me-money sign all day, you can stand behind a retail counter making money, too), but the first guy who approached us actually had the nerve to be MEAN about it. Here, I’ll recreate the conversation for you:

Asshole Poor Guy in Cargo Shorts with Backpack Who was Likely Totally Privileged and Had Annoying Well-Groomed Hair: Hey, can I have some of that food?

(Everyone shifts uncomfortably.)

Emily’s Sister-in-Law, Lauren: Sure, let me make a heaping plate for you, because I care about you, even though you’re an asshole and don’t deserve it.

(Lauren piles a paper plate high with bean salad, the most nutritious, delicious, and filling thing we have.)

Asshole Poor Guy: How ’bout some of that bread? I shouldn’t even have to ask, you know.

Me: Beggars can’t be choosers!

(The crowd falls silent, except for Chris, who says, “Ohhhhhhh, shit!” and wins my favor.)

Lauren: Absolutely no problem, sir. Here, take two slices.

The other ten thousand people who approached us were much cooler and much more appreciative, but they sure are lucky Emily’s family was there to be kind, ’cause I would’ve sent their asses packing had it been my birthday. And that concludes my right-wing conservative rant.

From the Products That Shouldn’t Exist and the Too Good to Be True files, my boyfriend Kamran brings us

NIGROIDS,

the sweet licorice-flavored expectorant throat lozenge from the folks who brought you

The Cadbury Egg, which usually comes in candy form and not truck form.

There’s absolutely no mention of the name being racially-tied at all, but COME ON. And it’s totally not an antiquated product like you’d think; there are several websites offering them for purchase. Don’t you just love the idea of pulling your tin of breath mints from your pocket in public and asking your friends, “Anyone care for a Nigroid?”

Kamran says that their slogan should be “Nigroid Please”, but even with a catchy jingle, it’d be a hard sell once people find out about the major side effect,

Nigroid teeth.

My mom died of brain cancer my senior year of high school, and since she was a teacher at my school, the principal gave me a sorry-your-life-is-ruined gift of a senior photo package worth some hundreds of dollars. It was a pretty cool present, I thought, since I’m generally narcissistic and loved the idea of having my picture taken over and over again in several different outfits by a willing photographer rather than my not-easily-coerced, annoyed-by-my-pestering-whenever-we-went-anywhere friends.

The photographer was a lanky guy named Scott who was so typical of all the now-thirtysomethings who had graduated from my high school: black mullet, tapered black jeans, tucked-in cheap flannel shirt, black sneakers, giant aviator wire-framed glasses. You know, your basic child molester ensemble. He was nice enough and made polite conversation with the friends who came with me for my shoot, but I think he thought he was shooting for Playboy or something. I of course brought several sweaters to change into, because his props included things like wagon wheels and hay bales, which was fine with me, because I’m straight offa the farm. But he kept telling me to “change into something slinky”, as if I had brought along my littlest black dress to lounge around in on the unfinished wood floor. And then he kept telling me to not smile and to try to look sexy, which was pretty hilarious what with my wearing patterned sweaters and faded jeans and all. At one point, he positioned me in this fake doorway covered with stucco that was supposed to be reminiscent of Mexico (because every Ohio teenager dreams of being Mexican?) with one hand on one side of the arch and the other hand on the other side and told me to look “dark”. And by that, I’m pretty sure he meant “less-clothed”.

The great thing is that my good friend Sheena, who also had her senior photos taken by Scott, really did bring slinky dresses to her shoot. That tramp.

And the even greater thing is that in the set of photos that my dad loved most and wanted to have blown up to astronomical proportions for everyone in my family to display on their fireplace mantles, I had this stray curl sticking out on one side of my head very obviously. When we looked over the proofs with Scott, he told us he could alter the photo to make it look natural, and we agreed to it. Now, in these days of Photoshop whizzes, that would be an easy feat, but this was Ohio in the year 2000, when my family and Tracey’s were the only ones in the whole county to own computers.

So when the pictures came back, poster-sized to outdo all of my cousin’s photos in my grandmother’s living room, one side of my head looked normal and the other side had an extra inch of afro-like curls DRAWN IN with a black marker. It doesn’t in any way resemble the rest of my hair, and you can pick out each of the swirly marker lines very distinctly.

But hey, they were free.

The thing I loved most about LiveJournal versus other blogging sites is that it lets you reply to comments and e-mails you when someone replies to your comment, which encourages conversation and community. When I left LiveJournal and began hosting my own blog, I found a workaround in Brian’s Threaded Comments, which e-mails me when you comment and gives you the option to click a little checkbox on the comment entry form and receive an e-mail when I reply back to whatever brilliant thing you said.

Most people aren’t hosting their own blogs, though, so plugins like Brian’s won’t work. And for those instances, my best friend Tracey and I recommend subscribing to comments feeds. Because I don’t get e-mailed whenever Tracey replies to one of my comments, I check her comments feed via my Google Reader to see if she’s written back to me. If you have a blog and you want people to know when you’ve replied to their comments, I heartily suggest that you add a comments RSS feed link in an obvious place.

For Wordpress, the link would look like: http://[yourusernamehere].wordpress.com/comments/feed/
For Blogger, it’d look like: http://[yourusernamehere].blogspot.com/feeds/comments/default?alt=rss

I only tell you this because y’all have been so nice about commenting on my blog, and I want you to be able to share in the wealth. Let me know if you add one so I can add it to my Google Reader and keep up with you better.

Stella Zotis is totally my favourite designer on this season’s “Project Runway”.

Not because I’m into her aging rocker clothes or anything but because of this:

Of course she’s from Queens, right?

I’m too lazy to download, convert, and trim the clip myself, but I also highly recommend this video at 3 minutes, 13 seconds in:

I’m not sure I’ve liked a single thing she’s sewn so far, but I sure do hope she keeps getting passed through to the next rounds based on her personality alone.

Let’s not kid ourselves–chocolate cake that takes three minutes to bake in the microwave is only meant to be consumed out of desperation in the midst of a munchies crisis in the hours between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. Or by obese people at any time. And yet my dear friend Emily, who was experiencing neither of these, asked to make it in celebration of her birth.

She sent me a link to the recipe for Chocolate Cake in Five Minutes! Monday at work, and we went out before lunch and tried to procure all of the necessary supplies at one of the delis downtown, which is no small feat if you know New York City and its tiny stores. We knew we weren’t going to find the cake flour, so we went looking for cornstarch to add to regular flour like someone suggested in the comments, but they didn’t have that except in huge bags in the back, so one of the guys had to bring us a little takeout soup container full of it. They didn’t have the cocoa, either, so we bought some packets of pre-melted Nestle’s (what?). And then we gathered everything else and went back to the office to experiment.

Surprisingly, what came out was actually very much cake. The moistest chocolate cake you’ve ever seen, at that. It wasn’t quite as sweet or as chocolatety as we would’ve liked it, but we more than made up for that by slathering it in Nutella, chocolate icing, and peanut butter. Even better than the taste, though, was watching it rise in the microwave. For the first minute, it seemed to do nothing. But at the start of the second minute, it lifted straight out of the mug like a tower and then kept on rising almost completely to the top of the microwave before it got too tall to hold itself upright and leaned off the side of the cup at an angle. As soon as we opened the microwave door, though, it sunk right back down to the top of the mug.

Pleased with our work, we then decided to microwave not just a mug but an entire mixing bowl of the stuff. And here’s the result, melted knife and all:

Clearly I don’t brag about myself enough here, because I never told you that I totally won an extremely important and incredibly lucrative writing contest earlier this year. The contest was sponsored by the Gotham Writers’ Workshop here in NYC, and the idea of it was to submit a memoir made up of only six words.

Their example was a famous one by Hemingway that says,

“For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Ohhhhhhh, it tugs on your heartstrings, doesn’t it? My boyfriend Kamran’s friend Mike told us about the contest and offered up,

“I should have asked her age,”

to which Kamran replied,

“And then I got crabs again,”

and while I thought those were both brilliant, I went a much more serious route and submitted,

“I’ll never know mom’s meatloaf recipe.”

I didn’t actually expect to be chosen, of course, because I thought it was only meaningful to me. This is sort of embarrassing, but I’d been having a deep hankerin’ for meatloaf around that time, and my mom’s was so much better than any I’ve had since, and I’d kill to make it just like she did. But of course she’s been dead eight years now, and of course I can’t remember exactly what she put in it, and of course my dad isn’t any help in the matter. And thinking about the empty hole in my stomach where that meatloaf should be made me think about all the empty holes in me that parts of her should be filling, and so I entered the contest.

Weeks later, I received an e-mail from the Writers’ Workshop that said,

Here’s a writing contest update from the co-editors of the New York Times bestseller Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.

The “but, this time around” dashed my hopes, but then I realized that this was a mass e-mail and that the but was intended for everyone BUT me! So evidently the judges got the implicit meaning, even if the explicit words themselves were sorta lame.

And my prize? Well, absolutely nothing. But it looks like I’ll be published in the sequel to the original six-word memoir book, and that’s pret-ty rad. Plus, my name is all up in lights on the results page at the Gotham website. Neat, huh?

The interesting thing is that this was the same week I found out I was going to be in an issue of Time Out New York (and more on that here, for posterity) and that I’d gotten a part in an upcoming Meryl Streep/Amy Adams film. I guess good things really do come in threes.

So I pretty much live in the hippest neighborhood in all of New York City–and certainly in Brooklyn–yet I never actually do anything there, because I’m too busy hanging out with Kamran the Boyfriend in his richie-rich when-you-look-out-my-bedroom-window-you-see-the-Chrysler-Building neighborhood. But on Sunday, that all changed on July 27th when I finally went to see the band MGMT at

I was pretty pumped, because my friend Sonya had been forcing MGMT on me for weeks before that to get me ready for the show, and to see them for free seemed like such a I-am-poor-and-I-live-in-Brooklyn-and-I’m-seeing-a-Brooklyn-band rad thing to do on a Sunday afternoon when I’d usually be watching Kamran do laundry. Plus, what beats watching a concert from inside a drained pool?

The gate was set to open at 2, but knowing that a line would form before noon, we decided to show up late with the hope that we’d be able to walk right in. We leisurely ate some faux-chicken buffalo wings and strawberry/peanut butter/cookie “milk”shakes at my favourite vegan restaurant, Foodswings, near Bedford Avenue while some mean stormclouds formed overhead, and then at 3:30, we approached the park.

The line was still huuuuuuuuge. Like, down three blocks and wrapped around the park with eight people across on the sidewalk. Sonya and her boyfriend, Adam, had been waiting since 12:30 and had barely moved. So naturally we cut in front of them, and then two seconds later, Jesus punished us for it by making it pour. Seriously POUR. For, like, an hour. The line looked like this:

and at the end of it, we looked like this:

Almost too horrific to share, right? But I can’t help myself. Plus, we didn’t look nearly as bad as the huge group of girls (+ 1 pimply boy) behind us who had brought the bags from inside boxes of wine and were drinking the stuff out of the spigot. And screaming. Incessantly. This kid near them said, “You girls are drinking wine from bags, and that is fuckin’ badass.” And then they all had a big screamy orgy. They were approximately 16 years old but already had the haggard faces of their mothers, and that pleases me.

The Ting-Tings had played while we were still in line, which was a real shame, because they sounded great. Instead we had to endure Black Moth Super Rainbow, who I will not link, oh no I won’t, because they were that uninteresting. To endure their set, we bought some fruity beer and checked out the intense dodgeball game that was taking place off to one side of the pool:

This picture is cool because a guy is getting hit in the face with a ball in it, but you can’t really tell that at this size.

And then MGMT came on.

They opened with a really slow song, and I was like, “This is a weird way to start a dance party,” but I expected that they were just working up to the awesome stuff. And then they played another slow song. And another. But, like, people were cheering and clapping, and Sonya was smiling her head off, and everyone seemed to be having such a good time. It didn’t make any sense to me. Sonya asked me how I was liking it, and I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out, “This is BORING!” And then I felt bad.

It’s just that I was expecting this and this, and I wasn’t getting it. I had specifically not brought a purse just to be able to dance like a wild woman, and this was not wild woman music. Not liking it made me feel like one of those shallow teenybopper who comes to a show and only knows the words to the single.

With the lame music and the crappy weather, the day felt like this:

But then! They played this, and it was great! And then they played “Kids”, and then they played “Time to Pretend”, and it was glorious! Look at how happy we are, with our wrinkly foreheads:

So in the end, I totally loved the show, and I’m glad we stuck it out. Especially because we got to have Korean BBQ at Dokebi afterward:

And just because I can’t help thinking this is the awesomest thing ever, check out this amateur music video of MGMT’s “Kids”. Soooo good, right?

The weekend before last, Boyfriend Kamran and I decided to explore the new Brooklyn Ikea and buy a tiny dresser for me to overflow with the zillions of polka-dot shirts that I’m currently storing folded on a chair in the corner of his apartment. We’ve always had access to the Ikea in Elizabeth, New Jersey, via a free shuttle bus from Port Authority, but the new Brooklyn Ikea is located in an up-and-coming neighborhood that we want to explore, anyway, AND it’s accessible via a free water ferry from lower Manhattan.

But of course we took the free shuttle bus outside of the Borough Hall subway station. (Which, if you’re oddly here for informational purposes, is on Joralemon Street near the northeast corner of Court Street.) And instead of buying a dresser, we:

We ended up buying a set of plastic containers for me to haul salad fixins to work in (which will never actually happen) and a wooden artist’s model, which Kamran named Chip and kept petting while murmuring, “You’re my only friend.” We are truly a pathetic lot. But we have a good time.

These are the sorts of things we do on weekends to amuse ourselves:

Zig.

Zig zag.

Zig zag ZOOM!

Kamran’s flailing arms aside, my favourite part of the video is the beginning where I have to tell that woman she can walk in front of the camera. I swear New Yorkers are only polite when they’re being filmed.

Also, I should mention that this is from months ago, just in case you get freaked out by my short hair and the fact that we’re wearing coats in the midst of summer. Because I know our every move affects your emotional health.

I got to Grand Central a little late yesterday morning, and there were a few too many people crowded on the platform. I took my place behind them and pulled a magazine out of my bag to take my mind off the heat and, you know, my loathing of all New Yorkers, when this girl not much older than I am walked right up and crammed herself and her giant duffel bag into a space in front of me that should’ve fit no more than a quarter of her. I let it go for a moment, not wanting to break a sweat, but when the train pulled up, I realized I wasn’t going to get a spot if I didn’t act fast. So I took one step to the side and one step forward and then outright pushed the girl back to make room for myself. She let out a huge scoff, I half-turned my head and smiled in victory, and she moved to a different line of people to try her luck there.

Later at work, I called a deli to order food for a training class that was taking place in the office and asked, “Can you have it here no later than 11:45? I won’t be available to sign for it after that.” The woman assured me it was no problem, and I got a call from the deliveryman that I should come to the lobby and sign for it at 11:44. Pleased that they were true to their word, I imagined myself thanking the guy for his promptness and giving him an outrageously large tip. But when I got downstairs to the lobby, there was no one there. And I realized that the guy had called me a few minutes ahead of time, figuring it’d take me a while to get downstairs, NOT REALIZING THAT I HAD A LUNCH DATE 80-SOME BLOCKS UPTOWN AND NEEDED TO ACTUALLY LEAVE ON TIME. So when he arrived, I didn’t smile politely, I didn’t thank him, and I slashed that tip to a shell of its former self.

Then yesterday evening, I was walking toward the exit of CVS when this very large woman stepped right out in front of me from a side aisle. She was wearing a huge orange tunic that screamed, “I am fat! Pay attention to me!” I sped up a step to pass her, but she cut me off and then walked as slooooooooooooowly as possible down the aisle, listening to her iPod and pretending not to notice that I was patiently waiting for her to git goin’. Finally, she stopped and turned to look at something on one of the shelves, and I took my opportunity to rush past her, being careful to brush against her bag and sort of push it off her shoulder. She said, “Jesus!”, but I kept on walking in my seersucker dress, swinging my white leather clutch and generally feeling superior.

But then I left the store and thought, Maybe these people don’t see me as the Robin Hood of Rudeness that I am. Maybe they don’t understand that I’m robbing from the rude-rich and giving to the rude-poor. (Namely myself.) Maybe they think I’m just being plain obnoxious like I think they are. Maybe they’re trying to teach me a lesson.

But surely not, right?

I used to be the lactose tolerant-est. I was raised to think there’s no point in eating a meal if you don’t follow it up with ice cream for dessert, that Dannon’s Fruit on the Bottom yogurt provided great surprises at every turn, and that chips simply don’t exist without nacho cheese. For the first 23 years of my life, I drank a glass of Nestle’s Quik for breakfast every morning, and to this day my dad still does, first stirring it loud enough to wake up everyone within a mile radius and then drinking it spoonful by spoonful.

During my last year of college, though, I cut out most of the ice cream so I could at least pretend to want to be healthy and started drinking soy milk because my family farm makes a pretty penny off soybean sales. And now I’m f-ig lactose intolerant. For a while I didn’t put two and two together, but now I recognise that the moment I put the smalled bite of /eks/ frozen yogurt in my mouth, I’m a burblinggurbling gas machine.

Sexy?

My co-worker who goes on week-long colon cleanses where she poos ten to twelve times per minute tells me that adults aren’t meant to process milk and that I should give it up, but I think that’s a load of horse hockey, and I’m now on a mission to make myself lactose tolerant again. I’ve been reading up on it, and apparently you can re-train your lower intestine to grow the right lactose-processing bacteria if you drink a little bit of milk several times a day. 1/4 cup at a time with food, they say.

I’m pretty pumped about the possibility of getting my life back, of not having to ask myself, Is this cup of dulce de leche Haagen-Dazs worth a day of nonstop flatulence? But while I’m working milk back into my diet little by little, I suggest that, um, you think twice about sniffing near my bum.

My boyfriend, Kamran, recently moved from a regular, old associate office into a partner office at the law firm where he does patent whatnot, and late Saturday afternoon, he took me to work to show me how far he’s come.

The glory! The majesty! Looking out upon the Empire State Building as you write patents and litigate the hell out of anyone who so much as coughs in your direction–that’s how you know you’ve made it!

But even now that he’s sittin’ pretty on top, Kamran will always be a physics-experiments-in-the-lab-lovin’ kind of nerd:

Congratulations, hotstuff.

My best friend Tracey pointed this out to me on her visit a few weeks ago, and boy, am I glad she did.

Everyone knows that nothing makes food taste better than a smattering of JOYOUS MELTED CHILD.

In honor of my very first New York City friend moving back to NYC for the summer after leaving us for grad school in Santa Barbara last year, I bring you . . .

Meredith was throwing a dance party at her friend Jordan’s apartment and asked us to bring a mix CD, because Jordan had been robbed twice in one week and was re-building her music collection. Boyfriend Kamran and I were on a huge Phil Collins kick at the time (and at all times), so we thought we were being soooooooooo hilarious by bringing a CD full of our Philfavorites. But they ended up using an iPod dock instead of the mix CDs and only people we didn’t know showed up, so after making all the film-related conversation we could with one of her friends, we started to feel a little like this:

For posterity’s sake, I tried to make it look like I was a part of the group and having a great time

but eventually we gave up on pretending and secluded ourselves in one corner with the iPod and plastic cups full of straight Malibu rum, and things took a turn for the better. Especially when we discovered a cabinet full of delights such as

and

and then decided that if no one else was going get down, we’d have to make up for it:

Worst video ever? But I love when I say “really get into it!” and then continue the same totally lame dancing.

Meredith finally took notice of our awesomeness after that and had to come over for some scintillating conversation

but then we left, because we didn’t want to be around when Jordan’s apartment got broken into for the third time.

BFFs!