I'm Moving to Chicago. Don't Pass it On.

I'm extremely paranoid about mentioning this but then again, I'm pretty paranoid about everything I do. Others might call it anxiety. And still others might call it psychoses. Whatever you call it, it doesn't negate the fact that there are work-related spies on my site lately. At this point, however, I could deal with getting fired. I just want out. Reasons tbd at a later date.

Now when I say "spies" I don't mean the Russian kind. Dave, my sweet Russian boyfriend, likes to pretend he's a spy for the KGB but we both know his only means of getting information out of anyone is feeding them alcohol and waiting for their tongues to loosen. Not very innovative now is it? I could probably teach him a thing or two.

The main reason I want to go to Chicago is obvious: him. I was talking to my dear old friend Bobby last night (coincidentally, Bobby claims to have a past with the mafia, but what Italian guy doesn't claim that?). I told him that I wanted to be in Chicago by April.

"Don't you like New York?" He asked

"Love it. Don't beat around the bush, Bobby. You know why I'm moving."

"Oh come on! You're moving for a guy?"

"Yep. I hate the long distance. One of us flying in and out of town all the time. It sucks."

"I don't know how you do that. When I lived in New York I broke up with a girl because she lived in a five story walk-up. Forget flying all over the country for someone."

"Exactly."

Anyway, the cases people make against moving for a boyfriend or girlfriend are funny. These same people would be more than willing to move out of state for a good job. I haven't had a job yet that treats me as well as Dave does. I can't wait. On that note, I need a job. If you offer me one, I promise not to write about you here (I'll just start another blog for that purpose). Also, I don't plan to get pregnant any time soon. I know that's the question so many employers want to ask but rarely do. You're welcome.

Alright, off to Miami. Have a great New Years Eve everyone! I'll be lapping up champagne with Dave's parents, basking in my own cool and celebrating the fact that I'm not blowing $350 to get into a mediocre club where the chicks pee on toilets.

Greetings from the Only Person in Manhattan

The city is completely dead right now. I hate to use the cliche "ghost town" but that seems to be the case. To illustrate, the lunch buffet I usually go to only put out half of their regular selection due to decreased business this week. I was stuck with tofu terryaki and fake crab rolls. Yuck.

There was only one person waiting for the N train at the Times Square stop this morning. There are about 5 of 20 people in my office. Evidently coming in this week was optional. I so didn't get the memo. Both of my roommates are out of town. This is nice because one of them (Paulo Coelho's cousin) smokes about 18 packs a day despite the "there is rat poisoning in these bastards" warning on the back of her cigarrettes. The warning is in Portuguese, no less, so she must understand it. Even if she doesn't, there's an illustration of a rat being killed on a case of objects she puts into her body. Anyway, all of this is to say that, although she just smokes in her room, the house smells a hell of a lot better now that she's out of town. That and I think she must import her cigarrettes in from Brazil. Well, she does or the person she buys them from does. Very clever.

I miss the Skeeze. I have no one to go to Cuban with on Friday. If I do find a friend (who will undoubtedly be a guy), the people at the restaurant will look at me weird, like I'm cheating on the Skeeze. Evidently this happened last week when the Skeeze took his girlfriend in to eat. The Skeeze and I both have long distance relationships so we're always together. I got the same look when I brought Dave in once. I'm trying to plan a good joke to play on the Cuban restaurant. Like maybe Dave and I will be eating there and the Skeeze will walk in and start crying. It would be great.

Beyond that, I'm just getting ready for New Years Eve. I'm flying down to Miami with the boyfriend. We will have dinner with his parents, drink champagne, make out and all of that. We're not going to do anything big that night. We've decided that it's amateur night, so Saturday will be a nice alternative. Plus, go to hell if you think we're going to pay $300 each to get into a club. Your club bores me, even at the discount rate of $150 each.

Today's random thoughts brought to you by my severe boredom.

Gift Certificates are for Drug Addicts

…or so postulated my mom when I told her I was going to get my grandparents one for Christmas.

“Why can’t you just give them the cash? They’ve worked all their lives and are always giving people money. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone actually gave them money?! Plus, gift certificates are for drug addicts!”

Polite laugh. Waiting for punchline/proof of theory.

“You see, parents think their kids are going to buy drugs so they don’t want to give them cash!”

Okay ma, just because that’s what you (I) did, doesn't mean grandma and grandpa...

Personality #24 Strikes Again

Dave says I have 42 personalities. He particularly can't stand personality number 24 (she's the one who comes out when I'm PMS'ing). As it turns out, she and Dave had words the other night.

Dave called me as I was walking into my house after some good Cuban and a charming bartender with a heavy hand.

He told me he was on his way to some charity event. "I think it's for breast cancer."

"Breast cancer, huh? Because you walk in central park every summer, right? Because you're such a proponent of charity events? Are you going to be tying little pink bows this weekend? How much are you donating?"

"It's a holiday party and I'm going with my friend, Nick."

"Nick, huh? You mean Nick who owns a boat and a Mercedes because he needs a gimmick to get laid? That Nick?"

This is to say that I get a little bit jealous when I drink too much.

"What are you talking about? He was just asking me about you and why you won't move here. He says that if you loved me you would have already."

"As if Nick would know anything about a relationship."

"Babe, you're really pissing me off right now."

"Okay, you're right. How was your day?"

"Good."

"I miss you baby. Have fun tonight."

Seriously, I really have nothing else to report. Well I do, but there are spies on the site now. Life has been a bitch in the office lately and I would love to rant about it, but I can't. Not yet anyway.

Update: Turns out Dave was wrong an it was for children's cancer.

Things You Shouldn't Mention if You're Writing for a Luxury Magazine

I got a freelance assignment from a luxury magazine.

$625 for a 1200 word travel piece. Not too shabby.

Here were the editor's remarks:

"The beginning seems insecure."
The beginning consisted of me describing the way by which I chose to travel to the location at hand: "Twirling around whilst blindfolded and then pointing at a map. It wasn't an informed decision."

What? Are you telling me there are better techniques? Like, maybe, wanting to "experience the culture found in India," or "I've always liked French food and movies, so I thought I'd go dwell in the romance of it all." Puke. I liked my creative beginning.

So, that's Lesson One: Don't, by any means, be creative. Flaccidity is key.

"You shouldn't mention that you stayed in a hostel."
Well, I did stay in an overpriced hotel one of my nights there and it was only one notch nicer than the hostel, which was a tenth of the price. So, shove it.

That brings me to Lesson Two: Writers are generally poor. They don't have lavish experiences that will jive with those of their readers. So, they should lie. Being serious here, folks. Lie.

"I don't like the part where you talk about taping pictures together."
Here I was describing a super tall building that we couldn't capture in just one picture. Therefore, we had to take two pictures and tape them together when we got home. No biggie, right?

Lesson Three: Assume that the people reading your article will never actually go to the place you describe and experience the same things you did. People read travel articles because they're interesting.*

"Don't mention how rude the people were."
They were bastards. Deal with it.

Lesson Four: If you have any inclination that the magazine cares about its readers, you're wrong. In lieu of honesty, provide fluff. Again, when in doubt, lie.

*Travel articles suck. Nobody reads them.

Give Me a Break

I initially called Adobe's customer service line today to complain that I was having trouble registering my new Dreamweaver, but ended up instead complaining about being transfered five times. I don't need to go into the details about how every new "service specialist" needed me to verify my name, address, email and problem, so I won't.

The point of this ultimately pointless blurb is thus:

Specialist number three, as he was diddling with my profile, was shamelessly singing the Kit Kat theme song.


"Give me a break, Give me a break..."

Subtle, dude.

I know I'm annoying, but sheesh, give ME a break.

I'm a Civilized Human Being and Stuff...Almost.

Formerly titled: "Self-Righteousness will get you nowhere, yet still I indulge in the stuff every so often."

So, for the first time in, well, ever--I have full insurance benefits. I guess I had them when I was a kid and throughout college, but I never indulged in them because I was used to having them around. In 2001 I let them free like a butterfly, thinking that if they really loved me they'd return. They totally did. Five years later, which is now, we're back together and tighter than ever. So, I've been making sure to take full advantage of dental, gyno, dermo, general practice doctors, etc... Despite my perfect vision, I might even go to the optomerist. Why? Because I can. Yay me!

Anyway, yesterday I went for my second dental appointment of the year (because us fancy insurance-havin' folk get to go twice a year for just a measly $20 copay per visit).

What I forgot--amidst praising myself for being so responsible and civilized--is that I had changed dental plans and dentists after my last appointment. You see, I had this theory that my initial dentist was trying to take advantage of me with the added "full oral examination," the cost of which was never mentioned after my first appointment, but billed to me a few weeks later aside from the insurance bill. So, I canceled him but didn't make the changes in my records. That'll show him!

(I'm pretty sure I even bragged to a few friends about how people can't try to rip me off and not expect to be dealt with properly.) So there, Mr. Dentist!

Since I lack a working a memory and common sense, I went in yesterday, had my cleaning, listened to the assistant rave about my perfect teeth (I don't shy away from ass-kissers; I embrace them) as well as complain about the Christmas music:

"I am so damn tired of this music. First they play George Michael's song, then Mariah Carey's, next is Joy to the World..." True to form, she had about 80 tools in my mouth, yet wanted some kind of affirmative response from me.

Moral of this story is that I had to pay $114 out of pocket because--let's be real here--I'm not that bright.

The secretary said she would bill Aetna anyway to see if they'd reimburse me, but I think she was just trying to make me feel better.

In other news, I got my first bathrobe ever, at the age of 27, and I can't stop raving about it. I'm preaching about the stupid thing to strangers on the subway like it's this cutting edge new invention. "Have you ever slipped into a bathrobe after a shower? Dude, you should really get with the program."

I don't know if I'm cut out for being civilized. It's been a rocky ride so far.

"Count the Lemmings"

My dad called me yesterday to tell me he was "counting the lemmings."

"Huh?" I asked.

"Lemmings. You know what lemmings are, right?"

"Some kind of animal?" I guessed.

"Yes, well I think it's a fictional animal but there's an old saying about all the lemmings jumping off of a cliff together. Basically, a lemming is someone or something that does what everyone else is doing."

[I looked up lemmings and they are real, not mythical, animals].

"Okay, so what's the game?"

"I'm at the Watertower Mall in Chicago and I'm counting all of the people wearing Burberry. There's number sixteen. Oh there's number seventeen."

"That's so funny! When I lived in Chicago, I remember noting how many people wore that crap. I always thought that whoever designed the ugly Burberry design was actually some ruthless jerk like me who wanted to see just how ugly of a design he/she could produce, and then additionally convince people that it's not only not heinous, but it's actually appealing. Same phenomenons as the capri pants craze and the rainbow-colored Louis Vuitton bags' popularity, come to think of it. They're all very effective dumbshit filters, Burberry, capri pants and Louis Vuitton bags are. You pretty much know that whoever is wearing this stuff is reliant on their accessories for a personality and not at all worth talking to."

"Exactly, eighteen and nineteen. I'll text you with the final number."

Here I called Dave and told him what my dad was doing. A few minutes later, Dave called back and said he saw a couple wearing matching Burberry scarves. I texted my dad the news and it turns out that Dad saw the lemming couple too. The total lemming count over a three hour period was 41. Having seen Chicagoans' inherent love for this crap, I'm not surprised at all.

My New Nickname

My Spanish-speaking colleague just let me in on a little office humor: Me. Evidently, my official behind-my-back nickname is "Puta."

"Wait, does puta mean bitch or whore? It's been a while." I asked.

"Well, you're not a bitch, so..." [You heard it here first, folks. I'm all nice and stuff in real life]

"Yeah, but I'm not a whore either though. Relationship and all that."

"But you act like one."

"How so?" I asked as I remembered the girls are hanging out today. But, not without due reason - It's our holiday party tonight and we're supposed to dress up nice. My version of dressing up is bringing the girls out for a night on the town. Either way, turns out that the girls aren't the the reason.

"You know that picture I saw?"

"Oh, yeah. That."

That = Dave and I took some naughty pictures a while back. When he sent me the little online photo album thing, I didn't realized he had mixed the naughty and nice pictures together. So, as I was innocently looking at pictures of us in the sunset, I clicked onto one that he had taken one night while he was standing above me, so to speak. The girl who sits behind me shrieked immediately. I mean, don't get me wrong, I logged out with the quickness, but evidently she'd been enjoying the pics along with me. She's since spread the word and there you have it...

Nothing is Off Limits...Not Even Jokes About Dear Old Pops in the Hospital

Dave: i found out that my dad was in the hospital this week
Me: is he okay??
Dave: he's fine now
Me: what happened?
Dave: he almost drowned when they went on their cruise. he swallowed some water
Dave: and wasn't feeling well when they got back
Me: oh my gosh
Dave: my mom didn't tell me anything until yesterday
Me: poor little guy
Me: i need to bring him an intertube when we go to FL
Dave: good idea
Me: well, a charming one at the very least
Dave: i'm going to get him some inflatable arm tubes

Happy Anniversary to Us! (Warning: Cheese Abounds)

Not only do we get along famously, we both take really sexy pictures...

Today marks one year for Dave and I. Woohoo!

We were actually supposed to celebrate last night over a nice dinner in Brazil and then leave today, but we decided to leave on Friday night even though it would mean being apart on our anniversary. We both have major anxiety issues and the thought of getting back on Monday and going straight to work without rest, started getting to us. In fact, I have no fingernails left due to fretting. (Truth be told, I always bite my nails, but I held a special session the other night over dinner). When we hopped on the plane on Friday night, Dave took out two anxiety pills that he had packed with him. "Shall we darling?" We shall.

But back to our one year anniversary. A lot can happen in a year and a lot did (I won't waste your time by listing it in chronological order or anything though). Dave and I actually got together four days after I moved to New York City and, in ironic news, my decision to move here was in competition with the option to move to Chicago. I obviously opted for NYC, but I'm sure things would have been otherwise had I connected with Dave a few months earlier.

I didn't have a job when I moved here so I applied at a few places in Chicago. I'm psyched that I didn't get a job offer from Chicago though. Things wouldn't have gone as smoothly. I spent the first few months of our relationship freaking out about the fact that I had fallen so hard. I'm happy that Dave wasn't around on a daily basis to witness this. It just wouldn't have worked out, even despite his patience.

Anyway, I can see that this post is getting cheesy. Trust me, I don't buy too much into the "we were meant for each other" campaign, so I'm not going there. I'm just happy as hell that I have someone who I can pal around with and who has the same sense of humor as me. Oh, oh, oh. That reminds me of how I originally fell for him. The exact moment, in fact. We were out to dinner at Asia de Cuba on a Sunday night. We were talking about the night before. We'd gone out and then he came home with me and spent the night. We didn't do much, just passed out. The reason he stayed in the first place is because there was a ton of traffic on the way into the city from that airport. He had called me and told me this, then asked if he could just bring his stuff to my place rather than stopping at his hotel. When I hung up, I told my roommate (the diablo) that Dave was trying to pull the old "Can I keep my stuff at your place?" trick. We both nodded and agreeded that it was indeed so. Upon accusing Dave, the night after, of utilizing this ancient tactic, he replied, "Oh yeah, I just wanted an in so I could stay at your house and dry hump your leg all night." It was so embarrassing only because it was true. I wasn't sold on the guy until that moment, in which he took our pitiful night and threw it in my face. Kinda made me blush.

So yeah, there are a million things I can say here, but I'm not going to. I'm tired, I'm anxious, I'm pretty sure I'm going to walk into work tomorrow and get yelled at for something or other. Plus, I don't want to jinx a good thing.

Here's another for the road

Oh yeah, I´m out of town.

We took a nap here with a stray dog last night

In answer to:

``Where is GUnit? No blog in over a week, everything okay? Are you on somefancy deserted island w/D and can't get online? I bet that feels nice...ifso:). Anyway, just droppin a sista a line. So here it is______________________________. ``

I´m drunk somewhere in Brazil along with everyone else I know.

I thought I was all cool and exotic until I realized that a bunch of people were down in various parts of South America this week. Some chick from my office is in Argentina, Not Chosen is somewhere down here, my parents are cruising around, some blonde guys from the states were on the bus with us, probably a bunch of other people...

There are quite a few problems with Brazil. For one (and this is a big problem), Smirnoff is the national vodka. Or, as Dave would say, ``Brazil needs a serious vodka face lift.`` He would know being Russian and all. The alternative is sometimes Absolut, which isn´t much of an improvement.

Another problem is that the girls here are seriously over-rated. Brazil must have a great marketing program. I´ll have to expand upon that later though because I´m drunk. Do I think that I´m cool because I´m drunk? Maybe just a bit. The alternative is being sober at work and, well, yes, I think I´m damn cool. So, there.

We´ve heard a lot of propaganda about Brazil being one of the next economic hotspots. I don´t buy it. This is my second time here and I don´t think these people are capable (or intrigued by the idea either).

I´m sunburned and the guy at the computer next to me is picking his nose. A lot more to report when I get back.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Okay, this is not a pop quiz. I've underlined exactly what's wrong with this picture, starting with the fact that I've sunken so low as to order jeans from Abercrombie and finishing with the fact that the "Fedex Next Day" I paid an extra $18.95 for necessitates a possible 2-3 business days. That's right, folks, next day = 2 to 3 business days, lest you become confused by the word "next" which is on all other occasions a synonym for "following."

Dave Has Finally Succumbed

The phone call that every insane girl with a long distance boyfriend living in Chicago while she dwells in New York, for some reason, wants to receive on a Saturday night:

Dave: Hi babe, where have you been?
Me: I missed your call. I was on the train. Where are you?
Dave: I'm at Dave's birthday party.
Me: How does it feel to share a name with someone?* Are you having fun?
Dave: No. You're not here.
Me: Good answer. What are you guys doing?
Dave: Drinking beer and watching TV.
Me: You're getting old.
Dave: Yeah, I think that's what it is. I'm always tired too.
Me: Good - you're only allowed to have fun when I'm around.
Dave: What are you doing?
Me: Reading a book.

*I don't share a name with many people. There's an Icelandic writer with my name; an 85 year old lady who works at a movie theater in Del Mar, CA and some Australian lady who's on some show I hadn't heard of until stumbling upon its title during one of my routine self-googling sessions.

Your Computer Isn't Worth $2,000 and This is How I Know:

A bargain at...

• It weighs 600 pounds
  


• It's width/height are equivalent to a yellow/white pages combo, although its storage space pales in comparison
  


• Norton Antivirus: Go Away!
  


• The newest, "hi-tech" accompanying software is a MS Office 2000 c.d.
  


• "And here's this little card you put in the side if you want to go wireless"
  

A 1953 PC that you purchased for the bargain price of $2000 when the baby boom was at its prime--sucker--is not still worth, ummm, $2,000. Please resist all further sales pitches in my presence.

"Too Posh to Push"

This is what my English client calls the trend that is English women opting a C-section over giving birth the old-fashioned way. "Too posh to push." I love it.

Things You Think About But Never Do

The other day I was waiting in line for a treadmill at the gym. Waiting in line pretty much sucks and is usually a legitimate enough excuse for me to leave based on the ever popular excuse, "my time is too valuable (cough, cough)." In laymen's terms: "I'm lazy and could use a drink. Plus, this could take hours."

Of course, I'm fully aware that it will really only be two minutes max. So, seeing as how my thighs and ass are curdling as of late, I decided to wait it out.

It was 7:00, which means it was primetime and treadmill use is limited to a half hour. This is a great time for me to go because even if I "want" to do 40 minutes, it's illegal. This brings me to my point.

Whenever I'm waiting in line at this time, I always notice these tricky bastards who put their towels over the timer, so you can't call them out on going over their 30-minute limit. I spied two out and gave them an evil glare, just knowing they were probably approaching an hour under those towels. I don't have it in me to go up and pull up their towels, but wouldn't it be funny? I think so. At this point, someone got off the treadmill and I hopped on--ultimately forgetting about these evil, good for nothin' time-rapists.

A few minutes later, I notice some guy going around pulling up people's towels and checking their times. Could it be? It was.

While my immediate reaction was that he was a dickhead, my second and correct reaction was that he had the biggest balls in the place. He smacked them in some guy's face and got his treadmill. There's something to be said about big balls. Oh yeah, and being proactive and all that too.

Oh yeah, I moved to Astoria

Now I live in Astoria.

How is it?

Well, I'm posting on a Friday night.

I say this as if it were different when I was living in Manhattan. I'm a homebody and staying in on a Friday night is pretty much my M.O. (even though my friend just invited me to the KFed cd release party - I wish I wasn't such a loser, I'd go just to observe). But back to me being lazy: Especially lately. I've been way too busy at work. So busy in fact that I haven't even officially realized that I moved yet. I just kinda sleep at a new place now and save $700 month. "Sleep" is the operative word here. I don't think I had one single night of good sleep in Manhattan thanks to firetrucks, drunks on the street yelling crap they inevitably regret the next day and random weekend morning parades.

The tradeoff is that Queens is really ugly. It's stuck in the eighties, identity crisis style. But, just like cruising around with an ugly friend will often do, having this place as my background makes me look a whole hell of a lot sexier. This is a fact not to be overlooked.

My new place is actually pretty cool. I now live with the Skeeze and a Brazilian girl. She doesn't speak English so we just sit around and stare at eachother. Well, that's not exactly true either. She speaks Portuguese, which I oddly understand a bit of. I respond in my broken Spanish and then we both stare at the Skeeze who translates what we didn't get. In other words, I ignore her at all costs. Small talk is not my specialty. Especially small talk in Portuguese.

The commute's about 10 minutes longer and the train usually skips my stop just for the hell of it. I hear there are great restaurants here and I'm excited to explore. My grandma and grandpa used to live in Queens and met at Queens college. I really dig them so it's kind of cool that I get to have this "experience."

Besides that, whatever. It's 10:30 and way past my bed time.

Little Red Exclamation Points

I'm pretty sure that whatever the subject of your email - however "important" your message is - it does not constitute one of these: !

You see, to me this ! means that a family member died and/or you actually have something of an urgent nature to tell me. On that note, the fact that you're leaving the office early today [you're a slacker] or your office has a new address does not qualify as urgent, and definitely does not necessitate a !

Thank you.

Dogs & Dave

Dave left to go back to Chicago on Sunday. Last night he called me and told me he had a surprise for me. I didn't believe him because he never has surprises for me.


"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm coming back in town for a meeting tomorrow morning."


This was good and bad news. Good, because I miss him a lot when he's gone and I wasn't supposed to see him again until Thanksgiving. Bad, because I had to take a shower and look nice. When I walked into the office this morning, fresh as a daisy, the mailroom girl asked me what I was for Halloween. "Presentable," I replied. It was only funny because it's true. I'm all about comfort usually. Translation? I'm a slob.


Anyway, I promised to post the pictures of the dog Halloween costume contest. I figured I could take my time about it because, really, who wants to see this crap? It's pretty funny though (maybe even a little bit cute but don't tell anyone I said that). Enjoy:

The Racecar Driver

The Prisoner

The Pimp

The Pig

The Mexican
A little politically incorrect for my taste.

Just kidding.

The Angel

The Epitome of Evil

I blame this recent spout of evil on Halloween. Here is the evil background:

-A girl I work with just got back from Mexico

-She has two kids and a deadbeat husband

-The deadbeat husband has crashed their car twice since I've worked here (almost a year)

-She paid for it both times

-She had to take a second job because the deadbeat's too lazy to keep one

-She has to make sure someone is watching the kids even when the deadbeat's home because, well, he's a deadbeat

-She won't divorce the deabeat because she's Catholic and I guess they don't dig divorce

-Her mom hates him

Anyway, while in Mexico, she had her tarot cards read. The fortune teller lady warned her that what she was seeing wasn't good.

"Bring it."

The fortune teller lady went on to tell her that her husband was cheating on her. My co-worker rolled her eyes because, really, she could care less. Then the fortune teller lady told her that her husband was going to die soon, but she would be remarried in one year.

I think the fortune teller lady was a bit surpised when my coworker smiled at this.

This news has kind of been our inside joke ever since (which is where the evil comes in).

Her: "My husband crashed the car again today."
Me: "He's not dead yet?"

Her: "No, maybe next time."

Her: "I saw to my dream house this weekend. I'm going to have the same company build my house one day."

Me: "Yeah, but you should probably wait until your husband dies and you're remarried."

Her: "That's exactly what my mom says."

Like I said, it's all Halloween's fault.

Lunch with Hef's Lost Twin

The other day I had the pleasure of going to lunch with a 900-year old man. I arrived at the restaurant early and told the hostess I'd sit at the table and wait. She suggested a small, half-moon shaped love nest. Ummm, no. "A bit too cozy. I'm eating lunch with Hugh Hefner." She didn't get it. Not, at least, until a couple minutes later when my date walked in.

I shit you not that 2 minutes into our conversation, Hef ceases speech, looks at me dramatically and tells me not to scrunch my forehead and that I need botox. Hello Mr. Kettle. Hello Mr. Pot.

He then tells me that he's on a strict diet because he's at 143 pounds and he wants to be at 140. I tell him that he's not much bigger than me. I weigh 115.

Him: No you don't. You weigh 102 at the ver most.

Me: No, I look like I do, but I have a lot of muscle

Him: No, you're 102

Me: Okay.

We end the lunch with him asking about the difference between PR and advertising. In order to understand what we do in PR, he gives me this up-to-date example:

"Up until 1921 butter was sold in one pound blocks. Finally the blocks were split into the four sticks that we buy now." He's very excited about this by the way. "At that point, the publicist would send out a press release and tell the world about the four sticks?"

You got it buddy.

Obviously I'm quite the conversationalist, because he called me the next day to ask me out for another date. Details to come.

I'm Sorry...

Dave's in town and he's way sexier than this blog (he puts out more too).

I'll be back today/tomorrow to:

A). Post pictures of the dog Halloween costume contest we judged last night...

B). Tell you about my luncheon with Hugh Hefner's lost twin

The Diablo's Diary

I just couldn't bring myself to meet with the Diablo yesterday. It's not because I'm weirded out that all of the sudden we're bestfriends. It's not because I don't want to listen to him play association with every word in the English vocabulary to see how he can relate each to his ex. It's because he wants to write a book and he wants my advice.

Before agreeing to meet him, I gave him the typical disclaimers:

-It's very hard to write a book
-It's not fun
-Seeing as how you work a full time job, you're going to have to dedicate every spare minute to it.
-It's impossible to get published.

The only things he writes on a regular basis are law and/or real estate contracts. Still, I'm often surprised by what gets published and what doesn't. I'm still trying to figure out why/how Life of Pi became popular.

Anyway, in response to my warnings, the diablo said, "Well, I just need to write it for myself."

Oh, so you're writing a diary? This is what I thought, not what I said, unfortunately.

But when it came to meeting with him yesterday, I didn't. Knowing that I'm interested in writing/reading, he's trying to fit in a face to face bitch session about his ex under the guise of writing a book. Now, that is true diablo style. But in true me style, I said I was sick/prepping for Dave's arrival/just woke up at 12:00/have to workout/go shopping/get a Halloween outfit*/clean the house/make superhero capes for my friend's dogs...."Can we postpone?"

"Sure, no problem..."

That was close.


*I'm going to be Elvira. She's a sexy bitch.

Bitter Much?

As you know, the diablo is very upset lately because his girlfriend recently broke up with him [on account of him treating her like shit for half of their relationship]. Now he has resorted to pestering me about the situation over IM when I'm "working."

I do have to give him credit though. He's been turnin' on the creativity to spin a topic that hasn't been updated for over a month now.

Him: The Skeeze's jacket's over here. Does he want it?
Me: No, he says to give it to goodwill.
Him: Or I could send it to [redacted] to warm her ice cold heart.

Me: I'm buying tickets to Brazil right now.
Him: Bring me home a girlfriend when you come back.
Me: They're cute but they're super jealous.
Him: At least they tell the truth about things.

Him: I wrote her and asked her if she was with anyone else when we were dating. She didn't write back.
Me: Well, she did say she didn't want to talk for a month, right?
Him: I wrote her back and told her that I'll just assume I need to go to the clinic.

Him: How's your cousin doing lately?
Me: I haven't seen her, she's been working late.
Him: Probably going on double dates with [redacted] and her new boyfriend.

There was also some stuff about him having an epiphany: "I'm smart, I have a good job, I dress pretty well, and I'm not a cold-hearted, dishonest, pretentious..."

Wow.

Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template

I think that everyone should have one of these in their arsenal. This is an excerpt from a letter I had to send to a friend this morning:

I meant to send you my "Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template," but I already had two emails in to you so I refrained.

Basically, the Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template features the following clauses:

-Sorry if I talked way too much about myself

-Sorry if this excessive talking about myself interfered with you wanting to talk about yourself (excessively)

-If I said anything negative about anyone/anything, it was the alcohol talking, not me. I'm an angel when I'm sober.

Anyway, that should cover all the bases. I totally missed a doctors appt this morning, not due to drinking, due moreover to the fact that I'm mildly retarded.

Talking Trash in Sign Language, Plagiarizing and Pleasant Office Etiquette

Thanks, Rodale!

I have a bit more to tell you about than the fact that I had to color in the tips of my new boots today with a Sharpie because the city streets ate them up in a day flat. This is more due to the fact that they were cheaply made (but, unfortunately, not cheaply priced), than the fact that the sidewalks here eat shoes. So yeah, I have little more to say that that. Not much more, but more nevertheless...

For one, The Skeeze and I were watching the news the other day and there was a report about some deaf/mute rioters. Unfortunately for me, I had turned my head away at the appropriate minute and missed the whole thing. The Skeeze was kind enough to demonstrate what deaf rioters look like and the kind of smack they talk. It looks (sounds?) something kind of like this:

Take that, bitches.

My weekend of doing nothing and loving it progressed in kind. When I was taking a shower, I started reading the instructions on the back of conditioner bottles as I oft do, and I realized that the application instructions were the same across the board: "Massage conditioner into hair and scalp. Rinse. Repeat as necessary." Holy shit, I thought. These companies are blatant plagiarizers! If they're all going to copy eachother anyway, I'm totally buying generic from now on.

Lastly, I spent a day at Rodale Publishing last week for one reason or another and, by golly, those people are nice! When I walked in, the doorman greeted a lady who was no less than 150 years old by calling her "young woman." She laughed in kind and then stood and held the elevator for me, knowing that I was walking not too far behind her. The others in the elevator greeted me as if we were long time friends and then told me to have a good day as they exited. I also got to take home the extra food after our meeting. For a cheap bastard like me, this is the ultimate perk. I've been munching on turkey sandwiches all weekend thanks to Rodale. Lastly, their bathrooms are great! Clean and big with actual seat protectors. Doesn't smell like filth and body odor, and is not plagued by rude girls from the neighboring office... Of course, that's because Rodale doesn't share a restroom with rude girls from a neighboring office. They have their own. I'm telling you, it's the simple things in life, man.

I've Been Had!

Now, I'm not one to complain when a meeting is cancelled, but just tell me the truth. No need to make up exotic diseases:

"Hate to do this to you but things aren't looking to good at home - My wife's arthritis has now kicked off and she can hardly walk let alone pick up our son (its not the old person type but some Finnish strain)."

That damned Finnish arthritis gets ya every time!

I'm Moving to Astoria. No, Really...

At first I was mortified by the thought of moving outside of Manhattan, but it seemed a logical step considering my lease is up November 1st, and I had a tentative 'moving-to-Chicago' date of April. Where the hell was I going to find a place offering a five month lease? The Skeeze lives in Astoria and has a room available that I can rent out month to month... For $500, no deposit, no utilities. That's right. I said $500. No deposit. No utilities. This is less than half of what I pay now and the commute is only ten minutes longer than my current one. Of course, my apartment now is so perfect, so comfy, so well-decorated...

Another perk? The Skeeze's roommate (the one who is staying) is Brazilian and is the cousin of Paulo Coelho--you know, author of The Alchemist? I'm hoping he'll stop by every now and then to motivate me to live out my dreams like the shephard boy. I've also heard there are some good restaurants in Astoria. I like eating.

It might sound like I'm rationalizing. That's because I am. Astoria isn't exactly the dream.

Anyway, that's the update. I'm trying to convince Dave to move out here for a year before I move to Chicago, at which point I will move back to Manhattan. Only this time around, I'll be a little bit richer. I'm just not ready to move to Chicago. Bottom line. The thought of leaving this city is making me remember why I like it so much. Convenient how that always happens.

One of These Statements Falls Into the "Too Much Information" Category

It's a good thing my friends and loved ones have interesting things to say, because I sure as hell don't. Or, I do? I don't know. I've been that busy at work lately. I remember the good ol' days when I could sit at my desk for 8 of my 9 hours on the clock, and simply pretend that I was doing, well, something. My policy was that even if I wasn't doing anything (I wasn't), I just needed to have something to say when my boss asked me what I was working on (nothing). "A spreadsheet of..." "Implementing a web..." "Partnering with a marketing..." As long as I had my alibi at hand, I was free to do whatever I wanted, which was usually bitching about life on my blog. Unfortunately.

That said, those days are temporarily gone. Here are some things my grandma and Dave said that cracked me up:

Grandma: "I read your blog all the time now. You're very good at blogging."

Why do I think this is funny? First off, I think it's hilarious that my whole family figured out that I had a blog when I tried so very hard to keep it a secret. My sister has a big mouth. Second, my grandma used the word "blog" as both a noun and a verb. Very impressive.

Dave: "Babe, I noticed that there was a straw in the dishwasher. Tell me you didn't wash a straw."

Why funny? Because I'm as cheap as it comes. When it comes to certain things, that is. For instance, I will wash the hell out of a straw so that I don't have to buy a new pack for $2.49, but will I eat at a chain restaurant if the only alternative is not eating at all? Hell no.

Dave: (After I told him that I had two orgasms when he thought I only had one) "Wait, I didn't know you had two. Why did you keep it a secret? Most girls fake having orgasms. You fake not having orgasms!"

That's easy, baby. I didn't want to make you jealous.

I So Win.

Here, my ex-roommate is shown vacationing in the desert.

Remember how much I used to hate my ex-roommate because he was, well, the devil?* Well, it looks like el diablo (Spanish time!) has turned a new leaf. Ever since his girlfriend broke up with him, he's turned to me (me!) for a shoulder to cry on. Being the benevolent person that I am, I've put aside my hatred and given him my professional advice: Stop bitchin', get drunk, and shag, shag, shag. All that. And, if that doesn't win her back, then it's pretty much a lost cause anyway, right? Right.

But enough of my unsolicitied relationship advice, here's a clip from his most recent email to me. Special emphasis on the last paragraph:

"Thank you for your thoughts. I am starting to have some peace of mind. I realize that relationships take time, work and love and both people need to realize that for it to work. Too often people think that the pretty packaging (ease of life, social circle, your address, looks, bank account) can make up for what is actually in the box. I know that it boils down to sitting on the front porch when you are retired and appreciating the person for who they are and who you have become together.

Whether it is with me or someone else, I hope [redacted] realizes that too and she will not just be another girl with a country club membership, new purse every week with a husband that is taking home his secretary.

I also wanted to say I am sorry for all those times I was stand offish, or seemed resentful when we lived together. That was a rough time and I regret that I let that rub off on others."

Yeah, that's some deep shit.

I win.

Thanks for playin'...


*If you look over to the right, there's an entire "I Hate My Roommate" archive. Serious.

It's My Birthday. Yayyy...

Dave came in last night (yeah, I'm sick of calling him 'D') with a bunch of roses. At 12:00 a.m. he called my mom to thank her for giving birth to me. You'd have to know my mom to know how excited she was when she got the call. She doesn't get enough credit for her contributions, so I know she was happy. I could hear her through the phone, promptly stepping onto her soapbox, giving Dave the rundown on my birth, childhood, etc...

"You know, Dave - the doctors didn't know whether Gigi was a boy or a girl. No one could tell. Don't tell her that though."

"She's so skinny that I've always thought she looked like a carrot." [This is not true, I'm not really skinny nor a carrot, per se]

"She used to dance around with her little baby gut sticking out."

"I nursed her for this long."

Dave, of course, loved every bit of this.

My dad called me on October 3rd to see what I wanted. I was immediately suspicious. I mean, how the hell did he know it was my birthday? This is not to say that we're not close, but we're a lot alike; very self-involved, busy, non-birthday oriented. To that end, I fulfilled my end of the bargain and told him what I wanted.

My sister called me today and made sense of the "dad actually remembering my birthday" situation for me.

"So, I was talking to dad the other night and I asked him what he was getting you for your birthday. He was like, 'oh shit!'" She explained.

"Ah ha! I knew something was up! I knew he didn't remember!"

Anyway, we went to Blue Ribbon tonight. It was good, but not as good as Dave led on. I should know never to trust him. He's got bad taste. If you don't believe me, you should check out his girlfriend.

It Wasn't Me...Unfortunately.

The Skeeze just alerted me to a wonderful article in today's Metro about a girl who stabbed some annoying guy who was hitting on her and her friends. I must say, this is a great day for all Manhattan women who have to endure this harassment on a daily basis. I just want to make sure that no one thinks it was me. Although this is something that I highly advocate, I was not fortunate enough to attack him.

The "victim," or the guy who got stabbed, says that he was standing outside a movie theater, saw the girls walk by, said "Hi" and "How are you doing?"

The stabber lady, on the other hand, said he grabbed her arm and spat on one of her friends.

Either way, he totally deserved it. Even if he did just ask how they were doing, he probably stands outside of the movie theater and reenacts the move several times daily. As far as I'm concerned, if you don't add anything to society (and even further, you detract from it) then I say off with your head.

The bad news is that my hero, the stabber lady, was arraigned on a charge of attempted murder. The "victim" says that the woman and her friends were lesbians and the incident was "a hate crime against a straight man." All I want to know is why he was hitting on lesbians in hopes of a positive response? Idiot.

In other annoying, loud-mouthed street urchin news, I've discovered that wearing an iPod on my way to work is the perfect way to tune them out. In fact, it's hilarious to watch these guys dance around in front of you in order to get your attention, without having the matching soundtrack that goes with their jig ("Hey Sexy" "You're gorgeous" "How you doin'?"). Instead, I hear the Pixies singing Bone Machine as some dirty parking lot attendant is nodding his head with satisfaction, drooling from the mouth, and shaking his pelvis. That is so not the dance that goes with this song, dude. Now if you'll excuse me, it's 8:30 in the morning and I'm trying to get to work...

I am so depressed...

...that I can't even focus right now.

I had a book agent contact me about something I had written. He wanted to turn it into a book. I made an appointment with him last week, so while this weekend was supposed to consist of me expressing joy for my bestfriend who got married, it was instead filled with me imagining myself as a successful author who can work out of her house (which is in Italy, and sometimes Brazil).

This was only amplified when another friend told me that he had heard good things about the agent and that the agency was on of New York's best.

Long story short, I went in today to talk to him about it and once I told him the background of what I was doing, he was not thoroughly excited. By "not thoroughly excited," I mean pretty much not interested, but he'll read my proposal. I'm pretty sure his promise to read my proposal is equivalent to a prospective employer saying, "we'll keep your resume on file."

I always hate when they say that.

American Airlines =

The Great Big Pinto in the Sky.

I'm back from Chicago, where I spent the last few days at my best friend's wedding. I have plenty to blab about, but I'm so busy. Last night marked my three weekend traveling stint. I can't wait to lounge on my couch this month and do nothing...which won't happen, but wishful thinking...

A few notes:

1). I promise to post regularly this week (and again today if I'm lucky).

2) American Airlines (pictured above) consistently sucks it up and has never once been on time. The planes are offensively dirty (due, probably, to the fact that their crew is rushing to leave after making passengers wait 2 extra hours to board the plane). The airline attendants are the industry's rudest and somehow the airline attracts crying babies who I am always lucky enough to sit right next to. Never should it take 6 hours to travel from NYC to Chicago. It's a 1 hour and 36 minute flight, but on American? 6-7 hours minimum. Always.

3) Delta Airlines, on the other hand... now that is an airline. Not only are they rarely delayed, but they hire defunct celebrities. On my way to Miami two weekends ago, Angela from Who's the Boss handed me my pretzels and the redhead from the Partridge Family was the pilot. Who would've known?

Mental Images I Can Live Without

Call me odd, but for some reason it made me feel a bit weird when I found these in my boyfriend's nightstand drawer.

I was looking for a rubberband for my hair. I told him that I instead found the handcuffs. He laughed. I got slightly disturbed.

This is not because I'm a prude, it's because we don't use these. They are old and used. Similar to finding an aged, crusty condom. You can't get mad about it because you have a past too, but for Christ's sakes, clean up after yourself.

"I'm not fancy."

I was lured into an event last night by a friend who taunted me with "Robert DeNiro," "Meryl Streep," and "Marissa Tomei." I don't pay particular attention to any of them, in theory, and as it turns out, none of them even showed up. I say I don't pay attention to them, "in theory," however, because once a celebrity is in my presence I can't stop staring. Yes, I'm one of those. I give my self some credit, though, I'm not obvious about gawking. I just look over and sneak a peek every now and then.

The people that did show up: Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon and Jesse McCartney.

The event was a charity one at some $8 million condo in SoHo (the equivalent in San Diego would be $2 million. Indiana? $500,000). My web designer from the magazine days does work for the company sponsoring the event. He got four tickets and invited me as a guest. I saw the invitation, which lacked shame: $250 for the cocktail reception (this included an open bar and appetizers BUT the appetizers consisted of chips & salsa and green mango with chili salt) or $1,000 for the "VIP dinner." We got the dinner. It was good, but it wasn't a $1,000 dinner. Since it was for charity, though, it didn't have to be.

Little girls and even a few sideway-capped boys somehow got upstairs to where the dinner was being held to straight out ogle at Jesse McCartney. That has to get old, but what can he do? They pay his bills. Smile and nod. Smile and nod.

I assume that the reason Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins showed up is because their sons were in a band ("The Tangents"), which played following dinner. Their show preceded the main event, which was an auction featuring black and white photographs of celebrities. Muhammad Ali's daughter showed up as her father was featured in two of the photos. I told her that her father actually held my sister when she was a baby. "Babies and pretty ladies - he loves them," she responded.

Susan Sarandon was wearing brown sweat pants and a flannel; hair up in a bun. I couldn't help but think that this is exactly the outfit I would wear to these events if I were a celebrity. I imagine you'd get sick of attending these things pretty quickly. I simply wore nice black pants and a snug black top; heels. Sweat pants though, that is class.

And, speaking of class, the night basically consisted of me repeating my favorite mantras, "I'm not that classy" and "I'm not fancy" as excuses for the facts that A) I devoured every last speck of my dinner (none of this leaving a bite on the plate for the sake of manners stuff); B) I didn't seem to mind when someone warned me about the toilet that wouldn't flush ("I'm going in!"); and C) we took the iPod out of its dock and switched up the music (a $1,000 dinner should have some good tunes playing, right?) Plus, it gave me some leeway. No one expected anything from me given the disclaimer. I could just down the drinks and act like a fool, which is pretty much my protocol at these things anyway.

The girl who was with us seemed to get tired of my mantras. Kind of in a, "Yeah, I get it, you're not classy" kind of way. I only think that this is because she was classy, though. Pity. Seems like I had a lot more fun than she did.

Oh the People You'll See...

...on the way home from JFK in the wee hours of the night, that is.

Let me introduce last night's cast.

Bald lady who loved my turquoise sweat jacket.

While she was explaining that, "Since I'm a libra, I'm always looking for that balance between cute and comfortable," she nonchalantly put her finger in her nose, pulled it out, put it back in, etc...

The cheesy Wall Street guy who was trying to bond with the German exchange student.

Look dude, she speaks really good English. There's no need for the explanatory hand motions or speaking slowly/enunciating manically so that she'll understand. She gets it. By the way, constant references to her hotel room aren't going to earn you an invite. She's German, not stupid.

The Bum Who Needed a Bite to Eat.

He spoke with a lisp, looked like a diva and asked the girl sitting next to me for some food. She didn't have any, but after he passed me without questioning, I realized that I did. Two pears. By this point, he had already lied down to sleep, so I decided that I'd give him the pears on my way out. (I'm nice, but lazy. No need to get up and walk until I absolutely have to). A few minutes later, one of the train employees walked out to tell him he couldn't sleep there. The bum started yelling at him and talking trash about the employee's mom. I decided I would give my pears to someone else.

Hipsters.

After I switched trains at Times Square, I sat down next to a couple of people who were way cooler than I'll ever be. Tight jeans, over the shoulder sachel, striped sweater. You know - that totally unique look you don't see anywhere? Umm, yeah.

The guy was my idea of the hipster prototype; the "King of Hipsters," perhaps. He'd been in the hipster game for a long time. Wannabee hipsters emulated him. Point in case? The girl sitting next to him. She was obviously a recent convert. They were having a very intelligent conversation, whereby she did most of the talking and justified her desire to partake in mere mortal activites by describing them in the abstract:

Her: So do you want to help me organize my belongings in an aesthtically pretentious manner this weekend?
Him: [Smirks slightly. See's where this is going.]
Her: And by that, I, of course, mean decorate my house. [Laughs at her own wit].
Him: Yeah, I got it. Sure, I'll help.
Her: I have exposed brick, which has a lot of potential.
Him: Yeah it does."

Here they both realize that they are becoming involved with worldly things that might please, God Forbid, a housewife. This is not okay. The conversation ceases at the brick's potential.

Chompers.

1:30 a.m. Finally at my stop, I realize that I still have to give the pears away. I decided to walk by the church where the homeless sleep. I hopped up on the stairs and handed the bag to the only guy that was awake.

"Are they soft?" He asks me. "I don't have any chompers."
"Yeah, they're soft," I said, realizing they weren't.

He thanked me and I told him to have a good night.

Contrary to what one would expect, I woke up this morning feeling really bad. The guy was so close yet so far from having food. He'd have to wait for those pears to basically rot before he could eat them. My good deeds tend to backfire. I hope he doesn't get jumped for those suckers.

All Warm & Fuzzy Inside...

My sister, Rachel, who lives in San Diego, walked into a restaurant the other day to talk to the owner about something or other (Rachel's a chef). Upon introducing herself, the owner said, "Rachel ____? Are you related to Gigi ____?"

"Yes, she's my sister."

"Gigi, the editor of numberII magazine?"

"Well, she was."

"That was the funniest magazine I've ever read."

Now, I'm not good about taking compliments (just kidding) but this lady must have really good taste.

It's kind of cool when you dedicate 14 hour days for 2 years to a project and you actually get a bit of recognition. Granted, I got a decent amount when I was doing it, but I was too tired to notice it. A year after the fact, though - I must have made a serious impression. My wit, my charm, my sense of humor, my intelligence...my humility.

As D would say, I am a Z list celebrity. This incident totally confirms the fact. Yayy me!