Thursday, August 31, 2006
At the beginning of summer I decided that I was spending way too much money on iced coffee, so I decided to start making it at home and bringing it to work with me. I brought in an ice cube tray and some half 'n half, and I was in business. Every other day or so, I brew a pot of coffee before bed and put it in the refrigerator. In the morning I bring some to work with me in a recycled plastic water bottle. It kind of looks like poop water from the exotic springs of Figi. (I don't work for Figi's competitor, but wouldn't it be funny if I did? On that note, Aquafina - are you hiring?)
When I arrive to work, I take out my little ice cube tray, pour my coffee in a glass and add my half 'n half. I'd say it saves me about $20 a week. Since I'm cheap, this is definitely worth it.
My coworkers' reactions to my little production are not mixed:
"Oh, how clever. Coffee is really expensive."
"That's so smart. I should do that."
"You're probably saving a lot of money."
"How frugal of you."
"You're making me feel bad for buying my coffee in the morning."
"That is such a good idea."
Of course, the look on their faces, combined with the fact that no one else has started doing it, says it all: "You are a cheap, cheap bitch."
Why yes I am (I just didn't know there were so many kind ways to say it).
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
The Starbucks Situation
People love to hate Starbucks. Why is this? Is it because Starbucks puts the little ma and pa shops out of business? If so, let’s review: The ma and pa shops provide jobs only to one or two people—sometimes three. Starbucks, on the other hand, supplies jobs to thousands. If the ma and pa shops want to stay in business, they need to get competitive. That’s how it works in a capitalist society. If you don’t like it, move to Sweden.
If you hate Starbucks because their coffee sucks, that’s a totally different situation with a simple resolution: Don’t buy it.
Is there something that I’m missing? Do they promote slave labor? Are they not contributing to society? I don’t get it. Please fill me in.
Claiming that 9 to 5 Jobs are for Boring Corporate Robots.
Yeah, some are, but this claim is so 1998. It's usually the claim of artists who are working night jobs while pursuing their creative dreams. Why can’t people pursue the same dreams while working 9 – 5 jobs? Is that not campy enough? Does that diminish street cred? Hmmm.
I’ve been on both sides and, quite frankly, you’re taking it in the ass either way. There are way too many variables here—all of which work to make this an empty statement. Furthermore, people who make this claim are trying to compensate for something they’re lacking. If you’re talented and motivated, you’ll make it. If you’re not, you won’t.
People Blaming McDonalds for the “Obesity Epidemic”
This one is ridiculous. It’s no secret that McDonalds food isn’t good for you. If you eat it every day, you’re going to get fat. Period.
“Advertisers Responsible for Rise of Consumerism”
No, “Consumers Responsible for Rise of Consumerism.”
“George Bush sounded like a complete jackass in his recent interview, which aired this morning on The Today Show.”
Boy, did he ever…
(Watch the clip here: 8 painful minutes of stupidity.)
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Me: Katie Couric kind of annoys me.
The Skeeze: Who's Katie Couric?
Me: Are you kidding me?
The Skeeze: Well, she's obviously not that famous if I haven't heard of her.
Me: You know, it wouldn't kill you to jump on the NYTimes.com once a day to see what's going on around you.
The Skeeze: Whatever, you're just too easily impressed by people on TV.
Me: No, I'm just too easily unimpressed with people sitting on my couch.
*Okay fine, this is not the Skeeze.
After seeing the movie Flight 93 about a week ago, something came over me. Pathetically enough (and I’ll have to say this quickly), IfeltlikeIshouldbenicertopeople. Wow.
You know how it is when you see a movie wherein people are dying without saying goodbye to their loved ones? You accidentally put yourself in their positions and thus, accidentally become compassionate. Even more—you accidentally feel guilty. That’s kind of how it was. I started speaking to myself as if releasing some inner-Existentialist, whom I didn't even know existed:
-“Why am I so rude to Construction workers? They’re people too.”
-“I shouldn’t get so stressed when someone cuts me off on the sidewalk.”
-“It’s okay that bums pee outside of my door every morning. They have to pee somewhere, right?”
-“I should call my mother more often, and my grandparents and my sisters too.”
-“I should pray…or at least start thanking someone for my nice apartment, my job and natural wit & charm.”
-“I should be more humble”
So anyway, I followed these thoughts with an old mantra I used to chant to myself (I put the mantra in storage after moving to New York): “It’s easier to be mean than it is to be nice. Challenge yourself.”
Being a bitch truly is a cop out; it’s the road most traveled in New York. This movie compelled me to take a leap of faith into the unknown. To make a sacrifice. To challenge myself. Hell, to be nice.
So, I tried it. I said hello to a stranger in the supermarket. I let someone else go through the turnstile before me at the subway station—although it was obviously my turn—and I was polite to the snot who works the checkout counter at Zabar’s (to date, my biggest feat).
Then came Saturday. I was walking down one of NYC’s extremely crowded sidewalks behind a family of 4 who insisted on walking in a horizontal line. Slowly. I couldn’t take it. I yelled, “Why must you insist on creating a moving wall?!”
It felt so good that I’ve decided to give up the nice thing. Sometimes people just need to be told where they can shove it. I’ll still call my family and give thanks and all that, but you won’t catch me being polite to strangers who are being inconsiderate of me. After all, that chick who went through the turnstile ahead of me? Umm, yeah, she was cutting in line. Bitch.
Monday, August 28, 2006
…that my building's maintenance guy was peeing on the rug in front of my couch.
It all made sense considering our past with him. The abridged back story is that he is a lazy good for nothing who works “on call.” In some instances, an “on call” job is somewhat similar to not having a job, except you get paid. Once you get used to getting paid without working, actually getting a call to go into work kind of throws you off.
When we call him, he’s usually in New Jersey at his girlfriend’s place. He told us this when we were still cool. The coolness factor wore off when we couldn’t get him to come and deal with the deadly mold factor. He’d say, “I’ll take care of it,” seemingly just to shut us up for a few days, but then would never show. The deadly mold factor attracted slight media attention after I posted our management company’s name on this blog. My tracking reports indicate that people Googling the company’s name have been directed to my post as a result. A representative from my management company is one of these people. After having found their name on the site, it was only a day later that someone was at our apartment taking samples from our wall. Coincidence? I think not. We had called the company daily for two months without a response. I suspect they never planned to tend to this.
But getting back to the pee. Last Thursday I noticed a urine odor in my living room. I thought I was imagining it until The Geeze claimed, minutes later, that “it smells like piss in here.”
I woke up the next morning to a revelation: The maintenance guy came in here and pissed on the rug!
It made complete sense. He must have gotten yelled at by the management company and, from there, took matters into his own medieval hands.
The smell went away for a few days, and then it returned yesterday. I was lying on my bed and it was stronger than ever. I had to get to the bottom of it. It wasn’t too difficult—I just followed the scent. The root of the problem was a leather purse, which I had spilled coffee all over last week. I had stuck it in a corner to dry (I didn’t know what else to do with it). Evidently, dried coffee on leather produces an odd urine odor. And that was that.
As for the maintenance guy, I don’t feel bad for suspecting him. I wouldn’t put this sort of thing past him. He’d totally pee on my carpet if he was motivated enough to actually come to my building.
Friday, August 25, 2006
I told you about the new scaffold on my building a few days ago. I also predicted its implications: Construction workers on my soil. I was right.
What you see here, my friends, is the window in my office. Outside of it? Construction worker feet! This has to be a product of some serioulsly bad karma. Me, out of all people. Me, who is on a constant mission to rid the world of construction workers, and now this! It makes no sense.
By the way, when this guy saw the flash, he looked into the window and started waving. He thinks I want him. Great.
Just thought I'd share.
In other news, the doorman in my building has made it a habit of calling me "sexy" when no one else is around. When people are around he won't make eye contact with me. When they're gone, he looks at me lustfully and says "You lookin' sexy today, girl." It's not uncomfortable at all.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Like my grandma said, those of us mutts who are composed of a trillion different cultural backgrounds should be grateful that we have such a rich DNA history contributing to our creative stew. What she forgot to mention, though, is that sometimes our opposing cultures and religions get into fights and start arguing with one another when we least expect it.
Case in point:
My inner Puerto Rican is drawn to all things shiny, tacky or gaudy. When the term “bling” was coined, the Puerto Rican rejoiced. She did a few salsa steps and a dip; not to mention responded positively to some degrading catcalls. The Parisian inside me, of course, is a couture clothes horse who can not stand the informality of trends. She’s somewhat of a bitch too, so I wasn’t surprised when the Parisian and the Rican started dueling it out. Then there’s the Mormon, who gets pissed at everyone for cussing and disrespecting this body, which is to be viewed as nothing less than a temple. My inner Jew scoffs at the Mormon, who often says that, out of all religions, Judaism is most similar to the Mormon one. The Jew strikes back, “Oh yeah, something about us being one of your ‘ten lost tribes’ or something, right?” Meanwhile, my inner German Nazi can not stand to hear my Jew being so arrogant and having a self-righteous opinion, so it kidnaps my inner Jew and puts it in a concentration camp.
So, who wins? I guess it’s a fight between the Puerto Rican, the Parisian and the German. The Jew is detained and the Mormon has been stifled. The result is one bloody mess that I like to refer to as my inner agnostic American.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Email mess-ups are the best. You have a paper trail and hard evidence to boot...
One of my clients sent me an image the other day. I wrote back and told her I couldn’t use it; that I needed a jpg file for our purposes. Please send me a new file.
Clearly she had to ask someone else at her company for the image, because I got an email from one of her colleagues with the new file.
I scrolled down his email (quite frankly, because I’m nosy) and saw what she had written to him:
“Looks like the Pope lost his hat.”
This is how she had introduced my email, which she had forwarded to her art director.
I had never heard that phrase, but it didn’t take me too long to figure out it’s meaning. The pope’s hat looks like a dunce cap! She was calling me a dunce!
Oh how I wanted to write her back and let her know that it was actually her fault, not mine. Or, at least question her as to the appropriateness of her email? You know—patronize her a little bit:
“Now, Lisa (or, whatever her name was), do you really think this is necessary? And by the way, you’re an idiot. Have a nice day.”
I told a girl at my office about it and she told me about a time when she wrote to her client, calling said client a “fucking bitch.” She actually meant to say this to one of our colleagues, to whom she had intended on forwarding the message. Clearly she had pressed “Reply” in "Forward's" place.
I can agree with that though. There’s a huge difference between being a bitch and a dunce. If someone called me a bitch, I’d totally understand. But a dunce? Sorry, no cigar, honey.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
1). My company's building now has its very own scaffolding. Guess what that means? Our very own construction workers! Yup, now everyday when I reach the office and thus, seemingly have hit home free after being harassed by workers at a mere four other sites and by a few random scumbags sweeping the sidewalk, the fun will have only just begun!
2). It's The Skeeze's birthday today. I've decided that, since he's turning 28 today, he has graduated to "The Geeze." Get it? Rhymes with Skeeze? Implies elderliness? Well, I laughed.
Here are three "The Geeze" fun facts for this glorious day:
-The Geeze didn't start drinking until he was in his twenties (when he met me and was thus corrupted).
-The Geeze's favorite drink was initially Bailey's on the rocks. From Bailey's on the rocks he moved straight to Jack on the rocks. No in-between. Bailey's is clearly a "gateway liquore."
-This morning, the Geeze woke up, flipped on the news and the date, August 22nd, was engulfing the screen. This was followed by the words, "Why do some people think today is Doomsday?" Neither of us has yet heard the reason. Have you? Please enlighten me.
3). Yesterday, the horizontally disadvantaged girl in my office asked me what I was going to do after work. I told her I was going to workout and then make dinner. "Workout? Don't you already have a boyfriend?" And thus the mystery of the rising divorce rate was solved.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
A friend and I made the trek out to Brooklyn yesterday to visit Dave Eggers' Superhero Supply Store. We've already visited his Pirate Supply Store in San Francisco (where I almost fainted upon spotting a guy with curly brown hair, who may or may not have been Dave Eggers), and we have distant plans of visiting his Spy Supply Store in Chicago. "Groupie" does not even begin to describe my obsession with the guy. Well, his writing, that is.
Superhero Supply Store
Pirate Supply Store
Friday, August 18, 2006
I’m not going to go too far into this, but thought something needed to be said.
Since he launched his site a month ago, Not Chosen, Just Posin’ has provided me with a few good laughs (a rare commodity found on only a few blogs). In a nutshell, he’s a Catholic guy who works at a Jewish Magazine. They think he’s Jewish. He’s obviously not.
His adventures revolve around tasting lox for the first time, discovering what a briss is and despising a girl he calls “SuperJew” (she having referred to herself as such initially).
Gawker linked to a hilarious post he did yesterday called the “Jap Workout.” It’s essentially an innocent (I think) parody of the stereotype surrounding Jewish girls.
I’ve been going back and forth from his comment board and the comments seem downright ignorant and accusatory. Comparisons to Mel Gibson and the like. You’ve got to be kidding me? Are people really taking this seriously? Am I just way too liberal? I, for one, think it’s hilarious despite having a Jewish boyfriend and mom.
Anyway, just wanted to add my two cents in support of the crazy chotch. Any thoughts?
(Sheesh, giving attention to someone else can be downirght painful. Back to me...)
Thursday, August 17, 2006
When I wrote the post about Gigi impersonators the other day, I had no idea that I was so close to actually catching one in the act. Perhaps I was receiving messages from the cosmos, which somehow compelled me to write the post or, rather, perhaps my post evoked some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. Either way, some guy over at Bowl49ers must have truly liked my Best Bartender in NYC post so much, that he posted it as his own. Seriously. There were no links to me, no "props for Gigi who actually wrote this review," no changed names/details...No nothin'!
You have to see this to believe it. Go to my post, which I've highlighted above and then go to "his" post. It's uncanny how much they look alike. They're twins, damnit. Twins!
All I have to say is Bowl49ers better take a look at my list of Gigi-isms if he's going to keep engaging in such lowly antics.
P.S. If his story is down by the time you get there, this means the faker has taken it down in shame.
...At least in regards to Asian women talking’ a lot of trash.
I called in the office breakfast order this morning since I had to put everything on my credit card. My order was the “Healthy” wrap with coffee. Others ordered eggs and double hash browns and one girl ordered an ice tea with a plain donut.
As I was dictating the donut order to the Asian lady on the other end of the phone, she interrupted in order to shamelessly berate me: “We don’t have donut! And donut not healthy!”
“No, they’re not,” I agreed. “But moving right along, a number 3 Healthy wrap, iced coffee…”
“Ah, much better,” she said as if she was responsible for correcting my previous bad decision.
I emailed the girl with the donut order and told her the story. I heard her spew out laughter all the way from my office.
But, now I must know: How does one redeem herself in the eyes of the trash-talkin’ Asian woman? Is it as simple as ordering the Healthy wrap?
I tend to doubt it. For, if this were the case, Asian women the world over and I wouldn’t have the problems that we do. And boy do we ever have problems…
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
...Thus resurrecting my theory that "Asian Women Talk a Lot of Trash.*"
I’ll give you this disclaimer: I really love my Asian tailor. Sharon is the cutest thing ever and not only that, she now makes me pants. Yep, you heard it here first; I have my pants especially made for me. Ever since the crotch of my favorite pants ripped, I’ve been buying material and taking it to Sharon, who has decoded the pattern for mass duplication. Now I can have my pants in any material I want. For a minute there, I actually thought that Sharon was an exception to the "Asian women talking a lot of trash" rule. Apparently this is not the case.
Sharon’s shop is right downstairs from my apartment, so she sees me walking by frequently with The Skeeze. One day we went in to her shop together and she gave me a “shame on you” look, as if she knew what I was up to. As far as I could tell, she thought The Skeeze and I were a couple who lived together out of wedlock. Sometimes, when we go into her shop to pick up laundry together, she giggles like a schoolgirl. She seems embarrassed for us. I don’t feel the need to explain to her that we are only friends. All she needs to know is how to make my pants hug my ass and thighs. And this she knows well, so we're good.
Well, last weekend D was in town. As we walked out of my apartment I saw Sharon glaring at us out of her window. She had a look of surprise on her face. Could it be? I was a two-timer who was cheating on The Skeeze? I could see the hamster in her mind sprinting around in its wheel, but I ignored it.
Last night, when The Skeeze went to pick up his laundry, Sharon broke the news subtly to him:
Sharon: Oh, Gigi came in with boy the other day. Did you know about this?
The Skeeze is nicer than me. He simply laughed and told her the situation.
I decided it would have been a lot funnier if he had pretended he was really pissed and simultaneously ran out of the store. A few minutes later, I would march downstairs with fake blood and slobber on my face, crying and yelling at Sharon that it was all her fault that The Skeeze and I had not only broken up, but gotten into a glass-breaking brawl. If I was feeling really creative, I would black out some of my teeth while at it.
That would show her not to open her little Trash-talkin’ Asian mouth again. Hee. Hee.
Incidentally, I told D the story and even he was a little pissed. "What if you really were cheating on The Skeeze with me? That’s just not right. She could get us in trouble."
I’m sure D and I will work this scene into one of our little videos some time soon…
* On the bottom right, you can find a directory of all posts that fall into the "Asian Women Talk a Lot of Trash" genre.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It occurred to me the other day, while watching The Simple Life, that if Paris Hilton has a bevy of impersonators, it will be any day now that there will be fake Gigis walking around Manhattan. They will attempt to mimic my imitable style and regurgitate my uncanny wit. This is not something that I want, but neither is it something I can control. What I can control, however, are the details. If you are one of these pending imposters, please take note of the following list. I’d hate for you to spoil my good name by not knowing these key rules:
-Always look to the ground when you walk down the street, making eye contact with no one (else, they might assume you are open to conversation - you're not)
-Upon receiving someone’s negative opinion in regards to your dress, attitude or personality, make sure they know that you’ve gone 26 years without said opinion and you’re doing just fine.
-If someone judges your eccentricities, respond with, “No one ever got anywhere being mediocre.” Follow this with a direct stare to indicate the speakers’ own mediocrity.
-If you are involved in a group discussion, make sure that you disagree with the majority consensus. Even if you really do agree with it, pose an argument so as to not appear a follower.
-Make your enemies your best friends.
-Don’t pick up phone calls. Even if you’re available, you must let the call go to voicemail and then call right back.
-Don't shy away from compliments, and don't feel the need to return a compliment just because one is given to you.
-When you go to a club and see that there’s a line, enter said club and proclaim, “I don’t know why the bouncers are making people wait in line. It’s clearly not to keep out the riff-raff. I mean, look at this crowd.”
-When someone asks you to do a favor, give them the impression that you are really going out on a limb to help them. This way they might reconsider asking you to do favors in the future.
-Never show anyone that you are impressed with them or their accomplishments.
-Always make people think you’re busier than you are.
-Guys love a good chase. Wait around for a month before actually going out with them. Trust me, they’re not going anywhere.
-When at a bar or other public setting, don’t look around. Stay focused on those you came with.
-When ordering a Sapphire dirty martini (this is what you drink), always ask the bartender if he has blue cheese stuffed olives. When he says ‘no,’ rephrase: “You have olives, right? You have blue cheese, right? Well then.”
-What you eat:
Breakfast: Eggs benedict with Lox.
Lunch: Arugala salad with brie cheese, tomatoes, olive oil and kosher salt.
Dinner: Beef fried rice, with mushrooms, tomatoes, onions and a Sapphire dirty martini
-Always alter your orders when at a restaurant
-Upon going to a restaurant and seeing iodized salt on the table, educate your guest on the fact that iodized salt masks the flavor of the food with a “salt” taste, whereas kosher salt brings out the food’s flavors. Then, make it obvious that you are somehow “giving in” or doing your guest a favor by dining at such a lowbrow establishment.
-Don’t apologize, you are never wrong. Whatever you did is justified. You meant to do it.
-You despise construction workers and scumbags who stand on the street with nothing better to do than hit on you.
While one can not duplicate all of that which makes me grand, one can at least do her best when trying.
Monday, August 14, 2006
A Little Background.
Yesterday I liberated myself not from the oppression that is being a woman living in a man's world (because, after all, I'm a woman striving therein, i.e. I can take you), but rather, the oppression that results from a sportsbra that no longer offers me the support I need. Maybe I should rephrase that: A sportsbra that only provided one breast the support it needed, while leaving the other to flop around whimsically for all passerby to enjoy.
There are a lot of names one could call me ('snotty,' 'conceited,' 'arrogant,' 'sexy,' 'humble?'), but 'disloyal' is not one of them. I've had the above sportsbra since 2001. Between this one and another one that I stole from a roommate who I didn't like, I've taken this bra with me to every treadmill, every track and every running-on-the-beach expedition that I've since attended. I've washed it regularly and stood up for it when people called it 'ugly.' But alas, the bra did not do the same favors for me. While I put my faith in it, it talked back to me and mocked me publicly like a vindictive god with some major chip on his shoulder.
As with any long-term relationship, it was hard to let go. Friends and family had been telling me to get out of this particular dead-end since 2003. I held out until this year, 2006. It all started when I found myself walking around Manhattan with one boob flopping around, unsupported, while the other sat there and laughed. At that point, I gave my sportsbra an ultimatum: All or nothing. I'd always heard that if it came to this point, it probably wouldn't work out anyhow. That was indeed the case. About a month ago, I was at a store admiring a replacement. I even went as far as to place it on the counter for purchase. But, at the very last moment, something inside me hesitated. It wasn't right.
The straw that broke this camel's back.
A month later (Saturday to be exact), I looked at my profile in the mirror only to notice that, holy shit, my boobs look like flapjacks! This is not healthy! A good bra wouldn't let it come to this. I decided I was going to finish what I had started. And not only was I going to replace the bastard, I was going to buy back-up.
I love the feeling you get a few months beyond having broken up with a non-attentive lover. At this point, you have endured the majority of the pain, catered to the unhealthy images of your lover with another and reconfigured your life so that it doesn't include the once-significant other. After not just a little pain, you wake up one morning and think, "What the hell did I ever see in that jerk?" And, not to be discounted, "If I never would have ended it with X, I never would have met Y."
Only, in my case, X is a pair of flapjack boobs and Y is the resurgence of my old perky ones.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Me: You’re human. That’s normal.
Not me: No really.
Not me: Because you write every day, even if it’s not that good. I can’t put it out there unless it’s really good.
Me: What are you talking about? My writing’s always good.
Not me: Ha ha.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
I meant to mention it earlier, but I had a surprisingly pleasant run-in with El Diablo in Times Square a few weeks back. In summary, both of us grinned, nodded and pretended that we didn’t hate one another. With acting skills like these, I’d say that it was more than coincidental that we met up on Broadway.
I haven’t seen him since, but I won’t lie and tell you that I haven’t been keeping up on his life slash pending break up through various mutual sources. The break up process went as I assumed it would: She tried. He cried. They’re attempting to work things out. Oddly, I kind of feel sorry for the poor bastard now that I don’t have to share a chest hair-infested shower with him.
Anyway, his thirtieth birthday is coming up next month (as an aside, he's been referring to himself as '30' for about a year now so as to seem mature and wise) and I received the following invite yesterday. I can’t decide if this is the coolest thing ever or the lamest thing ever. I’m leaning towards the latter due the company involved, but am willing to change my opinion if the invite list is edited just a bit:
So the Diablo’s B-day is coming (Sept 9) and I promised him last year that we would rent La Rumba Express (Colombian chiva bus) for him so I think we should all get together and take him out for a good time he has been through a lot this year so he deserves a good time. So lets keep this a surprise for now and send this to anyone I forgot to add. The website for this exciting little bus is www.larumbaexpress.com. I'll keep you guys posted for dates and times that we will be embarking on
this little excursion!
You see, being on the Columbian Chiva bus (whatever that is) would be cool if the people on it with you were not completely impressed with the fact that they are doing something overtly stupid, yet “original.” I’d say the whole thing is equivalent to wearing a car mechanic shirt that says someone else’s name on it, i.e. your name is John, but your shirt says Bob! Duh.
Shoot me now.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
...is not something I would suggest.
Basically the only thing that constituted "fun" the entire night was noticing that strikes are denoted by 'K's. At three strikes, I looked over at the scoreboard and saw 'KKK' staring at me. I told my friend Aaron that the Mets don't really hold anything back when it comes to racism.
He explained in kind.
What else? Hmmm...
Oh yeah, Mike Piazza had a major wedgie. That was somewhat entertaining:
We left during the 5th inning and I concluded that "It just goes to show, being drunk is a necessary evil when you go to these things."
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
For months now I've been hearing about this man-stealing vixen that works with a friend of mine (let's call my friend "Roxy," which fortunately for her, is not her name). Every guy Roxy likes, The Man-Stealer likes. When a guy is talking to Roxy, The Man-Stealer has to move in and talk to the guy. When Roxy is out of town, evidently her prospects are fair game to The Man-Stealer.
The Man-Stealer thinks she is one hot piece of ass. This was made known when The Man-Stealer told Roxy that she was working on a project with Roxy's current crush. The Man-Stealer assured Roxy not to worry though, "I won't wear make-up and I won't talk to him." Translation: "He will have no choice but to fall hopelessly in love with me if I even look in his direction." Evidently, Medusa's got nothing on this bitch.
Another example was when, at a party, a guy was talking to Roxy the entire night. The Man-Stealer and Roxy ended up in the bathroom at the same time. It was there that The Man-Stealer offered Roxy amnesty: "Just let me know if you want me to step back from him and I will." Roxy was confused. He hadn't said a word to The Man-Stealer all night. Roxy, being a little too polite for my liking, told her it was no big deal...but that's only because she thought she had the guy in the bag. The Man-Stealer, staying loyal to her name, moved right on in and snatched the guy up for the rest of the night.
Anyway, Roxy is in a bind because she really likes The Man-Stealer, but can't handle her self-titled ways. Roxy has somewhat submitted to the fact that The Man-Stealer is the way she is and that's just how it goes. Even worse, Roxy describes the Man-Stealer as this exotic Indian siren from the far reaches of Bombay. Once a man looks at her, she lures him into her lair and he has no chance of escaping her capture. Even I was entranced by the vision I had created in my head. I was picturing a scene out of Bollywood. Guys are singing her praise whilst dancing under waterfalls and crawling down at her feet:
So, you can only imagine my delight when I met The Man-Stealer this weekend and she looked more like this:
But Roxy wouldn't budge. "You're not going to convince me that she's not cute. She doesn't have make-up on and her dress isn't flattering."
"Her face isn't very flattering either," I chimed in.
Not that I have any problems with unattractive members of the human race, but when anyone is stealing my friends' men, it's inevitably war. All the previous vows I made to my grandmother regarding the usage of the word "ugly" are considered null and void.*
We concluded our little intervention by letting Roxy know that she and any of these guys that found her appealing had definitely partook of The Man-Stealer's punch. Us on the other hand? We puked it out.
Roxy continues to live in denial with her dog.
*My grandma always taught me not to call people "ugly" because this is not something they can control. I've always abided by this rule and think it's a great one, but like I said, when it comes to crossing the boundaries with a friend's man, it's so game time.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Here, Frida only has a 5 o'clock shadow.
Not the full woman-stache, which I have addressed below.
Okay, so yesterday morning The Skeeze, his girlfriend and I went out for brunch at a Cuban place in my neighborhood. The waitress came up to our table, greeted us and asked the normal questions. As soon as she walked away, I couldn't help myself but to declare, "I don't mean to state the obvious, but she's got a serious mustache."
The Skeeze and his girlfriend weren't blind - they too had noticed the mustache. We broke into conversation about how it seems that some cultures are okay with woman-staches. The normal questions were raised: "Why don't they shave it?" "Do men actually like that??" "They do know that they have a mustache, right?" "Why not grow a beard while they're at it?" All three of us had, on separate occasions, experienced the full-blown woman-stache. We decided that it might just be a cultural thing and that maybe it's just not a big deal.
But, of course, no matter what we had diplomatically decided at this point, it was a huge deal. Especially since I was eating. Head deep into a pitcher of sangria, I decided that our waitress needed to put a hairnet on her mustache or I was going to call the FDA. After all, this was unsanitary.
I wanted to get a picture of the woman-stache, but I didn't want to offend the waitress. We brainstormed on how we could achieve this goal, but it was all to no avail. She would know we were documenting her mustache. "But I really want to put a picture of her on my blog!" I declared. At that moment, I had a revelation: Frida Kahlo!
I claim the patent on these. Step off.
I don't have much more to say here. Just that sometimes I chuckle when I write these posts, but this is so damn funny that I am currently keeling over, letting out a full blown guffaw. End of story. Hope you enjoyed it.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
This just in: A health website loves comic strips about Floyd Landis doing an 8ball! Healthpundits links to the above artistic brilliance every time you go here and click on 'Floyd Landis.'
Floyd Landis World Anti-Doping Agency Tour de France
Friday, August 04, 2006
This public service announcement is brought to you today by Gigi.
I don’t know that I need to say much about this pot-o-gold I’ve stumbled upon, so I’ll just give the ladies of New York City a few words in parting:
-You now hold the key that allows you to avoid the desperate stares and needy catcalls of NYC construction workers for the rest of your days.
-Keep this handy-dandy map and legend duo in your purse at all times for accessibility.
-This might just change your life. It has already changed mine.
-Sorry, I haven’t yet broached the problem that is your average dirtball on the street (But don’t worry, ingrates – I’m working on it).
You can thank me later .
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
More on Mel and Ashlee [sic] can be found here.
Die, Sweet Tooth. Die!
My sweet tooth is officially dead. She had been holding onto dear life for years while me and the others (canines, molars, wisdom teeth that were never pulled) sat around, waiting for the day when she would take her last breath. It really has been a long time coming.
My sweet tooth and I used to be inseparable. With every piece of chocolate, carrot cake or gummy bear, our bond was reconfirmed. I needed her and she needed me (Hell, I'm the one with the money to support her mounting habit).
I could tell that things were going awry when I spoke to a therapist who told me we were becoming co-dependent upon one another. My blood sugar was rising at irregular intervals and her neediness was becoming intolerable. I knew I had to part with her, but I thought I would be too lonely. That is, until I met Salt. Ever since I met Salt my dependence on sugar dwindled. Salt was so much more satisfying and provided me with a healthier lifestyle. I knew that we had a connection when I looked in the mirror and noticed I was losing weight. Love will do that to ya sometimes, you know?
Sweet tooth was not happy when she found out about Salt. She went on the trauma diet and started losing weight drastically, but not in a good way. She refused to eat salt (and that's all I'd been feeding her lately). That's when she began to fade. I didn't mean to cut her out cold turkey, but I had to do what was best for me. My other teeth, and not to mention, my dentist and my therapist, agreed that this was the right thing to do. I couldn't worry about her anymore. The co-dependence is what had gotten me in trouble in the first place. For the first time in my life, I was happy. Sweet tooth couldn't handle it.
All of this has led up to today, the day that I bid Sweet Tooth farewell. Sweet Tooth played a big part in my life, one that I will not forget. But, again, one that I'm not sad to see go...
(All of this is to say that I miraculously no longer crave sugar and I'm really psyched about the situation)