A day in the life of me. Yawn.

My Rebellious Shirt
At risk of getting fired, I've decided to test the corporate waters by wearing a shirt to work today that says, "Rock out with your cock out." (Shirt courtesy of my girl, Ivy Supersonic.). Oh to be me. Self-entertainment is truly priceless when your job is that boring.



My Red Shoes
Some girl stopped me on the street today and gave me mad props on my red shoes. I clearly deserved it. They are hot and look great with my cock shirt (which is a lot cuter than that thing above).

Interns, Bladder Problems and Fake Medicines
The office is sprawling with interns. One of whom sits right by the door and watches me as I go to the bathroom 16 times per hour. Seriously, my bladder is the size of a pea. Now I have to make some stupid little joke to the effect of "I got cursed with my grandma's bladder," which probably freaks this chick out more than soothes her curiosity. I never had this problem before because everyone else is hidden in their little cubes. I could slip in and out as I pleased.

Oh, and on the subject of my bladder, I scream at the TV when I see the commercials that ask women, "Do you have to go to the bathroom more than 8 times a day? If so, you might have a problem." As if that's a problem. I drink a pot of coffee and a gallon of water a day. Don't you think it would be weird if I didn't go to the bathroom at least 8 times a day. Weird fake medicines that cater to fake "conditions" are one of the many things on my growing list of things to get annoyed about when I'm bored: "Do you feel dirty when you don't take a shower? Well then, you probably have such and such disorder and need this product."

And, in a pretty non-related way, all of this brings me back to the interns. There are 4 of them and each one was scribbling just a bit too furiously during our new-client brainstorming session this morning. And they all stare. And they are all way too easily impressed. And they all giggle when one of the full-timers makes a bad joke. I sware I was never like this when I was an intern. Promise. No lie. Never did it.

The Gay Guy in the Office Likes Me
Lest you hadn't heard, a girl is officially "in" when gay guys like her. This recognitions means a number of things: You are sassy. You dress well (cock shirt? red shoes?). You don't take shit. You talk back to people who do. You have a serious attitude problem. Women who are famous for being liked by gay guys are Cher and Madonna. Somehow Kelly Clarkson and Paris Hilton recently slipped through the cracks as well. I guess Paris makes sense, but Kelly Clarkson is definitely a random member of the club. I think that it has to be some kind of strategic publicity stunt, like her agency had some gay guy declare that he likes her while in a highly visible area. It could happen, you know?

Anyway, my gay guy declared today that, "I wish I sat next to GiGi." Unfortunately I don't remember what obscene comment I made that impressed him so much because I make quite a few. All I know is that I'm in. Once you're in, you're pretty much golden for life. Cher can do no wrong. Madonna can do no wrong. And now, GiGi can do no wrong.

Getting My Deposit Back
I'm supposed to meet the girl who's moving into my old room at my old place (sucker!) tonight to get my deposit check. Only thing is, that involves seeing the old roommate. I'm subtly telling her that I just want to come to her office over lunch to grab the check and give her my keys, but she keeps on throwing in curveballs that involve me having to go to the old apartment. I wish I could just say, "Hello! I don't want to see the diablo you're moving in with," but my sales pitch on him was so positive that I can't do that. I mean, you should have seen me in action. After that performance I could've won an Oscar. As my sister would say, "Girl, you could sell dick to a dyke."

I probably could.

Anyway, this day is only half way over. I'm sure I'll run into plenty more thrillers and chillers as the day goes on. Woohoo. Exciting.....

My Recent Acquisition of Acute Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Thinking that I might have come down with a mild case of the stuff, I looked up Posttraumatic Stress Disorders to see if I was, in fact, a victim.

Apparently I am.

As a refresher: Posttraumatic Stress Disorders (PTSD's) are common amongst war veterans who have experienced or witnessed life-threatening events. People with PTSD often relive the experience through nightmares and flashbacks, have difficulty sleeping, and feel detached or estranged. Symptoms can be severe enough and last long enough to significantly impair the person's daily life. I'd say this is right on par with my current state.

The evolutionary play-by-play:

As you are probably aware, I hate my roommate. Accordingly, I've decided to move. My roommate was out of town this weekend so I went ahead and took advantage of the situation to get all of my things out, clean my room & the bathroom and to do all those other things that make me the undeniable best roommate ever (patch holes, paint, etc...). My real intention, of course, was not an award. Rather, I wanted to be out for good before he came home, so that I wouldn't have to see him again. Ever. The only thing is, I didn't know when he was coming back. Sunday? Monday? Now?

My hatred for the ol' roommate stems from his ability to make me extremely uncomfortable and anxious. When he comes home, he doesn't say hi. He walks right by me. When he leaves, he doesn't say bye. He just slams the door. When I ask him a question, he doesn't answer. When he walks, he stomps his feet to make his presence known. When he opens the cupboards, he subsequently slams them so that the airwaves that previously hosted whatever TV show I was watching, now cater to his noise-making prowess. He's a control freak and it was only this weekend that I actually pinpointed - put into words - his core problem with me: He wanted someone to move into his apartment because he needs someone to pay half of the rent, not because he actually wants another individual to live in it. God forbid, I actually come home, sleep and eat. If he were either an intelligent or a decent human being, his actions might have the intended effect: to make me feel like I'm in the way; like I'm doing something innappropriate. But, since he's nothing more than an aging, jobless frat boy, I instead just got annoyed and ultimately decided to leave. After all, one can only bitch so much before taking care of the problem at hand. This leads me into my mild case of PTSD.

For some time now, I've become extremely anxious when I'm home alone. This is due to his pending arrival. For the reasons stated above, the thought of him co-existing in the same space as me causes me this unprecedented anxiety that manifests in a cringed forehead and the dropping of my heart into my stomach. You know - not exactly the most common reactions to living with someone. Usually these symptoms occur when I hear footsteps or keys in the hallway. When the jangling keys and the footsteps pass my door rather than entering (perhaps a result of the Lamb's blood I have placed there for that reason), I let out my held breath with relief, but my anxiety only grows knowing that he will still be home soon. Not knowing when he'd be home this weekend, I experienced this sensation many a time. Cesar, who knows my situation all too well, stayed with me and helped me move. We were watching some show on TV and I heard jangling keys. I mentioned that every time I hear keys, my heart sinks into my stomach because my roommate might be entering. Cesar told me that he felt exactly the same way. I once asked Cesar if I was just paranoid or if my roommate really hated me. He told me that, "No, you're not paranoid. He definitely hates you."

I wasn't supposed to officially move out of my place until Thursday, but my new roommate (my cousin, who knows how much I hate my roommate) gave me the green light go-ahead to start sleeping over as of last night. Not used to co-habitating with a normal human being, I saw the real effects of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder come into play in my new place.

For instance, I immediately attended to every stray hair, whether mine or my cousin's; nabbed every watermark and cleaned every dish within seconds of using it. I worried aloud whether or not my things were in the way, apologized for the lingering smell of the dinner I made and inquired carefully as to the shower schedule for the morning. When I realized what I was doing (which, was effectively walking on eggshells), I explained that I was just dealing with the situation I have been living in the past 6 months. "That bad, huh?" Oh yeah.

I knew that I was irregularly uncomfortable in my old apartment and I knew that I hated my roommate, but it wasn't until I officially moved yesterday that I realized just how sick the situation was. I imagine my PTSD will get the best of me, manifesting into nightmares and flashbacks. Until then, I'll just be happy when the sound of jangling keys ceases to elicit utter horror and the Irish jig performed by my sinking then rising then sinking again heart.

Possibly Naive, Definitely Impressed

Cesar's been talking non-stop about going to see X-Men III. I've been fearfully dodging the subject as there's nothing I'd least rather do. I despise sitting in movie theaters and I've decided that if I do go ahead and do so this summer, it's going to be the DaVinci Code ... That is, after I listen to the book on tape, so I can avoid reading the elementary school writing contained in the printed version. Long story short, I dodged the X-Men III subject many-a-time yesterday.

By coincidence, I saw a guy selling an X-Men III DVD yesterday on the street.

'But, how can it be?' I thought to myself as I walked to the gym. 'The movie just opened last night.'

I came home and told Cesar that I saw it and he was pissed that I didn't get it for him.

"But how can they have that already? It can't be real!"

Evidently these guys get "access" to these movies by sneaking a camcorder into the movie theater and recording the screen.

"Sometimes you see shadows of people gettting up and walking from the audience." Cesar enlightened me

Well, I'll be darned! Never heard of such a thing. You learn something new everyday and all that...

Fortunately, Cesar and I ran into another one of these DVD guys on the train at about 11:30 last night. One of the train regulars doubled as this DVD guy's most loyal customer. He confirmed to us and the 2 reluctant men sitting across from us that he'd been doing business with this DVD guy for a while now. "He's legit." We took a chance and bought the DVD for $5, rationalizing that if it was the real deal, we'd saved $15. If it was bunk, we only lost $5.

As it turns out, the DVD ended up working. There were shadows and audience applause, but all in all, I'd do it again. You know? Just in case you were wondering.

The Countdown Is On, My Friends.

Today is day one of my three day moving spree and it's about 1,000 degrees outside.

Only five more days of the beast and then I shall be freed from my shackles...

Just thought you'd like to know.

The Answer is "No."

The Questions are:

"I'm out with some of my marine friends. You and your friends should come out and meet us for drinks."
"Hi, my friends and I are really desperate and, although the single chick to single dude ratio in Manhattan is an astounding 2:1, we're reserving this prime meat just for you (oh yeah, and for your friends)." Oh, please. Can I?

"Why don't you smile, girl?"
Why must random guys always ask me this when I'm walking down the street? Really, what's their motive? Is it a pick up line? I don't get it. There are a million reasons I'm not smiling okay, asshole? One of which is because there are no clowns and trapezists performing on 28th and Park this afternoon. And if you're really wondering, I just got raped. Thanks for asking.

"It is what it is - you know?"
No, I don't know. What the hell is "It is what it is" supposed to mean? Every time I hear that I can't help but think that somebody's been reading a little bit too much "Tao of Poo." This phrase is, by far, the sorriest excuse for a philosophical solution to a problem for which the speaker simply has no other answer. Furthermore, everyone who utters these annoying 5 words is completely mediocre. My roommate uses it All. Of. The. Time. The worst thing about it is that when said mediocre human being uses it, he or she does so as if having just reached a point of enlightenment. There is no rebuttal that can refute this logic: "I have spoken. It is what it is."

"Did you like the statue of Britney Spears giving birth?"


bufflo (12:22:19 PM): what did you think about that statue?
gigi (12:22:51 PM): what statue?
gigi (12:22:56 PM): oh, britney?
bufflo (12:23:33 PM): yeah
bufflo (12:23:38 PM): doggy style
gigi (12:23:46 PM): she got a C-section, so i thought it was idiotic
gigi (12:24:26 PM): someone just wanted to draw attention to their work, but couldn't do it on their own, so they used britney's fame. How droll.

I hate everybody. Please refrain from speaking to me anymore.

Washington Mutual Annoys Me. And, Come To Think of it—So Does Cingular.

Washington Mutual has these cutesy little commercials out as of late. Featured are a group of men in suits ("Other Banks") who are trying to convince some guy not in a suit ("Washington Mutual") that they are, in fact, Washington Mutual employees. The man not wearing a suit is on to them though. In order to call their bluff, the non-suit keeps on spouting the virtues of a 'free-checking' account with Washington Mutual. Virtues such as "No ATM fees on non-Washington Mutual ATM withdrawals" and "Free checks for life," until finally, one of the suits cannot take it any longer. He confesses that he is but a Washington Mutual wannabee. The other suits sigh in unison, for they can not keep up the charade any longer either. Clearly they've heard enough. Promises like this from a bank? Absurd. The real Washington Mutual employee releases a mere chuckle. He knew what was going on the whole time. He knew they'd cave. That clever Washington Mutual guy!

Being a 'free-checking' Washington Mutual customer myself, I rejoiced. This is mainly because there are basically no WAMU branches within 20 blocks of me (I got the account before I knew where I was living/working so give me a break). Accordingly, I always end up having withdrawal to money from non-WAMU machines and I get fee'd like crazy for it.

Well, after having seen these educational commercials, I noticed that not only was the competing bank still charging me for my withdrawals, so was Washington Mutual. This ultimately costs me about $4 each time I use an ATM machine. I'd like to say that I had to call Washington Mutual's customer service center with bigger fish to fry, but no, I called only to complain about my few dollars lost (I mean, stolen).

Me: "Yeah—saw your commercial. Free checks and no fees, huh? Well, I'm looking at my account right now and not only did the competing bank charge me, but so did Washington Mutual. What's up with that?"

Lady: "It's only for 'free checking' customers."

Me: "I am a 'free checking' customer.

Lady: Well, it's only for new 'free checking' customers.

[At this point I'm a bit annoyed. This lady knew what she was doing. She could've easily saved me a line of speech by saying that it was only for new 'free checking' customers in the first place, but clearly she was going by some sort of script intended to sway old customers from obtaining benefits that are offered to new ones.]

Me: "Okay, so I'll close out my account and open it back up. How 'bout that?"

Lady: "You have to go into a branch and tell them you want to change your account."

Me: "That is so annoying."

I think the lady agreed or disagreed at this point, but it was clear that I'd have to make the haul into a branch.

So, I did.

I walked in yesterday after work, marched up to the teller and told her what I had told the lady on the phone: "Yeah—saw your commercials...."

She looked at me all crazy-like and repeated my phrase as if a question "You saw our commercials?" She rolled her eyes. I think this was also part of the script intended to sway customers away from getting their rightful free stuff.

I remained confident. "Yep. I did and I want free checks for life and no fees on non-Washington Mutual ATM's. I called customer service and they said you'd take care of it for me. So, why don't you be a dear and hook that up?"

The long and short of it is that she ended up taking care of it for me, but the moral of the story is that companies who honor new customers, but not old, loyal ones, really annoy the hell out of me. Cellphone companies are infamous for this. I've wasted my time on many occasions bugging Cingular to switch my bill so that it would reflect the cheaper rate plan they offer to new converts. I always get my way, but not without the grunt work. On top of that, when I ultimately called to cancel Cingular, they reminded me that, "You've been an honored customer with Cingular for 7 years though." Honored? The bastards only treated me right when I threatened to leave them. Plus, they add minutes onto your bill. I'm sure of it. Bottom line, these companies' actions are pretty much synonymous with those of inconsiderate boyfriends. Nuff said.

12 Reasons You Should Probably Just Go Ahead and Break Up With The Bastard...

Formerly titled: 12 Reasons I'm glad I'm dating My Boyfriend Rather Than The Scumbag You Got Stuck With.

1). You live in New York. He lives in Houston. He refuses to travel to New York.

2). He cheated on you within the first 6 weeks that you were dating and you took him back.

3). He just moved his baby's mama from Philly to Houston so that he could "be close to his kids."

4). You feel the need to check his phone bill online. Constantly.

5). You somehow have identified which girl each of the numbers on that bill belongs to.

6). There are more than a few girls calling.

7). You rationalize out loud that the reason that enter girl's name here called him at 4:45 in the morning on Saturday was "because—oh yeah, I know her—they do business together."

8). According to this online phone bill, you called him minutes before this and he didn't pick up your call. He picked up her call and they talked for a bit. He called her back not too long after. Perhaps to let him in? Hmm...

9). You know the number that dials his phone when someone needs to be let into the gate at his house. You recognize the girl's number who called to be let in at 2:45 a.m. Probably business though...

10). The girl who he cheated on you with called you to let you know that she and your boyfriend are dating again. You dismiss this completely. She's a boldface liar.

11). When you approach him about it and demand an explanation, he says he "doesn't have to explain shit" and demands that you "suck his big black dick." (Note: I'm just the messenger).

12). You found condoms under his sink. (You don't use condoms)

I could go on for pages, but do I really need to?

"Kosher Food"

This is what my sister says her new roommate smells like.

"Cheese Distribution"

This, in opposition to "Cheesemaking," is what my sister's new roommate actually does for a living.

"False Advertising"

...Is my final conclusion.

Poor girl got duped.

2 Easy Steps to Achieving Instant 'Putz' Status

1). Spend entire night entertaining friends by talking mad trash about your roommate.
2). Come home to find out his 26-year old brother died minutes before in a car accident.

Coffee Shop Diaries

A series of events that would go into my coffee shop diary, if only I had a coffee shop diary.

[Dear Diary,] Today I was standing in line to order my daily coffee from the coffee shop by my office and the guy standing in front of me ordered a "coffee with cream and one lump."

The first thought to enter my mind was something along the lines of, 'Is this 19th-century England or did I just hear you order a lump in your coffee? I think you might want to hop into your time machine, rev up the engine and hightail it to the 21st centry where people order coffee with a couple packets of Splenda.' (Like I said, it was the first thought. Don't hold it against me. I don't use Splenda either... But, I do think Time Machines are the ultimate luxury vehicle.)

Right after that, some nasally-voiced impish lady walked by the counter and knocked a candy display over onto the floor. She looked at the floor, looked up at the cashier, and then looked back down at the floor, before declaring that, "Umm, I just knocked these over." She looked as though she had just shat her pants. What to do? The cashier looked at her as if to say, "Yes, I can see that. Pick them up, bitch." The lady just stood there staring at the cashier until, annoyed, the cashier batted the imp away and assured her that someone would clean up her dirty mess. "Someone will be right around to wipe your ass, lady. You just go relax."

On my way out of the coffee shop, I walked by my winter coffee shop (I change seasonally as my winter shop doesn't offer iced coffee). The Arabic owner of my winter coffee shop clearly doesn't understand my intentions for switching it up on him and so he glares out of the window at me daily as I pass by with my little brown bag-o-iced coffee. I pretend not to notice, but I indeed feel his evil eye in my periphery. Not being able to take it anymore, today I decided to go in and buy a banana from him. They're only 35 cents and I was hungry. I felt the urge to explain my non-commital nature to him; to justify my sudden dissappearing act, to assure him that I'll be back around come October, but all of these empty compulsions dissipated when after I put my banana on the counter, the owner uttered the words, "Forty. Cents."


This is the winter coffee shop guy. Seriously.

What?! That bastard raised the price on me as punishment! I could almost hear him chuckling as I pulled out the extra nickel. "Serves her right," he probably thought as I took my half-rotten banana and walked to my office.

Do these things happen at Starbucks? Just curious.

[Talk to you later, Di. Love, GiGi]

Bum Stalkers Need Not Apply.

What does a girl have to do to get a reliable stalker 'round here?

In days of yore (last week, as it turns out), I had a stalker that even a celebrity could envy. He would stalk me on myspace and on this here blog. He'd write about me (and my fictional lesbian scenes, to boot), give me a random phone call here and there, IM me under false names like "tyronedoggie", email me and even leave an occassional nasty comment (well, he's still good for that, at least).

But, now he's gone. I don't know how it happened. I didn't even know it had happened. Until today...

Like a wife accidentally walking in on her adulterous husband, I happened upon this discovery purely by mistake. The flawless evidence was in his links section:

Currently Stalking: Open apply today!
This, in place of, "Currently Stalking: GiGi"

Huh?! What did I do? Or rather, what didn't I do?

I found myself surprisingly upset. I might even use the term "used" here. Yes, "used" seems to fit the bill nicely.

So, I guess all this really means is that I, too, am accepting applications for a new stalker as I've done once before.

Dearest stalker, if you're out there, I'll just have you know that you are but a dispensable employee who I can replace with a mere jog over to Craigslist.

Yet, still I cry...

Just goes to show, you don't miss your water 'til your well runs dry. Or something like that.

On that note, please send your resumes to me Here. The position's requirements are summarized in paragraph 2 of this post. Happy Stalking!


Bum Stalker

T-10 hours (and so a new religion is born)

Where T = Time, in relation to my visit to Artisanal. In case you don't recall from last week, it is at Artisanal that I will meet the *cheesemaker* who my sister will be strategically cohabitating with in effort to further perpetuate our new business venture (to be explained).

D is in town for the occasion because he takes business matters such as this quite seriously. Cesar will be around as a neutral buffer in case the cheesemaker has an impenetrable pokerface and tries to pull something shifty. You see, Cesar is not daunted by impenetrable pokerfaces so his presence is uniquely instrumental. As a further explanation of my sister's position, she has been planted into the situation as a live-in representative slash non-Russian, yet still Russian, spy of D and I's rare cheese plant. In the meantime, I will work with my small group of followers to draft up the rest of our church slash business plan.

"How," one might ask, "do cheese and religion come together as a business venture?" A good question indeed. So far, we have the following answers and ideas:

1). From Ben (who has since been sired a bishop slash marketing executive):
Why not tie the cheesemaking business into your religion to dupe people? You could make millions from the cheese, and millions more by attaching it to religion. Think about it: Whoever the central character in your bible is could break cheese instead of bread to feed the thousands, it could be offered as communion! Cheese instead of the dry, tasteless wafer (and think how well it would go with the wine!), and it could be marketed as God's Cheese! [Editor's note: Brilliant! This is similar to "Kabbalah Water," but way better.]

By the way, once you bang out the kinks in your newfound religion, if you need a random public spokesperson to spread the 'good word,' I'd be willing to contract my services. We can work out the compensation details later, but I will say I'd expect a royalty of all incoming tithing, and all the cheese I could possibly eat.

2). From Badmammajamma (also an equal business partner who will work in production slash "belief development"):
Hey, Gigi, can I get in on the ground floor of this whole venture? It's highly possible that I'm pregnant (not positive just yet) and if I am, I'll be lactating like a mofo in the not too distant future. I'll definitely produce a different flavor of cheese. You know, a mild, easily melting, salty cheese. Since I live in the South and all, and apparently everyone from the South is very laid-back or "mild" and everything down here melts easily. Plus, I'm one salty bitch.


3). Random Thoughts (provided by the high-priestess slash C.E.O. - me!):
Any new religion needs missionaries to spread the good word. This is where Chad and Bufflo will come in. Morris will be the creator/cause of evil, for every religion must offer something that invokes fear in its followers. The wrath of Morris, for example, will be the threatened punishment for dissenters who fail to pay us our commission, I mean, "tithing."

4). Ben's Rough Proposition for Propagating the Initial "Good Word":
Sure, we need some sort of propaganda spouting machine. We can steal ideas from already established religions, but we probably need to come up with some of our own.

The Mormons seemed to have the most clever way of founding their church and make it impossible to refute. I think we should take their lead:

J Smith: "God spoke to me, he lead me to the tablets of the TRUE word of God!"

Townspeople: "That's great, John. Let's take a look so we can all truly understand!"

J Smith: "Uhhh, actually God said that only I am allowed to see them, and that I'm supposed to lead you. It's just as well, because they are written in a magical language that only I can read thanks to this handy-dandy looking glass the Lord provided me with."

Townspeople: "Oh...um...ok. Can we at least see the looking glass?"

J Smith: "No. Enough talk. Let's go to Utah. Oh, and God said I could also have 7 wives. I'll take you, you, you...ummm, you, you...Let's see, that's 1,2,3,4,5,...two more...two more...ummm, you there, and you...in the back...with the blue dress on...no, not you...her. Yes, her. That's the one. Alright, lets roll!"

----------

And with that, I will begin scripting our Mission Statement; our Plan of Execution, Marketing Strategy, Competition, Executive Structure and our 3-year budget forecast. Any foresight you can provide in regards to the streamlining of our religion slash business would be much appreciated.

And, as for the Cheesemaker who we are pulling into this thing blindly, does anyone get any bad "vibes" from his mention? I just need to make sure we only have pure and holy people in this venture. I have a good feeling about him as long as he keeps his nose clean and doesn't ask too many questions. That is so not what he is here for.

For Emergency Use Only

I just went into the bathroom at work and upon washing my hands, I noticed a razor blade/box cutter device sitting by the sink. I couldn't help but think that someone had put that there in case one of our colleagues wanted to, say, use it to permanently escape the place. Walking back into my office, I saw the "In case of emergency" fire alarm pull-box. Now—I thought—if only I could steal that sign and place it in the bathroom next to the razor blade? Not that I want to give people any irrational ideas, but wouldn't that be a hoot?

Yes, I said a "hoot"

My Sister's New Roommate, The Cheesemaker

My sister Andrea, who currently lives in Park City, Utah, was just dumped by her self-involved snowboarder boyfriend. So, instead of sitting around and sulking like any other chick might, she opted to pack up shop and hightail it to New York City. After all, why sit around and let him see you cry? No chance. Not if I have anything to say about it anyway...


"ME? Cry over YOU? Paahhhleeeaaassseee...You are sorely mistaken, my brotha."

She was bagged last week. She arrives on Monday. But this short little anecdote isn't really about her. While she's indeed an instrumental figure, this is about my new business with D (No, not the church - I'm still developing the religion we're going to pawn off on people. Stay tuned though).

So, the plan was that my sister would stay with me for about a week or however long it took for her to find a place. However, I got a call from her the other day and she told me that she found a place and a roommate. And not just any roommate, a cheesemaker! And not just any cheesemaker, a cheesemaker who works at...

Me: "Wait, where does he work?" (I had a feeling about this one)
Her: "Some place that starts with an 'A' and ends with an 'N-A-L'"
Me: "Anal? Artisanal? Artisanal! That is my favorite restaurant!" (Dirty Sapphire martinis with cheese stuffed olives!)
Her: "Yeah, I think that's it."
Me: "Oh my gosh, I have to call you back!"

I had to share the news with someone who would truly appreciate the implications of this development. Seeing as how D recently got into the cheese-making business, I called him at work.

His response - which completely reconfirmed all of the reasons why I am absolutely crazy about him - was that he, me and my sis's new roommate need to go into business together.

D: "I wonder if he knows of a market for the rare cheese we produce, babe?"*
Me: "Oh, I'm sure he does. Anyone who knows how to make cheese is basically a God. He's omnipotent. We're going to make millions!"

D couldn't agree with me more. And with that, we turned a simple idea into a rough draft of a business plan.

D, Andrea and I are meeting our new partner at Artisanal this coming Tuesday. You know - to tell him about his new business. I'm sure he'll be just as excited as we are to get started.


*If you have any desire to understand what the hell I'm talking about in this post, you really need to read the link I provided above. It's short and funny, I promise.

Stop Commenting on What I'm Eating. Thanks.

Due to the fact that I work in an office composed primarily of chicks, I'm constantly being questioned as to what I'm eating. I assume this is due to the fact that I eat like a starving guy and remain in pretty good shape. The only other explanation is that they are passively requesting a bite. So, I offer. When no bite is accepted, I can only assume a severe case of accusatory meddling. But, what are the accusations? Here we go...

As a half-hearted disclaimer, I'd like to give my nosy colleagues the benefit of the doubt that their neverending inquiries are based on general curiosity, but this degree of prying is way too prevalent to be explained by a general interest in the human condition. Plus, I haven't once witnessed anybody else's dietary practices being called into question.

This was a common trend in the sorority I lived in for a year (before I ultimately quit) at Indiana University. Girls would eagle-eye other girls' plates to see what they were eating. Then they'd whisper about it to one another: "Oh my God, did you see what Melanie's eating today?!" Granted, since most of the girls there were essentially starving themselves or taking laxatives, a certain degree of commentary was certainly warranted. But, c'est la vie. That's their prerogative.

What I'm dealing with here, my friends, is the complete opposite situation. I'll admit it: I eat like a damn cow. Even my guy friends give me props, all having told me on separate occasions that I can out-eat them and out-drink them any day. And, it's 100% true. Thank you, but no applause. Okay, maybe just a little one.

But seriously, now that I've framed the picture for you, let's get back to the girls I work with:

The girl who sits behind me, for one, continually says, "Oh, I see you're eating again." To which, I reply, "Yep, I am. What's it to ya?" Not being the shy type, she tells me she thinks I'm bulimic. I, of course, take this as a compliment since I'm not, in fact, bulimic. Rather, I view it for what it is: an affirmation of her approval. Kudos to me. I've never been one to turn down a compliment... no matter what form it takes on.

The chunky girl who comes into my office and comments on my lunch daily (I pack my lunch to save my hard-earned dough, so I usually eat at my desk). Often I'm eating something smothered in melted cheese and sprinkled with lard, so I guess it's a fair question that renders justifiable curiosity ... ONCE.

Her: "How can you eat that and stay so thin?"
Me: "I do cardio 5 or 6 days a week, which basically makes it impossible to put on weight."
Her: "I just don't believe that working out really takes the weight off."
Me: "Okay. It doesn't."

The annoying girl who always happens to be in the kitchen area when I am (Why is it that every time I'm in the kitchen, you's in the kitchen too?!), takes liberty to look in my bag to see what I've brought for the day. "Oh my gosh, you brought a whole dried salami!" Then I catch her looking me up and down in my periphery, assumedly to see where it all goes.

The emaciated girl who is usually using the microwave to heat water for her herbal tea, while I'm waiting to use it to warm up last night's lamb chops for breakfast: "Oh my God, you eat the weirdest things for breakfast. That's so gross." Oh, I'm sorry. I don't remember asking your skeleton-ass your opinion. Did I miss something?

If I didn't have to see these people on a regular basis, my response would be something along the lines of, "I've made it 26 years with out your advice and I've done just fine, so..." But, unfortunately, I do see them on a regular basis, so my response is usually just unspoken annoyance.

All four of these offenders have issues with the working out thing. Three of them proclaimed that they don't work out. The fourth didn't have to.

Offender #1 told me she wanted to lose weight but didn't want to work out or eat less. I'm interested to see how that will work out for her.

Offender #2 evidently doesn't believe in exercise

Offender #3 claims that she hasn't worked out in years

Offender #4 is one of those outdated waif people (who thrived in the eighties), and is way too brittle to work out. She doesn't have to admit it, but she would break under the pressure of lifting a 5 lb weight.

My sister and I have this theory that you can stay in shape by doing one or two of the following things:

1) Work Out
2) Eat Less

But, rarely can you stay in shape doing neither. I choose to work out and eat entire fromageries for lunch. If you don't like it, keep it to yourself. It's becoming annoying. Thanks.

Bulimic Sorority Indiana University

More Support for My Theory

Not that I'm pressing this point for any particular reason other than, "Asian Women talkin' too much trash" is becoming too much of a prevalent trend to be ignored, I've found more support for my theory-cum-religion (I always tell D that we should start a business together. My suggestion is always that we should start a church or a whole new religion all together. I mean, think of all the money we'd rake in. He hasn't exactly jumped on the opportunity, but I'm patient. There is tons to be made in gold, copper and ... false faiths).

That having been said, I think somewhere in the Bible's Book of Revelations there is a line that reads:

"Things will fall from the sky, monumental disaster will plague the land, disease and famine shall prevail, and Asian women will talk a whole lot of trash to one another while they're doing your nails."

And so it has come to pass. The most recent "sign of the apocolypse" occurred yesterday. All the gory details can be found on Logged Hours. However, I've sifted through the minutiae to provide you the core of the story. Here's the bulk of the horror:

"She [Emily, the Korean Manicurist] pursed her lips and pointed to the chair, and barked,"You sit!"Emily didn't really say much during my pedicure, preferring to indicate what she wanted me to do by slapping my leg. When she wanted me to put my foot in the tub, she would slap my shin. Foot out? A slap on the back of my calf. In fact, the only words she spoke were at the end of the pedicure when she was moisturizing my legs. She was rubbing my leg with lotion, when she stops and turns to her friend and says something in Korean. "Is something wrong?" I asked her. "Oh, no. Nothing. Nothing wrong," she replies, and then said something else in an aside to her friend and started laughing. Immediately I began to feel self conscious. Were my legs spiky?"

And, while some might consider this a mere coincidence, the fact that Kate (from Logged Hours) felt the need to depict the Asian manicurist as a devil is, well, a bit telling of the situation we are facing:




Yep, I stole it straight from her site...
Well done, Kate! (Please don't sue me...Thanks!)

So, yeah. Just wanted to let you know that I'm not just another prophetic loon who is receiving cosmic messages from the Heavens. This is real, folks! Many have seen the signs. Perhaps they will go into the family business with me if D won't? Just think about it, k?

>>The entry that started it all was posted on March 13, 2006 and can be found here.

Apocolypse Signs Prophet Chinese Women

Jane Magazine Agrees With Me About Asian Women

This just in: An Asian editor from Jane magazine agrees with me about the whole "Asian women being bitches" phenomenon. Or, as I prefer to call it: Chinese women talk a lot of trash.

And yes, I realize that all Chinese women are Asian, but that not all Asians are Chinese.

Now that that's settled, here's how this whole discovery came to pass:

Claudine, an editor from Jane, wrote a quick blog entry (in a contrived style, which I might add, screams 'I want street cred, but I sold out such a long time ago*') on Jane's snazzy new website, called: Why some Asian girls might seem like cold, stuck-up bitches.

Truly, it was as if she was offering me an explanation for my relentless accusation about the group in question (And, I'm honored to have made such a cultural impact in society. Yes, yes - the winds of change...). However, if you read it you will see that Claudine cites 'Americans' stereotypes' as the reason why Asian women come off as such cold-hearted bitches (and, in effect, talk a lot of unnecessary trash).

It's a short post, but the gist of it is that she was in a co-ed bathroom at some bar, dressed poorly and looking shabby, when a guy came up to her and said he liked her style. Upon instantaneously realizing that she looked like shit, the White Devil topped off what he meant as a compliment by noting that he had spent some time in China.

She leaves it off there, letting the readers draw their own conclusions. I assume the conclusion she'd like them to adopt is something along the lines of: "Like, hello, no wonder we're bitches. I mean, just because I'm Asian doesn't mean I'm Chinese. And above that, I was born here! Second, buddy, I bet you get cold stares, like the one this here Asian bitch is giving you right now, all of the time due to your pseudo-cultural conclusions based upon shortlived travel experiences. Lastly, if you're trying to hit on me, at least buy me a drink. Asshole."

And for some reason, this makes me like her even more. Not to mention, Jane is one of my faves.

But, in other breaking news, I've discovered that it's not just Chinese women anymore. Even Chinese Fortune Cookies talk a lot of trash. Take a gander and commence amazement:

What the hell kind of half-assed fortunes are these? By golly, when I was a kid these things used to promise you riches, happiness and long life. Now they're offering you bad news and made-up acronyms? I don't get it...

I'm telling you, I am the Cassandra in the midst of this dangerous and burgeoning trend. Is anybody there? Does anybody hear me? Chinese trash talkin' is but a small symptom of what is most likely a population-destroying epidemic. Don't say I didn't warn you.

* Not that there's anything wrong with selling out. Hell, I did it years ago.

>>The entry that started it all was posted on March 13, 2006 and can be found here.

Jane magazine

Magazine Faux Pas of the Year

You all know what a pull-quote is, right?

If not, it's the enlarged quote that stands out on an article's page to amplify a certain point or tie in a design with the copy, etc...

A friend of mine who works for a New York-based magazine—the name of which I soo can't mention—called me to tell me that their current issue had just returned from the printers and there was a major—how do I say it?—a major fuck up in it. Here it is:



Click on the image if you want to see this blemish in all its glory...
In case you can't read it:

"THIS IS A PULL QUOTE THAT IS WILL TIE THIS PAGE IN WITH THE COVER PAGE YUP THIS IS A PULL QUOTE THAT IS WILL TIE THIS PAGE IN WITH THE COVER."

Evidently the previous designer put it in as a subtle reminder to herself to fill the spot. No need to worry about proper grammar or idiotic tendencies if you plan on removing it later, right? Oops. Three proofreaders and a new designer later, this is how it went to print. The owners of the magazine still haven't noticed it and it has been a week. I assume that's why my friend still has his job.

As an aside, the funniest thing about the whole thing is that when I saw it, I thought it was absolutely brilliant. This is something I would've done intentionally in my magazine, may it Rest In Peace. You know—just for shits and giggles. I'm just pissed that I didn't think about it before we folded (or come to think of it, maybe editorial decisions such as this are why we folded)! Damn hindsight - it's always 20/20.

Magazines

Craigslist Posting, Revised

To see the glorious Craigslist posting I put up for my room on Saturday after having broke the news to El Diablo, go here.

Please note, the ugly room pictured is his, not mine. Trust me, my taste in decor is more exquisite and refined than the maritime colors and plaque collection he has chosen. Tee hee.

You might also note that I stretched the truth just a little bit.

First off, I called him a "professional." If this means he gets up every morning, puts on a suit and ventures off to a place of business, well then, it's not a lie. If this, however, in any way signifies that he's bringin' home the bacon, well then, ummm, no.

"Laid back." Okay, so the term was used loosely. And by "loosely," I mean that if there is a watermark on the glass table or a phone charger in the kitchen, you better sleep with one eye open. No joke.

Pictures. Maybe it would've been more satisfying (yet a hinderance to my ultimate goal) to instead include the following pictures:




Because everyone should have a proper shrine to themselves.


Oh, I'm sorry. Couldn't read it? Here's a close up. Yep, that's what I was thinking too.

I should also reiterate that the room comes unfurnished, i.e. You won't get stuck with the following items upon moving in:

Upon entering the door to his room...Don't feel bad. I don't get it either.


Words will do my feelings no justice...If I had to define it somehow, however, I would say something alluding to howChrist-like his actions are. So caring. So comforting. So soothing...


Refer to above caption

And the clencher? This beauty:

"Because all the hoes end up like this on my bed, bra."

Good thing my judgment got the best of me. If I would have posted these, I wouldn't have been so lucky as to show the place to the 3 poor, unknowing saps I met yesterday. I feel bad doing this to them, but better them than me, you know?

I Hate My Roommate

My Guilty Conscience, Broken.

I don't know what it is, but I've been cursed with a guilty conscience. People often ask me if I'm Catholic because of my tendency to say I'm sorry when I've done absolutely nothing wrong. It's a sick habit actually, like I'm publically repenting for nothing whatsoever just to change the subject. I'd prefer to take blame for something rather than get caught up in an argument that has no right or wrong answer. "Fine, you can be right. I'm sorry," is one of my famous lines. It tends to piss people off because they want to keep arguing. So, I guess you could say it works out well. On the other hand, I'm just too nice sometimes. I start thinking, 'Hey, maybe I was wrong. Have I considered all angles of the situation? Maybe there's something I don't see from so and so's perspective." Well, the ol' conscience started sneaking up on me last night, but I stopped it in its tracks. Not this time, buddy.

For some reason, I actually started feeling bad about how I've been talking about my roommate. Maybe I'm being too harsh? Maybe I'm not being sympathetic to his situation? I started feeling sorry for him and his inability to lock down a job. I started empathizing with him, thinking about how I would feel if I was low on money and couldn't find a job. But then it occurred to me that I didn't have a job for 2 months when I moved here, and not once did I consider this grounds to be a rude, condescending asshole to anyone. I was as pleasant as a lotus flower on the Nile in the spring time (summer?). Either way...

Shortly after my self-induced and shortlived guilt trip, I began talking to his girlfriend about my future replacement. My roommate is taking my small room, so I warned her about that as well. It is too stuffy. One of our "applicants" is a med school student. She said she thought that was good because he would be locked in his room all the time, not out in the living room a lot [like me]. I told her that she'll see that it's impossible to stay in my little room all the time since there's no ventilation. Plus, I don't have a TV. It became obvious right there that El Diablo had been complaining about me being in the living room too much. What a dick. I felt the compulsion to apologize for being around all the time, but stopped the feeling in its tracks. I pay over $1,200/month (there, now you know...) to live there. I'll sit on the couch all day if I feel like it. I ventured off into my room at 9:00, vowing not to come back out until this morning.

Good thing too, because, at this point, he started arguing with his girlfriend in front of me about nothing in particular (I think it was about what they would eat for dinner, actually - because that always necessitates a heated argument).

That said, I still hate him. Maybe even more so than I did originally.


guilty conscience Catholic Repent

Introducing: D's New Line

In effort to outshine his teacher (me), the student (D), came up with a brilliant line today.

I was on the phone with D earlier when he was ordering a 1/4 pound of cheese from the deli. I asked if I heard him order goat cheese, a bit confused because he's a swiss cheese kinda guy.

D: "No, no babe. I didn't order goat cheese, but I'll buy you all the cheese you want if you move here."

Me: "Really? Well then, I'd have to up my cheese consumption ratio from 1 lb a week to about 4 lbs a week if it's on you."

(This is where D's new line comes into fruition)

D: "Why don't I just knock you up tonight, milk you and then make cheese out of it?"


Oh, how I laughed.

Ashlee Simpson's Nose Job

Chosen said that if I wrote about Ashlee Simpson's nose job, the people would come.

Chosen is basically the Rainman. Or, am I the Rainman?

Hmmm... who cares, I just want the people to come.

I assume there are better methods to make them come...


ashlee simpson's nose job | Rainman | Chosen

Last Night in My Dream...

....my roommate said that he reads my blog. At this, I turned, looked at him and said:

"Well then, now you know that I know you steal my food."

My dream then drifted to me getting married, instantly wanting a divorce and then making blood mary mix that settled into water unless shaken profusely.

Good times.

***************And, in breaking news*************

I've announced to my roommate (who Cesar and I fittingly call "El Diablo") that I am moving out June 15th. Now who's strappin' on her balls and being the man in this relationship? Or, as Kate from Logged Hours might say, "Now, who's the alpha male up in here?"

Double-Edged Sword: An Open Letter to My Roommate

Dear [my roommate's name here],

You and your girlfriend (who is way too good for you, by the way) are having problems. This is because, quite frankly, you are an asshole. She told friends that she feels like she's 'walking on eggshells' around you and that you're being a "dick," yet she doesn't want to hurt you by breaking up with you. I hate to say it, but I indeed let out a big "Uh hem, I told you so" cough when I heard the news. You see, I've been explaining your attitude problem to our mutual friends for a while, hoping it would get back to her. I casually mentioned the way you pretend you're playing with your cellphone at a bar and accidentally let it graze a girl's ass, only to then blame it on the phone. Ha ha. That is so clever [Read: That is so clever when you are 12]. How smart of you to be able to get a cheap feel like that!

You reminisce aloud about the days when you had an annoying 19-year old Jap from Long Island after you. You actually hated this girl when you were hanging out with her and tried to ditch her at every chance you could get, but now, when friends are around, you brag about the fact that a 19-year old wanted you in a "those were the good old days" sorta fashion. My god, her shrill voice was the most annoying thing I had ever heard. She actually said, "Wow, your apartment is, like, so mature," when she walked into our place. I won't even get into the chick you dated before her. She was completely heinous and totally irritating. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure why you guys weren't more compatible? Food for thought...

But back to your current girlfriend, I actually started hating her for a bit. Not only because she put up with your pompous attitude, but because she perpetuated it by sitting tight-lipped when you humiliated me in front of her and my friend, yelling "Your hair is all over the floor in the bathroom. I'm not kidding when I say you need to clean up." [Fuck you for that, by the way. You are neurotic and your faults sooo far outweigh 'hair on the floor']. I hated her for that and for the fact that she is always over. That brings me to the reason I am writing this letter.

Now that you two are having problems, you are never gone. Yesterday I gave quite a bit of thought to the situation, trying to debate which scenario is most bearable:

Scenario 1

Down Side: You and her at the house, constantly. You two lounging on the couch, eating macaroni and cheese with twist-off top Chardonnay, watching Jesus versus Juda documentaries. Me having to schedule my morning showers around both of yours.

Up Side: You are gone occasionally; either spending the night at her place, or at least, going out during the evening - sometimes not returning until I am asleep.

Scenario 2

Down Side: You are always home

Up Side:

While this situation no doubt presents me with a double-edged sword (because if I ever have to be in the same room with you, I am essentially cursed), I'm begging you to lose your attitude and apologize to your girlfriend. Whatever you are fighting about is no doubt your fault. On top of that, you offer her nothing and she's willing to accept that. She offers everything and you turn her down.

Hell, you've never been that smart anyway. Just sleep on it, okay? We'll talk about it over my eggs and my bacon and my coffee tomorrow (In other words, yes - I know you are eating my food). Until then...

I hate you,
GiGi

Birthday Ingrate: The Update

From: Ex-Boyfriend
To: GiGi
Date: May 11, 2006 11:20 AM
Subject: Re: happy birthday!

Just to set the record straight, I am not pissed. I actually think its funny. Can't teach an old dog new tricks...
------
From: GiGi
To: Ex-Boyfriend
Date: May 11, 2006 11:51 AM
Subject: Re: happy birthday!

You were pissed. Don't lie. AND, you were rude about it.

No, I'll never be good with birthdays, but I don't care if people remember mine, so I think that cancels out the situation.

Did you have fun???

The Jesus Stamp Envelope is In!

A while ago I revealed a few of my mom's quirks and oddities. One of them is the fact that she sends letters with Jesus stamps and stickers affixed to them.

A refresher just in case:

"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."

Now you have living proof of what can only be described as an "other-worldly" (Heaven?) phenomenon. While this one doesn't have the aforementioned tagline, at least I came through with the goods. If only you could see the little gem that lied within the envelope... I just couldn't do that to her though. I mean, not everyone needs to know about the letter she wrote to God asking him to decrease her appetite so she could lose weight. Now, if only I could market that, it would be the Born Again Diet Supplement Christian's everywhere have been waiting for.

Birthday Ingrate

Here's a lovely email chain for you.

A few things to take into consideration while reading:

1). The person I am writing to in these emails happens to be D's friend who I used to date.
2). May 7th was his birthday.
3). I like the word "geezer."
----------
From: GiGi
To: Ex-Boyfriend
Date: May 4, 2006 11:11 AM
Subject: Re: Hey

Ha ha, Very nice! You're a fool.

Now, lest you think I've forgotten, I know it's your birthday in a few days. So, in case I forget then, Happy Birthday geezer.

I see that you're still in the habit of drinking coffee? I can't help but get a little teary-eyed knowing that I instilled that wonderous quality in you...
---------
From: Ex-Boyfriend
To: GiGi
Date: May 4, 2006 12:08 PM
Subject: Re: Hey

What are you talking about? My birthday was in April???

I cannot go a day w/o my starbucks coffee. I stopped drinking lattes...too expensive for my taste and not enough caffeine. And no, you did not teach it to me. The only thing you instilled in me was a thorn in my side and some gray hair.

Ha, Ha,
-------------------
4-days later....

From: GiGi
To: Ex-Boyfriend
Date: May 8, 2006 7:28 PM
Subject: happy birthday!

Hope you had a great weekend! Let's chat again soon, you geezer.

GiGi
---------
From: Ex-Boyfriend
To: GiGi
Date: May 9, 2006 9:58 AM
Subject: Re: happy birthday!

Thanks for the timely e-mail...For future reference, save those thoughtless e-mails for your colleagues or other friends...
--------

From: GiGi
To: Ex-Boyfriend
Date: May 9, 2006 2:33 PM
Subject: Re: happy birthday!

You know I suck about birthdays. That's why I emailed you last week and told you early. Plus, I was out of town for a conference, so I was busy as hell on Sunday.

I can't believe that my cute little email pissed you off so much.
--------

Whoa! So, what do you make of it?

Don't Let the American Flag Touch the Ground. Hold it Upright at All Times.

I have been such a bad little blogger. I was in Chicago for the weekend and Monday visiting my sweet beau, D. Needless to say, I didn't make it near the computer much at all. Now I'm back at work, swamped. Can't a girl simply go on vacation and come back to no work? Maybe a desk covered in presents? Numerous voicemails of praise and a few "I don't know what to do when you're gone. I didn't realize how much I depended on your genius everyday" emails. Where's the justice?

So, while I'm thinking of something completely brilliant to write, I thought I'd share a picture that Cesar and I took on Thursday night while under Victor's magical influence.

I was walking down 46th Street and something when I see this giant penis holding the American flag. Accordingly, I look over at Cesar and say, "oh my gosh, there is a big penis protruding out of that building and it's holding the American flag!"



Call me un-patriotic if you feel the need.
As much as I'd like to say it, I didn't make the damn thing.

It took Cesar a minute to see the resemblance, which boggles me. It is and was clearly a penis flag holder.

Realizing we had the camera on hand, we ran across the street to get a shot of me pretending to lick it (After all, "Ask not what your country can do for you..."). I mean, how could we not have? It was our moral obligation.

Directly below the erect flag pole stood a Russian/Polish/Italian-lookin' guy, handing out flyers for a nearby restaurant. I asked him if he had ever noticed the similarities between the flag pole and a, well, you know what? He took a minute to look at it as well, then replied to me: "Not until now. Let me guess, you're the one who pointed it out, right?" I'm not sure what this meant. I mean, I'm not sure why he thinks it's obvious that a girl would be the first to notice this. Again, his lagtime in making the connection boggled me.

I tried to get his picture too - you know, for this important photo documentary - but he ran inside to get permission and evidently his boss said no. I wonder how he posed the request: "Hey, there are two people outside who think the flag pole looks like a penis. The girl is pretending to lick it. They want a picture of me too."

Maybe I do just have a sick mind. Truth be told, I was leaving to see D the next day after a grueling two weeks of withdrawal. But, in my defense, I returned last night completely, uh-hem, satisfied, and I still saw/see a big weiner housing the American flag.

My New Line: The Sequel (REVIEWED!)

So, last night at Esca with Victor and Cesar (read post below), I was talking about the second addition to my "new line repertoire."

A cool man and his bitter wife were sitting right next to us at the time, but seeing as how I like to be the life of the party and I assume that whatever I am saying is being eagerly absorbed by those in my presence, I didn't hesitate to blurt out my new line to Victor and everyone else within a mile radius:

"So, I saw D the other day and he was wearing a pink shirt. I told him it really brings out his vagina! Ain't that a hoot?"

Everyone was laughing hysterically ... except for, of course, the bitter wife. Bitter wives, also known as "ice princesses," don't laugh. They seethe. I can't cater to them though, so I ignored her. You never know - bitter wife syndrome might be contagious and I'd like to avoid contracting any of the symptoms.

Anyway, a few minutes later I looked over at Cesar and asked: "The wife wasn't amused by my new line, was she?"

Cesar: "Not at all. Did you hear what her husband said?"

Me: "No. Do tell!"

Cesar: "He told her: 'babe you've gotta expect these things - we're in a bar.'"

Oh, how I do chuckle inside. I'm the obnoxious drunk at the bar. Kind of gives me the warm fuzzies.

When they got up to leave, I commenced making passive aggressive comments, such as, "He's cheating on you. No big deal" and "She just can't take the heat." Of course, I maintained eye contact with my plate of octopus rather than looking at her because A). I'm a wimp, and B). I wanted her to fall asleep wondering whether or not I was, in fact, speaking of her.

Hee hee.

I apologized to Victor for running his customers out, but he didn't care. He still had us - his faves. Plus, he has great taste: He loved my new line. I mean, how could you not?