Mental Images I Can Live Without

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

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

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

"I'm not fancy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh the People You'll See...

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

Let me introduce last night's cast.

Bald lady who loved my turquoise sweat jacket.

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

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

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

The Bum Who Needed a Bite to Eat.

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

Hipsters.

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

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

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

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

Chompers.

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

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

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

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

All Warm & Fuzzy Inside...

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

"Yes, she's my sister."

"Gigi, the editor of numberII magazine?"

"Well, she was."

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

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

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

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

A Pineapple Without Due Warning

All I have to say is this: If you are a waitress who works at a restaurant that happens to have hollowed-out pineapples in which to serve pina coladas to unsuspecting customers, you must (must!) give the customer an option: glass or gutted pineapple?

Twas not the case tonight. I ordered a Bloody Mary and The Skeeze, he ordered a pina colada (yes, he's reverting back to old bitch drinking habits). Evidently The Skeeze has a "I like drinking out of fruit carcasses" look to him, because the waitress didn't even bother asking. I made a point of pointing out to him on several occasions that, ha, you're drinking out of a deceased pineapple.

Not too long after receiving his pineapple, The Skeeze and I noticed surprised looks on the faces of the couple next to us. In front of them the waitress placed two pineapples. The Skeeze tapped the guy of the pair on the shoulder (in a NYC restaurant you can essentially reach every patron with just a bit of ambitious leaning). "Did you indicate that you wanted the pineapple?" Asked The Skeeze. He and his girlfriend said "no," with not a little conviction and a prolonged embarrassed giggle. The Skeeze pointed to his own pineapple and said, "Yeah, me neither." A bond was formed.

As we were waiting for the waitress to bring us our bill, I overheard two guys behind me talking about The Skeeze's pineapple. I let him know about the conversation. The Skeeze said, "I know; I heard." He was not amused.

"Don't you feel naked hearing them speak about your pineapple so openly?"

"A little."

Anyway, that's pretty much the end of my story. I just thought it was odd getting an obligatory pineapple in NYC. On the beach somewhere exotic? Maybe. In Manhattan, though? Not so much. Well, unless you go here, but I wouldn't suggest that.

My Motto: "All Class, All of the Time."

It takes a real woman to reveal what I am about to here (in which I give myself a compliment before himiliating myself just the same):


skeeze: Whats going on little poopoo
gigi: was in the bathroom
gigi: got some on my finger
gigi:
skeeze: classy
gigi: what can i say? i'm a classy broad
-------
gigi: my bowels are sensitive today
skeeze: oh good
gigi: what a nightmare
gigi: it would be nice if i were at my house
gigi: but the Lysol in the public bathroom just isn't cutting it
skeeze: i on the other hand
skeeze: had a clean experience
skeeze: no paper needed
gigi: you would brag

It's Not That...

...I'm sick of talking about myself. I mean, really, how could that ever get old? (It can't) It's not that I don't have anything interesting going on either. (I do!) It's just that I've been really busy at work, which is an annoyance I have to learn to deal with.

Anyway, I have an event to go to tonight, so either I'll write about that or you'll be subject to hearing about my dream last night. It was really weird and can be spewed out in just a few sentences, so...

I'll be back. Hopefully normal posting will resume shortly.

In the Spirit of Narcissism...

Today I had a picture taken of me for the company web site. While I know that most people claim to be very non-photogenic for the sake of being humble, I truly do take horrendous pictures (and as you know, I don't embrace humility). In other words, you know I would admit to taking good pictures if I did. In fact, I'd probably brag. But, again and sadly, tis not so.

So, getting to the point. I had the girl who took my picture email it to me so I could, umm, fix it. At that point, I went so far as to sending it to The Skeeze, who is a graphic designer. I requested that he please (please!!!) make peace with my imperfections. I wish that I could put up the "Before" and "After" shots for all to see, but I don't want my mug all up on the internet for a day. Therefore, I will illustrate the drastic difference with the following "Before" and "After" photos. Enjoy:

The World is Conspiring Against Me and This is How I Know:

Two Hour Delay at the Airport:

Now, considering that I fly in and out of the city at least two times a month, I've been pretty considerate of your collective attention span for not having bitched too much about the misery that is flying in/out of NYC airports. In order of hatred: LaGuardia, JFK, Newark (Yeah, it's in New Jersey. So?).

I can not elaborate enough how much a weekend trip (that's a day and a half, mind you) is ruined by flight delays. I can tell you in all honesty that I have been delayed EVERY time I've flown in or out of the above-mentioned airports. That's at least 14 times in the last few months. This past Friday I left my office at 3:30 p.m. (which pisses the boss off a bit) and didn't arrive in Orlando until 12 a.m.

The newest feature of your flight out of NYC is sitting on the runway for two hours. Instead of just alerting customers that the flight will be delayed (so they can go about life and not risk their jobs to leave early for a delayed flight, uh hem), the airline would rather you board the plane and sit on the runway for a few hours. D was fortunate enough to sit on the runway for 11 hours last month! He was flying from Boston to Chicago. That's usually a hour and a half flight. The plane had no water or food on it.

There is no end to how irritating this is becoming. I'm seriously considering canceling my flight to Miami this weekend. It is that bad. I'm getting pissed off just thinking about it.

Airport Security Stole My Perfume, Two Sticks of Mascara, Lipgloss...

Granted, I knew that I shouldn't be bringing them on my carry-on, but since I've gotten away with it before, I thought I would try it this time as well. Plus, I figured I would check my luggage if they found my stuff. Nope, they threw it away. I told them that, in that case, I was just going to check my luggage. "Nope, you can't. Once you're through, you can't go through again Watch the news," said the considerate airport representative.

I'm pretty sure this new tactic is illegal. The perfume alone was full and $80. I didn't see anything on the news about the airport stealing your goods once you've gone through security. I'm convinced that they need to give you an option. Did anyone else know/hear about that?


The Air Link Driver Threatened Me After the Super Shuttle Driver Dissed Me:

When I arrived at JFK last night, I called Super Shuttle, which is the service I use to get home cheaply. "20 minutes," barked the helpful (not very), custom-retention-sensitive (couldn't care less if she never heard from another custom again) and not-rude-at-all (she was a bitch) representative on the end of the phone.

"Can I pay with a credit card?" I asked.

"You can do whatever you feel like."

"But can I pay the driver or do I pay over the phone?"

"Do whatever you want."

"So the driver accepts credit cards?"

"Yes, do whatever you want. He'll be there in 15 or 20 minutes."


Forty minutes later and he wasn't there. A driver from another service (AirLink) asked where I was going and said he could take me home. After sitting in his van for 30 minutes, watching as he scrounged up passengers, another ex-Super Shuttle customer and I started getting a bit pissed. We could have been home. We asked him if we were leaving. "You can get out of the van if you want, I don't care." Thanks for answering the question, dick. I said that we wanted to stay, but we also wanted to leave. "You're last," he threatened me. Fuck you, dude. I took my luggage out and she and I shared a cab home. This decision, however, wasn't made until an hour and a half after I landed. My saving grace is that his attitude costed him the extra time he would now have to waste scrounging up two more customers. Sucker. I did, however, feel bad for the other people in the van.


Spinach!

In non-airport related news, I ordered a mixed greens salad today. "There's no spinach in it, right?"

"No. No spinach."

As you can imagine, half of the salad was spinach. I didn't know that there were even establishments left who would even bother offering it at risk of being sued. On that note, I do feel a little sick right now...

Kindred Spirits

My client and I

Everyday at the office should be similar to the one I had yesterday. One of our clients was in from out of town, so I took him out for drinks down the street.

As soon as I heard him order a Sapphire and tonic, I knew this was a no holds-barred event. I ordered my Sapphire dirty and he proceeded to tell me how disgusting it is to watch a woman give birth. “You watched?!” I queried. “You’re not supposed to watch! You should have just stayed up at her head.” He agreed, “Yeah, she thought I’d never want to have sex with her again after watching that, but she’s pregnant with our second, so there goes that theory.”

Over drink two we discussed the national health programs in Finland, Sweden and England.

Over drink three we talked about paper production and Greenpeace.

Over drink four we discussed renting the bar out for a night and bringing in a d.j.

Over drink five we actually proposed this idea to the owner and threw out a round number ($2,000) as a prospective bar fee.

I went to the bathroom at this point and demanded he order me no more drinks.

Over drink six I decided to email a few people back so as not to feel guilty for drinking on the job. Here’s an example email:

“Hi Kay, I’m soooo sorry. I’ll email her shortly. At a meeting that’s running over a lot. The cup runneth over? Yes, something like that. Whoa... Talk to you soon!”

What can I say? I’m a professional.

At this point, it was already past 6 p.m. (it was a three hour meeting - and really, we did cover a lot of ground). I decided it was definitely a good idea to go back into the office to get some more work done. Here I ran into my boss who was interested in hearing about my meeting. I tried to speak clearly, but it only took her a few words to figure out that, "You're buzzed."

"It's all his fault," I said, properly blaming it on someone who was not present to defend himself.

Fortunately, my boss didn't seem to care too much. She left. The receptionist was still here, however, so she was privy to me telling her who in the office likes to poop a lot. I'm not kidding.

Then my phone rang. It was the client who I had just left, telling me that he thinks we are kindred spirits.

On my way home, I met up with the Skeeze, made fun of a few people on the train, wondered aloud why Oprah needs to grace every single one of her magazine covers and explained to the Skeeze how you know you've had a successful meeting when you get the 'Kindred Spirits' call.

"I mean, you have received the 'Kindred Spirits' call, haven't you?!"

He hadn't. He is clearly not as effective and slick as me. And, by 'slick' I mean blubbering at the mouth, drunk emailing people, talking about your colleagues' bowel movements and stealing seats on the train.

I'm Running for President!

Yes, this is me (and the odd little clown face that follows me around)
President of my company's building that is. You see, every morning I am forced to wait for the incompetent elevator to mozy its way down to ground level. I'm on the third floor. I would love to just use the stairs. Problem is the doorman will not let anyone use the stairs to go up, only to go down (escape, so to speak). Something about the messengers coming up and stealing stuff. I don't buy it.

Anyhow, after waiting for the elevator a few minutes too many this morning, I starting spreading my propaganda to my co-elevator riders. ("What great exercise we're missing out on!") The elevator was full of, "Yes" "Yeahs" and "Yayys." I had really struck a chord; let these people know that, no, they are not the only ones who feel this way about the building politics. "But the owners..." they countered. "It's majority rule," I informed them.

The lady whose office is on the second floor was, by far, the most spirited and excited about my political agenda. As I left the elevator, I asked my audience, "So are you going to vote for me?" Of course, they all answered in the affirmative. My colleague and I walked off the elevator and she declared that I was her hero.

"As any president should be..." I replied.

Two New Signs for NYC

This sign needs to be plastered all over the city
A while ago I mentioned that my friend Aaron is a better person than I'll ever be because he religiously carries around a plastic baggy to clean up his dog's crap.

"But it's all warm and gooey," I whined.

"Yeah, but how would you feel if you stepped in it?" He challenged.

In my mind, I thought that I'd rather someone else step in it than have to pick it up.

Today karma bit me in the ass. Who even knew that karma paid you back for your thoughts? I mean, I'd totally understand if I actually had a dog whose poop I failed to pick up, but punishment for the hypothetical is uncalled for.

So yeah, on my way to work this morning, in my nice leather shoes, I slipped into some mushy, soft stools. As I scraped my shoes on the sidewalk, I thought about what I would do to the dog owner had I seen him leave it there, in the middle of the street, no less. First, I thought I'd pick it up with my bare hands and throw it at him, whilst yelling some derogatory phrases and childish putdowns about him and his mom. Then I realized that this method would involve me picking up shit with my bare hands. So I moved onto a fantasy wherein I pick the shit up with a leaf and do the same. Finally, I envisioned picking it up with a leaf, running ahead of the perpetrator and putting it under his next step. I would then turn around, say nothing and assume he or she got the point.

As I walked further down my block, I saw the soup kitchen for the homeless and realized something pretty disturbing:

In the spirit of posting signs, this might also be a good one...

The Obligatory 9/11 Post

Some guy walked past me today and yelled, "Happy 9/11. Too bad we didn't lose more!"

I'm going to side with sarcasm and dry humor on this one. Perhaps even go as far as to say it was an abstract coping mechanism. He didn't offend me; just annoyed me like anyone else who speaks to me in the morning on my way to work.

Here's my brief September 11th memory and ultimate conclusion. I was living in Chicago at the time. I was trying to sleep-in that morning as I was working 4 jobs (not kidding), but my phone was ringing off the hook. It wouldn't stop and I was pissed because I never got to sleep. Finally my roommate, who had been let off work early, ran into my room screaming, "The world's at war!" I stumbled into the living room and watched as the planes slammed into the World Trade Center.

My roommate suggested we go to lunch, which I remember felt disrespectful in some way. (Ironically, she worked a night job at a restaurant. She came home from her shift that night saying that she couldn't believe people were going out to eat. Wait - didn't you suggest lunch earlier?)

Aside from the melancholy feeling that filled the air, the conspiracy theories that were sent via email chain letters and Chicagoans' predictions that the Sears Tower was next (my boyfriend at the time worked there and was subject to mock emergency exit drills from the 83rd floor down), life did not change much. I was not personally affected, but was sympathetic.

I heard this weekend on the news that the people who lost loved ones on Flight 93 are disturbed that they are not getting as much sympathy as those who lost family members in the WTC. Calm down, you both got a movie. Our collective attention can only be divided so much. In my opinion, unfortunate and unfair deaths occur around the world daily. I am just as sympathetic to those Iraqis I never knew as I am to any American I never knew. Our losses are no more tragic than theirs. While ours were great, there exist much worse.

American or not, all should be remembered equally.

Good Marketing

Fred Flintstone Then:
Fat, Slothy, High Blood Pressure, Gluttonous.

Fred Flintstone Now:
An icon for good health, a nutritional role model, the symbol of a balanced diet, still fat.

Get to the Point, Yo.

The other night I was out with my friend who works for a certain rapper's clothing company. Hint: It's Nelly's. She was excited because a bunch of the young, rich, single owners of other clothing companies were going to be out with us. After several shots of Patron, we got to talking to some guy who was even drunker than us.

He was stuttering something along the lines of:

“I-I-I-I am goin-going-going-to-to-ba-de-ba-de-ba-de the-the-the Hamptons….”

I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I looked at him and asked him if he could, please, “spit it the fuck out already, will ya?”

That’s when my friend gave me an elbow jab to the side and informed me through her teeth that “He has a stutter!”

I'm going to go ahead and classify this one as:

“Things that you should have told me before I took ten shots of tequila, for 100, please.”

Oops.

A Legitimate Question With No Real Good Answer

The scene: My cousin and I are sitting on the couch, glued to the television set, which is spewing out the drama of Laguna Beach high school students.

My Cousin (Age 29): At what point do you think we will no longer be entertained by high school students' lives?
Me (Age 26): I have no idea, but if it doesn't stop soon we might be accused of having a mild case of pedophilia.
My Cousin: Scary.
Me: Yeah. Sad.

If Only Gigi Were a Couples' Therapist...

Looks like our generic boyfriend and girlfriend here are having trouble keeping it spicy in the sack. In Scene 1, they visit a traditional therapist. In Scene 2, they follow Gigi's orders. Which method do you think is most effective?

Scene 1

(Click to enlarge)

Scene 2

(Click to enlarge)

This Biting Feeling.

I thought I'd ignore the fact that I spent the whole weekend with D in Chicago in favor of writing about my experience at the bagel shop this morning. After all, I'm not sure why anyone would want the play by play of my weekend, but then again, I'm not sure why anyone would want to hear about my toasted bagel with cream cheese and the schizo standing in line ahead of me. As an aside, the fact that this blog is giving me anxiety issues has some seriously creepy implications. One of which is that D thinks I'm kind of a dork. I totally am.

Of course, he follows this sentiment by asking, "Why don't you ever talk about me on your blog?" To which I respond, "I think people get bored when girls talk about their boyfriends." All of this brings us in a full circle, back to me wondering whether talking about my bagel shop is any more interesting than D? Hmm...

Anyway, here's the rundown of Labor Day weekend 2006:

I'm totally photogenic

Friday
Took an early flight. Was delayed for an hour at LaGuardia (as usual). Arrived. Measured D's wall for a future mosaic I'm making him. Frolicked. Went to sushi. Went out to a few clubs. Went home. Frolicked again. Forgot to press record. Damnit.

Saturday
Picked up the Starbucks equivalent of a McDonald's Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Got one hour massages (D's treat). Went to the liquor store and bought Bloody Mary mix; Vodka. Headed out on his friend's boat. The Chicago skyline is amazing when viewed from Lake Michigan. Tons of degenerate whores were mingling in an area of the lake called the "Play Pen," where the nouveau riche come to show off their debt. I mixed Bloody Marys for five (blue cheese stuffed olives and lemons as garnish). Went to wash my hands in the boat's lower level and proceded to projectile vomit into the toilet due to motion sickness. I was sick the next six hours. Everyone else had a great time. We got home and fell asleep at 7:30. Missed the dinner I had planned with an old college friend and his girlfriend. Didn't wake up until 9:00 the next morning.

Sunday
Our nine month anniversary (yes, we celebrate monthly). Went to Wishbone - my fave Chicago breakfast spot. Went to D's gym, ran around the indoor track, laid out by the rooftop pool where we ordered Bloody Marys and read the NY Times Magazine. Went to his cousin's housewarming party where I listened to his whole family argue in Russian for three hours, as they got annihilated by warm vodka. (The rumors about Russians and their vodka are true). Went out to a few bars and a club. Home by 2 a.m.

Monday
Made D breakfast. Had lunch with my friend Sam and his girlfriend (the couple I was supposed to meet on Saturday night). Headed to O'Hare as we planned aloud how I was going to pull off moving to Chicago within the next eight months. I sat at the airport for two hours and then on the runway for another hour (Flight delayed again). Got to LaGuardia and realized that I could take the bus all the way from LaGuardia to a stop a block away from my house. Two dollars. Woohoo! I'm big on the saving money tip lately, so this was great. Got home, talked to D, went to bed.

Why Customer Service Employees Are So Rude…

Why yes - I did do this image myself. How'd you guess?
While I’m certainly not an advocate of rude employees—especially in the morning—I can understand why enduring redundant stupidity might make an eight dollar an hour employee cranky. For example, here's what the guy working at my corner deli this morning had to listen to:

Lady in front of me: I’ll have a sesame bagel toasted with lox cream cheese
Me: I’ll have a wheat toasted with lox cream cheese.

Two minutes later. My bagel’s ready. Her bagel is not.

Lady in front of me: How is hers done before mine? I ordered my cinnamon bagel with cream cheese before her.

I grabbed mine and started walking out—because, really, why is she bringing me into this?

Lady in front of me: (As I walked out) You guys are a mess this morning. I ordered a multi-grain bagel with cream cheese before her and hers came out first. What does it take to get a toasted raisin bagel with cream cheese?

I don't know how he replied, but I would have aplogized (because the "customer is always right"), saying, "Sorry lady, but all of your personalities can’t eat for the price of one."

In Chicago...

Thanks for all the comments and good lovin'. Special thanks to Johnny Triangles who is trying his damndest to get me to convert to Conservatism, and all you other cheap bastards who will start bringing your own coffee to work with you starting Tuesday. A few words to live by: Do it with confidence.

In Chicago for the weekend and I plan to post, so stay tuned.

And no matter what nonsense "bufflo" tries to tell you about me being nice in real life - it's all lies! Lies I tell ya! I'm mean.Very, very mean...