Dogs & Dave

Dave left to go back to Chicago on Sunday. Last night he called me and told me he had a surprise for me. I didn't believe him because he never has surprises for me.


"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm coming back in town for a meeting tomorrow morning."


This was good and bad news. Good, because I miss him a lot when he's gone and I wasn't supposed to see him again until Thanksgiving. Bad, because I had to take a shower and look nice. When I walked into the office this morning, fresh as a daisy, the mailroom girl asked me what I was for Halloween. "Presentable," I replied. It was only funny because it's true. I'm all about comfort usually. Translation? I'm a slob.


Anyway, I promised to post the pictures of the dog Halloween costume contest. I figured I could take my time about it because, really, who wants to see this crap? It's pretty funny though (maybe even a little bit cute but don't tell anyone I said that). Enjoy:

The Racecar Driver

The Prisoner

The Pimp

The Pig

The Mexican
A little politically incorrect for my taste.

Just kidding.

The Angel

The Epitome of Evil

I blame this recent spout of evil on Halloween. Here is the evil background:

-A girl I work with just got back from Mexico

-She has two kids and a deadbeat husband

-The deadbeat husband has crashed their car twice since I've worked here (almost a year)

-She paid for it both times

-She had to take a second job because the deadbeat's too lazy to keep one

-She has to make sure someone is watching the kids even when the deadbeat's home because, well, he's a deadbeat

-She won't divorce the deabeat because she's Catholic and I guess they don't dig divorce

-Her mom hates him

Anyway, while in Mexico, she had her tarot cards read. The fortune teller lady warned her that what she was seeing wasn't good.

"Bring it."

The fortune teller lady went on to tell her that her husband was cheating on her. My co-worker rolled her eyes because, really, she could care less. Then the fortune teller lady told her that her husband was going to die soon, but she would be remarried in one year.

I think the fortune teller lady was a bit surpised when my coworker smiled at this.

This news has kind of been our inside joke ever since (which is where the evil comes in).

Her: "My husband crashed the car again today."
Me: "He's not dead yet?"

Her: "No, maybe next time."

Her: "I saw to my dream house this weekend. I'm going to have the same company build my house one day."

Me: "Yeah, but you should probably wait until your husband dies and you're remarried."

Her: "That's exactly what my mom says."

Like I said, it's all Halloween's fault.

Lunch with Hef's Lost Twin

The other day I had the pleasure of going to lunch with a 900-year old man. I arrived at the restaurant early and told the hostess I'd sit at the table and wait. She suggested a small, half-moon shaped love nest. Ummm, no. "A bit too cozy. I'm eating lunch with Hugh Hefner." She didn't get it. Not, at least, until a couple minutes later when my date walked in.

I shit you not that 2 minutes into our conversation, Hef ceases speech, looks at me dramatically and tells me not to scrunch my forehead and that I need botox. Hello Mr. Kettle. Hello Mr. Pot.

He then tells me that he's on a strict diet because he's at 143 pounds and he wants to be at 140. I tell him that he's not much bigger than me. I weigh 115.

Him: No you don't. You weigh 102 at the ver most.

Me: No, I look like I do, but I have a lot of muscle

Him: No, you're 102

Me: Okay.

We end the lunch with him asking about the difference between PR and advertising. In order to understand what we do in PR, he gives me this up-to-date example:

"Up until 1921 butter was sold in one pound blocks. Finally the blocks were split into the four sticks that we buy now." He's very excited about this by the way. "At that point, the publicist would send out a press release and tell the world about the four sticks?"

You got it buddy.

Obviously I'm quite the conversationalist, because he called me the next day to ask me out for another date. Details to come.

I'm Sorry...

Dave's in town and he's way sexier than this blog (he puts out more too).

I'll be back today/tomorrow to:

A). Post pictures of the dog Halloween costume contest we judged last night...

B). Tell you about my luncheon with Hugh Hefner's lost twin

The Diablo's Diary

I just couldn't bring myself to meet with the Diablo yesterday. It's not because I'm weirded out that all of the sudden we're bestfriends. It's not because I don't want to listen to him play association with every word in the English vocabulary to see how he can relate each to his ex. It's because he wants to write a book and he wants my advice.

Before agreeing to meet him, I gave him the typical disclaimers:

-It's very hard to write a book
-It's not fun
-Seeing as how you work a full time job, you're going to have to dedicate every spare minute to it.
-It's impossible to get published.

The only things he writes on a regular basis are law and/or real estate contracts. Still, I'm often surprised by what gets published and what doesn't. I'm still trying to figure out why/how Life of Pi became popular.

Anyway, in response to my warnings, the diablo said, "Well, I just need to write it for myself."

Oh, so you're writing a diary? This is what I thought, not what I said, unfortunately.

But when it came to meeting with him yesterday, I didn't. Knowing that I'm interested in writing/reading, he's trying to fit in a face to face bitch session about his ex under the guise of writing a book. Now, that is true diablo style. But in true me style, I said I was sick/prepping for Dave's arrival/just woke up at 12:00/have to workout/go shopping/get a Halloween outfit*/clean the house/make superhero capes for my friend's dogs...."Can we postpone?"

"Sure, no problem..."

That was close.


*I'm going to be Elvira. She's a sexy bitch.

Bitter Much?

As you know, the diablo is very upset lately because his girlfriend recently broke up with him [on account of him treating her like shit for half of their relationship]. Now he has resorted to pestering me about the situation over IM when I'm "working."

I do have to give him credit though. He's been turnin' on the creativity to spin a topic that hasn't been updated for over a month now.

Him: The Skeeze's jacket's over here. Does he want it?
Me: No, he says to give it to goodwill.
Him: Or I could send it to [redacted] to warm her ice cold heart.

Me: I'm buying tickets to Brazil right now.
Him: Bring me home a girlfriend when you come back.
Me: They're cute but they're super jealous.
Him: At least they tell the truth about things.

Him: I wrote her and asked her if she was with anyone else when we were dating. She didn't write back.
Me: Well, she did say she didn't want to talk for a month, right?
Him: I wrote her back and told her that I'll just assume I need to go to the clinic.

Him: How's your cousin doing lately?
Me: I haven't seen her, she's been working late.
Him: Probably going on double dates with [redacted] and her new boyfriend.

There was also some stuff about him having an epiphany: "I'm smart, I have a good job, I dress pretty well, and I'm not a cold-hearted, dishonest, pretentious..."

Wow.

Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template

I think that everyone should have one of these in their arsenal. This is an excerpt from a letter I had to send to a friend this morning:

I meant to send you my "Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template," but I already had two emails in to you so I refrained.

Basically, the Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template features the following clauses:

-Sorry if I talked way too much about myself

-Sorry if this excessive talking about myself interfered with you wanting to talk about yourself (excessively)

-If I said anything negative about anyone/anything, it was the alcohol talking, not me. I'm an angel when I'm sober.

Anyway, that should cover all the bases. I totally missed a doctors appt this morning, not due to drinking, due moreover to the fact that I'm mildly retarded.

Talking Trash in Sign Language, Plagiarizing and Pleasant Office Etiquette

Thanks, Rodale!

I have a bit more to tell you about than the fact that I had to color in the tips of my new boots today with a Sharpie because the city streets ate them up in a day flat. This is more due to the fact that they were cheaply made (but, unfortunately, not cheaply priced), than the fact that the sidewalks here eat shoes. So yeah, I have little more to say that that. Not much more, but more nevertheless...

For one, The Skeeze and I were watching the news the other day and there was a report about some deaf/mute rioters. Unfortunately for me, I had turned my head away at the appropriate minute and missed the whole thing. The Skeeze was kind enough to demonstrate what deaf rioters look like and the kind of smack they talk. It looks (sounds?) something kind of like this:

Take that, bitches.

My weekend of doing nothing and loving it progressed in kind. When I was taking a shower, I started reading the instructions on the back of conditioner bottles as I oft do, and I realized that the application instructions were the same across the board: "Massage conditioner into hair and scalp. Rinse. Repeat as necessary." Holy shit, I thought. These companies are blatant plagiarizers! If they're all going to copy eachother anyway, I'm totally buying generic from now on.

Lastly, I spent a day at Rodale Publishing last week for one reason or another and, by golly, those people are nice! When I walked in, the doorman greeted a lady who was no less than 150 years old by calling her "young woman." She laughed in kind and then stood and held the elevator for me, knowing that I was walking not too far behind her. The others in the elevator greeted me as if we were long time friends and then told me to have a good day as they exited. I also got to take home the extra food after our meeting. For a cheap bastard like me, this is the ultimate perk. I've been munching on turkey sandwiches all weekend thanks to Rodale. Lastly, their bathrooms are great! Clean and big with actual seat protectors. Doesn't smell like filth and body odor, and is not plagued by rude girls from the neighboring office... Of course, that's because Rodale doesn't share a restroom with rude girls from a neighboring office. They have their own. I'm telling you, it's the simple things in life, man.

I've Been Had!

Now, I'm not one to complain when a meeting is cancelled, but just tell me the truth. No need to make up exotic diseases:

"Hate to do this to you but things aren't looking to good at home - My wife's arthritis has now kicked off and she can hardly walk let alone pick up our son (its not the old person type but some Finnish strain)."

That damned Finnish arthritis gets ya every time!

I'm Moving to Astoria. No, Really...

At first I was mortified by the thought of moving outside of Manhattan, but it seemed a logical step considering my lease is up November 1st, and I had a tentative 'moving-to-Chicago' date of April. Where the hell was I going to find a place offering a five month lease? The Skeeze lives in Astoria and has a room available that I can rent out month to month... For $500, no deposit, no utilities. That's right. I said $500. No deposit. No utilities. This is less than half of what I pay now and the commute is only ten minutes longer than my current one. Of course, my apartment now is so perfect, so comfy, so well-decorated...

Another perk? The Skeeze's roommate (the one who is staying) is Brazilian and is the cousin of Paulo Coelho--you know, author of The Alchemist? I'm hoping he'll stop by every now and then to motivate me to live out my dreams like the shephard boy. I've also heard there are some good restaurants in Astoria. I like eating.

It might sound like I'm rationalizing. That's because I am. Astoria isn't exactly the dream.

Anyway, that's the update. I'm trying to convince Dave to move out here for a year before I move to Chicago, at which point I will move back to Manhattan. Only this time around, I'll be a little bit richer. I'm just not ready to move to Chicago. Bottom line. The thought of leaving this city is making me remember why I like it so much. Convenient how that always happens.

One of These Statements Falls Into the "Too Much Information" Category

It's a good thing my friends and loved ones have interesting things to say, because I sure as hell don't. Or, I do? I don't know. I've been that busy at work lately. I remember the good ol' days when I could sit at my desk for 8 of my 9 hours on the clock, and simply pretend that I was doing, well, something. My policy was that even if I wasn't doing anything (I wasn't), I just needed to have something to say when my boss asked me what I was working on (nothing). "A spreadsheet of..." "Implementing a web..." "Partnering with a marketing..." As long as I had my alibi at hand, I was free to do whatever I wanted, which was usually bitching about life on my blog. Unfortunately.

That said, those days are temporarily gone. Here are some things my grandma and Dave said that cracked me up:

Grandma: "I read your blog all the time now. You're very good at blogging."

Why do I think this is funny? First off, I think it's hilarious that my whole family figured out that I had a blog when I tried so very hard to keep it a secret. My sister has a big mouth. Second, my grandma used the word "blog" as both a noun and a verb. Very impressive.

Dave: "Babe, I noticed that there was a straw in the dishwasher. Tell me you didn't wash a straw."

Why funny? Because I'm as cheap as it comes. When it comes to certain things, that is. For instance, I will wash the hell out of a straw so that I don't have to buy a new pack for $2.49, but will I eat at a chain restaurant if the only alternative is not eating at all? Hell no.

Dave: (After I told him that I had two orgasms when he thought I only had one) "Wait, I didn't know you had two. Why did you keep it a secret? Most girls fake having orgasms. You fake not having orgasms!"

That's easy, baby. I didn't want to make you jealous.

I So Win.

Here, my ex-roommate is shown vacationing in the desert.

Remember how much I used to hate my ex-roommate because he was, well, the devil?* Well, it looks like el diablo (Spanish time!) has turned a new leaf. Ever since his girlfriend broke up with him, he's turned to me (me!) for a shoulder to cry on. Being the benevolent person that I am, I've put aside my hatred and given him my professional advice: Stop bitchin', get drunk, and shag, shag, shag. All that. And, if that doesn't win her back, then it's pretty much a lost cause anyway, right? Right.

But enough of my unsolicitied relationship advice, here's a clip from his most recent email to me. Special emphasis on the last paragraph:

"Thank you for your thoughts. I am starting to have some peace of mind. I realize that relationships take time, work and love and both people need to realize that for it to work. Too often people think that the pretty packaging (ease of life, social circle, your address, looks, bank account) can make up for what is actually in the box. I know that it boils down to sitting on the front porch when you are retired and appreciating the person for who they are and who you have become together.

Whether it is with me or someone else, I hope [redacted] realizes that too and she will not just be another girl with a country club membership, new purse every week with a husband that is taking home his secretary.

I also wanted to say I am sorry for all those times I was stand offish, or seemed resentful when we lived together. That was a rough time and I regret that I let that rub off on others."

Yeah, that's some deep shit.

I win.

Thanks for playin'...


*If you look over to the right, there's an entire "I Hate My Roommate" archive. Serious.

It's My Birthday. Yayyy...

Dave came in last night (yeah, I'm sick of calling him 'D') with a bunch of roses. At 12:00 a.m. he called my mom to thank her for giving birth to me. You'd have to know my mom to know how excited she was when she got the call. She doesn't get enough credit for her contributions, so I know she was happy. I could hear her through the phone, promptly stepping onto her soapbox, giving Dave the rundown on my birth, childhood, etc...

"You know, Dave - the doctors didn't know whether Gigi was a boy or a girl. No one could tell. Don't tell her that though."

"She's so skinny that I've always thought she looked like a carrot." [This is not true, I'm not really skinny nor a carrot, per se]

"She used to dance around with her little baby gut sticking out."

"I nursed her for this long."

Dave, of course, loved every bit of this.

My dad called me on October 3rd to see what I wanted. I was immediately suspicious. I mean, how the hell did he know it was my birthday? This is not to say that we're not close, but we're a lot alike; very self-involved, busy, non-birthday oriented. To that end, I fulfilled my end of the bargain and told him what I wanted.

My sister called me today and made sense of the "dad actually remembering my birthday" situation for me.

"So, I was talking to dad the other night and I asked him what he was getting you for your birthday. He was like, 'oh shit!'" She explained.

"Ah ha! I knew something was up! I knew he didn't remember!"

Anyway, we went to Blue Ribbon tonight. It was good, but not as good as Dave led on. I should know never to trust him. He's got bad taste. If you don't believe me, you should check out his girlfriend.

It Wasn't Me...Unfortunately.

The Skeeze just alerted me to a wonderful article in today's Metro about a girl who stabbed some annoying guy who was hitting on her and her friends. I must say, this is a great day for all Manhattan women who have to endure this harassment on a daily basis. I just want to make sure that no one thinks it was me. Although this is something that I highly advocate, I was not fortunate enough to attack him.

The "victim," or the guy who got stabbed, says that he was standing outside a movie theater, saw the girls walk by, said "Hi" and "How are you doing?"

The stabber lady, on the other hand, said he grabbed her arm and spat on one of her friends.

Either way, he totally deserved it. Even if he did just ask how they were doing, he probably stands outside of the movie theater and reenacts the move several times daily. As far as I'm concerned, if you don't add anything to society (and even further, you detract from it) then I say off with your head.

The bad news is that my hero, the stabber lady, was arraigned on a charge of attempted murder. The "victim" says that the woman and her friends were lesbians and the incident was "a hate crime against a straight man." All I want to know is why he was hitting on lesbians in hopes of a positive response? Idiot.

In other annoying, loud-mouthed street urchin news, I've discovered that wearing an iPod on my way to work is the perfect way to tune them out. In fact, it's hilarious to watch these guys dance around in front of you in order to get your attention, without having the matching soundtrack that goes with their jig ("Hey Sexy" "You're gorgeous" "How you doin'?"). Instead, I hear the Pixies singing Bone Machine as some dirty parking lot attendant is nodding his head with satisfaction, drooling from the mouth, and shaking his pelvis. That is so not the dance that goes with this song, dude. Now if you'll excuse me, it's 8:30 in the morning and I'm trying to get to work...

I am so depressed...

...that I can't even focus right now.

I had a book agent contact me about something I had written. He wanted to turn it into a book. I made an appointment with him last week, so while this weekend was supposed to consist of me expressing joy for my bestfriend who got married, it was instead filled with me imagining myself as a successful author who can work out of her house (which is in Italy, and sometimes Brazil).

This was only amplified when another friend told me that he had heard good things about the agent and that the agency was on of New York's best.

Long story short, I went in today to talk to him about it and once I told him the background of what I was doing, he was not thoroughly excited. By "not thoroughly excited," I mean pretty much not interested, but he'll read my proposal. I'm pretty sure his promise to read my proposal is equivalent to a prospective employer saying, "we'll keep your resume on file."

I always hate when they say that.

American Airlines =

The Great Big Pinto in the Sky.

I'm back from Chicago, where I spent the last few days at my best friend's wedding. I have plenty to blab about, but I'm so busy. Last night marked my three weekend traveling stint. I can't wait to lounge on my couch this month and do nothing...which won't happen, but wishful thinking...

A few notes:

1). I promise to post regularly this week (and again today if I'm lucky).

2) American Airlines (pictured above) consistently sucks it up and has never once been on time. The planes are offensively dirty (due, probably, to the fact that their crew is rushing to leave after making passengers wait 2 extra hours to board the plane). The airline attendants are the industry's rudest and somehow the airline attracts crying babies who I am always lucky enough to sit right next to. Never should it take 6 hours to travel from NYC to Chicago. It's a 1 hour and 36 minute flight, but on American? 6-7 hours minimum. Always.

3) Delta Airlines, on the other hand... now that is an airline. Not only are they rarely delayed, but they hire defunct celebrities. On my way to Miami two weekends ago, Angela from Who's the Boss handed me my pretzels and the redhead from the Partridge Family was the pilot. Who would've known?