Old Roommate Still At It: A Juicy Update

Seeing as how my cousin is bestfriends with The Diablo's* girlfriend, I still get the occassional update on him. Call me a bitch or call me bitter ... Either way, this morning's batch was a doozy. A doozy, I say!

What I have recently learned (and, if your ears are virgins, you may want to skip the first entry):

1). He is hung like a damned horse.
Or, so says his girlfriend, and I guess she would know. This really explains a lot in terms of his attitude. Guys with big tools tend to think they can get away with murder, but this is not without warrant. Girls who date these guys tend to perpetuate their attitudes because they're addicted. "You can treat me however you want as long as you keep bringing that thang home to mama." When you weigh the options (shitty personality versus horse schlong) the latter tends to weigh a whole hell of a lot more. Literally. And, just like that, The Diablo's biggest character flaw ever —his entire personality—has now been justified.

2). His New Roommate is Already Moving Out.
I couldn't have planned this revenge better myself. Karma is such a bitch and I envy her smooth ways. The new roommate was a nice girl from England. Supposedly one of her bestfriends is moving to NYC from England and they are going to move in together... A likely excuse, indeed. Right when I heard it, I knew: She can't stand The Diablo. I threw my hands up in the air, "Hey, I did my part."

3). El Diablo begs his Girlfreind to Move in with him.
Now that he's again without a roommate, The Diablo has asked his girlfriend to move in with him. Just as I do, the girlfriend has a "No Living with the Boyfriend" Policy. Thusly, she declined. In true Diablo fashion, he responded: "Well maybe you're not ready to be in this relationship if you're not ready to move in with me."

I don't know if pretending to drop your cellphone to touch a girl's ass qualifies as a sign of devotion to your current girlfriend, Diablo, but I'd say that her dedication to you is tenfold that of yours, whether or not she moves in with you. It's only been 6 months, psycho.

And, last, but sooo definitely not least:

4). The Girlfriend Is Grabbing Her Horse by The Balls and Breaking Up With Him:
You heard it here first, ladies and gents. This girl has come to grips with reality and is officially set to break up with the bastard. She doesn't know the half of what an asshole he is, because I opted not to tell her (although I did tell her friends, hoping they would). In my opinion, he'd shown his true colors without any help from me, i.e. she had reason to break up with him despite lacking access to my deep well of proprietary information (Information such as his blunt desire for other girls, etc...).

They are going to visit his family this weekend in the Midwest and according to my highly credible source, the girlfriend doesn't want to. She'll probably break the news to him after that. As you know, I'll gladly fill you in...


*If you haven't been keeping up with my Roommate rants, you can catch up by clicking on "I Hate My Roommate" in my new categories section to the right

Before the World Ends ... Some More Expressive Emoticons, Please?

Skeeze (12:33:11 PM): AN ASTEROID HALF A MILE WIDE WILL PASS NEAR EARTH ON THE MORNING OF JULY 3RD
skeeze (12:33:25 PM): NO COLLISION IS EXPECTED
gigi (12:33:29 PM): that's nice
Skeeze (12:33:44 PM): WE'RE ALL FUCKED ANYWAY
Skeeze (12:33:49 PM): SOMEDAY
gigi (12:33:58 PM): precisely - at least i'll be with D
Skeeze (12:34:09 PM): HOW ROMANTIC
gigi (12:34:18 PM): You were thinking the same thing about Candie - don't lie
Skeeze (12:34:41 PM): NO, I WAS THINKING "WHY IN THE HELL DOES IM NOT HAVE A PUKING FACE?"

My Cousin, The Madam...

Here's a mass email [Read: cattle round-up] that I just received from my cousin.

I'm pretty sure that she's this guy's agent on the side. I swear, Mr. Policeman, I had no idea she was running this business out of our apartment:

Ladies,

My friend John is in town from Scottsdale, AZ…an attractive male friend by the way….staying at the Hudson Hotel on a business trip. I’m meeting him for a couple of drinks at the Hudson Bar tonight at 7:00pm , it’s supposed to be a pretty cool bar if anyone wants to join.

So you’re probably thinking….”S---, if he’s so great, why don’t you date him?” Well…he dated my best friend for 2 years so he’s off limits for me….but for some of you….fair game. He’s in NYC periodically on business for sales calls. Here are the specs:

5’10-11”ish

Italian- dark hair and light brown eyes, good-looking

Funny!!!

Intelligent

Sales Manager for the RETRACTED

Owns a condo in Scottsdale

Slightly emotionally scarred from past relationships…but who isn’t???

I feel like such a PIMP…and he would actually kill me if he knew that I was writing this. Let me know if you can make it.

-S....

--------

Here are some of the preliminary responses (I don't understand the second one either):

Friend #1: This says ERIN all over!

Friend #2: So say all 12 of us can come that were invited, would he feel a little awkward? I might have to bring the email to make sure he can find us...

Cousin: Oh no….he will love the captive audience!!!

I Must've Been Lookin' Fine This Morning...

Well, actually, I know this is not the case because I never look good if my final destination is my office, so let me rephrase:

I Must've Been Lettin' Off Some Serious Pheromones This Morning...

...because the little guy in the business suit who was power walking - literally - across the street so as not to get hit by the Fresh Direct truck, stopped mid-stride to check me out [Read: almost got plowed and covered in fresh fruits and veggies to take a gander at yours truly].

Then, the Somewhere Over the Rainbow-singin' bum in the subway didn't hassle me, and I caught another little business suit guy checking me out. Was my nipple hanging out of my shirt again? Why all of the attention this morning?

My commute ended when some guy tapped me on the shoulder and told me "You dropped this," as he handed me his business card. "I thought I'd try..."

I'm going to have to wear my hair in a wet bun and read Salman Rushdie on the train a little more often. After all, I needed a new bookmark and the business card worked like a charm.

Decisions, Decisions...

Moving from the Upper East Side to the Upper West required me to learn a few new 'best practices' for navigating through my new neighborhood. Whereas on the Upper East Side, the most critical rule I abided to was leaving my house for work 10 minutes earlier than I thought necessary, in order to avoid crossing the subway voodoo dancer girl who I work with - now I have been instructed to avoid, at all costs, walking down 82nd street to get to the subway in the morning.

"The Holy Trinity church has a soup kitchen for the homeless in the morning," my cousin warned me with fear in her eyes.

Thusly, I've avoided 82nd street for the past 2 weeks, opting to instead pass by the disgusting guys who man the corner grocery ("Ay, mamacita!"), the indiscriminate drooling men who open the Spanish tapas restuarant in the a.m. (their presence resulting in a 180 degree turn of the neck as any girl passes), and the dark construction underpass that, every morning, houses a new 8:00 in the morning scumbag ("Good morning. Can I get a smile?").

Deciding that the homeless men sitting on the steps of the church had to be a classier group of gents than the above described, I chose to walk down 82nd this morning. No hootin'. No hollerin', No staring. No disrespect. I liked this. I passed a couple of these men and accidentally eavesedropped on their conversation: "You know, you just can't shower everyday. That's the way it is." Ironically, it was a refreshing and welcome alternative to the usual morning chatter. All was going just dandy until I passed a man who was pissing, non-chalantly, on the street. [I've heard rumors that NYC has embraced public pissing with open arms, but not until today had I seen it in all its glory].

Thoughts of rainwater spreading the urine further across the land filled my mind, as did an image of heat transforming the puddle into inhalable yellow steam. A little disgusted, my mind traveled to the cleaner city of Chicago (as it oft does). Still, I was left with only one immediate option: to walk down 82nd and breathe in flying piss molecules or walk down 81st and smell the odor of complete and utter desperation? It was a no brainer: add puddle jumpers to my ever-growing shopping list and embrace street urination like any true New York implant ought to.

As an aside, I'm not too good to admit that I've used the occassional alley as a toilet following a latenight bar romp. The differences? No one was watching. It was dark. A speck of shame was involved. Don't lie - you've done it too.

My Pesky Sports Bra is in on Karma's Evil Ploy

I've noticed lately that my whole wardrobe needs to be replaced. This revamping is scheduled to cover every last inch of my closet - not just pants, shirts and shoes - I need a new bathrobe, underwear, socks, bras and as of yesterday, even a few new sportsbras.

My current sportsbras have had a good run - entering into their 4th or 5th year now. I'll admit that 4-5 years is a greater lifespan than any average sportsbra could or should endure, but just the same, I hold onto them as long as I can since shopping for them is boring and they're usually the last thing I care to spend my money on. However, the time has definitely come. My current ones are stretched out and ragged, and are not providing anything more than psychological support at this point.

My fave sportsbra is one I stole from a past roommate whom I loathed, so it has sentimental value that spans beyond the regular supportive parameters. This is the one I wore to the gym yesterday. As I was running on the treadmill, I could tell that my right gam was bouncing a bit more freely than it ought to have been. I solved the problem by checking in with it every few minutes and pulling the bra back up over it. It was a pain, but still a solveable issue.

As I was walking back to my apartment, I saw some girl trip on a slippery manhole while pacing in front of a restaurant by my place. "Boy, doesn't she look like an ass?" I thought to myself as I approached my door. As karma would surely have it, I saw what can be no better described than my "pediddled" reflection through the glass of my front door. Yep, I'd been walking around with only one headlight on as my sportsbra had once again slipped off of my right ta-ta. I could all but hear the girl who had just slipped thinking, "Boy, doesn't she look like an ass?"

I like that: Even my boobs are in on the world's plan to dish me up my plate of bad Karma.

I Can No Longer Handle Ashlee [sic] Simpson

My advanced apologies: I usually don't write about celebrities. I think you will agree that this is of the highest importance though.

My compulsion to mention Ashlee [sic] was ignited this morning when I heard her forced-'cutesy' voice blaring out of my TV set. No one really speaks/wines like that, right? Well, it's definitely not what you want to wake up to, but just the same, her voice alone wasn't enough ammunition for me to plague my site with the utterance of her name.

What was enough ammunition then?


Ashlee [sic]: Before
The straw that broke the camel's back was this: I saw a brief clip of her being interviewed by Ryan Seacrest (a little teaser so viewers might tune in later for more!). Ryan asked Ashlee [sic] about her 'rumored' nose job and she answered: "Maybe I did, or maybe I didn't."


Ashlee [sic]: After
Oh Ashlee [sic], you are so cryptic. So mysterious! The sheer suspense of it all!

I think I'm a little pissed at Ryan too (yes, we are on a first name basis here), for giving her the benefit of the doubt. Asking rather than telling. He should have phrased it differently: "So how's it feel now that you got the butt ugly bump out of your nose?" or "Your new schnoz looks a whole hell of a lot better than your old one. Kudos on the rhinoplasty! Oh, and by the way, you totally spell your name wrong. No big deal..."

As an aside, this painfully reminds me of when Justin Timberlake came out with the song "Cry Me A River." The public wondered, "Oh my gawd, is this about Britney??" But Justin would never say either way. So people continued wondering - rather than deducing the obvious for themselves - whether this thinly veiled song was based on his mediocrity (yes) or if he indeed created a song from his deep-seated creative well of experience (no).

Moral of this story? People are idiots. Ashlee [sic] Simpson is their leader.

Ashlee Simpson Ryan Seacrest Justin Timberlake Britney Spears

I Usually Choose Not to Listen to Other Peoples' Dreams...

...mainly because they're boring, but this morning my cousin insisted I listen and I could tell it would be brief:

Cousin: "I dreamed that I was in a bathroom and there was a couple on either side of me having sex. It was weird though because I could see both of them clearly... It's probably because yesterday I was talking about that transvestite that I saw in the women's bathroom last week."

Me: "You should ask grandma about it - she's good at interpreting dreams." Our grandma really is good at this. It's impressive.

Cousin: "Funny you mentioned grandma, one of the couples having sex in the dream was this old couple with no teeth. The woman was riding her husband like there was no tomorrow."

Me: "Well, in that case, I'm just glad I was able to provide such an efficient segway..."

The Purse Might Be Ugly, But It Sure Makes Me Look Good

I bought an extremely ugly purse off of Amazon a while back. It looked good in the picture, but when I received it, it was 4 times bigger than I expected. I ignored it for about 5 months, before ultimately trying to give it away, failing miserably and then giving in and using it to schlep my belongings to Indianapolis for a weekend vacation. My stepmom eyed the bugger right away. She loved it. I told her she could have it; that I had been looking to give it away for a while now. She felt bad that she was taking my purse so she gave me the heinous purse pictured above (glasses not included) so that I could hold my belongings. Thusly, I was back in square 1: Ugly purse, no one to give it to. I have tried to give it to 3 people, all to no avail.

The other day on the train, I sat next to a little Mexican lady. I saw her eyeing my purse. I hadn't zippered it because it wasn't going anywhere, and sometimes I like to provoke people to hassle me so I can practice my kung fu on their asses. I figured she was glaring at my purse because it was open. After all, there was no way she actually liked it.

The lady looked at me and asked me if I spoke Spanish.

"Un poquito," I answered.

She asked me where I bought my purse. I told her my mom had given it to me, etc... It occurred to me that she liked it. I told her that I would send it to her that day. She wrote down her address and I did exactly that.

Since sending the thing, I've been lugging around my purse's guts in a Crate 'n Barrel shopping bag, cursing myself for not getting another sizeable purse before sending mine off.

After all, are these feelings of selflessness worth the discomfort? I hardly think so.

Being selfish and comfortable totally holds the trump over being selfless and bothered. Or, at least this is what I thought until my work line rang today and it was the lady from the train, speaking in quite broken English. I told her she had the wrong number, trying to figure out how to translate it into Spanish: "Tienes el numero equivocado..." I was saying as she interrupted, "Is this Gigi?"

It occurred to me that it was the lady from the train. I didn't even realize that I had given her my name, but I did write her a short note on company stationary. I guess I must have accidentally signed it. Anyhow, the lady went on to thank me profusely, "I just receive purse. I can't believe you give such nice gift to complete stranger. Today is my birthday!"

She told me that she could use anything else I was getting rid of as well, and I don't think this was a greedy gesture on her part. Rather, it was one of true necessity. Kinda makes me reconsider my self-centeredness. Not too much, of course, but you know, I might start doing some good deeds here and there. If anything, it's good karma for my soul, which is dissipating rapidly in NYC.

My Boss Grounded Me, I Think.

No, you can't go play with your friends!
Why aren't you outside playing with your friends?

When I told my boss about a lunch meeting I'm trying to schedule for tomorrow, I also mentioned that I had a book signing to go to at 1:30.

"A friend just published a book. I was planning on going to the signing during my lunch break."

A little background: The lunch I'm trying to schedule is an early one and, as far as I'm concerned, going to meet a client for lunch is not equivalent to getting a break from work.

That makes sense, right? I should still be entitled to a break.

Here she turned into a raving lunatic, said something about not letting me go and then changed her mind saying, "Do whatever you want," then said something else about it taking too long.

What I thought: "So, like, yeah - I don't really know what you just said... Is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?"
What I said: "It's not a big deal."

It is a big deal ... which is why tomorrow she'll most likely ask me if I'm still going to that "book signing thing." And, that will be followed by, "You should really go. It's important." I guarantee it.

On that note, I was talking to the doorman this morning and he suggested that my boss is probably going through menopause. And if that's the politically correct term for 'bipolar' then, by golly, I think he's onto something.

Like Seinfeld, Only on Broadway

My friend is a media buyer who gets sucked up to via free Broadway play tickets and the like. Last night I took her up on an offer for second row seats at The Lieutenant of Inishmore.

This play was seriously dimented and morbid. At one point, a guy was hanging upside down being tortured right in front of my face; bodies were chopped, cats were killed, toenails were removed... Beyond all of that though - the show was in Irish, which is really not English at all, and I couldn't understand anything until about the third act wherein I finally got used to the accent.

Anyhow, all of that was but foreplay for the intermission. You see, when the tortured guy was dangling from the rafters, a steal pulley hook fell onto the stomach of the guy sitting directly in front of me and bounced into his hands. He was calm - picked it up, looked at it dubiously and put it onto the stage. At intermission, him and his wife remained seated and so did I. The ushers came over to shoot the shit and the wife mentioned the hook.

"Good thing it didn't land on his head."

The guy sitting next to him concurred, "Yes, good thing it didn't land on his noggin."

I'm pretty sure the noggin guy was a celebrity, but I couldn't place him. He had one of the most bizarre accents I've ever heard and again, used the word "noggin," without hinting at even a bit of underlying jest. The hook guy's wife was one of those controlling types and she obviously wanted to make a scene, maybe even get a free ticket. However, the hook guy was pretty relaxed about the whole situation ("Eh, shit happens. No harm done"). Nevertheless, the wife and the two couples on opposing sides from him were just downright peeved about the situation. I should note that it was controlled peeveness, but peeveness just the same.

Anyway, Antoine, a female usher, was telling the celebrity/noggin guy that the hook guy should go tell the manager. The celebrity/noggin guy told her that the manager should come to the hook guy. After all, he was sitting in the front row. That's pretty expensive. She made some senseless argument that "This is America" and wouldn't let up. The celebrity/noggin guy rolled his eyes. Antoine didn't pause though, "When you sit in the front row, you agree to get splashed by a little blood. When Julia Roberts' play was here, the front row had to deal with the rain. That's just what you sign on for sittin' in the front row."

Meanwhile, the other usher was suggesting to the couple sitting on the other side of the hook guy that the hook guy really ought to tell the manager, so the manager could then tell the stage manager. Again, the usher didn't think it was his own duty to go get the manager, but thought it necessary that she was somehow informed. This went on for a good 5 minutes and I was certain that I was in the middle of a Seinfeld episode.

In the end, the hook guy got up and told the manager, seemingly just to end the stupidity, and the manager evidently robotically responded: "Areyoualright?Okay,good."

In the end, a few more cats were killed, bodies were chopped up, blood was sprayed, Irish was spoken and no free tickets were issued.

When we stepped outside, my friend looked at me and said, "I don't even know what to say," as if she had to explain something to me. Hell, I enjoyed the show thoroughly. I mean, a Broadway play is by no means worth going to if the stage is properly constructed and the ushers aren't idiots. A good, bitchy wife sitting right in front of you -- that's but a great cream cheese icing on the ol' carrot cake. Bravo...

Lieutenant of Inishmore Broadway Seinfeld

I Can't Tell If I Hate Her or Love Her?

Actually, there's no doubt that I hate her, but the fact that my boss paused to tell me that my outfit was cute as she was chewing me out, made me momentarily reconsider the situation due to her moxy and comedic timing...

Messin' with D

D: You need to move here now. That's an order.
Gigi: I'll think about it.
D: What - now you're thinking about not coming?
Gigi: I kinda like it here.
D: Ok.
Gigi: There's nothing for me in Chicago.
D: Ok.
Gigi: Well, I'll think about it.
D: Maybe you should just toss a coin.
Gigi: Ok.
Gigi: It's heads
D: What does heads mean?
Gigi: I don't know.

I told a friend about this conversation and he said he'd always thought it a no-no to move somewhere for a girlfriend or boyfriend. I told him that I'm not moving under any pretenses here; I'm not pretending I'm moving there for a love of the city or a chance to reconnect with old friends. Rather, D is the absolute only reason I'll be moving to Chicago... And, I'm very okay with that.

Another Night, Another Soiree...

"Pretending you're a snob who is making fun of a snob is the best form of entertainment ever. For, remember kids: Mimicry is nature's preferred form of flattery."

In my undying quest to save money, I've made it a point to start frequenting the cocktail hour type events that I (or someone in my office) get invited to. Usually these consist of some type of product/book/brand promotion and they always involve passed horsdeurves and cocktails, i.e. free dinner.

Last night the New York Institute of Culinary Education hosted such an event, honoring the top 10 pastry chefs in the country. I RSVP'd for myself plus 2 (Chad and Cesar), conveniently not noting my company's name, just in case organizers were tempted to put it on the nametag or some other incriminating bullocks like that.

Before I break into song about the rest of the night, I should note that my personality is a dual one; composed of a well-mannered, sophisticated side and an obnoxious, ill-mannered side. Contrary to what one might expect, the latter is the one who shows up at stuffy events. It's a rebellious son of a gun and it knows that more fun will be had if it attends these things. It's assumptions were right on point last night...

Seeing as how I am but a puppet to my obnoxious personality's every whim, I entered the event, popped a strawberry ganache truffle into my mouth, peered at the gift bags and declared, "Oh good, there are gift bags. I no longer attend parties that don't offer gift bags. We may proceed." I could tell that Cesar knew where this night was heading and he was more than down to come along for the ride. He glanced over at Chad and noted, "You have to see her in action. It's hilarious." Chad didn't know what to expect, but he caught on quickly when we found the bar. I was the evening's scheduled entertainment.

Free wine and champagne paired with people 'putting on airs' is about as fun as it gets for me. We bonded with the bartender right away - which, is probably the smartest thing to do at these things - and started ordering away. We came back several times, just a bit more loosened up with each trip. By trip number 3, Cesar couldn't decide whether he wanted a pinot noir or a chardonnay, so he ordered the "Red and Tan."

From here, we traveled to one of the kitchens where desserts were being plated. While we were standing in line waiting for a plate, I noticed a hotel pan filled with little clear balls in it. I asked one of the student chefs if they were tapioca. She replied, "Kind of, they're Thai bah-zil seeds" [Where "bah" is pronounced like the sound a lamb makes and "zil" is pronounced "seal"].

"What?" I asked three times before she cut the charade and declared, "Look, they're Thai basil seeds." It occurred to me minutes later that the head chef was French and this is how he pronounced the ingredient's name. She was probably from the Bronx - maybe Queens - but never Marseille. She was simply trying to imitate him. Even funnier than that was that she had agreed that the "Thai bah-zil" seeds were similar to tapioca. I looked at Chad and asked him how I was ever going to spell the pronunciation on my blog when I recalled the incident?

A short ceremony commenced to honor the pastry chefs for who this event was hosted. By this point I was double-fisting a chardonnay glass and a champagne flute. After walking into the small room, it actually occurred to me that I might look like a lush, so I looked at Cesar and Chad and noted loudly that, "I wish she'd come back, I'm kinda getting sick of holding her drink," then winked as I downed her glass. We headed back to the bar, where we bonded with some of the cocktail waitresses and handed the bartender all of the cash in our pockets (I think a total of $19 between the 3 of us -- me not included).

Time to collect our rightful gift bags. The man at the gift bag pick-up center started cracking jokes with us. Surely he could sense our coolness. He told us he was married to one of the servers from upstairs: the redhead. "We love the redhead!" I told him. After all, she was the one who placed her hosdeurves tray on the table and let us eat the whole thing. In effort to illustrate her coolness even further; he shared this tidbit with us:

"Yes, she put a mirror on our ceiling at home. Said she wanted to watch herself laugh. I put up a sign on the mirror that reads, 'Objects in mirror are bigger than they appear.'"

We laughed. I took a glimpse through the gift bag and thought aloud, "Just want to make sure it's worth my while." A free spatula, some chocolate, a pasty brush and a shampoo-conditioner-lotion concoction. It would do... I guess. Perhaps next time they will consult with me first. I'm very picky about my free stuff.

In summary, pretending you're a snob who is making fun of a snob is the best form of entertainment ever... For, remember kids: Mimicry is nature's preferred form of flattery.

A Meeting of the Blogger Minds

Life Regurgitated, Please Do It Ms. Hewitt, Those Are My Pants

Oh, now does that ever sound geeky? Why yes - yes, it most certainly does. And, I guess that's pretty much because it is and was and forever will be.

This Saturday marked what can only be compared to as the "Geneva Conventions of the Blog World" (I've succumbed to the fact that this post is going to dig deep into my street cred reserve). Three blog master minds - uh hem - came together on common ground (Wogies - a bar in the West Village - which is not exactly Switzerland, but it was pretty international with the World Cup playing and all) to discuss the standards for international law for humanitarian concerns in the blogosphere (I can't believe I just said 'blogosphere.' Who am I??). In other words, we all met and got sauced.

Chad from Those Are My Pants was in town from Bahrain. Chosen from Please Do It Ms. Hewitt is always down to have a few drinks and, as you know, I tend to be an advocate of partaking in these kind of things, so I orchestrated the whole event. I introduced Chad as "Those Are My Pants" and Chosen as "Please Do It Ms. Hewitt." Chad noted that he had never been introduced by his website name, but the chills were indeed moving up his spine. Some of our much cooler friends didn't really share in on the excitement, but that didn't stop Chosen, Chad and I from sharing memorable posts from eachother's sites.

I've been talking to Chad over email for about 5 months now. He found my site because I tagged it with "Bahrain" and he wanted to start some type of blog circuit out there. He wrote about me and I contacted him, curious as to whether or not he was familiar with a court case that was going on over there (I used to write about the case in question, which is why I tagged my blog as such). He hadn't heard of it, but we've kept in contact nevertheless. When he came over on Saturday it was like I'd known him for years. This fact manifested itself in my ability to sit on the ground and watch the Simple Life while he chatted with my cousin about, well, the fact that we were sitting around watching the Simple Life. Chosen wrote me today asking if I really met him on the internet? Yep.

Anyhow, I'll stop blabbing before my street cred well is totally sucked dry, but I ought to let you know that we didn't establish much at our Geneva conventions; just that the internet is a strange place and that Sapphire, Absolut Mandarin and Stoli Razberi don't mix well. Oh yeah, and that if you clog up your sink with puke, Drano is your man.

I'm Not Trying to Get Fired. Promise.

Perhaps the fly on the wall might disagree, but my idiocy of late is not intentional.

Cesar blames my stunts on me wanting to leave NYC for Chicago. He's pretty certain, in fact, that there's no way I'm not trying to get sacked.

"I mean, you've gotta cut that shit out. You're just trying to get fired so you have an excuse to go to Chicago earlier. Admit it." This was in response to me telling him that I just wrote an email to the office manager telling her that the diabla (my boss, of course) was leaving the office in an hour. Hallelujah.

Often I curse spell check, but today its ability to delay the sending of an email rescued me from getting canned (And I use the word 'rescue' very lightly here, of course -- like when one of my friends rescues me from talking to a hot guy. Gee, thanks...). As the spell checker was telling me that I had spelled diabla incorrectly (disable? doable? dipole?), I noticed that my boss's email address was in the 'To' line of the email:

Dear [my boss],

Only one more hour 'til your devil-ass leaves. Thank God.

Peace,
Gigi

I'd say that would most definitely afford me a one-way ticket to Chicago. If only that were my objective... And really, it's not.

Q&A

"Why don't anybody in this damn city ever smile? Just one smile - is that too much to ask? Why don't nobody say hello - a simple hello - is that so hard?"

These are the questions posed by the bum who sings at my subway station every morning at 8 a.m.

Every now and then he'll single out an innocent passerby in attempt to embarrass the bejeezus out of them for being non-social. As it turns out, I was today's lucky winner. He screamed his questions at me so that all could hear. ("What - you too good? Can't smile at nobody? Why don't nobody smile 'round here?") This was right before he broke into a highly irritating rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and effectively answered his own question.

The Construction Worker Paradox

Doorman: "Damn girl, you're looking fine today with that slit all up your skirt."

Me: "Thanks - but the damned construction workers outside are hassling me!"

Doorman: "They're hassling you? Or, you're hassling them? Depends on your perspective."

Me: "Oooohhhhhh..."

Beware the Wild "Bufflo"

I'm trying to put the face on the left onto the body on the right, but I'm not really having any luck since I don't have Photoshop. As such, I must rely on you to be a bit imaginative as I introduce you to "bufflo." Bufflo has really stepped up to the plate lately - appointing himself the blog's official bodyguard. He is so effective, in fact, that he actually keeps tons of readers off of the blog daily. One might think that this is an effect of boring entries or bad writing, but tis not so. It's just Bufflo's mad skillz. Oh yeah, he's an animal when it comes to the comment boards; spreading fear across the land and all that...

Heart Attack Update: A Tale of Survival

In an effort to give you top-notch reporting on yesterday's outfit catastrophe, I had to use the office's camera to take pictures of the ripped-crotch pants, the shabby shoes and the resulting scrounged-up grandma outfit.

The Camera
The problem with the office camera is that pictures can only be uploaded from it at one computer, which is in the front of the office and in full view. So, I took a chance, hoping my boss wouldn't step out of her office and see me. After all, I had absolutely no reason to be using the camera (not that I'm not allowed, I just didn't have a good explanation). After I had successfully uploaded the pics and was removing the memory card, who should walk out of her office? That's right. Now, usually I can come up with some sort of believable 'on-the-spot' excuse as to why I'm screwing around (For example: having the mail room ship out personal boxes for me, talking on the phone long distance, reading blogs when I should be working, etc...), but this time I was drawing a serious blank. I just looked down and put the memory card back into the camera, making eye contact only with her shoes, hoping she wouldn't ask me what pictures I was taking. She didn't. Instead, she declared, "That's a brilliant idea! Great thinking."

Huh?

I caught on quick to the fact that she thought I was getting the camera ready to take to our convention, so I replied, "Yeah, I thought we could send some pics into the trade publications."

"That's excellent. They love getting those!"

Of course they do. I sent the photos out first thing this morning. She thanked me for following up so quickly.

"You're very welcome."

The Outfit
I probably don't need to remind you about the outfit, but just in case - it was horrid. Absolutely vulgar. I wouldn't wear it on an average day, no less to the event we attended yesterday. I was so embarrassed walking around in it that I made an ardent effort not to reveal my name to anyone. I didn't want my name to be associated with anything, especially not this outfit. And this is quite a shame, given the ample networking opportunities this event provided.

Before we left the office, I saw my boss staring me up and down, but I tried to pretend that this outfit was the result of a plan. I meant to do it. Plus, she always stares me up and down, so I didn't think it odd. Girls do these things, I guess. Whenever I walked into the same room as her, the other girls in the office (half of whose clothes I was wearing), giggled, wondering if my boss would say anything.

She didn't - that is, until we got to the event:

Boss: "You know - you should get a really nice corporate suit that you can wear to these events in the future."

I couldn't take it anymore. I had to tell her that I completely forgot about the event. Still, I couldn't tell her I went around the office borrowing random clothing.

Me: "To tell you the truth, I actually forgot about this meeting and this is what I wore to work today."

I cringed even at that lie - I didn't want her to think I'd actually wear this little get-up. Even worse, I have tons of "really nice corporate suits" in my closet.

I decided to wear one today, just to make up for the whole thing. Now she's looking me up and down, wondering why I look nice. I would so rather be wearing the ripped crotch pants.

Minor Fashion Heart Attack

And trust me, I don't have fashion heart attacks...

In a stroke of complete irony, I was sitting on the train today thinking that I really need to buy some new clothes for work. Despite my co-workers' claims that I dress trendy, I tend to dress like an utter slob.

For instance, today I waltzed into the office in a pair of pants that have a ripped crotch and an off-colored patch by the right ankle. Otherwise they look great: slimming, flattering, bla, bla, bla... In order to counteract the ripped crotch, I had to wear a long shirt. I opted for the 5-year old black (correction: was black - is now gray) tank top and paired the whole thing with some raised sandals that I bought in Brazil in 2001 (even worse - they look like they were purchased in Brazil in 2001). Yes, I need some new clothes. I'll do it this weekend, I decided.


Crap 'Before' Pics
Here's the ironic part: Minutes after I walked in, I received an IM from the office manager asking what time my boss and I are leaving for our meeting?! I am so fired.

Thankfully, my boss hadn't seen me yet. And even more comforting is that she doesn't get too dressed up herself. So, in an act of complete desperation, I went around to each girl in my office and begged for random pants and shoes that - oh, I don't know - they might have laying around in their offices? Fortunately, I scavenged a pair of businessy witch shoes and some too-big, but not too too-big business slacks. I'm still wearing the tank top, but I accidentally left a shirt in the office yesterday, so I slipped that over. Now, I just have to pretend like I meant to wear this 'Payless meets Filene's Basement' collage and I'll be fine.


Crap 'After' Picture(This truly is a bad picture on top of everything - Which makes it all the more fitting)
Oh, and in extreme irony, my boss just walked out and looks stunning. And, why wouldn't she? This is a damn important meeting.

The 79th & Broadway Turnstyle Nazi

+ = Bad

At the 79th & Broadway subway stop, passengers are forced to exit the station via a solitary turnstyle. Since people are exiting from all directions of the train, it is pretty much impossible to form a solitary and uniform line. Nevertheless, it still remains clear who arrived to the mass area of exodus before you. This is mainly because they are standing in front of you. If all would respecet this simple logic, the solitary turnstyle would be a much more pleasant place. But alas, this recognition tis not a reality for practitioners of 'turnstyle nazism' - those belonging to a breed of people who are not affected by social regulations as they relate to subway stations and other congested areas with stress-producing exit rituals (Egypt, Cuba, Mexico ...Grand Central Station at rush hour).

Yesterday, I came face to face with such a wench. She exited the train behind me and, not surprisingly, tried to race up in front of those people standing at the beginning of the "line." When this did not work, she tried to slide in through the sides. No one was particularly amused by her erratic behavior, especially not me. I thought to say something vile to her; something threatening, something scary. Maybe something along the lines of "No Cuts, No Butts, No Coconuts...bitch!" But instead, I kept her in my periphery, gauging her every movement and her doing the same in return. This was some serious head to head action!

(Sometimes, in situations like this, I opt to hold my tongue just in case a camera crew is to jump out of the subway car behind me and declare that I am on MTV's Boiling Point and I've won $100! This, of course, is never the case.)

When the teeth of the turnstyle turned to me (err, us, since she was arm to arm with me at this point), I rushed in, anxious to beat the turnstyle nazi at her own game by submitting this unspoken warning. "I will go first since it's my turn, damn you!" (Good shall prevail over evil, whether you like it or not, Nazi!) As it turned out, I was so consumed with her every motion, that I didn't realize some guy had jumped into the turnstyle's open mouth before me. Thusly, I was now stuck in this mini-triangular portal with some curly haired Jewish guy. If you are a visual type, you might imagine this as me riding him piggy back through the turnstyle. This wouldn't have been so bad if my gym bag hadn't got caught in the turnstyle, causing all movement to cease. The Nazi helped push my bag through the turnstyle so the rest of the traffic could flow through as planned/

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't paying attention!" I said to him loudly, so that the nazi behind me wouldn't realize that this blunder was an effect of my calculated attempt to stop her in her overbearing tracks. Perhaps this sentence would even make her think that I hadn't even noticed her. Nazis might be rude, but they're not stupid

Him: Don't worry about it.

Me: I just thought you were cute (chuckle, chuckle).

He smiled and chuckled in kind, but the truth was, he just wasn't cute.

The Nazi exited the turnstyle behind us and ran up to the front of the line so that she could climb up the stairs before everyone else did. I guess this just goes to show that some people never learn - even when presented with such eloquently choreographed lessons.

The Cat Has Left the Building ...

a.k.a. The Cat is out of the Proverbial Bag.

Either D and I were feeling a bit too ballsy or we had way too much to drink this Friday, because when one of his friends sent him a text message alerting him to my ex-boyfriend's brother's pending arrival, we decided to stay and brave the storm.

(Background: D was one of my ex-boyfriend's friends - but the ex and I broke up 4 years ago and he and D don't really speak. D and I have only been together for 6 months).

My ex's family is all or none - meaning that when one of them hates you, they all do. That said, I was surprised when the brother came up and kissed my hand. I turned to the bar and under my breath, said, "He has no clue who I am." He was drunk and I used to have blonde hair, so maybe it was justified. Either way, D ordered us shots, surprised that he hadn't been punched yet. The brother told D, "She looks familiar - How do I know her?" D told him who I was.

The shots were taken and then the brother, in an impressive display of 'pissed-offedness', smashed his glass on the bar. He then made a dash for the bathroom and stayed in their for way too long. I suggested that he was probably calling his brother. I was right.

When he walked out, I gave him a really innappropriate and self-righteous wave, which completely mocked his anger. I figured there was no way he could ever hate me more than he already did (he hated me when my ex and I were together, since we argued often and broke up the same), but I admit that I deserved a slap in the face after this display.

He walked to the front of the room where he threatened D's life and called him a lowlife to their mutual friends. D prepared to fight him, saying he'd wanted to for a while (the ex's brother is a jerk). I thought it was sexy, but it never happened though.

The rest of the weekend was filled with accusatory calls from the ex, text message threats ("You better not show up at the street fair, cocksucker") and an overall feeling of guilt within D and I. It put a damper on our weekend and possibly our relationship. It definitely prompted D to take anxiety pills. I followed in suit...

I guess this is to say that - all in all - our public debut went as well as could be expected.

Bathroom Bonanza!

Our office is one of two offices on our floor. The offices are bound by a communal bathroom out in the hallway. You learn funny things about the employees of other companies when you share a bathroom with 'em. Like, for instance, today I learned that the girls in the other office don't shit. That's right - they're here from the 1950s to let the modern lady know that this is not dignified behavior and it will, under no circumstances, be tolerated!

This is how we found out: One of the girls in my office was sittin' pretty in a stall whilst two girls from the poopless office were talking about how annoying the girls in our office are:

- "The bathroom always smells [because we don't shit and they do]."
- "They never close the door behind them."
- "They're always in here!"

Then they walked out without washing their hands or noticing the spy we had planted in the stall.

Similar bathroom drama is goin' down in the boys' bathroom over at 37th and 7th where the following sign was posted by one guy to his haphazard co-workers:

Toilet bowl poetry!

Wait, wait, wait... Either this boy is sitting down to pee or he wants to dedicate one seat to number 1 and the other to number 2. An innovative thought indeed. Perhaps we should employ such a rule in our bathroom as well. It would basically mean one stall for us (the number 2'ers) and one stall for them (The dainty number 1'ers). So if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the former...

Maddox's Book Is Officially Out. I'm a Flat-Out Groupie.

If you take a gander to the right side of this page, you will see a link for Maddox.

Maddox is quite the funny little bugger - one who used to write for our magazine (R.I.P.). Wait, wait, wait. I should retract that statement: Maddox used to let us reprint his work for our magazine.

Well, as it turns out, he just released a new book and will be in NYC (Border's at 100 Broadway, 1:00) for a signing on June 23rd.

If you live in NYC I highly recommend you attend. And if you do plan to attend, email me and I'll send you an issue of our magazine to get autographed (although I imagine he'd rather autograph your purchased copy of his book - hint, hint).

You can find more signing locations in the "Tour" area of his new website.

It is there that you will also find these Rules of Conduct:

This book isn't an ordinary book, and I am not an ordinary author. As such, extraordinary rules of conduct must be observed when you meet me.

1. Do not make direct eye contact with me.
2. You must adhere to the following procedure when shaking my hand:

i. Stand directly in front of me with both feet together.
ii. Extend your arm in front of you and wait for me to engage if I choose to do so.
iii. If I grant you a hand shake, you may hold my hand, pump once or twice, and then promptly let go. I will then wipe my hand with a moist towelette, and you will bow, step aside and quickly walk away.

3. You must stand at least 3 feet (1 m) apart from me at all times.
4. Do not talk directly to me. If you want to tell me something, write it down and hand it to an assistant.
5. Formal attire is encouraged (suit + tie if possible).

Want the magazine? My email address is available somewhere in my profile.

You Might Have Noticed...

...that I took down yesterday's post about all the exciting office gossip I learned by forcing alcohol -- as if a gun -- into the throats of my loose lipped co-workers.

Well, as it turns out, Chosen, sent me this link as a warning:

"People have gotten fired for posting bad stuff about their boss and co-workers. Seriously. I'd really watch what you say when it comes to bad-mouthing them on the site. It's one thing to rant against them, but to call them drug users and sluts...that could be grounds for libel/slander (whichever the "print" one is). However, It was really funny...hence the full Chosen read! :)"

That having been said, I'm going to put it back up as soon as I add a couple posts to the mix, so stay posted and scroll down in a day or two...

Oh, The Things You Learn...

Last night I joined some of the girls I work with for (way too many) drinks.

Here are some of the funnier things that were said after barriers had been properly demolished:

About Me:

"I think you come off as a total bitch... But, I can tell you that because I love you."

"It's completely superficial. You know, you're good looking and dress trendy. That's why everyone hates you."

About My Boss:

"I was in the car with her [the boss] once and she was talking about her crack and heroine addict friend. Then she threw it out there that her crack and heroine days are long gone.."

"I went to a party with her [the boss] and we were talking to a guy - one of her friends. When she went up to use the bathroom, he said 'Man, last time I saw her we were having sex on the pool table at some bar.'"

"She [the boss] was surprised to learn that I had only tried ecstacy. She told me that she used to do everything."


The definition of PR Work

"We get our clients a bunch of media ass."

About a Girl Who Wasn't There:

"Hello, ever heard of veneers?!"



In conclusion: I love catty bitches. After all, I am one.
-----

Update

After reading this, Bufflo IM'd me and the following was clarified:

bufflo (12:17:38 PM): you dress trendy?
gigi (12:17:42 PM): no
gigi (12:17:49 PM): not reallly
gigi (12:17:54 PM): i just have big boobs

The Obligatory Gyno Post

...because everybody wants to hear about today's trip to the gynecologist (In other words: this is the most exciting thing that's happened to me lately). Okay, not really. Okay, really.

In commemoration of today's rather bland festivities, I thought I'd share a past gynecological story with you. And, truth be told, this one isn't all that intriguing either. That said:

When I was a freshman in college, there was a 6-month stretch where I was continually on my period. Finally, it occurred to me that "yeah, this isn't normal." So, I went to the emergency room late night. You might think it's odd that this epiphany struck me so late in the game and so late at night. And you would be right. Lesson learned.

Second lesson learned? That old rule about the emergency room paying the most immediate attention to the bleeders - yeah, that's a complete farce. Case in point: they ignored me, leaving me to rot in the heinous, backless get-up that goes with the territory.

Not known for my sheepishness, and a bit sick of waiting around, I commenced moseying around the emergency room, asking innocent nurses and similar bystanders where the hell my doctor was. Evidently this was an effective method because as soon as I returned to my little ER cell, my doctor walked in. Male Doctor. Holy Hotness. This was not right. After all, my outfit was completely wrong.

Anyhow, he told me I had some kind of hormone problem and prescribed me birth control pills to straighten me out. I felt like a complete jackass when I left, but chalked the event over into the "oh well, I'll never see him again" category - this being the category where we girls similarly direct incidences of letting it loose in a public bathroom when strangers are present.

As you might have expected, I saw him the next day. At the smoothie shop. With his woman.

"Hi, weren't you in between my legs last night? Good to see you."

I didn't say it (in actuality, I ran away without paying for my smoothie). But wouldn't it have been funny if I did?

Yes, I do believe it would've been.

My Bad Mood is an Effect of the Apocalypse (It's Tomorrow, in Case You Were Wondering)

I've been in the worst mood as of late, so instead of spreading peace and harmony throughout the land as usual (in the form of rainbows and butterflies, of course), I've been hatred's preferred mascot. Yes, I wear little horns and dance to the marching band - all of the normal mascot jive.

For instance, Cesar and I went to a street fair yesterday and some girl had on a nude-colored shirt, through which you could see her massive belly button. It was as if there was a black hole in her stomach that was sucking the shirt in. I pointed it out to Cesar and declared, "Whoever told her it was okay to wear that, lied. She has a gaping belly button that's eating her shirt. She's only allowed to wear black from now on. Go tell her."

It was only seconds later that I admitted that I've been pretty evil lately. Everything that has come out of my mouth in the last few weeks has been pure nastiness. I give people death glares on a consistent basis for simple things such as stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to look at something, thus causing me to run into them. But really, can't they step to the side rather than halting in the middle of the walkway? My usual response to this is: "Walk with purpose!" Also, yesterday I ordered a Dosa - which is some kind of Indian sandwich -and when I went to pick it up the lady gave me a scowl because I didn't leave a tip on the credit card receipt. "Tell your boss to pay you more if you need more money." (She didn't serve me, just rang me up). On top of that, she forgot my chutney after having assured me that it was included. So, I had to get back in line to get the chutney that was not actually included, while my not-worth-$12.45-sandwich-thing proceeded to get cold. Sometime after that, I headed to the grocery store where I was forced to give some lady the evil eye because she was trying to merge into my aisle with a grocery cart. This is due to my personal belief that people in New York City should not be able to use grocery carts. The aisles are too small. Carry 3 baskets if you need to, but don't use a cart. Plus, she almost ran over an old man with her hastiness...And if anyone's going to run over an old man, then, by golly, it's going to be me (after all, he shouldn't have stopped in the middle of the walkway).

Anyhow, Cesar agreed with me about my recent evil stint, but said that he loves it because he thinks it's hilarious. I asked him when he began noticing it and he said he thinks the streak began when I started getting bad drinks at bars. In other words, it's been going on for a while.

I was going to write off my recent mood as PMS, but I think I'm going to instead give a little credit to the apocalypse, which, according to my calendar and a few Christians I know, is tomorrow: 6-6-06. I told Cesar my theory about the apocalypse having taken a personal interest in my mood and then asked him, "Wouldn't it, like, be weird if the world went up in flames and Jesus was floating around in the sky tomorrow?" In typical Cesar-fashion, he responded heretically and without hesitation: "Yeah, but terrorists will probably shoot him."

He has a point.

A Smashing Way to Start the Weekend?

When this is the picture that summarizes your weekend... Uh oh - you might not have a life.

I think it was Wednesday night that I realized that I had absolutely nothing going on this weekend.

'How can this be?' I thought to myself. 'Usually people are tearing down my door to hang out!' Seriously.

Perhaps mine are not the coolest friends in the world, but I can usually rely on them to hunt me down to kick it when I'm in town. But no... not this weekend. The weekend I am actually home and even motivated to go do something - no one is calling.

I went out with my friend Aaron on Wednesday night to grab a drink and I mentioned that I had absolutely no plans this weekend. Now, mind you, Aaron always wants to hang out on the weekends, but I'm usually too cool for school; pretending that I'm a jetsetter with people to see, places to bla, bla, bla... So, "surprised" doesn't describe my reaction to him simply nodding his head when I mentioned my weekend's sad, sad status. I assumed he didn't hear me since no jumping upon the bar and doing a celebratory dance took place. About an hour later I walked him to grab the bus and I thought to re-mention it in case he didn't understand the volume of what I had said earlier: "So, yeah, I've got NOTHING going on this weekend. You should give me a call." But, then he did it again - this nodding of the head thing sans celebratory dance. Huh?

As I left, I decided to get the urgent message out via text to my friend CAK who never has anything going on outside of freaking out about her boyfriend. She had been blowing my phone up with text messages earlier in the evening, so I figured I'd write her back with the news: "I'm doing nothing this weekend. Let's hang out!" I presented this fact to her on a golden platter. It has been 44 hours. Usually she responds in 44 seconds...if that.

I could see where my weekend was heading. My boss asked me what I was doing this weekend earlier in the afternoon. "I don't know," I mumbled, hoping she might think that this was because I was sifting through my many options (to tell you the truth, I don't really care what she thinks, but it did - pathetically enough - cross my mind). Fortunately, she didn't probe me for more information. Instead, she began telling me about the exotic new restaurant she went to last night, while I reminisced about my night: cooking dinner for my sick cousin and watching "The Office" marathon. Good show, by the way.

All of this brings me to today, when I received the above "pizza party" invitation for a guy in my office who is leaving. Sadly, it's the best invite I've had yet. Well, it was the best until I received this lovely invite:

That's right, ladies and gentleman - I get a free doughnut!

From here my weekend has been improving steadily. I just returned from a meeting where I ended up in the same office as Iman:

To tell ya the truth though, I didn't even recognize her. I just started talking to her without noting anything special about her. The picture above? Yes, that is special. Maybe even stunning. The lady in life? I'll give her a "pretty lady" award, at the very most.

When I got back to the office it occurred to me that my sister now lives in town and she got a job at a bar. Who better to know and hang out with on a Friday night? Especially since she's off! A night of drunknenness will be followed by the Atlantic Avenue Artwalk thing tomorrow and so forth. And now I'm looking down at my phone and my club promoter friend is inviting me out to his club for more free alcohol. Things are definitely looking up.

I assume that some of my friends will call - Aarron, CAK - but hell, I'll be way too busy for them...

And To Think - I Thought Moving Would Once and For All Free Me From The Diablo

So last night, right before I was about to leave the office to meet up with the girl who is taking my old room at the Diablo's den, I get an IM from the Diablo himself. He was checking to see if I was coming over to his place to meet with her (to grab our checks and give her the keys, etc...). I told him I was going to instead meet up with her in Midtown because I had plans later, i.e. I don't want to see you. All of the sudden, the diablo decides he wants to meet with her and me as well.

Does he not he realize that I had spent the whole day choreographing this "meet-up" so that I could avoid going to his house? I wanted to be on neutral territory: Non Diablo-infested neutral territory.

20 minutes later

So, here we are standing on the street together waiting for the new roommate, pretending that we like eachother and have common interests: "How was your weekend?" "How's the new place?" "How's your girlfriend?" "How's D?" You know, those kind of things.

Finally the girl shows up, I get my deposit money, I hand over the keys, I pretend I like the Diablo just to seal the deal and I'm off. Not too bad at all.

3 hours later

Evidently my ringer was on silent because when I got home from drinking my obligatory dirty Sapphire martini, I had missed 2 calls from the Diablo. This, and a text message that said, "Call me!" Right at that moment, my phone rang again and it was his number. My first thought was that the girl's check bounced or she decided against moving in. When I picked it up, I found that I was talking to the Diablo's girlfriend (from here on out: "D.G.") who said they had a mini emergency...they were locked out. Well, schucks - I just gave my keys to the new girl. Sorry.

The Diablo's girlfriend - upon the Diablo's instruction in the background - asked me if I could call the new girl to have her come let them in.

Me: "Why don't I just give you her phone number?"
D.G.: "I don't have a pen. I can't write it down."
Me: "Fine. I'll call you back."

So, I called the new girl, but her phone was off. I called back to tell D.G. this and she asked me to keep trying. I said no. It was just ridiculous and they were being lazy.

D.G.: "Well, do you have any other ideas on how to get in?"
Me: "I just gave you our spare key the other day."
D.G.: "Yeah, it's at my house."
Me: "You could climb up the fire escape."

This is the only option they had, really. It wasn't such a bad one either considering they'd only have to go up 2 floors. D.G. told the Diablo this idea and I seriously heard him in the background huffing slash yelling this comment:

"Tell her I'm not going to climb up the fucking fire escape."

Oh, I'm sorry - ask me if I care if you get in or not. Because I don't. Nope, not one bit.

Instead of telling her boyfriend that he's an asshole, D.G. remained tightlipped - as usual - and told me, not asked me, to text her the girl's number. I said I would and she said, "Okay, bye."

"You're welcome, by the way," I screamed into the phone as I hung it up.

Will it ever end???

Note: Seeing as how I've spent extended periods of time with the real-life diablo, I can describe hell in explicit detail to you sinners. You will never steal salt and pepper shakers from a restaurant ever again. Promise.