Silky advises a woman giving a short person a reason to live, and a food-obssessive obsessed with her boyfriend’s pussy cat.
By Silky Wilky*
*A note from Brie: I am not Silky Wilky. He is actually a real person, and he wrote this.
Got a burning question? Email Brie and she will email Silky, who will then solve your dating problems.
Q. Dear Silk,
For the last couple of days, this guy I’ve been dating has been texting me and emailing me and calling me about this three-foot long skirt steak he has been marinating—seriously, it has been a part of our daily correspondence. The thing is,he hasn’t ONCE invited me over to eat this steak with him. He even was like, “I hope my cat is hungry, there is SOOO much steak in my refrigerator, and I just have no idea how I’m going to finish it.” I got pissy, so I texted him back, “I hope you like cleaning up cat barf.”
What gives? Is he ambiguously inviting me over for dinner with him? Is he waiting for me to invite myself over? Should I start spamming him about this duck breast I just bought from the farmer’s market?
A. Dear THROWING THE CAT AROUND,
Relax; your boyfriend is just sleeping with someone else. Also, more importantly, never write an email to me with “three-foot long skirt steak” and “my cat is hungry” in it again. You saucy minx….um, I mean, you perv.
Ok, so that said, skirt steak really only needs to marinate for about an hour in the fridge. Marinating for days at a time is unnecessary with this cut of beef. Simply place the steak in a ziplock bag with the marinade and try to remove as much of the air as possible. Heat the skillet over gas to a medium heat, cook for about 5 minutes a side and, Viola! Now you have a perfect meal to share with the woman you are banging. Wait, where was I? Oh yeah- your pissy text.
I had my weekly drink on Tuesday with my mostly fictional neighborhood buddy Silky Wilky, who had some start-up ideas he wanted to run by me.
“I think we should go into business together,” he said to open his pitch. “Wilky and Walsh. I have two brilliant ideas.”
Then he flipped his feathery, Southern gentleman hair to one side of his head as if to introduce his long-limbed, fair-skinned good looks as a method of persuasion.
“What, pray tell me, is your proposal,” I said to him, my eyes on the Cat Power lookalike bartender who was watching us, through lidded feline eyes, as we made our way through a quartino of wine (him) and a bourbon on the rocks (me).
My neighborhood buddy, Silky Wilky, a Southern gentleman painter, has very opinionated thoughts on my blog, which he thinks is a waste of time, and also a bit of embarrassment. “Anyone can write a blog,” he tells me. “It makes you look like an idiot.”
In his opinion, I should be doing more useful things, like getting wickedly drunk with him at James, the fanciest of casual restaurants in our neighborhood, or, as he puts it, “relaxing.”
It is his fault, however, that I am writing this post, because he’s the one who told me that I would love Dorothy Parker.