Foiled!

My plans to create delicious and healthy Strategic Food Reserves have been foiled! A fellow language school employee has chiamato-ed me and I will be going out for aperitivo after all. In a cool and trendy bar where I will, like I mentioned before, look stupider and uglier than all of the Reggiane. They are all Italian and immaculately dressed, coiffed and made up, whereas I look like death as a result of my sweatshop-like work schedule and do not really own appropriate trendy-aperitivo-attire.

I do have some excellent jeans for this situation: they are perhaps dark enough to blend in with the night and therefore make at least my lower half look smaller than it actually is. If only I had a shirt that made me look glamourous (all the non-Americans at work are robbing me of my sense of self and making me insert Us in weird places... I am in no hurry to reclaim my own culture, though - they all have cooler accents than I do anyway) and sexy, I would be set. I do not think I own such a shirt, though. I am still wearing my stuffy and lame collared-shirt-and-sweater ensemble from teaching this morning... perhaps I could go in that and play the 'I work extremely hard and am therefore above all this "dressing well" nonsense' card. I think I'm looking a bit too wrinkled (as a result of having sat around being a lazy and worthless human being all day) for that to work, though. Sigh...

So all in all, I have exchanged being productive and improving my culinary skillz (that's me being hip and cool... but at the same time exceedingly lame, by the way, in case you didn't catch it) and creating hopefully non-poisonous comestibles for looking retarded and foreign and probably being conversationally pointless in a trendy and cool bar where all the trendy and cool people with look at me and think "she is not trendy and cool at all. What the hell is she doing here?" Except they will think it in Italian, which will make them cooler and me, therefore, relatively that much less cool. On the other hand, the foiling of my kitchen plans mean that I am fairly unlike to blow up the apartment building with the gas stove this evening, which is always a plus, right?

Aaand I'm making less and less sense. Off to ransack my wardrobe in hopes that something glamourous (fancy-looking British 'u'!) and magically transforming will have done that spontaneous generation thing, like the maggots in Pasteur's (or someone similar's) experiment.