Sunday, April 30, 2006

Not Exactly Roughin' It

Hello from San Diego!

Just wanted to stop in and say hi before I hop on my redeye back home to NYC. I should be fresh as a daisy tomorrow - waltzing into work straight off the plane, wearing the same outfit I have on right now. I'm not sure why my boss puts up with me, but, hey, I don't ask questions. I'll just go with it until she realizes she meant to fire me a long time ago.

I flew into San Diego this weekend to spend a little time with my uncle since I couldn't make it for the funeral last week. As always tends to happen in touchy situations, I managed to put my foot in my mouth. But, before I get to that, I thought I'd share a couple of pictures with you.

The first is my friend Bobby and I on Saturday morning. Bobby and I go way back to when I was initailly launching the
magazine. I decided to stay with him instead of my sister, whose offer of "I'll try not to wake you up at 4 a.m., but things do happen," wasn't exactly enticing. Anyway, I kept on threatening to go running when I woke up yesterday and Bobby laid it out for me: "I'm sick of hearing all this running shit. You're on vacation, let's go grab some bloody mary's and get pedicures." How could I argue with this logic? I couldn't:

Do note that these Chinese women spoke no trash whatsoever. I know, I know - It makes no sense. Well, it makes no sense until you find out that they are Vietnamese, not Chinese. As it turns out, Vietnamese women do not talk a lot of trash.

And, in less verbose news, this is where I stayed:

I need to get a picture of the inside. It's an absolutely decadent mansion in Rancho Santa Fe. Anyway, I'll post those one day with the Jesus-stamp envelopes and the many other things I've promised to post but haven't. As an aside, this place has 20 foot tall ceilings, wrap around windowed-walls covered by by silk, Austrian Curtains, life-sized gold Egyptian warrior statues, an indoor pool and jacuzzi, etc, etc, etc...

I don't know how I walk into these things, but, like I said, I don't ask questions. I just hope that nobody wakes up from my dream and kicks me out of it.

The whole putting my foot in my mouth situation: Yesterday, I met my uncle for lunch. When we went up to the counter to pay, the waitress pulled out one of those leather bank bags that businesses use to transport money to and from the bank. I made a comment that it was my new purse. My uncle laughed and remarked, "Yes, it's my new wallet." I nudged him and said, "Hey, in that case - are you single?"

Not exactly the right joke to make to a guy whose wife just passed away. He let me know as much, but I had already realized it - in fact, I was already in the process of swallowing my foot by that time. We both laughed though.

My lineage of foot-eaters is a long one, with my dad and my grandfather both having asked a non-pregnant woman when she was due - on completely seperate occassions.

Alright, that's it for now. More to come tomorrow if I don't accidentally pass out at my desk. The chances that I won't are pretty slim.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

A Wrench in the System.

Something is definitely up.

Exhibit A. Take a gander at this curious note my roommate left on the counter yesterday:

In case you can't read it:

@ Carolyn's tonight b/c she's leaving tomorrow morning.
You around tom night? Drink? Dinner?
I will email or IM you tomorrow.
When you leaving for the West Coast?

There are 2 likely explanations and 1 completely unlikely explanation for this other-worldly phenomenon.


1). He knows that I plan to move out in July and is trying to charm me into staying so he won't have to deal with finding another roommate who he will also ultimately drive crazy.

2). This is the second weekend his girlfriend has been out of town and he is realizing that, "Hey! I have no friends!"


1). He realized what a benevolent human being I am, and what a miserable one he is. He would like to make an amends before the reckoning.

Which do you think it is? I'm thinkin' option 2 in the "likely" section. Either that or the apocalypse is upon us, my friends.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Remember the Picture My Dad Sent Me?

Well, that's got nothing on the new outfit my mom sent me yesterday. Feast your eyes on this little gem:

No note. No letter. No nothing. I mean clearly though, this thing truly speaks for itself.

In that vain, here's what it does not say:

  • "Hello, I am a present from your super religious mother."

  • "He's not going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free."

  • Have you been reading the 'Rules' book I gave you?"

  • I might note that since I hate my roommate and have thought I was going to move out on at least 2 occasions, I have officially forwarded all of my mail to my office. Imagine my co-workers' collective surprise when I opened up this package yesterday. I might be wrong, but it was quite similar to the look on the faces of the people sitting next to me last night at dinner when I pulled it out to show Cesar.

    She usually decorates her packages and envelopes with various sparkles, colors and stickers. My favorite design is the one that bares a Jesus sticker right next to the postage stamp. She circles the Jesus sticker and places an arrow at the postage stamp with a message reading, "This is the real stamp! This is the only stamp that matters!" Or something to that extent. I'll have to scan one of those when I get home later. It's pretty important material that you shouldn't be deprived of.

    My mom is a funny lady to say the least. While we're on the subject of dear mother, I should let you in on the jist of our past 4 conversations. And when I say conversations, I also mean 10 minute voicemail messages she leaves that might make an outsider wonder whether or not she knows she's not speaking to anyone:

    "Hi Gigi, I need you to go to the store right now and buy lycine for the coldsores you get on your lips. If you take one a day, you'll never get one again. I have one right now and I'm telling you, I look despicable!"

    Fake Boob Removal
    "I've decided that when you and your sisters get older and are rich, I want you each to give me $1,000 so I can get my boobs taken out. You know, I've never asked anyone for any money. I never asked your dad for alimony, I've never asked for anything. And I've had these things for 20 years. I'm afraid they're going to start leaking and they're getting heavy. I'm sick of them! I'd rather have little sacks of skin hanging off of my chest than these things. So, do you think you can help me with that someday?"

    Chicago Boy
    "Why do you have to date a guy from Chicago. Hello?! He is like totally geographically undesirable! There are a million other guys in Manhattan. Just date one of them. Wouldn't you like to be able to go out with your boyfriend on, say, a Wednesday night? I mean, wouldn't you? Just, think about it."

    Follow-up on Chicago Boy
    "Gigi, I was thinking about it and I'm calculating that if you go see D once a month and it costs you $200 per flight times 12 months a year, that's, umm, 12 x 200 is $240, no, no, no 12 x 200 is $24,000. No, 12 x 200 is $2,400? $2,400!! You're spending $2,400 a year going to Chicago! Can you please date someone in New York, honey??"

    So, yeah - just like the outfit speaks for itself, I think that so too do these conversations. Check back later, I vow to dig up one of those Jesus envelopes for you.

    Tuesday, April 25, 2006

    Miami and the Minge

    Aren't we just darling?
    Don't tell anybody, but we're models.

    As odd as it might sound, the tone for this past weekend's Miami trip was set by a Southpark episode that D and I were fortunate (and lazy) enough to catch on Thursday night. The episode was a dupe on James Frey's book, A Million Little Pieces. The part of the episode that caught our attention was Opera Winfrey's speaking vagina. The vagina referred to itself as "Opera's Minge*," and it was pissed at James Frey for stealing the attention that Opera could otherwise be spending with it... A logical concern for sure. Needless to say, D and I were laughing our asses off; commenting on the how perfect it was that the minge spoke with a British accent. His nextdoor neighbor, the asshole, was named Gary. We thought that Gary should've had a more clever name, so we renamed him Gomez.

    D and I went to town with this the whole weekend. We couldn't say 'minge' enough. We even named our minges (we decided that, for our purposes, 'minge' could refer to both sexual organs): Juanita and Boris. It was an over-abused private joke, just like our fake grillz of last month.

    On Friday night, we went out to a Greek restaurant and saw the most heinous individual ever. One of those androgynous things you could probably speculate upon all night. Guy? Girl? Both? Neither? And, just as I did after having not taken a picture of the escaped Beetlejuice extra of last week, I'm now kicking myself for not having caught this beaut on camera. At one point, it got up from its chair and flashed its ass, which was not subtly hanging out of its pink mini-dress. D and I never did figure out what gender its minge was.

    The weekend was pretty much like every other weekend we spend together, only with a different background. We laughed like crazy. We drank. We relaxed. We ran. We speculated upon the global impact of minges in a contemporary society. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except that we had a hell of a lot more time together.

    At one point on Friday night, D tugged on this shirt and said, "This shirt is way too loose on you."
    I agreed, explaining to him that it's basically a moo moo.

    I think it was this weekend that I actually started understanding D. Not due to the complexity of his creation, but moreover, due to the fact that we don't usually spend significant periods of time together. Don't get me wrong, I love going out to eat nightly, drinking profusely and so forth, but if he lived here, we'd probably be doing a lot more relaxing than we usually do on his visits. Said visits are pretty much spent trying to cram as many activities into a short amount of time as possible. I realized this weekend that the whole relaxation thing suits me more than I would've ever expected. I always thought I was just a perma-crackhead.

    At one point, we saw a guy fishing off of a bridge and I told D how I used to love fishing with my dad. I went on to say that I love having guy friends because I'm pretty much a tomboy and guys are like big kids that I can pal around with. I've never much enjoyed talking to my girl friends about guys and have even stifled my stepmom many a time when she'd initiate boy talk with me:

    Me: Don't you have anything more interesting to talk about?
    Her: Well, why don't you go ahead and enlighten me with another topic.

    (FYI: I remember changing the topic to this great idea I had for a talk show where I was not only the host but also a psychologist who helps the guest with his/her problems. My dad butted in at that point: "It will never work." That was in high school - about 6 years before Dr. Phil and Opera's Minge collaborated to successfully steal my idea.)

    Anyway, during the guys=big kids and I=a tomboy conversations, it kind of occured to me that these facts are what lend to both, us getting along so well and me getting upset about stupid things. My inner tomboy loves to joke around, drink like a sailor and talk like a truck driver, but my damn estrogen gets in the way at times, fighting with the tomboy and essentially kicking its ass. The biproduct of my inner bitch's glory is that I begin worrying about stupid girl shit like the length of time it takes for him to return a text message from me versus the time it takes for him to return those from a friend. I shit you not - I actually analyze these things. I'll give myself credit though, I only analyze when PMS-ing. Otherwise, I'm somewhat sane and secure.

    As if struck by a revelation, I tried to rapidly explain all of this to D, but he didn't understand any of my banter about my inner heavyweight bitch champion of the world, or my references to my "inner dude" or temporary psychotic tendencies. He's a guy after all and I was speaking in chick. I had to communicate in his terms. I thought about it and then translated my thoughts into a language he could understand:

    "I'd like to perfom an exorcism on the estrogen in my body and donate it to that thing in the pink dress and its ambiguous minge."

    "Well then, why didn't you just say that in the first place?"

    *I think I'd be pretty pissed if someone was talking about my deprived minge in a public forum. Nevertheless, tally hoe.

    Making waves in Bahrain...

    While I'm not exactly living up to Michael Jackson's legend in Bahrain, my NYC Bar Review did make news on a blog there. And maybe I should mention that it is my friend Chad's blog. And even moreover, that Chad is my friend because he found me while scouring the internet for blogs tagged "Bahrain."

    It might seem odd that my blog is tagged with "Bahrain," but hell, everybody needs a gimmick. This is mine.

    Here's my news clip, found at Those Are My Pants:

    Because New York keeps up with the affairs of the World.

    Check out GiGi's post on bars to avoid in NYC.
    She details the top culprits, from real hand experience, that you should absolutely avoid when drunk or thinking of pursuing such past time. These particular establishments will charge you as much as a Russian hooker on a warm Bahraini night!
    Posted on Thursday, April 20, 2006 at 12:41AM by

    By the way, thanks for all the comments guys. I'll be back several times (okay, at least once) today to tell you about Miami and D and the weekend.

    Friday, April 21, 2006

    Week in Review

    Now, don't get scared by the title of today's post. This doesn't necessarily mean that this is the last post of the week (although it might mean exactly that). I'm taking off for Miami with D this afternoon, so unless something wonderfully delightful happens, you might not hear from me for a couple days. Kleenex anyone? Don't be afraid to cry. A real man is strong enough that he can do so without shame, or so says Spartucus' wife in his self-titled movie. That said:

    Mexican Humor
    This is a phenomenon that has gone unmentioned for long enough. I must broach it before it infests humanity proper. Mexican Humor is no more than the art of being annoying just to be annoying. I first discovered it during my years working in the restaurant/bar industry and it shines through many a time when speaking to my own personal Mexican, Cesar.

    Unfortunately for those who are subjected to it, Mexican humor is quite versatile and can take place in or out of the workplace. Some common examples of Mexican Humor include:

    - Looking at your arm and declaring the time is "A quarter past freckle" when someone asks you the time.
    - When a female steps into the walk-in fridge (this is a work-related one), one guy follows behind her, pretending to need something to, while his compadre stands outside and turns off the light. All of the kitchen staff proceed to make humping noises, then laughs when the happy couple steps out.
    - When asked a question to which the answer is "no," the offender instead answers: "How 'bout soooommmmeeee .... no?"
    - The Cesar delight: When he asks me if I want to get a donut and I say no, he presses the subject: "You're lying. You know you want one. You want a donut, la-la-la-la-la!" Then why would I say no? I've never been one afraid to put back some food. I just don't want one!

    There are so many other examples of Mexican Humor, I just can't think of them. I will start an official new column though where I document incidences as they occur. Trust me, you will get annoyed just reading them. And that, my friends is the double-edged sword we're dealing with here. The Mexican Humor Practitioner wants you to get annoyed, for that is the fruit of his ploy. The only way to stop this is to pretend you're not annoyed, which is an almost impossible feat.

    Google Search Term of the Week
    I've told you before that a lot of people find my blog by typing "Fake" + "Grillz" into google. This week takes the cake though. Some scumbag from Saudi Arabia found me by typing in "Chewing" + "Penis." Chosen seems to think that this is not as bad as someone finding his site by typing "Sam Waterson" + "nude." I beg to differ.

    Chad Says I Need More Traffic
    For those of you who don't know Chad - he's my eyes and ears in Bahrain. Chad looks after my best interest, so when he said that I needed more traffic, by golly, I believed him. My thoughts are that if y'all link to me, the whole world will eventually be enlightened as to the more important issues of our time, such as: trash-talkin' Chinese women, Mexican Humor, NYC bars that take advantage of innocent drunk people, fake gourmet grocery stores that hire the extras from Beetlejuice, disgusting roommates and most importantly, my obsession with a man known as D. So, with a cherry on top?

    New NYC Bar Updates
    This week I introduced what will be a regular feature: NYC Bars that take advantage of innocent drunk people. Just to be fair, I'll report the good ones too. Here ya go:

    Dos Caminos on Park between 26th & 27th: My order was a sapphire dirty martini. It was real alcohol, but it did cost $14. For a pool (where pool=about 3 oz) of top shelf gin, that's not too shabby. I'd go back.

    Uva on 78th & 2nd: Same order, real alcohol, but the bartender was new. She poured the sapphire into the shaker, shaked it only slightly, then let it sit while she clamored around trying to find olives, olive juice and a martini glass. Alcohol melts ice very fast, so half of my only semi-cold martini was water. Then she tried to pull a $30 minimum for credit cards with me. This is one of D's pet peeves and it happens a lot in NYC. If you call and complain to your credit card company, evidently they will call the offending establishment and berate them. In any event, one martini + one beer =$18.85. I'd go back. The food is good and it's one of my fave dinner spots. I just hope another bartender is there next time.

    I go out a lot. There will certainly be more updates soon. Perhaps a special Miami edition.

    Primrose Oil
    I was bitching about how depressed I get when I do the whole PMS thing and the lovely Paulina suggested Evening Primrose Oil tablets. Anyone know anything about these? I need something, damnit. If not those, than perhaps a horse tranquilizer or two will work.

    It's been a while since I've heard from my super-stalker. So, if you're out there super-stalker, just let me know that you're okay. (On another note, I really despise having to beg my stalker to do his job).

    Knicks game
    Went to the Knicks game with D and some friends on Wednesday night. It was in Jersey. We didn't get there until the 3rd quarter and then we waited outside for the car for an hour after the game ended. I don't suggest anyone do this. Plus, the people in Jersey are a bit off.

    Thanks to Bufflo, BlueToiletDuck, Chad, Paulina, A Concerned Fan, and Cherokee for your comments. I love, love, love getting comments.

    I think that's it. I might post again later, but then again, I might not...

    Wednesday, April 19, 2006

    Carla's Burial Instructions

    Yesterday was my aunt Theresa's funeral in California. Aside from me, the whole family made it out to support my uncle (my dad's brother). I was going to try to make it out, but I would've had to take a redeye, drop in, take a redeye back. I opted to instead go out for a weekend when I could actually spend some time with my uncle Ken and the family. This isn't a sob story though.*

    I called my dad's cellphone yesterday hoping I could talk to my uncle. My stepmom, Carla, picked it up and was quite cheerful. Hearing her you would've thought she just got out of a bumper car rather than having just left a funeral. It was odd. Especially since I had just talked to my sister who told me the funeral was a "real tearjerker."

    Now, Carla is one of those people who lives for tragedy. She'll never bring up a current event unless it's tragedy related (she's got plenty to work with).

    "Did you hear about the baby stuck in the well for 8 years without food or water or air?"
    "Oh my God - a trashcan blew up in England. People in London can never throw away their garbage again!"
    "GiGi, do you live by the tram that got stuck over Roosevelt Island? Imagine how those people must have felt! Suspended 10 whole feet in the air!"

    All of these sentiments, of course, are spoken with underlying fear. Yesterday's conversation with her, however, was sprinkled with humor.

    So, I asked Carla about the funeral and she reported the names of the sobbers and noted the fact that Theresa's weird mom brought two guests who Theresa didn't even know during life (this inevitably brought up the question: "Who the hell goes to a funeral of someone they didn't even know? I don't even like to go to the funerals of people I did know."). Then she told me that my uncle, Ken, went up and had to scoop up some of Theresa's ashes from a gold container and put them into another container. She called it the "passing of the ashes" or something. This is where it started getting weird....

    My immediate reaction was to think about how painful it would be to see the remains of my spouse in a small box in front of me. Even more so, to scoop it up and move it around. I couldn't deal. I told Carla as much and she broke into song about how she told my dad she wanted to be cremated as well. She then started giggling and told me that my dad wanted her to instead be buried next to him.

    "I told him that the only way I'm going to be buried next to him is if they dig me up after he dies and then put me next to his body in the same casket. I want us to be spooning. I have a certain way I like to put my arm around him so I would have to make sure that was right too." She laughed.

    Did I say this conversation was outlined by humor? I meant alcohol.

    *Here's the sob story: Theresa died way too young of brain cancer, but lived far beyond the expectations of her doctors. I spoke to my uncle the day she died. I had never seen even a speck of emotion from him. He cried as he told me that he held her hand as she died. He said her sisters and her daughter were there as well. They could all tell it was coming. He said that when Theresa was passing she smiled. He said, "It was the cutest little smile I've ever seen in my life. I'll always have that smile."

    Theresa and Ken met years ago when Theresa called his house and got the wrong number. Minutes later she called him back, told him she liked his voice and well...

    NYC Bars That Take Advantage of Innocent Drunk People

    I've been meaning to do this for a while, where "this" is defined as identifying the bars and clubs in New York that make an honest effort to pull a fast one over on us innocent lushes.

    I'm only presenting three this morning, but I can guarantee you that I've run past quite a few more and I'm destined to encounter new ones each weekend I venture out of the "alcohol safe zone" that is my Sapphire & Kettle harboring freezer. This, my friends, is the only reliable place in town, at least when it comes to getting what you pay for.

    I feel qualified to disclose this information to the drinking public as:

    A) I worked in the bar/club industry for way too many years after I graduated college

    B) Because I drink a lot

    C) Because I conduct frequent tastings of unopened alcohol bottles as compared to the shit being poured at the fine rip-off NYC drinking establishments.

    Fine NYC Drinking Establishment #1

    That said, our first offender is Music Box, a trendy bar (no sign outside...very cryptic!) in the Village (West? East? I don't remember. I was drunk). I walked in desperately needing a drink. After all, I was with bad company -- my roommate.

    I ordered one of my regulars: Absolute Mandarin and Soda. What I instead got: well-Vodka, a dash of Triple Sec and Soda. As I have no shame, I called bullshit on the bartender 2 times, then, on the 3rd try, made him open a new bottle. While he did make an honest attempt to help me out, it was obvious that he knew I was right. I told him to taste it and he said he had gum in his mouth... A likely story, indeed.

    Another explanation for the fake alcohol sensation I experienced -- one which I've witnessed at a bar I've actually worked at, is that after half of the bottle's gone, it is replaced with well vodka (or well-brand alcohol of your choice. Example: Jose Cuervo replaced with Montezuma. That is so wrong). The result is a half real, half fake combo disaster! As a disclaimer, I even used to make the bar I worked at open new bottles for my *free* drinks.

    Anyway, I don't recommend ever going to Music Box, even though their fake alcohol drinks are only $6 a piece. If you decide not to heed my gracious warning, I suggest you order from the curly-haired guy. The other guy doesn't know how to pour.

    Fine NYC Drinking Establishment #2

    Our second offender is Doc Watsons on the UES (79th and 2nd, if I remember correctly). I feel bad calling them out for their fake alcohol because the bartender was so nice. In fact, I didn't. She rewarded me with a sufficient pour and a smile. Of course, I know that smile is no more than an apology. She knows it's fake. I know it's fake. But what can she do? It's her boss who commands her to enact ILLEGAL practices in order to keep her job. I just wouldn't suggest supporting said practices, i.e. Don't Go There. Ever.

    Fine NYC Drinking Establishment #3

    Our third and last offender, is Fizz, a club in Mid-town. Fizz is a criminal on different, yet equally disgusting, charges. If you look at the receipt below (might have to click on it to make it bigger) you'll notice that the bar automatically adds a 20+% to your bill. I bought 3 drinks at $11+ each. Even though I was sauced when I got the bill, I remember thinking that $41 for 3 drinks was pretty pricey. At least the alcohol was real, I guess. I graciously added an $8 tip and handed it to the bartender. The next day I noticed that the bastard actually got me for $15. No wonder he was all smiles. So, not only does Fizz automatically add a tip exceeding the extremely generous %20 they might have typically received from their drunken customer, they too make no mention of the fact and let you tip them double. Bonus: You're tipping them on the cost of your drinks combined with the stolen tip. Isn't this illegal? I thought automatic tips only occurred for parties over 6 or 8. Well, then and in Europe, where a further tip isn't expected.

    I will never go back to Fizz again. I strongly suggest you don't either.

    Do I feel bad outing and boycotting these establishments? No. For one, not many people will have the pleasure of reading this enlightening post. And two, a 32 oz bottle pours a suggested 32 drinks (although a good bartender will pour at least an ounce and a half). At $6 minimum - $12 maximum per NYC drink (assuming 1 1/2 ounces), that's anywhere from $128 - $256 per bottle. A bar buys a bottle for $18 - $25 bucks each. At a mark up of, oh say, 140% or so, I'd say we, the paying drunk customers, deserve real alcohol! Plus, these actions insinuate that drinkers - their bread and butter - are stupid. I don't think we're stupid. Just a bit not-sober...

    Unfortunately, I think there will be more updates to come.

    Tuesday, April 18, 2006

    Remember those people in Beetlejuice with the shrunken heads?

    ...well, one of them escaped from the movie set and now works at a fake Gourmet Grocery Store on 70-something and 2nd Avenue. I'm kicking myself for having forgot the name.

    Cesar and I walked into this supposed "Gourmet" grocery store the other night to get some olives for our obligatory Saturday night Sapphire dirty martinis. While the cheese selection sucked (no Saint Albray), the meat counter was closing (the bastards wouldn't divvy us up even a bit of prosciutto even though they should've been open for another 10 minutes), and the crackers were completely misplaced (by the cake mixes...come on now), they did have a decent selection of olives.

    Since the cracker selection was somewhat of a bust and having just remembered that I had some blood orange-infused olive oil at my house, I headed over to the bread section to grab a loaf of French bread. Of course, there wasn't any. I approached the cash register and asked her if they had any French bread. Then, from out of seemingly nowhere, I hear this condescending squeaking sound.

    "Ummm yeah, it's in the bread section," said the cashier at the next line, rolling her eyes as if to instead say, "You're a dumb bitch."

    I look over and I sware to Krishna that one of the shrunken head extras from the Beetlejuice doctor's office scene was manning the cash register. I'm not kidding. I wish I had a camera, and I'm even considering going back (although I vowed to never return to the trashy "Gourmet" dump again).

    Contrary to Beetlejuice's assumption, I'm not a total idiot.

    "Yeah, clearly I already looked there." (Which, translated, means 'Look Beetlejuice, I cleaned my ear out this morning with something that resembles your mini-dome. Enough from you.')

    Here's what I was dealing with. Really.

    Then, a halfway courteous employee offered to go get the person who worked in the bread section to help me out with my simple request. About 2 minutes later, we see him - the seeming halfway courteous employee - standing around shooting the shit with one of his slacker colleagues. So, we ask him if he got the bread person?

    "Yep. She was already there waiting for you but you didn't come over so she left."

    Are you kidding me?

    Cesar kept urging me to go. He'd seen enough. I paid the quiet and surprisingly non-trash talkin' Chinese lady at my register and we were on our way.

    Now, we're not your average highfalutin assholes per se—just a couple of individuals with expensive taste and no money. A little courtesy with our overpriced snacks would've been much appreciated. We were pissed off to say the least, but just acknowledging the size of this lady's head made us forgive her. I mean really, she's probably dealt with a lot of shit in her lifetime because of that thing. Needless to say, after the martinis, her head became even better fodder for the Q-Tip jokes.

    As for the picture above, I hate to admit it, but I drew it sober...

    Monday, April 17, 2006

    Easter Greetings, Anecdotes and Post-Festivity Predictions

    If I didn't work in corporate America, where everyone but me was off for Good Friday last week, I probably wouldn't have noticed that it was a holiday. Same goes for Cesar. We're not religious people. Him—he hates religion and I—well, I have an overwhelming respect for the stuff, but can't stand the institution and I hate people (especially the self-righteous breed) so there you have it.

    This in mind, Cesar didn't think twice before putting on a shirt with the following logo,* before spending Easter Sunday walking around Manhattan:

    It didn't take too long until we figured out why people were pointing and staring. Oops.

    In other Easter news, Cesar's girlfriend is—ironically—quite religious. Umm, like super religious. So, when he told me that she wrote him an email, wherein she randomly inserted some Christian propaganda like nothing had happened, I had to see it to believe it. This morning he forwarded it over to me, followed by his ensuing response:

    "How was your night Did you have fun? Did you enjoy the place? Would you go back there? Happy Easter YEAH JESUS ROSE FROM THE DEAD... I love you. I had the strangest dream last night..."

    His response:

    "Jesus had a twin no one knew about. His twin came back."

    While Cesar's reply is so utterly wrong on so many levels, it is just the type of creative humor we need a little more of! "Jesus had a twin" - I love it.

    Lastly, I have a prediction. My roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—took his girlfriend back to the midwest this weekend to meet his family. While I'm sure they had a great weekend, wherein he confessed his undying love for her and gained instant approval from his mom, I imagine the experience will be nothing less than bastardized when his friend (we'll call him Ari since that is, in fact, his name) comes in for the weekend. I've mentioned it before, but my roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—likes to act out his machismo by talking shit behind his girlfriend's back and explaining to Ari that he can still get laid by 19 year olds, etc... Needless to say, Ari is thoroughly impressed.

    My prediction is that when Ari asks about the weekend, about what his mom thought of the girlfriend, etc... My roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—will make some demeaning comment to the extent of:

    "My mom loved her. I told the bitch that she should marry her then. It's almost summer. There's tons of bitches where she came from." Or, something equally as piggish.

    This conversation will probably take place about Friday, so there will be a reasonable lagtime before I can update you on the results of my prediction. Trust me though, I'm about as psychic as it goes in this situation.

    *About the shirt. Last night when my roommate—disgusting, rude, unpleasant—and his girlfriend came home from vacation (because really, why would she spend the night at her own apartment?), Cesar started telling them about how he wore the shirt out on Easter, not having thought about what day it is. The girlfriend, obviously feeling a bit religious after having spent the weekend with that kind of a family, said this:

    "Oh, you know what you were doing. You did it on purpose. You know, some people would be very offended."

    "Okay, I did. I did it on purpose. You got me," he should've said, but didn't.

    Literally, Cesar wears the shirt every other day, but yesterday just happened to be a conspiracy. Oh please—just shut it. Everybody is offended by something. In fact, I'm offended by the above comment. After all, she interrupted his story to insert it and interrupting someone mid-speech, my dear friends, is very rude and very offensive. Very rude and offensive indeed. I just don't appreciate it.

    The End.

    Friday, April 14, 2006

    A Detailed Account of My Neuroses

    Whilst telling me about a lady in Bahrain who was caught cheating on her husband and thus jailed and branded an "adulterer" ("adultress?") one of my fave readers, Chad, mentioned the following in response to me writing back to him the very instant he posted a comment:

    In other news...
    You check your blog entirely too much ;)
    It's cool though, people with shame produce boring post.

    I wrote back in my own defense, which freed me of accusations of checking my blog too much, but incriminated me of being completely neurotic:

    Actually, it's not that I check my blog entirely too much, it's that I check my email too much. Every time someone posts a comment, I get an email and then my email alerts me. It's pretty hi-tech, really.

    Yes, I have no shame though and am not sorry to admit that if the above wasn't the case, I'd probably be checking my blog more often. Even more disgusting, the reason I don't check my blog often is because I am just neurotic enough to not want to interfere with my pathetic visitor numbers. For instance, I don't want to have to subtract my number of visits from the grand total at the end of the day. All in all, this simple act would probably be a lot less daunting than jumping through the hoops I do in order to avoid it.

    Are neurotic and pathetic next of kin?

    One would think...

    ...that if someone had the nerve to patronize another about her (uh-hem) hair being all over the bathroom floor, that said person would have the decency to clean up his chest hair from the bathtub.

    One would think that, right?

    Well, this morning I got into the shower, only to greet millions of tiny fuzzlings that previously lived on my roommate's chest. Each individual hair is admittedly a very small entity, but when those little buggers team up, they somehow form a huge globule capable of clogging the drain. Thusly, I was forced (As my dad would say: "You weren't forced. Did someone have a gun to your head?" Whatever, Pa) to stand in 3 inches of freshly-shaved chest hair infested water. When I lifted my feet to get out of the tub, they stuck to my feet making it look like my dogs couldn't keep up with their 5 o'clock shadow.

    I mean, I understand that the guy needs to shave his chest... He is a bodybuilder, after all. Wink. Wink.

    Jokes aside, this is war, my friends! War, I say!

    Thursday, April 13, 2006

    The Lucky Winner

    Upon filling out her insurance forms, one of the girls I work with just asked the receptionist if she needed to fill out the life insurance part of the sheet.

    Receptionist: "Yeah, fill it out in case you die."
    Girl: "Oh my gosh! Well, what is a beneficiary?"
    Receptionist: "The lucky winner."

    I am so utterly disturbed...

    ...that my dad sent me this email:

    I am trying to sell a bed frame I recently purchased. I ordered it over the Internet - it was a bit of an impulse buy. Now that it's arrived, I realize that it doesn't go with any of my other oak furniture. I can't send it back. The bed frame is 100% hand carved and imported from India. The mattress is orthopedic, brand new, and hasn't been slept on. I thought I would give you all first dibs, but if you know of anyone else who might be interested please forward this, as I'd like to sell it ASAP. I haven't named a price yet, but if you're interested let me know and we'll work something out. Anyway, have a look.

    I don't know that my being disturbed is a direct effect of the fact that it was my DAD who sent me a picture of penis-engraved bedposts, or if it was because my Mormon grandfather was CC'd on the mass email. It could also be a result of the fact that this 'forward' followed directly behind a first, which was titled, "My colonoscopy." Oy vay. My family is indeed a sick one.

    There's a Great Big World Out There!

    Now that my computer is effectively broken, I've been forced to venture beyond my trusty desk and chair and see what else this world has to offer.

    This is what I've replaced the time I would have spent playing around on the internet with (Read: This is what I've discovered!):

    1) Making my bed before work. Usually I just leave it a mess, but with all this free time, I thought, "What the hell?" The feeling of productivity that took over me after completing this daunting task was overwhelming, to say the very least.

    2) Spending a little extra time at the Gym. Usually I have a good excuse for getting off of the treadmill at 20 or 30 minutes ("Maybe I have some fun emails!"). Now, I have no reason to get off until I hit 40 grueling minutes of intense workout fervor. I'll probably have to call in and change my bikini order if I keep up this routine: "Umm yeah, remember how I called in the other day and ordered a Size Whale bikini? Can we, like, change that to a Size Pregnant Seal? That'd be great..."

    3) Talking to my roommate. Usually I can just bury my face in my laptop and ignore him as he huffs around like a stuffed-up hyena (I'm really into animal analogies today, evidently). Now I have to ask him questions about his day, his job search, "Are you excited to go home for Easter?" All of which, I guarantee I would die happy having not known.

    4) Exploring the city in which I live. God forbid I should actually explore New York City a little bit. I haven't even been to Ground Zero. I've avoided the Empire State Building like the plague, passed by the Rockefeller Center once while drunk and have only seen the Statue of Liberty in pictures. Long Island? Hell, it may as well be another country.

    5) Call friends and family. Seeing as how I hate the phone, email and IM are my saviors. Now that I don't have those luxuries at home, I actually have to pick up the phone and dial. Perish the day!

    6) Think of stuff to do when I get a new computer. Evidently when I do have a computer, I don't maximize its great potential to work for me. I've already pitched a few article ideas (from work—because why would I actually do work while I'm at work? I really don't have a good answer either) and received positive responses from editors. You see, I'm usually so mesmerized by other people's stuff, that I foget what a damn genius I am!

    7) Think about the Future. When I have my computer, it causes me to focus on what's happening in the "now." I've recently realized that I've left no time to daydream and pontificate about what will happen in the future. As it turns out, my future's going to be marvelous; full of money, fancy parties and adoring men. Who would've known? And, anyway, as that one quote goes, it's good to focus on the future—definitely not the present. Err, wait...

    Well, I was going to try to list 10 things that have changed since my recent loss, but there is just so much exploring to do, I don't think I'm going to make it....

    Sigh. Someone lend me a Gawker I.V. to plug into my veins... I can't take this much longer!

    Wednesday, April 12, 2006

    My Trip to Washington D.C. - A Book Report by GiGi, Age 3

    Because I said I would, the following is my brief little account of my first time in Washington D.C.

    The above is a map of Washington D.C. (I'm so gosh-darned clever).

    This is a picture of a room similar to the one I stayed in. It is important to my non-important story:

    Instead of telling you about the horrendous food I ate, how deathly ill I was (I blew my nose so much that I came in to work today lookin' like I got a cocaine nosejob), how I almost got jumped by a line cook for ordering "egg whites only," how I was only in the office a couple hours a day, how I decided not to visit any national monuments nor witness the Immigration protest, how I hate that you can still smoke in bars/restaurants there (my raw nostrils were a burnin' to say the least), and how I got wasted with a couple of my more-reliable colleagues, I'm going to tell you about a stupid statement one of said colleagues made. Oh yeah, I've written about this guy before. He's the one who employs the disgusting drunken mantra containing the quip, "I am the naan and I am the Beyond." (Bonus: Upon second inquiry, he still maintains that it works!).

    Anyway, I was telling him and another guy about how cool my hotel room was. (And, it really was cool: leopard print carpets and orange walls in the hallways, red velvet curtains, an old-fashioned refrigerator acting as the mini-bar, Wax lips available for consumption in the mini bar—you know—just in case, lavish pillows, etc...)

    My first thought was that it looked like some kind of retro Ethiopian whorehouse. So, naturally, that's what I told them. The naan guy immediately and pointedly asked me: "Why are you sterotyping?"

    I replied: "How am I stereotyping?"

    Him: "Well, you're being racist."

    Me: "Umm - No, I'm actually not. If mentioning the word 'Ethiopian' is offensive to you, then perhaps you're a racist. Calling someone or something 'Ethiopian' is not an insult, it's an unbiased statement of condition."

    Him: "Nevermind."

    Me: "Seriously, why is calling something 'Ethiopian' insulting?"

    Him: "Nevermind. Nevermind. Nevermind...."

    Me: "Do you have something against Ethiopians?"

    Him: "No, don't worry about it. Seriously, nevermind."

    Anyway, that was about the gist of our short conversation. But, length and depth aside, it caused me to recall a passage from Toby Young's book, How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. In this book, Young, who's from London, recalls attending Harvard for a 1987 summer journalism program. He goes on to talk about how this was absolutely the worst time to be in America for his purposes, due mainly to the 'political correctness epidemic' that was going around.

    To briefly quote him: "The entire student body seemed to be afflicted. The prevailing orthodoxy was that concepts like "truth" and "beauty" had no place in contemporary education. The idea that a person could transcend the influence of his race, gender, sexual orientation and socioeconomic status to achieve a kind of bird's-eye view of a subject was completely false."

    To further his point: "Universities aren't there to hold up mirrors to students, affirming their identity as women or homosexuals or African-Americans. They're there to challenge them, to teach them that these arbitrary facts about themselves are irrelevant when it comes to answering the most important question of all: How to lead a good life?"

    So, I guess all of this is to say that I wasn't describing my hotel as such to the 'naan and beyond' guy to affirm it's identity [Ethiopian]. No, no, no—I was saying it to challenge him, to teach him that this arbitrary fact about the hotel is irrelevant when it comes to answering the most important question of all: How to lead a good life? [Partake in the Wax lips in the mini-bar, you poor sap].

    And, so ends my book report.

    I'm just wondering if any of you knew that...

    "The Hugh Hefner E! True Hollywood Story starts at 8," really means, "I want to watch a History Channel documentary about Jesus and Judas?"

    It's true. I had no clue either until the other day when I walked into the house at 10 minutes 'til 8 (having planned my day around watching it) and announced my intentions to my remote control-hoarding roommate and his girlfriend.

    He replied, "I've already seen that, like, twice."

    First off, maggot—no you haven't, because it's a new True Hollywood Story. (Hello! Any true fan knows that 8 pm Sunday evening is reserved for the new THS's!)

    Second, I don't care if you had seen it. I haven't and I want to. So, why don't you go on ahead and curtsy into your room with your chick and watch the TV in there? I would do the same except that I don't have a TV. And I can't breathe because there's no windows in my room. And, my room is the size of most peoples' closets. And, well, I hate you. Do I really need any other reason? The mere fact that I expressed interest in the show means you need to make concessions to let me watch it, seeing as how making such concessions would require no more than you changing locations in which to snuggle. Puke. Proceeding to flip around until you found something that vaguely catches your interest (Jesus versus Judas!) is not what I am implying. You clearly had no 8 pm plans, asshole.

    And, third—while I'm at it—I'm beginning to hate your girlfriend too. My suggestion is one that I, in her situation, would have suggested to my disgusting, spineless, "I'm the king of my domain," insecure boyfriend. She is beginning to remind me of my grandmother—who, when my grandfather would wrongfully degrade someone with his limited opinions—would sit closed-lip like a good 1950s housewife, even though she most likely had a better solution.

    And this, my dear, is why you let him yell at you to the point of tears (Bonus: In front of Cesar and I!) last weekend for no good reason other than he's trying to make himself feel like a man. Or, as Chosen would say: "He's like one of those lizards that puffs up its neck to intimidate people."

    As you can tell, my roommate and I are getting along famously again.


    Life Regurgitated stands corrected on two accounts of improper reporting. Apologies have been extended to the affected parties.

    1) BIGmammajamma versus BADmammajamma

    "Remember when you posted part of my email in your thread that was titled, in part, Death to Gilmore Yeats? Yeah, you called me BIGmammajamma instead of BADmammajamma. I'll admit, I have a big ass, but damn Gigi. I thought I meant more to you than that. Tiny little tear..."

    So, for the record and going forward, Badmammajamma shall prevail.

    2) April 11, 2006 - Unintended Perjury

    From yesterday's post: "Anyhow, I'll be back to NYC this afternoon and I plan to have something up by 4 or 5 p.m. I'll tell you about DC and how the restaurants suck and Maryland Crab soup is not good and how I despise people smoking while I eat and about the retro Ethiopian Whorehouse decor in my hotel room and, and, and..."

    So, I actually did intend to update yesterday, but my shitty DELL computer (which has been no less than a piece of shit since Day 1 - never buy one) would not allow me to access ANY blogs or my sign-in site. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever experienced, which should indeed indicate to you the level of my neuroses. I could get on email, I could check my tracking, but I could not get on Blogger. I'll be buying a new computer within a week probably (Oh, oh, oh - and since I'm broke, it will probably be a DELL, because they have a corner on the market due to their justified cheapness. Bastards! Now that is the ultimate in disgust).

    Anyway, that's why I didn't update. Now that I'm at the office, I'll do so intermittently during the day. Promise.

    Tuesday, April 11, 2006

    Hi from DC

    I feel so loved. I've received quite a few emails from people asking where I am - Am I okay? You are too kind!

    I'm great. In DC for work right now and I've had no access to computers (well, at least ones on which to do what I consider "real work," where "real work" is defined as writing my blog and checking Gawker to the point of insanity). There's one computer in the hotel lobby and 10 seconds - really - after I sat down to write and order a new bikini, some long-haired blonde guy came in and queried, "Do you know how long you're going to be?"

    I barked at him, not only because I was pissed, but because he was clearly a doormat who wanted to be walked upon. I mean, couldn't he see that I was picking out which Brazilian bikini I wanted to flaunt around in like a whale next weekend when I go to Miami??

    "No, I don't know. I just sat down."
    "Well, I just, umm, just need to check the movie schedule."
    "Come back in 10 then."

    I think I scared him off, because he didn't come back. Unfortunately, I was so disturbed by his neediness and doormatness that I couldn't sit and think properly. Really though - producing these profound thoughts necessitates an untainted think tank of sorts. My experience was ruined.

    Anyhow, I'll be back to NYC this afternoon and I plan to have something up by 4 or 5 p.m. I'll tell you about DC and how the restaurants suck and Maryland Crab soup is not good and how I despise people smoking while I eat and about the retro Ethiopian Whorehouse decor in my hotel room and, and, and...

    Oh yeah, I won't be describing my day at the Immigration Protest because, quite frankly, I'm way too lazy to get up and witness history in the making.

    Okay. Bye.

    Saturday, April 08, 2006

    Books & Magazines My Roommate Keeps in the Bathroom

    Otherwise known as: Books my roommate thinks are the perfect read while taking a shit.

    -The Meteropolitan Opera 2006-2007 Season Guide - you know, because he loves the opera. Not to mention, the opera schedule is a titillating readas is the back of a shampoo bottle or tampon box.

    -The Sommelier's Guide to Wine (which heyes, HEused to have standing upright on the counter ledge for decoration). This screams class and sophistication as do the empty bottles of Sky Vodka that also serve as decor in our fine abode. And these bottles are not "blue," they're "lapis lazuli." He keeps one good bottle of wine (Nero D'Avola, 2004) in the house at all times for looks, but when it comes to actually drinking wine, he gets the extra large bottles with the screw-off tops. I'm so not kidding.

    -Ernest Hemingway: The Short Stories. I guarantee this was a gift. It's a paperback and the spine bears no crease. The end.

    -Trump World magazine, which is, by far, the worst magazine ever, but my roommate is in real estate and so is Trump, so, well, I guess it all makes sense (it doesn't make sense).

    Magazine I keep in the Bathroom:

    Us Weekly

    I keep it real, yo.

    Friday, April 07, 2006

    Remnants from this week:

    I know. I knowI've been a complete and utter slacker this week. My posts sucked, my life was boring, my ego was tame ... What else? Oh yeah, I skipped a day. I deserve to be fired. Hmmm, this sounds vaguely similar to the email I'm about to write my boss, explaining why I didn't get a damn thing done this week. I really didn't. Something about this week was off (not to say I usually get anything done at work). So completely off. I'm sick of blaming all of my problems on PMS, but hell, better it than me. I'd rather make use of an innocent scapegoat (PMS) than taking blame for the obvious (sometimes I'm just an insecure, bitchy, pile of waste). So, sue me.

    That said, here's what you missed:
    [And as my dad would say: "I didn't miss it, I just didn't see it" implying that he could have indeed died happy without knowing any of it, this, or that]

    -First off, I had a funny conversation with D today over IM. He's been talking about moving to Miami together, so I told him that I did a quick job search and there isn't too much out there for me. Then I had this brilliant idea that I could stay with my company and just work remotely. But, can I get everything that I need to accomplish done from home? Hmmm. We explored my day at work to answer just that:

    Can I...
    Check Gawker like a fiend? (check)
    IM with friends? (check)
    Put posts up on my blog? (check)
    Check my tracking shamelessly, only to find that only about 30 ppl love me daily? (check)
    Scheme with friends on how/when we're going to start a business to save us from our pathetic realities? (Check)

    Given the above stats, I'd say that working by remote is indeed a possibility. Miami here I come!

    -Chosen is a sick bastard. This is how he ended one of our emails yesterday:
    "Side note...I think the concept of repeatedly neutering an already
    neutered cat is very funny."

    -Advertisers: Assuming that commentors are the same as advertisers, I'd like to thank the following parties for playin': Bufflo, Truth, Chad, Morris, Lucas (who was formerly Truth), and A Concerned Fan

    -Good Blogs:
    Now I don't usually sway attention from myself, nor do I usually find a blog that I genuinely like, but I have to give credit where credit is due. I happened upon two (two!) great blogs this week:

    Logged Hours and I Hate You, New Guy Who Sits Next to Me

    Both shall get a link, indeed.

    -D's Desperate
    Housewives Contribution: D rarely reads my blog, but evidently when he does, he's pretty bored by it. So, last night he said he had a great idea for an entry
    —you know, something to spice it up a bit. Huh? He decided that it would be wonderful if I discussed the phenomenon of desperate housewives, in general. And, um, yeahwhat exactly does that have to do with me. Nothing? Well then, it has no home on this site, which is pretty much just about me. Not, of course, because I'm as impressed with myself as I come off to be, but because I want people to think I'm as impressed with myself as I come off to be. It makes them mad and hateful, and, for some reason, this makes them come back for more madness and hatefulness. Yes, all 30 of you, coming back for more! So, in a nutshellno Desperate Housewives thingy. Sorry, D.

    -I like when I find posts about me on other people's blogs. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and stuff. Here's one I found today (By the way, mad props to Blue Toilet Duck for the shout out):

    On the bastardly site i visit, this girl GiGi posts her past stories about being a whore, her words not mine BTW, to it, there is a link to her EVERYDAY blog. while not OVERLY interesting [moderator's note: Contrary to what it might seem, by "not OVERLY interesting," he really means "REALLY DAMN INTRIGUING" You knowFYI], its JUST interesting enough to keep coming back, plus her writing style is ACE...boy im using that word alot today, but i ive found myself every other dayor 3 checking out what is going in in GiGi's life, a total stranger who apparently lives in NYC, that, i will never meet.

    its funny how that doesnt seem at all strange to me. but, it doesnt. anyways, blogs kinda remind me a tad of teh game "the sims" if you get too involved it would ake up ALL your time. reading many blogs, which, i dont do, would take up LOTS of ones time, and, leave them little time with which to fill there own blogs with interesting stuff for people to read. So, hence, i pick and choose.

    but, GiGI's is quite entertaining, a girl ill never meet with the same kinda of world thinking ihave, she talks a few times about going to a nail salon, where the ladies speak chinese while they do nails, chatting back and forth to eachother, and, GiGi is convinced they are plotting against her.

    now, when i tell people that when anyone speaking a different language comes into my store and talks to each other in a language they KNOW i dont get, its OBVIOUS they are saying something about you, cause, otherwise, 3 people in close proxemity, 2 speaking a different langugae, they ARE....why wouldnt they just speak ENGLISH?

    and people cal me paranoid. LOL does that make GiGi paranoid as well? Perspective is yours.

    Its nice to see that people ARE curious about what the other people in the world are doing and thinking.

    anyways, if you all have a sec, check out GiGi's blog. its not quite as entretaining and Rant filled, and, YES hate filled as mine is, but, still, its quite a good read.

    P.S. tell her i sent you, just for shits and giggles, since, well, she has no fucking clue who i am...LOL....

    Alright, allas I mentioned before, I'm off to write my boss a similar plea for forgiveness. As D would have me say: "I've been a very naughty girl and I deserve to be spanked."

    Green Tea is the Culprit!

    And to think I was at a loss for an explanation for the phenomenon that is:

    Chinese Women Talk a lot of Trash.

    The answer came to me in the form of a poor grammar-infested, haphazardly-written email. I mean, revelation:

    From: Rucker Odessa (feel free to spam her)
    Date: Apr 6, 2006 10:02 AM
    Subject: Why Asians drink Green Tea?

    What is Green Tea?
    Green tea has been part of the traditional Asian diet for centuries.
    Asian peoples have long believed that drinking green tea daily is the key to a long and healthy life.
    Now it's a proven scientific fact: green tea's natural active ingredients enhance human health, increase longevity, and aid in WEIGHT LOSS.
    Green Tea is the healthiest way to loose weight by enhanced caloric burn, increased metabolism, and oxidizing visceral fat.

    Thursday, April 06, 2006

    Two Unfortunate Names I Gave to My Childhood Dolls:

    Cabbage Patch Kid: Cybil Heady

    Teddy Bear: Forsythe

    Karma would have it that I, too, be cursed with a weird name. For those of you who know my real name, you know that karma has again prevailed (although the chicken comes way before the egg in this story).

    I don't know why I just remembered that, but I thought I'd share...

    Dots & Crunchberries for the faint of heart

    I should tell you about the mystery of the green & yellow Dots.

    Someone brought in a box of those Dot gummy candies to work the other day, and like anyone else with a sensible and refined pallet, I dug through the sticky mess to seperate the unsavory greens and yellows from the scrumptious reds and oranges. Then it occured to me, like it has many a time before this, that the company would be better off ditching the Simple Green-flavored imposters in favor of providing a box of reds and oranges. I remember when Captain Crunch cereal made such a move, getting rid of the yellow rectangular pieces and producing a cereal that was purely crunchberries. Pure genius! I mean really, who has time to cut through the shit? And when you really think about it, people are only getting half a box of edible candy/cereal. I say, give the people what they want!

    So, after eating a handful of the reds and oranges, I went back for a second helping. There before me, was the evidence of a freak phenomenon: the greens and yellows were all gone! Could it be that someone actually likes them? No way. 'Ha,' I thought. 'Someone probably couldn't take the pain anymore, so they took matters into their own hands and threw the greens and yellows away! What a gem!'

    I checked the trashcan. Alas, it wasn't true. Someone actually ate them. Could it be? I guess so. Maybe that explains why Captain Crunch discontinued their all-Crunchberry cereal. I should've known: most people do not lie where I do on the pallet bellcurve (far right, in case you were wondering).

    Wednesday, April 05, 2006

    Chinese Women Talk a lot of Trash, Episode 4

    So, Cesar (from here on out, "the skeeze") just got a job at a magazine.


    One of the people with whom he interviewed was this girl - Chinese - that he would be replacing. She came off as a nice girl at first, but in the end, she fit the bill just like the rest of 'em. Regardless, the skeeze came home raving about her; saying that when the others left the room, she told him to ask for x-amount instead of the y-amount he was going to ask for (where x>y).

    As it turns out, the skeeze ended up asking for x, but only got a little bit more than y, mainly because his bosses overheard their soon to be ex-employee informant spreading high salary propaganda and instilling greed into our skeeze. While her intentions might have been good (and very often Chinese women do have good intentions, they just manifest themselves as trash talk), the skeeze had absolutely no chance of getting the money he requested. Not a big deal. At least he got the job.

    However, his new colleagues have since informed the skeeze of our Chinese woman's tendency to talk a bit too much trash. Hmmm, who woulda guessed?

    Amongst what seemed one of many faults was the girl's inability to take instruction. She would often claim, "I don't have to take anybody's advice. I'm the only graphic designer here, so nobody else understands what I'm doing!" A pretty self-righteous statement for someone whose old templates contained innacurate dimensions, and whose files were what the skeeze deemed 'amateur.' On top of that, he compared her old layouts side-by-side with those of the junior web designer and, needless to say, the junior's had more merit than his art director counterpart. But still, not too big of a deal.

    The skeeze saw another girl's name following his own on what was obviously an interview schedule. He asked his new colleague, "So, how did Gina interview?"

    The colleague explained that when the Chinese girl found out that another girl was interviewing, she called her up and told her it was not a good place to work.

    Did she know her? Nope. She just wanted to talk trash.

    I'm tellin' ya, Chinese women simply have a compulsion toward trash-talkin'. At least in this situation, the skeeze got a job out of it.

    'Chinese Women Talk a lot of Trash' is a continuous series. To catch up on your reading, venture here.

    Monday, April 03, 2006

    New Age Tips for Stopping a Stalker

    Someone just found my site by typing the following words into google:

    "How + to + stop + a + stalker"

    It's a scary thought to think that someone is looking for advice on how to get their stalker to stop stalking (thusly meaning he/she is being stalked).

    But, it's even scarier to think that the advice this person will find on my blog is to befriend the damn guy; to write him emails when he ceases stalking—telling him you miss his constant, un-requested presence. Accordingly, it is also very wise to post your stalker's correspondence regularly as to further perpetuate his mal-intentions.

    Good luck!

    Thank you for being a friend. Err, nevermind.

    All I asked you do is sign my petition and you've failed. Miserably. At least I know who my real friends are now. Here are *three* people who wrote in, saying they didn't have blogger accounts. Hmmm? I didn't realize you had to. I'll have to check my settings. That's all for now, but I'll be back later today.


    So, you have to sign up to be a "blogger" to sign your petition. I am way to busy to fill out all that crap (even though, I must be honest...I didn't even look at all in intaled:). So, cut and paste my comment/petition sign up:

    Dear D,

    She is fine. Move to NYC.

    Love, Courtney

    It's too bad you don't have any REALLY good points like you would if you were trying to convince him to move here to California. i.e. No snow. Chicago and NYC seem so similar. If he likes big annoying cities with too much would be a perfect match. Plus, round the clock ass...DUH? Is it even a question.


    I'd love to sign your petition sweetheart but unfortunatly I don''t have a blogger account. I do 100% support your petition for D to move to New York He can go back to Chic for the weekends.... sorry have juyt had a few drinks so excuse the typos...




    For your petition, I'm one hundred percent in support of Men making rash decisions for beautiful women that they care about! This is my official signature, on record, in support of your boyfriend moving to the strangest city I've ever lived in.

    It's raining in Bahrain today. ...and odd and suprisingly nice event!